The Brotherhood of the Rose Page 32

  “You’ll get your retirement. First you have to qualify.”

  “With what? A blood test?”

  “If we let you in like this was a tourist trap, how safe would you feel? Relax. When you’re registered, I’ll even buy you a drink.”

  “Did you say ‘buy’? You mean they’re not free?”

  “This isn’t welfare, you know.”

  “It’s sure not paradise either.”

  “Buddy, that’s where you’re wrong.”

  The Pontiac lurched down the lane. Saul gripped the seat, glancing out, seeing metal boxes attached to trees. “Motion detectors?”

  “And pressure plates.”

  “Quiet,” the driver told his partner. “You want to give him a fucking guided tour?”

  The second guard’s eyes narrowed, dark at Saul.

  They burst from the forest.

  Seeing the estate, he understood. Lawn stretched forever. To the left of what was now a paved road, golfers avoided a sand trap, heading toward a pond. To the right, guests strolled along a white stone path near flower gardens, benches, and fountains.

  A country club. A park.

  The road led up to the lodge, the peaks in the background reminding him again of Yellowstone. A helicopter took off.

  But he didn’t allow distraction. Concentrating on the resort, he prepared himself for…

  What? He didn’t know.

  The Pontiac braked in front. Unlocking Saul’s door, the driver got out, then the other guard, then Saul.

  They flanked him, climbing concrete stairs to a porch that stretched the width of the building. It was made from sweet-smelling cedar, solid beneath his boots. Along one side, he glimpsed the edge of a tennis court, hearing the pock of balls. An unseen player laughed in triumph. With dusk approaching, they’d soon have to quit, he thought.

  Then he noticed the arc lights rimming the court.

  Sentries? He studied a gardener on a riding mower, a man in a white coat running with towels to the tennis court, a repairman caulking the edge of a window. But they seemed less interested in their duties than in Saul.

  Okay then.

  The guards took him in through large double doors. A tobacco and magazine counter to the left, a coffee shop to the right. He passed a clothing store, a record shop, a druggist, reaching a lobby, spacious and high with wagon-wheel chandeliers and a gleaming hardwood floor. A counter with mail and key slots in the wall behind it reminded him of a hotel.

  A clerk spoke urgently from behind a desk. “He’s waiting for you. Go right in.” He pointed quickly at a door marked Private.

  The guards made Saul walk ahead—through the door, down a narrow hall, to a second door, this one unmarked. Before the guard in the hunting shirt had a chance to knock, a buzzer unlocked the door. Saul glanced behind him, seeing a closed-circuit camera above the first door he’d come through.

  Shrugging, he went inside. The office was larger than he’d anticipated, richly decorated, emphasizing leather, chrome, and glass. The wall across from him was a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of a swimming pool—people splashing—and a café. But directly ahead of him, beyond plush carpet, a man sat at a desk, scribbling to the side of a densely typed sheet of paper.

  “Come,” the man said, too busy writing to look up.

  Saul stepped across. The guards walked in behind him.

  “No.” The man glanced up. “Just him. Wait outside, though. I might need you.”

  They eased back, closing the door.

  Saul studied him. The man was in his early forties, his round face somewhat heavy, his hair cut modishly so it covered the tops of his ears. He had a bulky chest which, when he stood, became an equally bulky stomach. He wore a red blazer and navy pants, both polyester. When he came around the desk, Saul noticed his white shoes. When he held out his hand, Saul noticed his multibuttoned digital watch. But if the man looked like a high-pressure booster for a Chamber of Commerce, his eyes were sharply alert.

  He’s dressing a part, Saul thought. Not a salesman. A recreation director. So garish he won’t seem threatening to the guests.

  “We weren’t expecting a new arrival.” The man’s smile dissolved as he glanced at blood on his palm from where he’d shaken hands with Saul.

  “I had a little trouble—” Saul shrugged “—getting in.”

  “But no one said you’d been hurt.” The director’s voice was alarmed. “And your cheek. I’ll have a doctor take a look. Believe me, I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But I’m accountable for what happens here. Don’t you see? You’re my responsibility. Sit down and relax. Would you like a drink?”

  “No alcohol.”

  “How about some Perrier?”

  Saul nodded.

  The man seemed delighted, as if his every wish was to serve. He opened a bookcase, then the door to a small refrigerator, twisting the cap off a bottle, filling a glass with ice, and pouring it full. He gave it to Saul, along with a napkin.

  Drinking, Saul hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

  The man looked pleased. Rubbing his hands, he sat behind his desk again. “Food?”

  “Not now.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” He tilted back in his chair, scratching his eyebrow. “I understand you came in the hard way, over the mountains.”

  He’s starting, Saul thought. It’s slick, but it’s still an interrogation. “I like the woods.”

  “Apparently someone else did. There was shooting.”

  “Hunters.”

  “Yes. But what were they hunting?”

  Saul shrugged like a youngster caught in a lie.

  “But why were they hunting you?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Because you think we wouldn’t accept you? That’s not true. No matter what you’ve done, we’re obligated to protect you.”

  “I prefer to keep my secrets.”

