The Doomsday Conspiracy
Chapter Thirty-Five
Day Fifteen
Robert Bellamy was in a dilemma. Could there have been an eleventh witness? And if there was, why hadn't any of the witnesses mentioned her before? The clerk who sold the bus tickets had told him there were only seven passengers. Robert was convinced that the Hungarian carnival owner had made a mistake. It would have been easy to ignore it, to assume that it was untrue, but Robert's training would not permit it. He had been too well disciplined. Bushfekete's story had to be checked out. How? Robert thought about it. Hans Beckerman. The bus driver will know.
He placed a call to Sunshine Tours. The office was closed. There was no listing in Kappel for a Hans Beckerman. I'm going to have to go back to Switzerland and settle this, Robert thought. I can't leave any loose ends.
It was late at night when Robert arrived in Zurich. The air was cold and crisp and there was a full moon. Robert rented a car and took the now familiar drive to the little village of Kappel. He drove past the church and pulled up in front of Hans Beckerman's home, convinced that he was on a wild goose chase. The house was dark. Robert knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again, shivering in the cold night air.
Mrs Beckerman finally answered the door. She was wearing a faded flannel robe. "Bitte?"
"Mrs Beckerman, I wonder if you remember me? I'm the reporter who's writing an article on Hans. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but it's important that I speak to your husband."
His words were greeted with silence. "Mrs Beckerman?"
"Hans is dead."
Robert felt a small shock go through him. "What?"
"My husband is dead."
"I ... I'm sorry. How?"
"His car went over the side of the mountain." Her voice was filled with bitterness. "The Dummkopf Polizei said it was because he was full of drugs."
"Drugs?" I'm sorry I cannot offer you a drink. Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve the pain. lam allergic to all of them.
"The police said it was an accident?"
"Ja."
"Did they perform an autopsy?"
"They did, and they found drugs. It makes no sense."
He had no answer. "I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Beckerman. I ..."
The door closed, and Robert stood there, alone in the cold night.
One witness was gone. No ... two. Leslie Mothershed had died in afire. Robert stood there for a long time. Two witnesses dead. He could hear the voice of his instructor at the Farm: There's one more thing I want to discuss today. Coincidence. In our work, there is no such animal. It usually spells danger. If you keep running into the same person again and again, or if you keep spotting the same automobile when you're on the move, cover your ass. You're probably in trouble.
Probably in trouble. Robert was caught up in a series of conflicting emotions. What had happened had to be coincidences, and yet ... I've got to check out the mystery passenger.
His first call was to Fort Smith, Canada. A distraught woman's voice answered the telephone. "Yes?"
"William Mann, please."
The voice said, tearfully, "I'm sorry. My husband is ... is no longer with us."
"I don't understand."
"He committed suicide."
Suicide? That hard-headed banker? What the hell is going on? Robert wondered. What he was thinking was inconceivable, and yet ... He began making one phone call after another.
"Professor Schmidt, please."
"Ach! The professor died in an explosion in his laboratory ..."
"I'd like to speak to Dan Wayne."
"Poor devil. His prize stallion kicked him to death last ..."
"Laslo Bushfekete, please."
"The carnival's closed. Laslo is dead ..."
"Fritz Mandel, please."
"Fritz was killed in a freak accident ..."
The alarms were going full blast now.
"Olga Romanchanko."
"The poor girl. And she was so young ..."
"I'm calling to check on Father Patrini."
"The poor soul passed away in his sleep."
"I have to speak to Kevin Parker."
"Kevin was murdered ..."
Dead. Every one of the witnesses dead. And he was the one who had found them and identified them. Why had he not known what was going on? Because the bastards had waited until he was out of each country before executing their victims. The only one he had reported to was General Milliard. We must not involve anyone else in this mission ... I want you to report your progress to me every day.
They had used him to finger the witnesses. What was behind all this? Otto Schmidt had been killed in Germany, Hans Beckerman and Fritz Mandel in Switzerland. Olga Romanchanko in Russia, Dan Wayne and Kevin Parker in America, William Mann in Canada, Leslie Mothershed in England, Father Patrini in Italy, and Laslo Bushfekete in Hungary. That meant that the security agencies in more than half a dozen countries were engaged in the biggest cover-up in history. Someone at a very high level had decided that all the witnesses to the UFO crash must die. But who? And why? It was an international conspiracy and he was in the middle of it.
Priority: get under cover. It was hard for Robert to believe that they intended to kill him, too. He was one of them. But until he knew for certain, he could not take any chances. The first thing he had to do was to get a phony passport. That meant Ricco in Rome.
Robert caught the next plane out and found himself fighting to stay awake. He had not realized how exhausted he was. The pressure of the last fifteen days, in addition to all the jet lag, had left him drained.
He landed at the Leonardo da Vinci airport, and when he walked into the terminal, the first person he saw was Susan. He stopped, in shock. Her back was to him and for a moment he thought he might be mistaken. And then he heard her voice.
"Thank you. I have a car picking me up."
Robert moved to her side. "Susan ..."
She turned, startled. "Robert! What ... what a coincidence! But what a lovely surprise."
"I thought you were in Gibraltar," Robert said.
She smiled uneasily. "Yes. We're on our way there. Monte had some business here to take care of first. We're leaving tonight. What are you doing in Rome?"
Running for my life. "I'm finishing up on a job." It's my last. I've quit, darling. We can be together from now on, and nothing will ever separate us again. Leave Monte and come back to me. But he could not bring himself to say the words. He had done enough to her. She was happy in her new life. Leave it alone, Robert thought.
She was watching him. "You look tired."
He smiled. "I've been running around a little."
They looked into each other's eyes, and the magic was still there. The burning desire, and the memories, and the laughter, and the yearning.
