George Chesbro: Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

"Level with me, Frederickson," the other man said quietly. "Do you know what it is?"

"I do not. You tell me. What is Cooked Goose?"

"I don't know," Insolers replied evenly. "I actually thought you might. It's well known that the Frederickson brothers have friends in very high places. I'm told that, over the years, the two of you-as well as your friend Veil Kendry-have picked up all sorts of. . interesting information."

"Mr. Insolers," I said, walking over to him and putting out my hand, "if you'll be so kind as to give me that ID card of yours, I do believe I'll call that number at the bottom after all. I know you're jerking me around, but for the life of me I can't think what you're hoping to gain. Maybe Langley will tell me-if that really is a number for Langley."

"Cooked Goose was the reason John Sinclair packed up his career and medals and deserted," the man with the medicinal smell said evenly, — ignoring my outstretched hand. "It was why he walked out of Vietnam, leaving five dead Rangers in his wake."

"I take it the army was really serious about trying to stop him."

"Oh, yes. And the reason for such concern had to have been his involvement with-or knowledge of-Cooked Goose. It was the code name for a secret operation, obviously, but I don't know what that operation was, or whether or not it was actually ever executed. Very few people know what that operation was all about, and I'm not one of them. It still carries the highest classification. I think Cooked Goose is the reason there are so many intelligence operatives milling around here at the moment; they all want a shot at him, some of them quite literally. Sinclair has make a lot of enemies, embarrassed a lot of very powerful people and organizations, including the Mafia, and not a few of these interested parties would love to claim the credit for killing him."

"Now we're talking about assassination, not capture."

I suddenly became aware of a distant thwap-thwap-thwap sound, which was rapidly coming closer. Insolers and I both glanced out the window as an olive-drab Swiss Army helicopter zoomed past. A few seconds later the sound died, as if the craft had landed close by, perhaps on top of one of the buildings.

"We're talking here about individuals, organizations, and governments with different agendas," Insolers said, turning back to face me. "There's no doubt some of these parties would like to kill him for revenge, but I think others want to capture him because of what he knows about Cooked Goose. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't believe the CIA much cares what I find out here. I think I'm being used as a front man to throw the people watching me off the track while some free-lancer they've hired accomplishes what they really want, which is to kill Sinclair. If Cooked Goose is so sensitive that it still carries the highest classification even after all these years, it's reasonable to assume that they certainly don't want him captured by some other intelligence outfit, or thrown into some foreign prison where he could use what he knows to bargain for his freedom, or maybe kick back and write his memoirs. No. The CIA definitely wants him dead, and I strongly suspect they've had a contract out on him for more than two and a half decades."

I stared at Insolers in utter astonishment. When I realized that my mouth was actually open, I closed it. My throat was dry, and I swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture. I had the distinct feeling that something bad was happening to me, and I didn't even have the slightest idea what it might be. "Jesus Christ, Insolers," I said in a rasping voice. "Aren't you spook types trained to withstand gruesome torture, or even encouraged to take a cyanide pill, before giving away the kinds of information you've just imparted to me in this casual little conversation? Why the hell are you telling me this stuff?"

"Because," Insolers said, his voice low and very intense as he leaned forward on the sofa, "I asked you to level with me, to trust me, but I gave you no reason why you should. Now I have. You appreciate very well how badly I could be hurt if you ever breathed a word of what I've just told you to anyone else." He paused, leaned back on the sofa, crossed his legs. "You see, I'm quite convinced you're keeping secrets of your own about your real reasons for being here, and I'm equally convinced I haven't told you anything you didn't already know."

"You couldn't be more wrong on both counts, Insolers. I have never heard of Cooked Goose, and I had no idea anybody but law enforcement officials were after Sinclair-until now."

Insolers abruptly rose from the sofa with a suddenness that startled me. In an instant, his whole demeanor had changed: His pale brown eyes had gone icy, and his casual air had completely disappeared. At that moment I understood that Duane Insolers could be a very dangerous man. "Are you a player in this game, Frederickson?" he snapped. "If you are, I want to know right now, while there's still time to affect the outcome of all this. You have to read between the lines, know that you can trust me. Consider the possibility that you and I share an identical agenda."

Suddenly I was afraid-not of Insolers, but of being caught totally off guard in a situation that thrummed with danger, but which I didn't begin to understand; I was being casually fed information that had to be classified top secret, being asked questions that had no meaning to me, all because some CIA operative who smelled like a medicine cabinet seemed to think I might have a hidden agenda concerning a monstrous human being who had no pity. I didn't.want to die by accident, and I vividly recalled Veil's warning about finding myself trapped in a deadly hall of mirrors. "I don't know what you mean," I said tightly.

"I'm asking if you have a. . relationship. . with John Sinclair." He paused, then continued in a softer tone, emphasizing each word. "Frederickson, I guarantee you no harm will come to anyone as a result of you telling me the truth. I need to know."

I pulled myself up very straight, as if that would lend weight and credibility to my words. It was suddenly very important that I make this man believe me. "I don't know what you're talking about or trying to get at, Insolers. I don't think I want to know. I told you why I came here."

"That's bullshit," Insolers said casually as he went to the bar to fix himself another drink. "I can appreciate why you might be reticent to confide in a man you've just met, but you don't have to insult my intelligence. I mean, this city is filling up with intelligence operatives and assassins, and I'd be very surprised if there was even one of those people who hadn't heard of Dr. Robert Frederickson. They're all aware of the kinds of cases you've been involved with over the years, and they are definitely going to assume there's a link between you and John Sinclair. They're probably not yet aware that you're in town, but when they do find out, they're going to be all over you. Nobody is going to believe the story that the world's premier private investigator flew all the way to Europe just to ask the law enforcement officials how they thought they were doing. I doubt Interpol believes it. It's a very weak cover; you must have been in a big hurry to get here, or you'd have come up with something better. The fact that Neuberger has been kidnapped may mean your cover is already blown."

"Insolers-"

"Don't assume we have different goals, Frederickson. You really can trust me."

"Insolers, what I told you just happens to be true. Do you understand? It's true !"

He looked at me long and hard, shadows moving in his pale brown eyes. "R. Edgar Blake," he said at last, raising his eyebrows slightly. "I was there. I know. The countess will vouch for me."

Insolers was a man who wouldn't take I-don't-know for an answer; incredibly, he still seemed to be trying to cue me to say something he very much wanted to hear. Thoroughly baffled, I raised my hands in a gesture of helplessness and shrugged. "Insolers, I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."