  “Understandable. But look at it our way. If we knew who wanted to kill you, we could protect you better.”

  “And if word got around, maybe I wouldn’t be welcomed.”

  “By the other guests, you mean?”

  Saul nodded.

  “I grant your point. But I’m like a priest. I never repeat what I hear.”

  “What about whoever’s listening?”

  “There’s no bug.”

  Saul simply stared.

  “I admit there’s interoffice communication. In case I have trouble.” He reached inside a drawer and flicked a switch. “It’s off.”

  “Maybe I made a mistake.” Saul rose from the chair.

  The man leaned forward. “No. I don’t mean to pressure you. All I want to do is help.”

  Saul understood. If someone rejected the protection of a rest home, the director would have to explain to his superiors why the rest home had not been acceptable.

  He sat back down and finished the Perrier.

  “There’s protocol to be obeyed, though,” the man said.

  “Naturally.”

  “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Don.”

  You’re also good, Saul thought. Now it’s supposed to be my turn. “Saul.”

  “You gave the guards the password?”

  “Naturally.”

  “What is it?”

  “Abelard.”

  “Mind you, even a common gangster could have found that out. The password hasn’t changed since 1938. Information gets around. You understand only operatives are allowed protection here.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Saul reached beneath his shirt and peeled off the waterproof pouch. Sorting through several documents, he handed Don his passport. “My legal name. I assume you’ll check.”

  “Of course.” Don opened the passport, frowning. “And your cryptonym?”

  “Romulus.”

  Don slammed down the passport. “What the fuck do you think you’re—?”

  Saul clicked his
tongue. “At least you’re real. For a minute there, I wondered if you’d try to sell me a life insurance policy.”

  “That’s exactly what you need. You figure you can trick your way in here and—”

  “Trick? Hey, somebody shot at me.”

  “Hired help.”

  “Not mine. I nearly got killed. You think I’d trust even an expert to shoot at me long distance and make it close enough to be convincing? Look at my hands. Ask your men outside how close the bullets came. I’m qualified. I gave the password. I want asylum.”

  “Why?”

  “You keep… Because the president put out a contract on me. The Paradigm hit. I killed his closest friend.”

  Don held his breath and shook. “Your father?”

  “What?”

  “Or your foster father or whatever you want to call him. I suppose you don’t know he’s here.”

  “What difference does it make? If my father’s here…”

  “He told me you want to kill him!”

  “Then whoever he is, he can’t be my father. Kill him? Insane. Where is this man? I want to—”

  Don slammed his desk. “That’s bullshit!”

  The door banged open. The guards came in.

  “Get out of here!” Don said.

  “But we thought there was—”

  “Shut the goddamn door!”

  They did.

  Dusk thickened through the window. Arc lights suddenly gleamed, reflecting off the pool.

  Don pressed his hands on the desk. “Don’t kid a kidder. He told me enough to convince me you want to kill him.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “The contract on me. It’s legitimate. If I leave, I’m dead. Imagine how your reputation would suffer. The only director of a rest home to deny protection to a qualified candidate. The inquiry—and your execution—would entertain me. Except I’d be dead.”

  “You’ve forgotten.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t win a contest. This place costs.”

  “I figured.”

  “Did you? It’s a private club.”

  “Initiation fee?”

  “You guessed it. Two hundred thousand.”

  “Steep.”

  “Our clientele’s exclusive. They pay to keep out the riffraff.”

  “I prefer it that way. I’ve got standards too.” Glancing in his packet again, Saul drew out three papers, handing them across.

  “What the—?”

  “Gold certificates. Actually, it’s more than two hundred thousand. Naturally you’ll give me credit.”

  “How the hell—?”

  “The same way the others did.”

  Saul didn’t need to explain.

  By skimming. The CIA had unlimited funds. For security reasons, no records were kept. It was common practice for an administrator to hide ten percent of an operation’s cost as an unacknowledged fee, a bonus for deposit in Swiss accounts, the best insurance policy. If mistakes were made or politics became too risky, the administrator used the account for his protection. If his life was at stake, he entered a rest home.

  Saul had learned the trick from Eliot, saving a portion of every mission’s budget. Again, he’d used his father’s tactics against him.

  “Bastard. There’s more. That’s just the initial fee. Those shops you passed. The tennis courts. The swimming pool. The golf course.”

  “Never tried it.”

  “The movies. You’ve got to eat. Quick chicken and burgers, or gourmet. It costs. You like television? We’ve got satellite reception. Bullfights. Pamplona. You can watch. It isn’t free. We offer anything you want—from books to records to sex. If we don’t have it, we’ll send for it. Paradise. But friend, does it cost. And if you can’t pay your way, that’s the only time I can kick you out.”

  “Sounds like I ought to buy stock.”

  “Quit jerking—”

  Saul pulled out two further slips of paper. “Here’s fifty thousand. Even a burger can’t be that expensive. Rumor has it I can live six months here on that—and even go to the movies.”

  Don shook worse. “You—”

  “Temper. Live with it. I qualify.”

  Don seethed. “Make one wrong move.”

  “I know. I’m dead. Just tell that to my father. The same should apply to him.”