Susan took his hand in hers and said softly, "Robert. Oh, Robert. I wish we ..."
"Susan ..."
And at that moment, a burly man in a chauffeur's uniform walked up to Susan. "The car is ready, Mrs Banks." And the spell was broken.
"Thank you." She turned to Robert. "I'm sorry. I have to go now. Please take care of yourself."
"Sure." He watched her leave. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. Life has a lousy sense of timing. It had been wonderful seeing Susan again but what was it that was troubling him? Of course! Coincidence. Another coincidence.
He took a taxi to the Hassler Hotel.
"Welcome back, Commander."
"Thank you."
"I'll have a bellman take up your bags."
"Wait." Robert looked at his watch. Ten p.m. He was tempted to go upstairs and get some sleep, but he had to arrange his passport first.
"I won't be going to my room right away," Robert said. "I would appreciate it if you would have my bags sent up."
"Of course, Commander."
As Robert turned to leave, the elevator door opened and half a dozen Shriner fraternity men came pouring out, laughing and chattering. They had obviously had a few drinks. One of them, a stout, red-faced man, waved to Robert.
"Hi there, buddy ... having a good time?"
"Wonderful," Robert said. "Just wonderful."
Robert walked through the lobby to the taxi stand outside. As he started to get into the taxi, he noticed an inconspicuous grey Opel parked across the street. It was too inconspicuous. It stood out among the large, luxurious automobiles around it.
"Via Monte Grappa," Robert told the taxi driver. During the drive, Robert looked out of the rear window. No grey Opel. I'm getting jumpy, he thought. When they arrived at Via Monte Grappa, Robert got out at the corner. As he started to pay the driver, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the grey Opel half a block down the street, yet he could have sworn it had not followed him. He started walking, moving away from the car, strolling slowly, stopping to look in shop windows. In the reflection of a store window, he saw the Opel, moving slowly behind him. When Robert reached the next corner, he noticed that it was a one-way street. He turned into it, going against the heavy traffic. The Opel hesitated at the corner, then sped away to pick Robert up at the other end. Robert reversed direction and walked back to Via Monte Grappa. The Opel was nowhere in sight. Robert hailed a taxi. "Via Monticelli."
The building was old and unprepossessing, a relic of better days. Robert had visited it many times before, on various missions. He walked down three basement steps and knocked on the door. An eye appeared at the peephole, and a moment later the door was flung open.
"Roberto!" a man exclaimed. He threw his arms around Robert. "How are you, mio amico?"
The speaker was a fat man in his sixties with white, unshaven stubble, thick eyebrows, yellowed teeth and several chins. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
"I'm fine, Ricco."
Ricco had no second name. For a man like me, he liked to boast, one name is enough. Like Garbo. "What can I do for you today, my friend?"
"I'm working on a case," Robert said, "and I'm in a hurry. Can you fix me up with a passport?"
Ricco smiled. "Is the Pope Catholic?" He waddled over to a cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. "What country would you like to be from?" He pulled out a handful of passports with different-coloured covers, and sorted through them. "We have a Greek passport, Turkish, Yugoslavian, English ..."
"American," Robert said.
Ricco pulled out a passport with a blue cover. "Here we are. Does the name of Arthur Butterfield appeal to you?"
"Perfect," Robert said.
"If you'll stand over by the wall, I will take your picture."
Robert moved over to the wall. Ricco opened a drawer and took out a Polaroid camera. A minute later, Robert was looking at a picture of himself.
"I wasn't smiling," Robert said.
Ricco looked at him, puzzled. "What?"
"I wasn't smiling. Take another one."
Ricco shrugged. "Sure. Whatever you say."
Robert smiled while the second passport picture was taken. He looked at it and said, "That's better." He casually slipped the first picture into his pocket.
"Now comes the high-tech part," Ricco announced. Robert watched as Ricco walked over to a work bench where there was a laminating machine. He placed the picture on the inside of the passport.
Robert moved to a table covered with pens, ink and other paraphernalia, and slipped a razor blade and a small bottle of glue into his jacket pocket.
Ricco was studying his handiwork. "Not bad," he said. He handed the passport to Robert. "That will be five thousand dollars."
"And well worth it," Robert assured him, as he peeled off ten five-hundred-dollar bills.
"It's always a pleasure doing business with you people. You know how I feel about you."
Robert knew exactly how he felt. Ricco was an expert cobbler who worked for half a dozen different governments, and was loyal to none. He put the passport in his pocket.
"Good luck, Mr Butterfield." Ricco smiled.
"Thanks."
The moment the door closed behind Robert, Ricco reached for the telephone. Information was always worth money to someone.
Outside, twenty yards down the street, Robert took the new passport out of his pocket and buried it in a trash can. Chaff. The technique he had used as a pilot to lay false trails for enemy missiles. Let them look for Arthur Butterfield.
The grey Opel was parked half a block away. Waiting. Impossible. Robert was sure that the car was the only tail they had on him. He was certain the Opel had not followed him, and yet it kept finding him. They had to have some way of keeping track of him. There was only one answer: they were using some kind of homing device. And he had to be carrying it. Attached to his clothes? No. They had had no opportunity. Captain Dougherty had stayed with him while he packed, but he would not have known what clothes Robert would take. Robert made a mental inventory of what he was carrying ... cash, keys, a wallet, handkerchief, credit card. The credit card! I doubt if I'll need that, General. Take it. And keep it with you at all times.
The sneaky sonofabitch. No wonder they had been able to find him so easily.
The grey Opel was no longer in sight. Robert took out the card and examined it. It was slightly thicker than an ordinary credit card. By squeezing it, he could feel an inner layer. They would have a remote control to activate the card. Good, Robert thought. Let's keep the bastards busy.
