“I can’t speak for them. If they made an attempt on your life, I imagine it was because they believe you’re working with your wife.”
“You mean they think I’m working with you?”
Hoffmann kneaded his brow. It was apparent he didn’t relish the idea of anyone thinking that Jonathan worked with him. “Either way, I can’t help you there.”
“I appreciate the honesty,” said Jonathan. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much to solve my problem.”
Hoffmann slid his chair away from his desk. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back, as if to indicate that the formal part of the meeting was over. They could talk as friends now. “I feel for you, Dr. Ransom. The not knowing is the hardest part. My marriage didn’t last three years. You made it eight. I’d say you did better than most.”
As he spoke, his eyes blinked rapidly again. An ocular stutter. It was an odd tic, and something about it reminded Jonathan of someone he’d known a long time ago.
“I reiterate my suggestion,” Hoffmann continued. “Leave this office. Get out of the country as quickly as you possibly can. We have no desire to see any harm come to you. In our books, you’re one of the good guys. You’ve been an enormous help to us, whether you knew it or not. Give me your word that you won’t look into our activities and I’ll call off the hounds.”
“And I have your word on that?”
“Yes.”
Hoffmann blinked as he said the words, his eyes fluttering for nearly two seconds. In that instant, Jonathan put a name to the face. It had been five years, maybe more, but he was sure of it.
It goes back further than Lebanon.
“I know you.”
Hoffmann said nothing, but his cheeks were suddenly pierced by sharp points of red.
Jonathan went on. “You’re McKenna. Queen’s Household Division seconded to the U.N. peacekeeping force in Kosovo. A major, right?”
Hoffmann chuckled as if he’d been called out on a prank. He sat forward, the look of bemusement plain on his face, and when he spoke, the Berliner’s strict German was gone, abandoned in favor of a plummy Belgravia slur. “Took you long enough, Jonny. You’re right. It was Kosovo. New Year’s Eve, if I’m not mistaken. We tossed back a few that night. You, me, and Em. Put on a bit of weight since then, but who hasn’t? Present company excepted, I suppose. You look damn fit, all things considered.”
It was him. It was McKenna. Forty pounds heavier, minus some hair and a whisk-broom mustache, but him all the same. The same blinking eyes. The maddening habit of calling him “Jonny.”
Jonathan felt a terrible pounding pressing in at his temples. Kosovo. The New Year’s Eve shindig at the British barracks. Major Jock McKenna in his highlands kilt, marching in at the stroke of midnight with his bagpipes playing “Auld Lang Syne.” And then he remembered the last part. The reason why he’d been so slow to recognize McKenna.
“But you’re dead. You were killed in a car accident two days before we left the country.”
Hoffmann shrugged, as if to say another artifice disposed of. “As you can see, I wasn’t.”
“Who the hell are you?” Jonathan asked.
“Whoever I need to be.”
Hoffmann sprang from behind the desk. Jonathan struggled to free his pistol, but he was too slow. Inexpert. An arm flashed, knocking the pistol from his hand. A short double-edged blade protruded from between the middle and ring finger of Hoffmann’s other hand. He slashed at Jonathan. The blade narrowly missed his neck, slicing through the jacket’s lapels. Jonathan jumped back, knocking over a chair.
“Your turn,” said Hoffmann as he rounded the desk. “Go ahead. Shout. You want the police. Fine. Call them. I’m protecting myself against a murderer.”
Jonathan scooped up the chair and thrust it in front of him, fending off the larger man. Hoffmann darted forward, the blade nothing but a blur. Jonathan raised the chair, deflecting the blow.
He looked toward the desk. The box of stainless steel valves he’d hauled upstairs rested on the corner. Each valve was the size of a drinking glass and weighed nearly a kilo. He stepped forward, forcing Hoffmann back, and snatched a valve. With only one hand to hold the chair, he was vulnerable. Hoffmann saw this at once. He grasped a chair leg and yanked it to one side. At the same time, he transferred his weight to the opposite foot and attacked. Jonathan was too slow to retreat. A whiz of silver cut the air. This time the blade pierced the jacket and lacerated his chest. At the same moment, Jonathan brought the valve down. The blow glanced across Hoffmann’s brow, opening a gash above his eye. Hoffmann grunted, shook it off, and charged, pressing his bulk against the chair like a lineman driving a blocking sled. Jonathan dropped the valve and clutched the chair with both hands. Hoffmann pressed in closer. He was the heavier man and despite his bland appearance, immensely strong. The blade slashed and Jonathan felt a stinging sensation on the side of his throat.
Just then there was a knock at the door.
“Is everything alright, Mr. Hoffmann?”
“Perfect,” said Hoffmann in a ridiculously enthusiastic voice. He leaned into the chair, his face a brilliant red, perspiration beading his forehead. Less than a meter separated the men. He raised his hand, preparing to strike.
All at once, Jonathan dropped to a knee and forced the chair to his left. Caught unawares, Hoffmann’s momentum carried him in the same direction. He fell forward and dropped to a knee. Jonathan circled behind him, grabbing another valve from the box and slamming it against the back of Hoffmann’s head. He began to get up, and Jonathan struck him again.
Hoffmann collapsed to the floor.
“Mr. Hoffmann!” called the secretary, banging on the door now. “Please! What’s that noise? May I come in?”
Dazed, Jonathan stumbled backward, seeking the desk for balance. He caught his reflection in a framed photograph. He was a mess. The cut on his throat was leaking blood. It had missed the carotid artery by less than an inch. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the wound.
“One second,” he said, smiling grotesquely to imitate Hoffmann’s jolly voice.
He looked around the office. A window behind the desk opened onto a four-story drop. There were no drainpipes to slide down this time. He hurried to the door, picked up his pistol, and slipped it into his waistband.
“Come in,” he said.
The secretary entered in a rush. Before she could take in the scene, Jonathan closed the door behind her.
“My goodness, what happened?” she asked, the disparate elements slowly adding up.
Jonathan forced her against the door, bracing the woman with his forearm. “If you’re quiet, I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”
The secretary nodded vigorously. “But…”
“Sshhh,” he said. “You’ll be alright. I promise you. It’s better to relax.”
The woman’s eyes widened in terror.
He pressed his fingers against her carotid artery, cutting off the flow of blood to her brain. She jerked once in his arms, and five seconds later, she passed out. He lowered her to the carpet. He estimated she would regain consciousness in anywhere from two to ten minutes. Hoffmann would be a little longer in coming around.
Jonathan surveyed the office. He could not leave looking as he did. He took off the blue work jacket, then found Hoffmann’s overcoat and put it on, sure to button it to the neck. He walked slowly down the corridor, head bowed, hand keeping his handkerchief to his neck. He took the stairs to the ground floor and exited the main entrance. After a block, his stiff gait turned into a jog, and soon after that, a headlong run.
He found the Mercedes parked in the garage on the Zentralstrasse across from the train station. He yanked the first aid kit from beneath the front seat and fumbled for some gauze and tape. It did little good. He needed stitches.