"Thank you."
The concierge, his hand shaking a little from what Renwick guessed was tiredness, reached for the phone as
Renwick turned on his heel and walked toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the lobby.
Places like this disquieted him. Not because of any increased security risk; if anything, hotels offered a multiplicity of escape routes and the comfort of civilian cover. Rather, the hotel offended him aesthetically. It was, in his view, a Frankenstein creation, the bastard child of a monstrous marriage between an idealized vision of a British colonial club and the uncompromising functionality and ugliness of an airport executive lounge.
Although the lobby was luxurious, it was in an impersonal, mass-market sort of way. The dark wooden paneling was laminate, millimeters thin. The carpet was bland and soulless and industrial. Reproduction antiques had been "casually" scattered. The mahogany-effect furniture was squat and square, lacking any delicacy or subtlety, the chairs upholstered with a coordinated palette of indifferent reds and golds and browns. Its very inoffensiveness offended him. Even the elevator music, it seemed, had been sanitized, with complex orchestral pieces reduced to a syrupy flute solo.
A sign on the seventh floor pointed him toward the Bel-levue Suite. Renwick knocked, and a few moments later Hecht opened the door. Renwick stared at him, unable to tell whether his toothy grimace was a genuine smile or a byproduct of his scar. Hecht held out his right hand, but Ren-wick offered his left instead, still not able to bring himself to let others feel his prosthetic hand's unnatural hardness. Hecht swapped sides with an apologetic nod.
The suite, although large, replicated most of the lobby's failings. The ceiling was low and oppressive, the furniture thick and ungainly, the curtains and cushions and carpets all in varying shades of brown, the walls red. Hecht led Ren-wick through to the sitting room and waved him to a beige sofa, then sat down heavily on the one opposite. This time he smiled, Renwick was sure of it.
"Drink?"
Renwick shook his head. "Where is Dmitri?"
"He is here."
Renwick got to his feet and looked around him. The room was empty. "We agreed — no games, Johann."
"Calm yourself, Cassius."
The voice came from a speakerphone that Renwick had not noticed until now. It had been placed in the middle of the white marble-effect table between the sofas. The accent was a mixture of American vowels and clipped German consonants, no doubt the product of some expensive East Coast postgrad program.
"Dmitri?" he asked uncertainly.
"I apologize for the rather melodramatic circumstances. Please do not blame Colonel Hecht. He was adamant that we should meet in person, but unfortunately it is very difficult for me to travel unobserved."
"What is this? How do I even know it is you?" Renwick, suspicious, had remained standing.
"We are partners now. You must trust me."
"Trusting people do not live long in my business."
"You have my word of honor, then."
"The difference being…?"
"The difference being nothing to a businessman like yourself, but everything to soldiers like Johann and me. To a soldier, honor and loyalty count above all else."
"A soldier?" Renwick gave a half-smile. "In whose army?"
"An army fighting a war that has never ended. A war to protect our Fatherland from the hordes of Jews and immigrants who daily defile our soil and desecrate the purity of our blood." As Dmitri's voice grew in intensity, Hecht nodded fervently. "A war to remove the shackles of Zionist propaganda, which for too long has choked the silent majority of the German nation with guilt, when it is we, the true Germans, who suffered and died for our country. When it is we who continue to suffer, and yet are condemned to silence by the lies of the Jewish-controlled press and the undeserved power of their financial and political institutions." Dmitri paused as if to compose himself, then continued. "But the tide is turning in our favor. Our supporters are no longer ashamed to show where their loyalties lie. In the cities and the towns and the villages they march for us once more. They fight for us. They vote for us. We are everywhere."
Renwick shrugged. The speech sounded rehearsed and left him unmoved. "Your beliefs are no concern of mine."
There was a pause and when Dmitri next spoke his voice was almost gentle. "Tell me, what do you believe in, Cas-sius?"
"I believe in me."
Dmitri laughed. "An idealist, then?"
Renwick sat down again. "A realist, certainly. I think I will have that drink now." He turned to Hecht. "Scotch."
"Excellent," the speakerphone chuckled as Hecht raised himself to his feet and shuffled over to the liquor cabinet. "Let's get down to business."
Hecht returned with Renwick's drink and then sat down again.
"Your war is no concern of mine," said Renwick. "But what I have to tell you will give you the means to win it."
"I have here in front of me the little toy that you gave to Colonel Hecht in Copenhagen. Most amusing. He mentioned a train. A gold train?"
"There is more to this than gold," said Renwick. "Much more."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The hotel, lovingly crafted from the careful blending of four or five separate medieval town houses, had a timeless, almost rustic quality that gave it a feeling of permanence and history that even the incongruously fresh mortar couldn't erode.
The interior, however, could not have been more of a contrast. Here, only the faintest traces of the original building survived in a few rough stone walls and oak beams that had been left exposed. The rest was uncompromisingly modern: the floor a shiny gray marble, the walls white, the furniture black, recessed halogen lights washing everything with a bleaching glare. Most impressively, a huge glass-and-steel staircase and elevator had been inserted through the center of the building like some shiny medical implant.
Tom, gripping a large brown leather carryall, walked up to the semicircular walnut reception desk. The attractively fresh-faced girl behind it smiled a welcome. "I'd like to see Herr Lasche, please." Her smile vanished as quickly as it had materialized. "We have no guest here by that name."
"I have something for him." He deposited the bag on the desk.
"I'm sorry, but—"
"Believe me, he'll want to see this. And give him my card."
He slipped one of his business cards across the desk. Tom had to admit that after years of striving never to alert the authorities to his existence, there was something rather therapeutic about advertising himself in such a public way. The design was simple: just his name across the center together with his contact details. His one extravagance had been to have the reverse printed in a deep vermilion, with the firm's name, Kirk Duval, in white. It was only later, when Dominique commented on the similarity to his father's business cards, that he realized he had chosen exactly the same color scheme. The receptionist shook her head. Then, still holding his gaze, she reached under the counter and pressed a button. Almost immediately a burly man wearing a black tur-tleneck and jeans appeared from the room behind her.
"Ja?"
Tom repeated what he had just said to the girl. The man's face remained impassive as he opened the bag and unzipped it, feeling gingerly around inside. Satisfied that it contained nothing dangerous, he jerked his head toward an opening in the wall.
"Wait in there."
Tom stepped into what turned out to be the bar. It was empty apart from the barman, who stood in front of a wall of bottles, polishing glasses. The remaining walls were covered with a soft reddish leather to match the stool and bench upholstery and, together with the dimmed lighting, combined to give the room a relaxed, almost soporific feel. No sooner had Tom sat down than two men entered and seated themselves opposite him. Neither said a word as they both fixed him with a disconcertingly steady gaze, as if it were a blinking contest. A few minutes later, the receptionist beckoned him back through to the lobby. The two men followed close behind.