“Thank you.”
“Please visit us anytime.”
Locke chained the door to room eleven behind him. It took five minutes to find a free long-distance line and dial the girl’s number.
“Is he there?” Locke asked without returning the girl’s greeting.
“Yes, hold—”
Then Burgess’s heavy voice took over. “Chris, what the hell’s gone on there, lad? Why the need to roust me from my fortress?”
“Felderberg’s dead.”
“Christ … Not by your hand again, I trust.”
“No, but his bodyguards think otherwise….” Locke went on to relate that part of the story.
“With a bloody cork, you say? I’ll be damned. Clever bastards, these are. We’ve got our work cut out for us, lad.”
“And a place to start, Colin. The Sanii Corporation right here in Schaan.”
“Never heard of it.”
“High-tech firm. Lots of futuristic stuff probably. They’re connected to this somehow. I’m sure there are answers to be found there.”
“In which case getting in will be a chore, lad, and a risk you’d be wise not to undertake.”
“I’ve come this far.”
“Luck pressed is usually luck lost, lad. Remember your family.”
“I haven’t forgotten them, Colin. But Charney was right, this is big, bigger than either of us imagined. If I pull out now they won’t get me tomorrow, but there’s always the next day or the day after, and one of those times they will get me.” Locke paused. “They got Felderberg and he was better protected than I could ever be. My only chance to survive is to expose them, and I’m the only one who can.” Forming those thoughts for the first time into words sent a shiver through Locke he couldn’t suppress. Finally it stopped on its own, leaving behind only a trembling in his fingers.
“Was Felderberg helpful in any way?”
“He confirmed that food is the key. Somebody’s buying up huge quantities of farmland in South America.”
“Colombia,” Burgess said. “San Sebastian …”
“Exactly. It’s only part of the story, but at least we’ve got something to follow now. Felderberg said Lubeck’s next stop was in Florence. Someone known as the Dwarf. Ever heard of him?”
Burgess chuckled. “Heard of him? If MI-6 had him on the payroll, we’d never have lost a single defector. The man’s an information warehouse. This might be right up his alley.”
“Why do they call him the Dwarf?”
“Because that’s what he is, lad! Little bastard doesn’t stand more than four feet high and most of it’s in his head. What a magnificent brain, the best in the world at what he does. But finding him won’t be easy. I can’t help you much there.”
“I’ll find a way and I’ll be careful.”
“Being careful won’t be enough, lad, not against the forces you’ve described.” Burgess took a deep breath. “I’m going to give you the address of this young lady who’s been relaying messages between us. If anything happens to me and you need to come in, use her place as a safe house. Got something to write with?”
“No. Give me the address. I’ll memorize it.”
“Two-oh-five Longfield. Falmouth, Cornwall. Got it?”
“Easy enough. I’ll call in tomorrow.”
“Cheers, lad.”
“Colin, wait. My family, I–I’ve got to speak—”
“I’ve got a friend in the States monitoring them,” Burgess interrupted. “Calling your house now would be the worst step you could take. The bastards behind all this might believe you’d passed something on to them over the line. We can’t have that. Your family’s fine, lad. Trust me.”
The phone clicked off.
Chris fought back the almost irresistible temptation to get his wife on the phone. He fought back too the urge to sprawl out on the room’s big bed and succumb to exhaustion. His ankle felt better now but his head had taken over the throbbing. He glanced at the phone for a long moment and came ever so close to lifting the receiver before he forced himself to his feet and left the room. He deposited another fifty francs at the front desk and returned to his taxi. It was dark outside now, a clear, crystalline night that would see a rapid drop in temperature. It was time to return to the train station.
Locke gave the driver a fifty-franc tip and headed into the Vaduz Station. It proved to be far more crowded now than it had been in the afternoon. So far as he could tell no one was waiting by the lockers for him to extract his bag. If there was surveillance of any kind, it was well camouflaged.
Chris bought a paper and sat down on a wooden bench with the front section in front of his face. He had to wait things out, look for something that looked wrong before he made any move. A man sat down next to him holding a crumpled newspaper. Their eyes met and the man, who looked to be about fifty with a solid day’s beard growth, smiled. Suddenly Locke had an idea.
“Do you speak English?” he asked the man.
“English!” the stranger exclaimed. “Is like a secoont langooge to me. I iv studied long and hart.” He smiled proudly.
“I need a favor. Would you like to make some money?”
“How mooch?”
“A hundred francs.”
“What can I dooth for you?”
Locke reached into his pocket, pulled out a card and key, and handed them to the man. “Take these to the service desk and say you wish to get into your locker. The clerk will—”
“I know the proceese.”
“There’s a small bag inside the locker. Bring it to me on track two.” The next train to Schaan would be leaving from there in fifteen minutes.
“That ese all?”
“That and no questions.”
The man nodded. “You have mooney?”
Locke handed him the hundred francs.
“I go now,” the man said and stood up. He looked down and winked. “You in trooble, eh?”
“A little.”
“Wooman?”
“No questions, remember?”
“I une-der-stand. I weel help you.”
The man walked away.
Locke rose quickly and moved from the bench with a measured pace, trying to match that of the people who shuffled around him. By the time he had reached the track entrance, the man was leading a clerk to the row of lockers. No sooner had he stuck his key in the slot then out of nowhere a herd of men converged on them from every corner of the station. The man was grabbed and wrestled to the floor. The clerk was escorted roughly away. Now the man was being spirited off too, screaming at his captors to no avail.
It was the distraction Locke had hoped for. He couldn’t get his passport or clothes now but at least he could escape. He turned quickly.
An old hag, dressed in tatters, grabbed him at the lapel with one bony, filthy hand.
“American, you got money?”
Chris shoved her aside, eyes darting about feverishly to see if he had been noticed.
The hag poked him from behind.
“I know you got money. Give some to me. I not eat in three days. Please, American, please!”
Locke had swung to push her away again when he felt something hard jab into his ribs from beneath her bulky sweater.
“Don’t say a word or I kill you here.”
Locke started to speak. The hag poked him harder with her pistol.
“Walk forward to the track,” she whispered.
Chris obeyed, moving toward the knot of people waiting near the track for the next train to Schaan. He might be able to knock the hag’s gun aside and neutralize her there but in doing so would draw too much attention to himself. The building would still be crawling with Peale and the others after him for Felderberg’s murder. He couldn’t risk alerting them.