Aaron Elkins - Fellowship Of Fear

They didn’t speak while John concentrated on driving through the narrow, busy streets of the Old Town. Even a Volkswagen beetle has difficulty with two-way streets designed to permit the passage of a single horse-drawn coach. John drove expertly, however, as quickly and confidently as the Germans themselves. Within a few minutes they were on the fast Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage, and then heading smoothly out on Rohrstrasse.

"John," Gideon said. "No offense, but do you really know what you’re talking about? Or are you making all this up?"

John threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "The answers are ‘no’ and ‘no.’ I’m not making any of it up, but I don’t know what I’m talking about, either." He paused, looking hesitant. "Look, Doc," he said slowly, staring at his hands on the wheel, "I understand why you’re going through with this Torrejon thing, and I admire you for it, but, well…"

"John, if you were in my place, you’d do the same thing," Gideon said with sudden heat. "I can’t just walk away from it as if it never happened to me. I need to find out what it’s about."

"Sure, but what are you going to do? "

"What do you mean, ‘do’?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean do." John was excited, too, chopping at the air again. " How are you going to find out what it’s about? Wait for somebody to try to kill you again?"

"No. I’m going to check and see if any other USOC’rs show up, or if any have been there recently, and uh…I don’t exactly have a plan, do I?"

"You sure as hell don’t."

"Okay, so what would you do?"

"Me? If I were you, I’d ask me to come down and help you out."

"Are you serious? Would you really come? Why didn’t you say so before?"

"I was waiting for you to ask me. You’re kind of funny about this; I thought maybe you wanted to do it all by yourself."

"Heck, no. I’d love to have you down there, John."

"Good. I can’t do this officially, you understand, but I have lots of leave time and nothing else doing right now. If I get a military flight to Torrejon tomorrow afternoon, I’ll get there a few hours after you."

"Great, and who knows? Maybe I’ll get knifed or shot or run off the road, and then you can stay down there officially and wrap it up."

"Sure," John said. "We can always hope." They both laughed.

"I’ve gotta go, Doc. I’ll see you down there tomorrow." Awkwardly, he put out his hand. Gideon took it. "It’s been a good day, Doc. I think we’re getting someplace."

Returning John’s wave as the big policeman drove off, Gideon wasn’t sure he agreed. Certainly, it was marvelous about John’s coming down, and it was nice to have some cogent if convoluted ideas about what the Russians were up to, but he didn’t feel any closer to answering the most compelling questions of all: What did it all have to do with him? Why was anybody trying to kill him? Why had his room been broken into three times-at least three times- in two weeks? What did anyone want with three pairs of his socks? And why was he being stalked by the ferret-faced man?

Just possibly, Eric Bozzini might provide some answers.

"I can’t talk to you now, man. It has really hit the fan." His desk a jumble of papers, Eric spoke through a ball-point pen clamped between his teeth, while one hand picked up the telephone receiver and the other moved to dial. His laid-back image was showing signs of strain. Even his carefully teased hair looked dispirited, the strands having separated at a crucial point to reveal a large expanse of bare, gleaming scalp beneath.

"I don’t have time to come back later," Gideon said. "I need to talk to you now." He sat down.

"Come on, man. The teaching schedules are all screwed up. Half the bases are on exercises; there are alerts all over the place-"

"What about my schedule? Is it being changed?"

"Where you supposed to go? Torrejon?"

"Yes."

"For get it, man. I don’t know where you’re going, but you ain’t going to Torrejon." He shuffled among the papers and folders on his desk. "What?" he said, staring at the paper he had dug out. He passed it to Gideon.

The heading said, Spain, Oct-Dec 1981. Upper Division and Graduate. The rest of the sheet consisted of a single column showing NATO bases and course offerings. Most of the courses had been crossed out in pen.

Zaragoza: All courses crossed out.

Rota: All crossed out.

Torrejon: Among several other listings was ANTH 242 Emergence of Man OLIVER. Like the others, it had been crossed out. Unlike them, however, a red circle has been drawn around it and a marginal note written, also in red: HOLD CLASS AS SCHEDULED. FRR, 5/10

FRR. That would be Frederick R. Rufus; 5/10 was October 5, European-style. Today’s date.

"Sonofagun," Eric said. "I know that wasn’t there this morning. Huh." He sat staring at the paper.

Dr. Rufus must have gone in and checked the schedules right after he had talked with Gideon, then, and made sure his Torrejon request was put into effect.

Eric got up and went to a file cabinet, where he stood with his back to Gideon, going through some manila folders. A Western-style shirt accentuated the soft bulge that spilled over his belt in back. If anything, he had gotten a little puffier in the last two weeks.

"Yeah, here it is, man," he said, turning. "Got your packet all ready; never got around to canceling it. Train ticket to Frankfurt, Lufthansa to Madrid. Bus schedule to Torrejon. BOQ reservations, too." He handed the packet to Gideon. His forehead glistened with an oily, unhealthy sheen. "You’ll love it; fantastic chicks."

"So you said. Eric, why did you route me through Heidelberg to get me to Madrid?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why not direct from Sigonella to Torrejon? Or through Rome? Why all the way back up to Germany?"

Eric bristled. His hand went nervously to his hair. "Hell, I don’t remember why I got your particular itinerary.

Maybe all the direct flights were booked. It happens all the time. The instructors usually like to stop off in Heidelberg anyway; use the library, see some people. I thought I was doing you a favor."

"I appreciate that, Eric. It’s just that it does seem the long way around."

"Hey, look, man, I got forty fucking itineraries to worry about." With the back of his hand, he made an irritated swipe at the papers on his desk. "You know how much work that is? Shit, I’ve been on the phone to the airlines for eight hours a day for two weeks. There’s tourists all over the goddamn place. Shit." He plopped back into his chair; the cushion emitted a sympathetic, whistling sigh.

"I don’t know, Eric-"

"Hell, I talked it over with Rufe; he thought it was okay."

"With Dr. Rufus? Does he get involved in that kind of detail?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Especially with you. You’re the visiting fellow, which is such a big deal." His expression implied a differing opinion. "Besides, you were getting beat up every time you turned around. He was just checking to see you were getting treated right. He didn’t beef, and I don’t see what you’re complaining about. Christ, sometimes I gotta route people through Oslo to get them to Spain."

Gideon sighed. "Let me ask you another question, Eric-"

"Look, man, can’t you give me a phone call next week? I’m up to my armpits right now." He slapped the arms of his chair. "Ah, what the hell. You want some coffee?"

Gideon shook his head. Going to a messy table at the side of the room, Eric poured water from a pot on a one-ring hot plate, then added instant coffee, stirring it with a plastic spoon. He took a sip, made a face, added sugar with the same spoon, and returned to his chair.

"So what are the questions?" He tossed back a slug of coffee as if it were a shot of bourbon.