Glen Cook - A matter of time

Fial peered through a curtain. "It's a woman."

"A woman?"

"Yes. Late twenties, I'd say. Dark hair, long and straight. Dark skin. Attractive. Know anyone like that?"

"No. Maybe she's selling something."

The bell rang for the fourth time.

"She's sure determined."

"Well, get rid of her before the man with the luggage shows up."

Fial opened the door. "Of help to you I may be?"

The woman yanked the screen door.

And from a crouch against the outside wall a man lunged inside.

He had a gun.

Fiala swore murderously in German.

"Danke schцn." His grin was broad and evil.

XXIX. On the Y Axis;

"Back door, Beth," said Cash, unable to stifle that terrible grin. "Watch yourself."

Pistol in hand, she drifted toward the rear of the house.

Norm backed up to a paisley-upholstered chair. He gestured with his weapon. "I will shoot. I have instructions to do so at the slightest excuse. We've stopped being polite. Whoa. Right there. Miss Groloch, move a step away from Fial."

Fial stared without expression. "This is which, Fiala?"

"Ca-Cash."

Fial regarded him with disconcerting intensity.

Beth returned with Segasture and Tran. Frank observed, "They don't look so mean, Norm."

"That's why they're so deadly. Especially her. Major, you want to look around? I haven't seen the servants."

"Greta and Hans, they have gone to shop," Fial said. Cash ignored him.

"Move a little to your left, Beth. We don't want to turn this into a Polish firing squad."

Neither prisoner tried to bullshit him. Fiala seemed too upset. Fial was, apparently, busy thinking.

Segasture and Tran soon returned. "Place is clean," Frank said.

"You see a phone anywhere?"

"No. Why?"

"Impulse. I wanted to call Railsback. To tell him I've got her."

"You've found her, you mean. You haven't gotten her yet. Now the legal hassles start. Extradition. Malone."

"Malone can have this one." He indicated Fial. "But the bitch is mine."

"Hey! Hello!" someone called from outside.

Cash whirled. A man in police blue leaned in the door. Norm relaxed. "Come on in."

"Frank Segasture?"

"Right here."

"Okay. I'm supposed to tell you that warrants and the wagon will be out when they're available. And to treat the prisoners right. Somebody from Washington wants to see them."

"Shit. That damned Malone again," Cash grumbled.

"And a cabbie just spotted the man you wanted to know about. Came over the radio when I was pulling up."

"Smiley?" Cash asked.

"Calls himself Augsberg. As in the Augsberg Pickle Company. Came in on a Lear jet with a couple other guys. Three more were here to meet him."

"That don't sound like my man."

"He fit the description."

"Watch him," Tran suggested. "You know what Malone said about him shifting identities."

"Good idea," Cash replied. "Frank, you think it'd be worth the trouble to find out where the real pickle king is?"

"We'd better. Officer, you got that?"

"I think so. Tail him. And find out if he's the real magilla."

"Check."

"I'll go call it in."

"This man, he would be from St. Louis?" Fial asked.

"That's right, Pop," Segasture told him. "Seems to have what you'd call an abiding interest in you people."

Fial wheeled on Fiala. "You said you weren't followed. You swore…"

Cash laughed. "She wasn't. Not by me. I was here waiting for her."

Fial glared at him.

"You blew it when you changed your name. You kept your newspaper subscription under Groloch."

"I see. And then to Colonel Neulist you sold us."

"Never heard of him."

Cash exchanged glances with Segasture, said, "Looks like Malone might have been on to something." Then he frowned.

The name Neulist agitated Miss Groloch more than ever.

The patrolman returned. "They picked up your trunk. It's on its way to the morgue."

Cash's stomach flopped. "There was a body?"

"They're waiting for a warrant. But they said it's heavy enough. Oh. There's some spade out there who wants in."

"Might as well let him. He's the Washington interest."

Malone let himself in. "Sergeant Cash. Miss Tavares." He wore a broad grin. "They don't look so terrible." He circled the Grolochs. "You turned up anything?"

"Not much," Cash replied. "This one's calling himself Koppel. He's got a couple of Krauts working for him. And he's scared shitless that somebody named Colonel Neulist is going to catch up with them."

"Neulist? I don't know that one. Have to run it through Langley. Koppel, though… I think I've heard that one. In connection with the ODESSA. Fits having Germans working for him."

Cash nodded. "I'll make you a deal. We split. Down the middle. You take him, I take her. Oh. Did Smiley ever use the name Neulist?"

"It's not on the record. It might be a workname, though. We'll find out."

"Excuse me." The patrolman was back again. "They've lost the pickle guy."

"Already?" Cash demanded. "How the hell did they manage that?"

"He had a chopper there. He took off in it."

"A planner. It must be Smiley."

"Who?" Malone asked.

"A man who calls himself Augsberg but who, looks like Smiley. Maybe he's their Neulist."

Miss Groloch jerked as if slapped every time she heard that name. She was now spookier than Cash had ever seen. Something apocalyptic was going on inside her head.

"Interesting," Malone observed. "You. Fial, is it? Tell me about it."

The old man ignored him.

"Well, we'll find out later."

The officer outside shouted, "Hey, you guys. There was a body in that trunk."

Cash closed his eyes, silently counted while the earth dropped away. There it was. The death of his last hope.

The whickering sound of helicopter rotors grew in the distance.

"Officer! Get in here!" Malone yelled. To the others, "Let's make it a trap. Any reason he should be expecting one?"

"He had people here," Segasture replied. "Probably the ones who followed her. They might have noticed we were watching, too."

"He knows we're interested," Cash added. "He had somebody watching her back home. I'd say he's trying to beat us here. If we hadn't gotten the break with the newspaper subscription, he would have."

Malone parted a curtain. "That damned gumball parked out there. And your car and mine. The crowd will scare him off."

The whickering passed overhead, began a slow revolution around the house.

"Guess it isn't the real pickle king," said Segasture, ending with a nervous little laugh.

They waited in silence. The helicopter circled twice.

"He's landing in the garden," Tran called from the kitchen.

"Okay. Everybody out of sight," Malone ordered.

Cash rebelled. This was his show. Neither Malone nor Smiley were going to steal it from him. "I'm staying here. So are these two."

"Suit yourself."

Fiala sobbed. Fial held her, defying Cash. Norm let it go. "Got to meet nightmares toe to toe," he told Fial. His voice betrayed his own fear.

The helicopter's engines died.

Tran called, "They're armed. AK47s. They look professional."

"How many?" Malone asked.

"Five, plus the pilot and old man. The pilot isn't armed. He looks like a conscript."

"Okay. Everybody hang easy. Don't start anything. They've got a firepower advantage." Satisfied with everyone's hiding places, Malone slithered into the tight shadow behind a massive Victorian-style couch.

Cash was scared shitless. His pistol grip was slick. His face was pale. His stomach had become a tiny, aching knot. He ground his teeth to prevent chattering. He adjusted his chair so he could watch both the front door and the Grolochs.

It was his show, damn it! Fear wasn't going to rip it from his control.