There were several trucks parked along the street, loading and unloading goods. Robert examined the licence plates. When he came to a red truck with French plates, he looked around to make sure he was not observed, and tossed the card in the back of the truck.
He flagged down a taxi. "Hassler, perfavore."
In the lobby, Robert approached the concierge. "See if there's a flight out of here tonight to Paris, please."
"Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular airline?"
"It doesn't matter. The first flight out."
"I will be happy to arrange it."
"Thank you." Robert walked over to the hotel clerk. "My key, please. Room 314. And I'll be checking out in a few minutes."
"Very good, Commander Bellamy." The clerk reached in a pigeonhole and pulled out a key and an envelope. "There's a letter here for you."
Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed, and addressed simply: Commander Robert Bellamy. He fingered it, feeling for plastique or any metal inside. Carefully, he opened it. Inside was a printed card advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent enough. Except, of course, for his name on the envelope.
"Do you happen to remember who gave you this?"
"I'm sorry," the clerk said apologetically, "but we have been so busy this evening ..."
It was not important. The man would have been faceless. He would have picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the envelope and stood by the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that the envelope was placed in. He would be upstairs now, in Robert's room, waiting. It was time to see the face of the enemy.
Robert became aware of raised voices and turned to watch the Shriners he had seen earlier, entering the lobby, laughing and singing. They had obviously had a few more drinks. The portly man said, "Hi there, pal. You missed a great party."
Robert's mind was racing. "You like parties?"
"Hoo hoo!"
"There's a real live one going on upstairs," Robert said. "Booze, girls - anything you want. Just follow me, fellows."
"That's the American spirit, pal." The man clapped Robert on the back. "You hear that, boys? Our friend here is throwing a party!"
They crowded into the elevator together and rode up to the third floor.
The Shriner said, "These Italians sure know how to live it up. I guess they invented orgies, huh?"
"I'm going to show you a real orgy," Robert promised.
They followed him down the hall to his room. Robert put the key in the lock and turned to the group. "Are you all ready to have some fun?"
There was a chorus of "yeses" ...
Robert turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped to one side. The room was dark. He snapped on the light. A tall, thin stranger was standing in the middle of the room with a Mauser, equipped with a silencer, half drawn. The man looked at the group with a startled expression, and quickly shoved the gun back in his jacket.
"Hey! Where's the booze?" one of the Shriners demanded.
Robert pointed to the stranger. "He has it. Go get it."
The group surged toward the man. "Where's the liquor, buddy? ... Where are the girls? ... Let's get this party on the road ..."
The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the crowd was blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted out of the door. He took the stairs two at a time.
Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit when the concierge called out, "Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your reservation for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one a.m."
"Thanks," Robert said hurriedly.
He was out of the door, into the small square overlooking the Spanish Steps. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert stepped into it. "Via Monte Grappa."
He had his answer now. They intended to kill him. They're not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now instead of the hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained him well. He knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their weaknesses, and he intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he had to find a way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would have been given a story of some kind. They would have been told he was wanted for smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would have been warned: He's dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill.
Robert said to the taxi driver, "Roma Termini." They were hunting for him, but they would not have had enough time to disseminate his photograph. So far, he was faceless.
The taxi pulled up at Via Giovanni Giolitti 36, and the driver announced, "Stazione Termini, signore."
"Let's just wait here a minute." Robert sat in the taxi, studying the front of the railway station. There seemed to be only the usual activity. Everything appeared to be normal. Taxis and limousines were arriving and departing, discharging and picking up passengers. Porters were loading and unloading luggage. A policeman was busily ordering cars to move out of the restricted parking zone. But something was disturbing Robert. He suddenly realized what was wrong with the picture. Parked directly in front of the station, in a no-parking zone, were three unmarked sedans, with no one inside. The policeman ignored them.
"I've changed my mind," Robert said to the driver. "Via Veneto 110/A." It was the last place anyone would look for him.
The American Embassy and consulate are located in a pink stucco building facing the Via Veneto, with a black wrought-iron fence in front of it. The embassy was closed at this hour, but the passport division of the consulate was open on a twenty-four-hour basis, to handle emergencies. In the foyer on the first floor, a marine sat behind a desk.
The marine looked up as Robert approached. "May I help you, sir?"
"Yes," Robert said. "I want to inquire about getting a new passport. I lost mine."
"Are you an American citizen?"
"Yes."
The marine indicated an office at the far end. "They'll take care of you in there, sir. Last door."
"Thank you."
There were half a dozen people in the room applying for passports, reporting lost passports, and getting renewals and visas.
"Do I need a visa to visit Albania? I have relatives there ..."
"I need this passport renewed by tonight. I have a plane to catch ..."
"I don't know what happened to it. I must have left it in Milan ..."
"They grabbed my passport right out of my purse ..."
Robert stood there, listening. Stealing passports was a thriving cottage industry in Italy. Someone here would be getting a new passport. At the head of the line was a well-dressed, middle-aged man being handed an American passport.
"Here is your new passport, Mr Cowan. I'm sorry you had such a bad experience. I'm afraid there are a lot of pickpockets in Rome."
"I'll sure see to it that they don't get hold of this one," Cowan said.
"You do that, sir."
Robert watched Cowan put the passport in his jacket pocket and turn to leave. Robert stepped ahead of him. As a woman brushed by, Robert lunged into Cowan, as though he had been pushed, almost knocking him down.
"I'm terribly sorry," Robert apologized. He leaned over and straightened the man's jacket for him.
"No problem," Cowan said.
