George Chesbro: Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

The hard look of skepticism on his face and in his eyes slowly gave way to one of incredulity, and I knew he finally believed me. "You jumped into the middle of this thing just to ask Interpol for a report card? That's insane."

"I'm not the one paying the bills. Just what is it I've jumped into the middle of?"

Duane Insolers shook his head in apparent disbelief. His manner now seemed brusque, hurried, as he set his untouched second drink back down on the bar. "Here's a little something you can add to your report," he said in a clipped tone. "It's an item I'm certain Interpol neglected to mention. Sinclair may have pulled off a neat bit of financial and electronic wizardry to raid Cornucopia's coffers, but he wasn't the first to do it. That bucket already had a hole in it. Money's been secretly draining out of Cornucopia for a long time-probably for fifty or more years, since the day it was founded. I doubt anybody would have found out about it if Sinclair hadn't come along, and I'll bet the ranch he didn't figure out this scam on his own. He stumbled across this little secret, how money was illegally skimmed from this tax-exempt foundation, and he simply repeated the trick."

"A back door," I said distantly. "Right."

"Whoever designed and programmed the original computer security codes left open a back door for their own use in the electronic network. All of the codes could be bypassed."

"Precisely. Everybody talks about how complicated the security codes are, and they're right. But Sinclair never broke the codes; all he did was find the electronic back door to the vault somebody else had been using, and he went in the same way."

"Jesus, Insolers, it wouldn't make sense for Neuberger to steal from his own foundation. Would it? I mean, he's got billions of his own. What would be the point?"

Insolers shrugged as he glanced at his watch. "What can I tell you? If Neuberger is a crook, so were his daddy and granddaddy. This computer back door has almost certainly been there from the beginning, and it's remained open through a whole hell of a lot of advances in computer science and encryption theory. Somebody-and it's probably more than one person-tends to it, maintains it. It could be that it has nothing to do with Neuberger. The answer is probably somewhere in the past, with the grandfather's associates. Incidentally, this information was uncovered by Bo Wahlstrom, the Interpol inspector who was killed. He passed on the general information to his superiors, but all of the financial records-the proof-he had are missing. Sinclair probably has them."

"Why are you telling me this, Insolers?"

"Because there is no harm in you knowing, and because I want you to owe me," the CIA operative replied evenly. He strode quickly to the door, opened it, then turned back. "You've convinced me you're not a player in this game, Frederickson. You're not involved in any way, but you do have a reputation for finding out things."

"I don't plan on trying to find out anything I don't already know, Insolers. In fact, I have this sinking feeling that I already know too much."

"Your track record shows that events and situations tend to gel around you, Frederickson. You and your brother always seem to end up in the center of the action, whether you mean to or not. Information may come your way. There's the whole question of Neuberger's kidnapping, what the motive may have been. You may not trust me, but I've given you no reason not to. I've given you a lot of very sensitive information, and I've made myself vulnerable by doing so. All I'm asking in return is that if information does come your way, you keep me plugged in; you can always reach me through Interpol. In the meantime, forget the money, and forget your investigation, or whatever it is you think you're doing here. This matter isn't about money at all. There's something very heavy coming down here, and it's my job to find out what it is. There's nothing more for you to find out here, but a lot of nasty people are likely to figure the way I did-that you're a player. These people won't ask you questions in a friendly manner. If you're smart, you'll go home."

How smart I was seemed most arguable at the moment, but under the circumstances, going home seemed like an eminently sensible idea. I called the airport to see what flights were available and learned I just had time to catch one to Newark, if I hurried. I hurried. First I called down to the desk to say that I was checking out, and noted that the clerk sounded curt, tense. I packed my bags, then tried Harper's number one more time. She still wasn't home. I picked up my bags, went to the door, and was startled to find Inspector Pierre Moliere and a Zurich policeman standing out in the hallway. Moliere, who had been about to knock, lowered his hand. The faces of both men looked grim, and I assumed it had to have been Moliere in the helicopter that had flown past the window. I had left him only a few hours before, and I wondered what could have happened in the interim to cause him to fly to Zurich to see me, as opposed to just picking up the telephone.

"I would like to speak with you, Dr. Frederickson," the gaunt Interpol inspector said in a tone that was decidedly less friendly than the one he had been using with me earlier.

"Of course, Inspector," I said, glancing at my watch. "But I had planned to go home, and I have a flight to catch. Would it be presumptuous to ask for a ride out to the airport, and we could talk on the way?"

"It is better that we talk here, Dr. Frederickson," Moliere said coldly.

So much for the flight into Newark. "Come in," I said, setting my bags to one side and stepping out of the way. "What's the problem?"

Moliere and the policeman stepped into the room, stopped just inside the doorway. Moliere was actually frowning as he looked at me, and his tone had grown even colder. "Do you have anything to tell me, Dr. Frederickson?"

I took some time to think about it-probably a mistake in itself, but I had to consider the implications of an Interpol inspector and a Zurich cop showing up on my doorstep barely ten minutes after a veritable chatterbox of a CIA operative had left after giving me a large store of highly sensitive information that I had neither needed nor wanted to know. I wondered if Moliere was waiting for me to tell him about Insolers' visit, and if so, what I was expected to say. But if Moliere wanted to know what I had been doing with the operative, he could have simply asked, and so I decided that Insolers probably wasn't the issue, and it might only muddy the waters to bring him up.

"Look, if you're talking about the nasty business in New York, I only just found out about it, and-"

"How did you find out about it?"

"I tried to call Neuberger to give him a report on my conversation with you people, and I got a cop who's a friend of mine. He told me."

"I am not talking about the nasty business in New York. I am asking about your business here in Switzerland."

"You know about my business in Switzerland."

"We have reason to believe you have not been completely forthcoming with us, Dr. Frederickson."

"Look," I said, half turning and gesturing toward the large room beyond the foyer, "maybe we should go in and sit down."

Moliere ignored my suggestion. Now I noticed that beneath his suddenly cold and hostile demeanor, there seemed to be an air of disappointment, resentment, and perhaps betrayal. "Two hours ago a message for you was telephoned to the desk of this hotel. I would like you to explain it."

"Two hours ago I was having lunch with my chauffeur in a quiet little restaurant in a quiet little town between here and Geneve. And the desk clerk hasn't informed me of any message."

"No, she did not, because she was instructed not to. When the call came in, she quite properly called the police. The police called me, which is why I am here."