The restaurant was located up a path from the tram’s unloading platform, and Locke had started to walk toward it when a man appeared in front of him flanked by two others.
“Mr. Babbit?”
“Er, yes.”
The man’s eyes were ice blue. He had wavy blond hair and a neck as wide as his head. “We have been sent to escort you up to your visit with Mr. Felderberg. You have come alone?” the man asked, eyes darting back toward the tram.
“That was the arrangement.”
“We are merely confirming. Precautions, you understand.”
“I understand.”
There was a suppressed tension about the man, Locke noted, something coiled in him ready to spring at an instant’s notice. He didn’t smile; there was no expression whatsoever on his face. He seemed somehow familiar to Locke and it wasn’t until they reached the entrance to the restaurant that he realized why. He had known a hundred others like him twenty years ago at the Academy. The man had the capacity to kill without hesitation. Felderberg was taking no chances.
The blond man led Locke into the Hauser, which was dimly lit and almost deserted but impressive in its furnishings all the same. The designers had done their best to create the feel of a seventeenth-century inn with thick wood tables and several functional fireplaces. A large bar dominated the central floor, huge beer mugs with Liechtenstein’s coat of arms displayed proudly on shelves suspended over old-fashioned wine bottles. Few of the tables were occupied and only three seats at the bar were taken, one by a thick-haired American-looking man whose eyes held Locke’s briefly as he passed. When Locke glanced back, the man’s attention had returned to his stein of beer.
“This way,” the blond man said, and Locke followed him with the other two men bringing up the rear.
They moved down a corridor where two additional bodyguards waited in front of a wooden door with a brass knocker.
“We will search you here,” the blond man told him.
Chris felt himself being eased gently against the wall. Then a pair of powerful hands slid over him checking for concealed weapons. Satisfied, the hands slipped off and Locke turned around to find the blond man lifting the knocker. He opened the door without waiting for a reply and signaled Locke to enter.
“Thank you, Peale,” came a voice from the room’s rear, and Chris found himself looking at Claus Felderberg. “Leave us.”
Peale headed back out the door. Felderberg stood up and started out from behind a table. Locke met him halfway across the floor.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Babbit.”
Locke took Felderberg’s extended hand. The grip was cold and clammy. Felderberg was overweight, with bulging jowls and a triple chin. His blue suit was perfectly tailored and what remained of his thinning brown hair was pulled from one side to the other to make it seem he had more. His mustache was his most outstanding facial feature, mostly because it was embroidered with strands of red. Felderberg breathed hard and noisily through his nose.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Locke said.
“My pleasure. Come, please sit down.”
“I mean, I know how busy you are. I appreciate your time.”
Almost on cue, Felderberg pulled a gold watch from a chain in his vest pocket and checked it as he returned to his seat.
“And little time I have, Mr. Babbit. Economies are booming everywhere. Many people have money they wish resettled.”
Interesting choice of words, Locke thought as he waited for Felderberg to take his seat before he followed. The financier eased his bulk down and then pulled his chair under the table, which had been set for two. Locke sat down opposite him.
Felderberg settled his legs under the table. “As I said, Mr. Babbit, my time is short, so please excuse me for dispensing with formalities. My right foot is presently resting on a button which the slightest pressure would activate, sending a signal to my men in the corridor telling them I need them immediately. They will respond fast and rashly, Mr. Babbit. That is what they are paid for.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do. In my business precautions are everything, Mr. Babbit. Personal safety is maintained above all else. I am going to ask you a question and if the response doesn’t satisfy me, I will press my foot down and have my bodyguards deal with you.” Locke made out the fear in Felderberg’s voice. The financier’s eyes bore into him. “Who are you?”
“Sam—”
“Not satisfactory. You are not Sam Babbit and your presence here has nothing to do with desiring excessive financial resettlements as I was asked to believe.”
Locke felt numb. The ruse was up. No sense trying to continue it. “I congratulate you on your intuition,” he managed.
“Investigation was more like it,” Felderberg told him. “I had you watched at the hotel. Your tipping was impressive but no man in your alleged position would pay for a hotel room in cash. You also have no credit cards in your wallet — Peale signaled me to that fact when he entered the room. The men I deal with invariably carry a flock of them. I also understand that you made a stop at the train station on the way here.”
Locke leaned back. “I’m impressed with your thoroughness.”
“I have many enemies. Hired killers have shown up here before.”
“But you don’t consider me one,” Locke said.
Felderberg hedged. “My foot is on the button,” he said as a reminder. “But you’re right, I don’t believe you came here with violent intentions. Your cover was too thin, too shabby. Killers always come with impeccable credentials and qualifications. Peale always picks them out in an instant, and he’s quite good at dealing with them.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Every move you made was contrary to what a man who had come in quest of my life would make, starting with a rather bizarre arrangement for this meeting.”
“Then why did you agree to see me?”
“Curiosity, I suppose. Since I knew you couldn’t be one of my enemies’ hired hands, I had to ask myself who you were and what bit of desperation led you to my door.”
“Desperation’s as good a way to describe it as any….”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Christopher Locke and you’re absolutely right: I’m no professional killer. I’m no professional anything. I used to be a college professor. Now, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I am.”
“But you haven’t come here to quiz me on ways to finance your retirement.”
“Right now my major concern is just making it to retirement. A friend of mine didn’t. His name was Alvin Lubeck and he met with you last week, I believe.”
Felderberg’s heavy breathing stopped all at once. He wet his lips. Locke noticed they were trembling.
“I’m here to find out what you told him,” he continued.
“On whose authority?”
“Or who’s ‘running me’? That’s the popular spy phrasing, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter. The answer’s no one. I’m here on my own authority. There was someone else until two days ago but he was killed too, and there are quite a few people out there who’d like nothing better than to make me number three on their list.”
Felderberg’s breathing became even heavier. His brow was sweating. “Who was this someone else?”
“A State Department intelligence man who was once my best friend. He put me in the field to follow Lubeck’s trail because he figured I’d have the best chance of digging up what he discovered. Well, I dug part of it up all right and it buried him. He sent me to you and an English colleague of his made the arrangements to get me here.”
“You must tell me everything. From the beginning.”