Robert turned and walked into the public men's room down the hall, the stranger's passport in his pocket. He looked around to make sure he was alone, then went into one of the booths. He took out the razor blade and bottle of glue he had stolen from Ricco. Very carefully, he slit the top of the plastic and removed Cowan's photograph. Next, he inserted the picture of himself that Ricco had taken. He glued the top of the plastic slot closed, and examined his handiwork. Perfect. He was now Henry Cowan. Five minutes later, he was out in the Via Veneto, getting into a taxi. "Leonardo da Vinci."
It was twelve thirty when Robert arrived at the airport. He stood outside, looking for anything unusual. On the surface, everything appeared to be normal. No police cars, no suspicious-looking men. Robert entered the terminal, and stopped just inside the door. There were various airline counters scattered around the large terminal. There seemed to be no one loitering or hiding behind posts. He stayed where he was, wary. He could not explain it, even to himself, but somehow, everything seemed too normal.
Across the room was an Air France counter. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one a.m. Robert walked past the counter and approached a woman in uniform behind the Alitalia counter. "Good evening."
"Good evening. Can I help you, signore?"
"Yes," Robert said. "Would you please page Commander Robert Bellamy to come to the courtesy telephone?"
"Certainly," she said. She picked up a microphone.
A few feet away, a fat middle-aged woman was checking a number of suitcases, heatedly arguing with an airline attendant about overweight fees. "In America, they never charged me for overweight."
"I'm sorry, madam. But if you wish all these bags to go on, you must pay for excess baggage."
Robert moved closer. He heard the attendant's voice over the loudspeaker. "Will Commander Robert Bellamy please come to the white courtesy telephone. Commander Robert Bellamy, please come to the white courtesy telephone." The announcement echoed throughout the airport.
A man holding a carry-on bag was walking past Robert. "Excuse me ..." Robert said.
The man turned. "Yes?"
"I hear my wife paging me but ..." he indicated the woman's bags, "I can't leave my luggage." He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the man. "Would you please go over to that white telephone and tell her I'll pick her up at our hotel in an hour? I'd really appreciate it."
The man looked at the ten-dollar bill in his hand. "Sure."
Robert watched him walk over to the courtesy telephone and pick it up. He held the receiver to his ear and said, "Hello ... hello ...?"
The next moment, four large men in black suits appeared from nowhere and closed in, pinning the hapless man to the wall.
"Hey! What is this?"
"Let's do this quietly," one of the men said.
"What do you think you're doing? Get your hands off me!"
"Don't make a fuss, Commander. There's no point ..."
"Commander? You've got the wrong man! My name is Melvyn Davis. I'm from Omaha!"
"Let's not play games."
"Wait a minute! I've been set up. The man you want is over there!" He pointed to where Robert had been standing.
There was no one there.
Outside the terminal, an airport bus was getting ready to depart. Robert boarded it, mingling with the other passengers. He sat at the back of the bus, concentrating on his next move
He was desperate to talk to Admiral Whittaker, to try to get answers about what was going on, to learn who was responsible for killing innocent people because they had witnessed something they were not supposed to have seen. Was it General Hilliard? Dustin Thornton? Or Thornton's father-in-law, Willard Stone, the man of mystery? Could he be involved in this in some way? Was it Edward Sanders, the Director of NSA? Did it go as high as the President? Robert needed answers.
The bus trip into Rome took an hour. When the bus stopped in front of the Eden Hotel, Robert disembarked.
I've got to get out of the country, Robert thought. There was only one man in Rome he could trust. Colonel Francesco Cesar, head of SIFAR, the Italian Secret Service. He was going to be Robert's escape from Italy.
Colonel Cesar was working late. Messages had been flashing back and forth among foreign security agencies, and they all involved Commander Robert Bellamy. Colonel Cesar had worked with Robert in the past and he was very fond of him. Cesar sighed as he looked at the latest message in front of him. Terminate. And as he was reading it, his secretary came into the office.
"Commander Bellamy is on line one for you."
Colonel Cesar stared at her. "Bellamy? Himself? Never mind." He waited until the secretary left the room, then snatched up the telephone.
"Robert?"
"Ciao, Francesco. What the hell is going on?"
"You tell me, amico. I've been getting all kinds of urgent communiques about you. What have you done?"
"It's a long story," Robert said. "And I haven't time. What have you heard?"
"That you've gone private. That you've been turned, and are singing like a canary."
"What?"
"I heard you've made a deal with the Chinese and ..."
"Jesus Christ. That's ridiculous!"
"Is it? Why?"
"Because an hour later they'd be hungry for more information."
"For God's sake, Robert, this is nothing to joke about."
"Tell me about it, Francesco. I've just sent ten innocent people to their deaths. I'm scheduled to be number eleven."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in Rome. I can't seem to get out of your fucking city."
"Cacatura?" There was a thoughtful silence. "What can I do to help?"
"Get me to a safe house where we can talk, and I can figure out how to get away. Can you arrange that?"
"Yes, but you must be careful. Very careful. I will pick you up myself."
Robert breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Thanks, Francesco. I really appreciate it."
"As you Americans say, you owe me one. Where are you?"
"The Lido bar in Trastevere."
"Wait right there. I'll see you in exactly one hour."
"Thanks, amico." Robert replaced the receiver. It was going to be a long hour.
Thirty minutes later, two unmarked cars coasted to a stop ten yards from the Lido bar. There were four men in each car and they were all carrying automatic weapons.
Colonel Cesar got out of the first car. "Let's do this quickly. We don't want anyone else to get hurt. Andaente al dietro, subito."
Half the men silently went around to cover the back of the building.
Robert Bellamy watched from the rooftop of the building across the street as Cesar and his men raised their weapons and charged into the bar.
All right, you bastards, Robert thought grimly, we'll play it your way.