  “Then you admit—?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. But I expect the same protection my father gets.”

  “Shit.”

  Saul shrugged. “It’s a problem for you. I sympathize.”

  “You’ll be watched.”

  “Paradise. I hope those burgers are worth a quarter million dollars.” Standing, he walked to the door. “And now that I think about it…”

  “What?”

  “I’m Jewish. Maybe I’ll get religious again. I hope those burgers are kosher.”

  8

  Passing the guards, he heard Don call them angrily into the office. He grinned—but only till they disappeared.

  His eyes smoldered. Leaving the hall, he approached the desk. “I’m checking in.” His voice cracked with emotion.

  He filled out a registration form. The two guards came back and stood in a corner, watching. Guests in tennis outfits walked by, glancing at him. Others in evening dress came out of a restaurant across the lobby, frowning back as they climbed a polished staircase.

  Saul imagined what they thought. What was his background? His bloody ragged clothes contrasted with their wardrobes. Friends, the riffraff’s here.

  He saw few women—the upper echelon of the profession had traditionally formed an aristocratic men’s club, the old boy network. Many indeed looked old enough for retirement. Some he recognized: an American section chief who’d been stationed in Iran when the Shah was overthrown; a Soviet who’d attracted Brezhnev’s disfavor by underestimating guerrilla resistance during the Afghanistan invasion; an Argentine military intelligence director who’d been blamed for his country’s loss of the Falklands War.

  One pattern struck him. With few exceptions, no members of the same service associated with each other.

  The clerk seemed surprised he’d been admitted. “Here’s your key.” He sounded puzzled. “You’ll find a list of services on the table by your bed. The hospital’s downstairs in—”

  “I’ll treat the cuts myself.”

  He went to the clothing store and the druggist. The two guards lingered in the background. As he went upstairs, they followed. They reached a muffled corridor, waiting outside his third-floor room.

  He locked his door, impressed. The rest home’s clients got the protection they paid for. His unit was equally impressive, twice the size of a normal room, a bookshelf separating the sleeping area from the living quarters. He found a tape deck and stereo, a large-screen television, a personal computer, and a modem that allowed, instructions said, a link by telephone with an information service called The Source. Everything from The New York Times to the Dow Jones averages could be summoned instantly on the computer’s screen. Saul imagined the Wall Street news was paramount. The prices here no doubt forced a lot of clients to check their investments often. If their bills came due and they couldn’t pay…

  The furnishings were too luxurious for anyone’s taste to be offended. In the oversized bathroom, he found a television, whirlpool, telephone, and sunlamp in addition to a separate tub and shower. Everything a fugitive could want.

  With one exception. Freedom.

  He stripped and soaked his cuts in the whirlpool, feeling the surge of water knead his muscles. Sensual, the massage reminded him of Erika, making him more determined to survive. He couldn’t allow distraction. Chris. He had to concentrate on his mission. He had to avenge his brother’s death. Eliot. Amid the powerful swirl of water, he shut out all enjoyment. Seething, he stepped from the tub.

  His shots were up to date, so he wasn’t afraid of tetanus. All the same, his barbed wire gashes needed disinfecting.
The peroxide he’d bought from the druggist stung them. Bandaging the worst of them, he put on the new underwear, slacks, and turtleneck he’d bought. Their luxury embittered him.

  With the lights turned off, he opened the draperies and stared down at the tennis courts. Though illuminated, they weren’t in use. A solitary jogger skirted them. Saul glanced beyond toward darkness hiding the mountains.

  Paradise. The word kept coming back.

  He’d been successful.

  Getting here wasn’t the point, though. Eliot was, and despite his cavalier act with Don, he knew he’d accomplished little.

  So you’re in. So what? Don wasn’t joking. Those guards outside will watch you. Did you figure all you had to do was simply break into the old man’s room and kill him? The odds are you’d be shot before you got that far. Even if you succeeded, you’d never make it out of here alive.

  That isn’t good enough, he thought. I’ve got to kill the bastard and live.

  9

  “He’s what?” Alarmed, Eliot sat up rigidly in bed. “You’re telling me he’s here? He’s actually in the building?”

  “More than that. He applied for asylum,” Castor said. “He registered and went to his room.”

  “Applied for—?” Eliot blinked, astonished. “That’s impossible. The manager knows I came here because of Saul. He should have killed him. Why in God’s name did he let Saul in?”

  “Because of the contract against him.”

  “What?”

  “The president’s after him. The manager can’t refuse admission to an operative in danger.”

  Eliot fumed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The snipers outside should have killed Saul when he reached the valley. If Saul got around them, the rules of the rest home were supposed to take effect. Anyone threatening a guest faced execution. That was the law.

  I wouldn’t have chosen this place if I thought he could get inside.

  The irony dismayed him. The Paradigm job, which had started everything, had resulted in his seeking protection here. Saul, the reason he needed protection, had used the aftermath of that job to force the manager to let him in as well.

  I counted on the sanction to be my weapon. I never dreamed he’d use it against me.

  “Pollux is out in the hall,” Castor said. “He’s guarding the door.”