So much for my public relations efforts with the local constabulary. I hung up the phone while MacWhorter was shouting at me, leaned forward in my chair and drummed the fingers of both hands on the desk. I had personal ties to enough ace attorneys to stock a law firm, so I wasn't going to waste time worrying about being hassled by the police captain when I had more important things to worry about, like winning a race against madness and death before Santa arrived.
Step Two.
If it was the CIA that was behind all the doings at Rivercliff, and I didn't harbor a lot of doubt, I thought it highly likely that the killers they had hired to work New York City were freelancers from a long ways out of town. It was past three in the afternoon, which meant it was well past the dinner hour at Interpol headquarters in Berne. But the man I wanted to speak to, Inspector Gerard Moliere, often liked to work late at night in his office, and so I thought calling him now was worth a try. I had met Moliere two years before, when Garth and I had been in Switzerland trailing a man by the name of Chant Sinclair, an infamous terrorist who had turned out to be not such a terrorist after all. I hoped the inspector remembered me, and that we were still on good terms. I thumbed through my Rolodex until I found the number I wanted, dialed it.
"Oui?"
"It's Robert Frederickson, Inspector. I'm sorry to be calling so late."
"Mongo le Magnifique! How are you, my friend?!"
Well. It seemed Gerard Moliere did remember me, and we were still on good terms. "I'm fine, Inspector. How about yourself?"
"I am well, my friend. It is so terrible, this thing that is happening in New York. So many people killed."
"Yes, Inspector. It is terrible."
"Garth dropped by last week to say hello. He and his wife are skiing in Zermatt through the holidays."
"He hasn't broken anything yet?"
"Not that I could see. His wife, she is so beautiful."
"Mary is that."
"When are you coming to visit? You will be my houseguest."
"Thanks, Gerard. I appreciate that. Right now I've got some important business to take care of. I hate to impose on you, but I was hoping that you might be able to provide some information that could prove very useful to me."
"Of course, Mongo. I will be happy to help, if I can. What do you wish to know?"
"There are a couple of assassins working New York, professionals. They've already killed one person that I know of, and I suspect they've targeted close to a dozen more. I want to stop them, and it would be a big help if I could find out who they are. Since they do seem to be pros, I figure they may have worked in other countries, or come from another country, and Interpol might have something on them."
"MO?"
"A specially packed, low-velocity twenty-two-caliber bullet to the base of the skull. They've been described as being very young. An eyewitness to the killings says they looked like teenagers-a male and a female."
"Punch and Judy," Gerard Moliere replied without hesitation.
"Come again?"
"Punch and Judy are their code names, noms de guerre. They are husband and wife whose real names are Henry and Janice Sparsburg. They are rumored to live somewhere near Paris, but the Surete appears content to leave them unmolested as long as they limit their business activities to countries outside Europe. Their preferred method of killing is the same as you described."
"How old are these people?"
"They are certainly not teenagers. They are young merely in appearance, and then only if seen from a distance. Dressing and behaving like young people seems to be a fetish with them, and they are rumored to make regular visits to a plastic surgeon. May I ask whom they have killed over there, and why?"
"Just between you and me, I think the CIA hired them, but I can't be certain of that. A dozen patients escaped from a very shady mental hospital where they've been conducting illegal experiments for years. I think Punch and Judy have been sent to kill them before they talk to anybody about it."
"Why don't these people go to the police?"
"They're probably not even aware that they're being hunted; but even if they are, they'll probably still avoid the police. They're on an effective but very dangerous medication I'm sure our FDA has never even heard of, much less approved. Without the medication, they'll slip back into insanity and probably die inside twenty-four hours. They're afraid the drug will be confiscated. They have a limited supply of the medication, so I'm trying to identify the drug and get more of it in order to buy them more time. But it's all going to be a pointless exercise if they're killed before I can find a way to help them."
"I understand."
"Anything else you can tell me about Punch and Judy? Personal habits? Favorite haunts and restaurants?"
"I'm afraid they're too professional to be that predictable, Mongo. I have heard the rumor that they are brother and sister as well as man and wife, but I can't see how that information would help you. They are very. . how do you say? Kinky?"
"That's as good a way of saying it as any."
"It particularly interests me that you suspect the CIA of having hired these assassins. If it's true, there may be some irony in the situation."
"How so?"
"There are rumors that Punch and Judy were discovered and developed-if that is the proper way to describe the nurturing and training of assassins-by a department of the CIA called the Chill Shop."
"The Chill Shop?"
"Yes. That is what other CIA operatives with whom I have occasional dealings call it. These people I have spoken with don't much care for the operation, or the personnel who run it. That name derives from the acronym BUHR-the Bureau of Unusual Human Resources. I heard it was shut down some time ago because of budget cuts, but that information may not have been accurate."
"This Chill Shop was-is-a school for assassins?"
"No. Punch and Judy represent only one of their products. Chill Shop personnel were tasked to find people with unusual talents, skills, or characteristics-even subjects some of us might describe as 'freaks'-that might prove useful in covert intelligence work. That's all I know about it, Mongo. If you like, I will make discreet inquiries about this matter, and get back to you if I find out anything that I think could be helpful to you."
"Thanks, Gerard. I'd really appreciate that, and I owe you."
"You owe me nothing, Mongo. Speaking to you and possibly being of service is my pleasure."
"Oh, there's one other thing. Since Garth is in the neighborhood, there's a good chance he may drop in again. If he does, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this conversation to him."
There was a pause, then a hesitant clearing of the throat. "Are you sure, Mongo? Garth would certainly want to know if you're in danger."
"I don't think I'm in any danger at the moment, Gerard, because the bad guys don't know I'm on to them; but even if I were, there's nothing Garth could do about it. I plan to proceed very carefully. If my brother gets wind of this, he'll head right to the airport and fly back here, and I don't see any reason right now to disrupt his and Mary's vacation. If I do need his help, I'll call him myself."
"If the time comes when you need help, my friend, it may be too late to call."
"I've given the matter a lot of thought, Gerard. Right now I can handle things myself."
"I'll do as you ask, Mongo."
"Thanks again, Gerard. Ciao."
"Ciao," the Interpol inspector replied, and hung up.