Robert Bellamy was in a dilemma. Could there have been an eleventh witness? And if there was, why hadn't any of the witnesses mentioned her before? The clerk who sold the bus tickets had told him there were only seven passengers. Robert was convinced that the Hungarian carnival owner had made a mistake. It would have been easy to ignore it, to assume that it was untrue, but Robert's training would not permit it. He had been too well disciplined. Bushfekete's story had to be checked out. How? Robert thought about it. Hans Beckerman. The bus driver will know.
He placed a call to Sunshine Tours. The office was closed. There was no listing in Kappel for a Hans Beckerman. I'm going to have to go back to Switzerland and settle this, Robert thought. I can't leave any loose ends.
It was late at night when Robert arrived in Zurich. The air was cold and crisp and there was a full moon. Robert rented a car and took the now familiar drive to the little village of Kappel. He drove past the church and pulled up in front of Hans Beckerman's home, convinced that he was on a wild goose chase. The house was dark. Robert knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again, shivering in the cold night air.
Mrs Beckerman finally answered the door. She was wearing a faded flannel robe. "Bitte?"
"Mrs Beckerman, I wonder if you remember me? I'm the reporter who's writing an article on Hans. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but it's important that I speak to your husband."
His words were greeted with silence. "Mrs Beckerman?"
"Hans is dead."
Robert felt a small shock go through him. "What?"
"My husband is dead."
"I ... I'm sorry. How?"
"His car went over the side of the mountain." Her voice was filled with bitterness. "The Dummkopf Polizei said it was because he was full of drugs."
"Drugs?" I'm sorry I cannot offer you a drink. Ulcers. The doctors cannot even give me drugs to relieve the pain. lam allergic to all of them.
"The police said it was an accident?"
"Ja."
"Did they perform an autopsy?"
"They did, and they found drugs. It makes no sense."
He had no answer. "I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Beckerman. I ..."
The door closed, and Robert stood there, alone in the cold night.
One witness was gone. No ... two. Leslie Mothershed had died in afire. Robert stood there for a long time. Two witnesses dead. He could hear the voice of his instructor at the Farm: There's one more thing I want to discuss today. Coincidence. In our work, there is no such animal. It usually spells danger. If you keep running into the same person again and again, or if you keep spotting the same automobile when you're on the move, cover your ass. You're probably in trouble.
Probably in trouble. Robert was caught up in a series of conflicting emotions. What had happened had to be coincidences, and yet ... I've got to check out the mystery passenger.
His first call was to Fort Smith, Canada. A distraught woman's voice answered the telephone. "Yes?"
"William Mann, please."
The voice said, tearfully, "I'm sorry. My husband is ... is no longer with us."
"I don't understand."
"He committed suicide."
Suicide? That hard-headed banker? What the hell is going on? Robert wondered. What he was thinking was inconceivable, and yet ... He began making one phone call after another.
"Professor Schmidt, please."
"Ach! The professor died in an explosion in his laboratory ..."
"I'd like to speak to Dan Wayne."
"Poor devil. His prize stallion kicked him to death last ..."
"Laslo Bushfekete, please."
"The carnival's closed. Laslo is dead ..."
"Fritz Mandel, please."
"Fritz was killed in a freak accident ..."
The alarms were going full blast now.
"Olga Romanchanko."
"The poor girl. And she was so young ..."
"I'm calling to check on Father Patrini."
"The poor soul passed away in his sleep."
"I have to speak to Kevin Parker."
"Kevin was murdered ..."
Dead. Every one of the witnesses dead. And he was the one who had found them and identified them. Why had he not known what was going on? Because the bastards had waited until he was out of each country before executing their victims. The only one he had reported to was General Milliard. We must not involve anyone else in this mission ... I want you to report your progress to me every day.
They had used him to finger the witnesses. What was behind all this? Otto Schmidt had been killed in Germany, Hans Beckerman and Fritz Mandel in Switzerland. Olga Romanchanko in Russia, Dan Wayne and Kevin Parker in America, William Mann in Canada, Leslie Mothershed in England, Father Patrini in Italy, and Laslo Bushfekete in Hungary. That meant that the security agencies in more than half a dozen countries were engaged in the biggest cover-up in history. Someone at a very high level had decided that all the witnesses to the UFO crash must die. But who? And why? It was an international conspiracy and he was in the middle of it.
Priority: get under cover. It was hard for Robert to believe that they intended to kill him, too. He was one of them. But until he knew for certain, he could not take any chances. The first thing he had to do was to get a phony passport. That meant Ricco in Rome.
Robert caught the next plane out and found himself fighting to stay awake. He had not realized how exhausted he was. The pressure of the last fifteen days, in addition to all the jet lag, had left him drained.
He landed at the Leonardo da Vinci airport, and when he walked into the terminal, the first person he saw was Susan. He stopped, in shock. Her back was to him and for a moment he thought he might be mistaken. And then he heard her voice.
"Thank you. I have a car picking me up."
Robert moved to her side. "Susan ..."
She turned, startled. "Robert! What ... what a coincidence! But what a lovely surprise."
"I thought you were in Gibraltar," Robert said.
She smiled uneasily. "Yes. We're on our way there. Monte had some business here to take care of first. We're leaving tonight. What are you doing in Rome?"
Running for my life. "I'm finishing up on a job." It's my last. I've quit, darling. We can be together from now on, and nothing will ever separate us again. Leave Monte and come back to me. But he could not bring himself to say the words. He had done enough to her. She was happy in her new life. Leave it alone, Robert thought.
She was watching him. "You look tired."
He smiled. "I've been running around a little."
They looked into each other's eyes, and the magic was still there. The burning desire, and the memories, and the laughter, and the yearning.
