"The bodyguard who killed him was a CIA operative?"
Insolers raised his pale brown eyebrows slightly. "My, my, you are well informed."
"I only know what my brother reads in the newspapers. Was the bodyguard your operative?"
"No. You could describe him as an acquired asset. He was a man by the name of Tommy Wing, psychotic, long-term ex-convict originally referred to the research project by his parole officer. Tommy turned out to be so off-the-wall that Blake couldn't resist putting him to work full-time as a combination chief bodyguard, executive of sorts, and exotic house pet. In prison he'd acquired the nickname 'Hammerhead,' because he was a biter; in a fight, he'd use his teeth the way other men would use a shiv. Blake put him in nominal charge of keeping an eye on all his potential assassins. When it was decided that it was time for Blake to retire, it was arranged for Mr. Wing to be snatched for a few hours while he was in this country on one of his supervisory trips. He was shot up with gluteathin, programmed to kill Blake, and then sent on his way to Geneva. First chance he got, he tore out Blake's jugular with his teeth."
"That little tidbit wasn't in the obituaries," Garth said drily.
"We got to Blake's personal and corporate records before anyone else, including his lawyers. We did some fancy legal-illegal, actually-footwork, called in some specialists from other intelligence organizations who were in a position to be helpful and who had reasons of their own to cooperate, used the information in Blake's files to apply pressure on those who didn't wish to cooperate, and took over the whole kit and caboodle. The CIA now effectively controls all of the wealth and other assets that once belonged to one of the world's richest men. This is a CIA operation that not even the President of the United States, much less any congressional oversight committee, knows a damn thing about. It put us in a position to finance off-the-shelf operations until doomsday, but we needed a cover. Jan Rawlings was it. The papers reported that she was a social worker, but that's not true. She was a secretary for a company in New York that was in reality a CIA asset, and she was extremely loyal. We cooked up a lot of stuff showing that she had been Blake's mistress for years, and our team of specialists cooked up a will that left her everything. I was one of a number of operatives involved in the operation, so I'll have a lot of company in prison if any of this ever gets out."
"Yeah, yeah," I said impatiently. "It sounds really neat, Insolers, but before the Swiss Highway Patrol shows up, would you mind telling us what any of this has to do with John Sinclair?"
"Absolutely nothing," Insolers said forcefully. "There's no connection between what I just told you and John Sinclair. Nada. But what I have just described to you is the most effective and valuable ongoing CIA operation ever mounted, and you are going to make some very powerful and extremely dangerous people very dyspeptic if you go knocking on the door of that castle and start asking questions of any sort. Now, I'm not saying they'll kill you, but I'm also not saying they won't. As for me, my ass will be mulch, and I'll be extremely fortunate if all I lose is my pension. I happen to like my job, and my health is reasonably good; I'd like to keep both-which is why I do not want you going to that castle."
"Look, Insolers, why-?"
"Why did I mention Blake and the countess in the first place? It was a mistake. I was very much focused on John Sinclair, and I thought you might be plugged into something; there are lots of rumors in the agency that you and your brother here are wired into all sorts of things, know some top secrets. We know you're personal friends with Mr. Lippitt, the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency, and we suspect you're on more than good speaking terms with the President; some of our people actually think the two of you know things that could get Kevin Shannon impeached and put the whole administration out of business. I really did think you might already know about R. Edgar Blake and our countess, because we have reason to believe Mr. Lippitt knows. More important, I thought you might know about Cooked Goose and how it might be connected to Sinclair. I desperately wanted that information. I thought that by mentioning Blake and the countess to you, it would indicate I could be trusted. That's all, Frederickson. Obviously, I seriously miscalculated, and I suppose you could accuse me of underestimating you. I never dreamed you'd go to the lengths you have to dig into these things, and now you're going way off the tracks. It's the truth, Frederickson. I swear it."
I turned to Garth, who had been studying Insolers intently. "The man swears he's telling the truth, brother. What do you say?"
"He's very good, Mongo," Garth replied evenly. "Also very hidden."
"It's his job to be hidden. What are you reading?"
"Mixed signals. He's giving us a combination of lies and truth, but I can't tell which is which. I think he's hiding something very important."
I turned my attention back to the CIA operative with the medicinal smell. "So there you have it. What very important thing are you hiding, Duane?"
Insolers, looking thoroughly nonplussed, jerked his thumb in Garth's direction. His face darkened. "Who the fuck is he, Frederickson? Mr. Polygraph?"
"Something like that, Insolers," I replied mildly, "and you just flunked the test. I've got no more time to hang around here, but it was nice chatting with you."
"Get out, pal," Garth said in the kind of low, flat voice I recognized all too well as a danger signal to whoever it was he might be speaking to. "The powwow's finished."
Insolers' next move was snake-quick, fluid, obviously much-practiced. Veil had searched the man thoroughly, but he would have needed a microscope and a few hours to find the weapon the man was carrying. Insolers plucked at the sleeve of his overcoat, and instantly two of the horn buttons popped off to become finger grips for a piano-wire garotte which was placed around my neck, pressed against my jugular. One good tug on the wire, and my head was going to land in my lap.
"Everybody just stay still!" Insolers snapped as Harper cried out and Garth started to raise his hands. "And you outside! Just stay there, and back off! If I even catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye, Frederickson dies. Don't think I'm bluffing."
"If he dies, you die a second later," Garth said, his voice a deadly whisper.
"Big deal. Will that help comfort you at his funeral, big brother? I'm tired of fucking around with you people. We're going to the airport, and you're all going home."
I swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture in my mouth, and I felt the piano wire press even harder against my flesh as my Adam's apple bounced up and down. "I'm not even supposed to leave Zurich, Insolers, much less the country. The police have my passport."
"Don't worry about it, Frederickson. Your passport and everybody's luggage will be brought to the airport, which is where big brother is going to take us right now. Turn on the engine and head us back, big brother."
"You've got it, Insolers," Garth said. "I'll do what you say. Let's get our friend in here first."
"Leave him. I'll send someone to pick him up, and he'll be on the next flight to New York after yours. Turn the engine on, big brother, or your brother's neck is going to spring a leak."
As Garth reached for the ignition key, I kicked out with my left foot. The toe of my shoe hit the key, breaking it off in the lock. I winced, wondering what it would feel like to have my jugular sliced like a slab of cheese. Nothing happened; the pressure of the wire on my skin increased slightly, but the steel didn't break the skin.
"You must be insane, Frederickson," Insolers said, an almost comic note of incredulity in his voice.