"What will you do now?" Veil asked.
"Whatever we want to, I suppose," Sinclair replied, smiling at Jan.
Garth glanced at me, then turned to Sinclair and Jan. "Well, if you need a job, either as cover or simply because you feel like working, Frederickson and Frederickson can always use a good husband and wife team of investigators. Right, Mongo?"
"For sure."
Sinclair raised his eyebrows slightly. "An interesting thought."
Jan sighed. "God, we're sitting on so much money I literally don't know what to do with it now. As Countess Rawlings, I was always able to put it to good use. With the countess dead, I won't be able to do that anymore."
"Cornucopia," I said to Insolers.
"What?"
"Cornucopia. Once before, you and others phonied up old records and made new ones to create a countess and have her inherit R. Edgar Blake's entire estate. Something is going to have to be done with all the millions in Black Flame's coffers. Black Flame and Neuberger are going to be out of the picture. So why don't you arrange for Jan, under whatever identity she chooses, to manage the fund?"
Insolers looked at Jan. "Would you like that?"
"Yes," Jan replied eagerly. "If I can gain control of Cornucopia I can roll over everything I inherited from the Blake estate and combine it with the Black Flame holdings to make (Cornucopia a real philanthropy."
Insolers grunted. "I'll look into it. You'll both need totally new identities."
"That's my department," Sinclair said as he rose, took Jan's hand, and helped her to her feet. "Give us a half hour or so while
Jan and I decide who we want to be for the rest of our lives."
Even from a distance of three miles, the thunderous explosion shook the ground. Insolers pulled our car off onto the shoulder of the highway. The car ahead of us-carrying a totally unrecognizable John Sinclair and Jan Rawlings, in possession of birth certificates, passports, and other documents identifying them as Richard and Elizabeth Commons, of New York City-also pulled over. We looked back as a flame-streaked black cloud of smoke from the ruined castle rose up to stain the azure sky.
"You took an awfully big chance just by coming here, Insolers," I said quietly.
For a moment I wasn't sure whether the CIA's deputy director of operations had heard me, for he continued to stare out the window, seemingly transfixed by the mushrooming ball of flame and smoke behind us. But then he turned around and said in a mild tone, "Why is that, Frederickson?"
"You've got to be kidding. You're the CIA's chief spiderman in covert operations. Your head's a hamper with all the nation's dirty laundry in it, not to mention a lot of other highly sensitive information that could benefit our enemies. Switzerland was crawling with operatives. What would you have done if someone had made and nabbed you?"
The man with the brown hair and eyes and rodent features shrugged, then smiled wanly. He seemed in an uncharacteristically mellow mood. When he spoke, his voice took on a vaguely professorial tone. "Frederickson, I'd hate to disillusion you, or anyone else in this car, but you'd be amazed at how many of any country's so-called top secrets are pretty much common knowledge among members of the higher echelons in the international intelligence community. Cooked Goose was an exception, not the rule. The biggest headache for most of us is trying to keep our citizens from finding out how much bullshit is financed with their money."
"Actually, I wouldn't be amazed at all."
"Even if I had been picked up, I'd probably have been released as soon as the operative's superiors found out about it. If it took a mind to, the United States could totally shut down the intelligence operations of thirty or forty countries within seventy-two hours-maybe less. Being responsible for kidnapping any top ops officer would just create too much of a hassle for everyone, making it too difficult to conduct business as usual."
"You may be right, Insolers," Veil said. "But just suppose you'd been snatched by some rookie terrorist who believed everything he'd just finished reading in his training manual, which had most likely been furnished to him by the CIA. Said rookie ties you up, then goes to work on you with heated tongs and chemicals. Then what would you have done?"
Insolers gave it a few moments' thought, once again smiled somewhat wanly. "Probably tried to hold out until Chant Sinclair came to my rescue. Frederickson, are you and your brother really going to put him to work for you?"
"If it's what he wants."
"I'd pay to see that," Insolers said, and laughed loudly.
"What the hell's so funny?"
Insolers just continued to laugh.
When we heard the distant sound of approaching sirens, Sinclair pulled back onto the highway, and we did the same. Five minutes later we reached the turnoff leading to the airport, and Jan waved goodbye to us through the rear window. We continued on toward Interpol headquarters.