Susan took his hand in hers and said softly, "Robert. Oh, Robert. I wish we ..."
"Susan ..."
And at that moment, a burly man in a chauffeur's uniform walked up to Susan. "The car is ready, Mrs Banks." And the spell was broken.
"Thank you." She turned to Robert. "I'm sorry. I have to go now. Please take care of yourself."
"Sure." He watched her leave. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. Life has a lousy sense of timing. It had been wonderful seeing Susan again but what was it that was troubling him? Of course! Coincidence. Another coincidence.
He took a taxi to the Hassler Hotel.
"Welcome back, Commander."
"Thank you."
"I'll have a bellman take up your bags."
"Wait." Robert looked at his watch. Ten p.m. He was tempted to go upstairs and get some sleep, but he had to arrange his passport first.
"I won't be going to my room right away," Robert said. "I would appreciate it if you would have my bags sent up."
"Of course, Commander."
As Robert turned to leave, the elevator door opened and half a dozen Shriner fraternity men came pouring out, laughing and chattering. They had obviously had a few drinks. One of them, a stout, red-faced man, waved to Robert.
"Hi there, buddy ... having a good time?"
"Wonderful," Robert said. "Just wonderful."
Robert walked through the lobby to the taxi stand outside. As he started to get into the taxi, he noticed an inconspicuous grey Opel parked across the street. It was too inconspicuous. It stood out among the large, luxurious automobiles around it.
"Via Monte Grappa," Robert told the taxi driver. During the drive, Robert looked out of the rear window. No grey Opel. I'm getting jumpy, he thought. When they arrived at Via Monte Grappa, Robert got out at the corner. As he started to pay the driver, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the grey Opel half a block down the street, yet he could have sworn it had not followed him. He started walking, moving away from the car, strolling slowly, stopping to look in shop windows. In the reflection of a store window, he saw the Opel, moving slowly behind him. When Robert reached the next corner, he noticed that it was a one-way street. He turned into it, going against the heavy traffic. The Opel hesitated at the corner, then sped away to pick Robert up at the other end. Robert reversed direction and walked back to Via Monte Grappa. The Opel was nowhere in sight. Robert hailed a taxi. "Via Monticelli."
The building was old and unprepossessing, a relic of better days. Robert had visited it many times before, on various missions. He walked down three basement steps and knocked on the door. An eye appeared at the peephole, and a moment later the door was flung open.
"Roberto!" a man exclaimed. He threw his arms around Robert. "How are you, mio amico?"
The speaker was a fat man in his sixties with white, unshaven stubble, thick eyebrows, yellowed teeth and several chins. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
"I'm fine, Ricco."
Ricco had no second name. For a man like me, he liked to boast, one name is enough. Like Garbo. "What can I do for you today, my friend?"
"I'm working on a case," Robert said, "and I'm in a hurry. Can you fix me up with a passport?"
Ricco smiled. "Is the Pope Catholic?" He waddled over to a cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. "What country would you like to be from?" He pulled out a handful of passports with different-coloured covers, and sorted through them. "We have a Greek passport, Turkish, Yugoslavian, English ..."
"American," Robert said.
Ricco pulled out a passport with a blue cover. "Here we are. Does the name of Arthur Butterfield appeal to you?"
"Perfect," Robert said.
"If you'll stand over by the wall, I will take your picture."
Robert moved over to the wall. Ricco opened a drawer and took out a Polaroid camera. A minute later, Robert was looking at a picture of himself.
"I wasn't smiling," Robert said.
Ricco looked at him, puzzled. "What?"
"I wasn't smiling. Take another one."
Ricco shrugged. "Sure. Whatever you say."
Robert smiled while the second passport picture was taken. He looked at it and said, "That's better." He casually slipped the first picture into his pocket.
"Now comes the high-tech part," Ricco announced. Robert watched as Ricco walked over to a work bench where there was a laminating machine. He placed the picture on the inside of the passport.
Robert moved to a table covered with pens, ink and other paraphernalia, and slipped a razor blade and a small bottle of glue into his jacket pocket.
Ricco was studying his handiwork. "Not bad," he said. He handed the passport to Robert. "That will be five thousand dollars."
"And well worth it," Robert assured him, as he peeled off ten five-hundred-dollar bills.
"It's always a pleasure doing business with you people. You know how I feel about you."
Robert knew exactly how he felt. Ricco was an expert cobbler who worked for half a dozen different governments, and was loyal to none. He put the passport in his pocket.
"Good luck, Mr Butterfield." Ricco smiled.
"Thanks."
The moment the door closed behind Robert, Ricco reached for the telephone. Information was always worth money to someone.
Outside, twenty yards down the street, Robert took the new passport out of his pocket and buried it in a trash can. Chaff. The technique he had used as a pilot to lay false trails for enemy missiles. Let them look for Arthur Butterfield.
The grey Opel was parked half a block away. Waiting. Impossible. Robert was sure that the car was the only tail they had on him. He was certain the Opel had not followed him, and yet it kept finding him. They had to have some way of keeping track of him. There was only one answer: they were using some kind of homing device. And he had to be carrying it. Attached to his clothes? No. They had had no opportunity. Captain Dougherty had stayed with him while he packed, but he would not have known what clothes Robert would take. Robert made a mental inventory of what he was carrying ... cash, keys, a wallet, handkerchief, credit card. The credit card! I doubt if I'll need that, General. Take it. And keep it with you at all times.
The sneaky sonofabitch. No wonder they had been able to find him so easily.
The grey Opel was no longer in sight. Robert took out the card and examined it. It was slightly thicker than an ordinary credit card. By squeezing it, he could feel an inner layer. They would have a remote control to activate the card. Good, Robert thought. Let's keep the bastards busy.
There were several trucks parked along the street, loading and unloading goods. Robert examined the licence plates. When he came to a red truck with French plates, he looked around to make sure he was not observed, and tossed the card in the back of the truck.
He flagged down a taxi. "Hassler, perfavore."
In the lobby, Robert approached the concierge. "See if there's a flight out of here tonight to Paris, please."
"Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular airline?"
"It doesn't matter. The first flight out."
"I will be happy to arrange it."
"Thank you." Robert walked over to the hotel clerk. "My key, please. Room 314. And I'll be checking out in a few minutes."
"Very good, Commander Bellamy." The clerk reached in a pigeonhole and pulled out a key and an envelope. "There's a letter here for you."
Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed, and addressed simply: Commander Robert Bellamy. He fingered it, feeling for plastique or any metal inside. Carefully, he opened it. Inside was a printed card advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent enough. Except, of course, for his name on the envelope.
"Do you happen to remember who gave you this?"
"I'm sorry," the clerk said apologetically, "but we have been so busy this evening ..."
It was not important. The man would have been faceless. He would have picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the envelope and stood by the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that the envelope was placed in. He would be upstairs now, in Robert's room, waiting. It was time to see the face of the enemy.
Robert became aware of raised voices and turned to watch the Shriners he had seen earlier, entering the lobby, laughing and singing. They had obviously had a few more drinks. The portly man said, "Hi there, pal. You missed a great party."
Robert's mind was racing. "You like parties?"
"Hoo hoo!"
"There's a real live one going on upstairs," Robert said. "Booze, girls - anything you want. Just follow me, fellows."
"That's the American spirit, pal." The man clapped Robert on the back. "You hear that, boys? Our friend here is throwing a party!"
They crowded into the elevator together and rode up to the third floor.
The Shriner said, "These Italians sure know how to live it up. I guess they invented orgies, huh?"
"I'm going to show you a real orgy," Robert promised.
They followed him down the hall to his room. Robert put the key in the lock and turned to the group. "Are you all ready to have some fun?"
There was a chorus of "yeses" ...
Robert turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped to one side. The room was dark. He snapped on the light. A tall, thin stranger was standing in the middle of the room with a Mauser, equipped with a silencer, half drawn. The man looked at the group with a startled expression, and quickly shoved the gun back in his jacket.
"Hey! Where's the booze?" one of the Shriners demanded.
Robert pointed to the stranger. "He has it. Go get it."
The group surged toward the man. "Where's the liquor, buddy? ... Where are the girls? ... Let's get this party on the road ..."
The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the crowd was blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted out of the door. He took the stairs two at a time.
Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit when the concierge called out, "Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your reservation for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one a.m."
"Thanks," Robert said hurriedly.
He was out of the door, into the small square overlooking the Spanish Steps. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert stepped into it. "Via Monte Grappa."
He had his answer now. They intended to kill him. They're not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now instead of the hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained him well. He knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their weaknesses, and he intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he had to find a way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would have been given a story of some kind. They would have been told he was wanted for smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would have been warned: He's dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill.
Robert said to the taxi driver, "Roma Termini." They were hunting for him, but they would not have had enough time to disseminate his photograph. So far, he was faceless.
The taxi pulled up at Via Giovanni Giolitti 36, and the driver announced, "Stazione Termini, signore."
"Let's just wait here a minute." Robert sat in the taxi, studying the front of the railway station. There seemed to be only the usual activity. Everything appeared to be normal. Taxis and limousines were arriving and departing, discharging and picking up passengers. Porters were loading and unloading luggage. A policeman was busily ordering cars to move out of the restricted parking zone. But something was disturbing Robert. He suddenly realized what was wrong with the picture. Parked directly in front of the station, in a no-parking zone, were three unmarked sedans, with no one inside. The policeman ignored them.
"I've changed my mind," Robert said to the driver. "Via Veneto 110/A." It was the last place anyone would look for him.
The American Embassy and consulate are located in a pink stucco building facing the Via Veneto, with a black wrought-iron fence in front of it. The embassy was closed at this hour, but the passport division of the consulate was open on a twenty-four-hour basis, to handle emergencies. In the foyer on the first floor, a marine sat behind a desk.
The marine looked up as Robert approached. "May I help you, sir?"
"Yes," Robert said. "I want to inquire about getting a new passport. I lost mine."
"Are you an American citizen?"
"Yes."
The marine indicated an office at the far end. "They'll take care of you in there, sir. Last door."
"Thank you."
There were half a dozen people in the room applying for passports, reporting lost passports, and getting renewals and visas.
"Do I need a visa to visit Albania? I have relatives there ..."
"I need this passport renewed by tonight. I have a plane to catch ..."
"I don't know what happened to it. I must have left it in Milan ..."
"They grabbed my passport right out of my purse ..."
Robert stood there, listening. Stealing passports was a thriving cottage industry in Italy. Someone here would be getting a new passport. At the head of the line was a well-dressed, middle-aged man being handed an American passport.
"Here is your new passport, Mr Cowan. I'm sorry you had such a bad experience. I'm afraid there are a lot of pickpockets in Rome."
"I'll sure see to it that they don't get hold of this one," Cowan said.
"You do that, sir."
Robert watched Cowan put the passport in his jacket pocket and turn to leave. Robert stepped ahead of him. As a woman brushed by, Robert lunged into Cowan, as though he had been pushed, almost knocking him down.
"I'm terribly sorry," Robert apologized. He leaned over and straightened the man's jacket for him.
"No problem," Cowan said.
Robert turned and walked into the public men's room down the hall, the stranger's passport in his pocket. He looked around to make sure he was alone, then went into one of the booths. He took out the razor blade and bottle of glue he had stolen from Ricco. Very carefully, he slit the top of the plastic and removed Cowan's photograph. Next, he inserted the picture of himself that Ricco had taken. He glued the top of the plastic slot closed, and examined his handiwork. Perfect. He was now Henry Cowan. Five minutes later, he was out in the Via Veneto, getting into a taxi. "Leonardo da Vinci."
It was twelve thirty when Robert arrived at the airport. He stood outside, looking for anything unusual. On the surface, everything appeared to be normal. No police cars, no suspicious-looking men. Robert entered the terminal, and stopped just inside the door. There were various airline counters scattered around the large terminal. There seemed to be no one loitering or hiding behind posts. He stayed where he was, wary. He could not explain it, even to himself, but somehow, everything seemed too normal.
Across the room was an Air France counter. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one a.m. Robert walked past the counter and approached a woman in uniform behind the Alitalia counter. "Good evening."
"Good evening. Can I help you, signore?"
"Yes," Robert said. "Would you please page Commander Robert Bellamy to come to the courtesy telephone?"
"Certainly," she said. She picked up a microphone.
A few feet away, a fat middle-aged woman was checking a number of suitcases, heatedly arguing with an airline attendant about overweight fees. "In America, they never charged me for overweight."
"I'm sorry, madam. But if you wish all these bags to go on, you must pay for excess baggage."
Robert moved closer. He heard the attendant's voice over the loudspeaker. "Will Commander Robert Bellamy please come to the white courtesy telephone. Commander Robert Bellamy, please come to the white courtesy telephone." The announcement echoed throughout the airport.
A man holding a carry-on bag was walking past Robert. "Excuse me ..." Robert said.
The man turned. "Yes?"
"I hear my wife paging me but ..." he indicated the woman's bags, "I can't leave my luggage." He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the man. "Would you please go over to that white telephone and tell her I'll pick her up at our hotel in an hour? I'd really appreciate it."
The man looked at the ten-dollar bill in his hand. "Sure."
Robert watched him walk over to the courtesy telephone and pick it up. He held the receiver to his ear and said, "Hello ... hello ...?"
The next moment, four large men in black suits appeared from nowhere and closed in, pinning the hapless man to the wall.
"Hey! What is this?"
"Let's do this quietly," one of the men said.
"What do you think you're doing? Get your hands off me!"
"Don't make a fuss, Commander. There's no point ..."
"Commander? You've got the wrong man! My name is Melvyn Davis. I'm from Omaha!"
"Let's not play games."
"Wait a minute! I've been set up. The man you want is over there!" He pointed to where Robert had been standing.
There was no one there.
Outside the terminal, an airport bus was getting ready to depart. Robert boarded it, mingling with the other passengers. He sat at the back of the bus, concentrating on his next move
He was desperate to talk to Admiral Whittaker, to try to get answers about what was going on, to learn who was responsible for killing innocent people because they had witnessed something they were not supposed to have seen. Was it General Hilliard? Dustin Thornton? Or Thornton's father-in-law, Willard Stone, the man of mystery? Could he be involved in this in some way? Was it Edward Sanders, the Director of NSA? Did it go as high as the President? Robert needed answers.
The bus trip into Rome took an hour. When the bus stopped in front of the Eden Hotel, Robert disembarked.
I've got to get out of the country, Robert thought. There was only one man in Rome he could trust. Colonel Francesco Cesar, head of SIFAR, the Italian Secret Service. He was going to be Robert's escape from Italy.
Colonel Cesar was working late. Messages had been flashing back and forth among foreign security agencies, and they all involved Commander Robert Bellamy. Colonel Cesar had worked with Robert in the past and he was very fond of him. Cesar sighed as he looked at the latest message in front of him. Terminate. And as he was reading it, his secretary came into the office.
"Commander Bellamy is on line one for you."
Colonel Cesar stared at her. "Bellamy? Himself? Never mind." He waited until the secretary left the room, then snatched up the telephone.
"Robert?"
"Ciao, Francesco. What the hell is going on?"
"You tell me, amico. I've been getting all kinds of urgent communiques about you. What have you done?"
"It's a long story," Robert said. "And I haven't time. What have you heard?"
"That you've gone private. That you've been turned, and are singing like a canary."
"What?"
"I heard you've made a deal with the Chinese and ..."
"Jesus Christ. That's ridiculous!"
"Is it? Why?"
"Because an hour later they'd be hungry for more information."
"For God's sake, Robert, this is nothing to joke about."
"Tell me about it, Francesco. I've just sent ten innocent people to their deaths. I'm scheduled to be number eleven."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in Rome. I can't seem to get out of your fucking city."
"Cacatura?" There was a thoughtful silence. "What can I do to help?"
"Get me to a safe house where we can talk, and I can figure out how to get away. Can you arrange that?"
"Yes, but you must be careful. Very careful. I will pick you up myself."
Robert breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Thanks, Francesco. I really appreciate it."
"As you Americans say, you owe me one. Where are you?"
"The Lido bar in Trastevere."
"Wait right there. I'll see you in exactly one hour."
"Thanks, amico." Robert replaced the receiver. It was going to be a long hour.
Thirty minutes later, two unmarked cars coasted to a stop ten yards from the Lido bar. There were four men in each car and they were all carrying automatic weapons.
Colonel Cesar got out of the first car. "Let's do this quickly. We don't want anyone else to get hurt. Andaente al dietro, subito."
Half the men silently went around to cover the back of the building.
Robert Bellamy watched from the rooftop of the building across the street as Cesar and his men raised their weapons and charged into the bar.
All right, you bastards, Robert thought grimly, we'll play it your way.
