STAG WOKE AS he thought he would, bathed in sweat, clutching the twisted sheets like a life rope. He lay there for a long time, the shadow of his dreams still suffocating him. Skeletal men groped their way through the haze of a nuclear winter. Mushroom clouds dotted the Dali landscape like obscene trees. In the distance, a woman and her newborn stood stock still, staring at him. Only him. Then in an instant roll of hellfire, they were gone. Transformed into the mist.
He ordered coffee. When he was dressed and out, he bought a disposable GoFone to call Interpol.
He didn’t want to talk to Troost. Law enforcement was never going to provide him any information, but he’d promised he would report back every now and then. Besides, it didn’t hurt to have a few friends in high places.
“You left the Adlon, Mr. Maguire.” Troost didn’t bother hiding the frustration in his voice. “We’d like to protect you, but if you insist on—”
“Look, I appreciate the sentiments, but I have things to do.”
“Such as?” Troost asked.
“Business.”
“You’re going to need help. It’s foolish for you to be poking into Tarnhelm’s affairs without some kind of safety net. These people are very dangerous.”
“Stay where you are and we’ll send—”
“I have one question—Why would Tarnhelm have anything to do with NATO?”
There was a long pause at the end of the line. “Tarnhelm deals in secrets, Mr. Maguire. Regular people don’t understand the cost of secrets.”
“They rubbed out this Sir Roger so they could continue keeping whose secrets? NATO’s or Tarnhelm’s? Who is their client?”
“We don’t know.” Troost breathed into the phone. “That’s why we’d like to talk to Angelika Aradi. If we find that connection between client and Tarnhelm, we’ll be able to do something about it. But what we need is for you to stay alive. Stay alive so you can give us information.”
“The two are mutually exclusive.”
Stag hung up.
Stag stepped into the lobby of the Baur au Lac and again made the mental note to get some better clothes. The hotel, like the Adlon, was another relentlessly chic place, but between the probable recurring need to exit quickly and the fact that he was getting attached to his jacket that held Mein Kampf, he knew he wouldn’t bother. Shabby and limping was no way to impress the elite, but being a writer, telling folks to fuck off was.
He left the Baur au Lac in the rental car Dedman had ordered. He parked it on a random street, then walked to the Zurich Cantonal Bank. After he’d opened up a Maguire account there, he took a cab to Tarnhelm headquarters. At the huge oak door, he felt like he was infiltrating a very exclusive club. The building was eighteenth century. The stairway, marble. The secretaries looked like they’d been handpicked by Fox News—all of them capable, fat-free, and willing to work their way to the top by their knees and botox.
Yep. It was all just as he imagined. He looked as out of place in his cheap sagging jacket as a cockroach in a Junior League Show house.
“May I help you?” The sheath-clad receptionist barely contained her distaste at his appearance.
He looked at her. He swore there was a factory somewhere in Scandinavia that made women like her just to be wallpaper for men like Portier.
“Luc Portier.”
She looked doubtful. “Mr. Portier? I’m afraid I must ask if you have an appointment?” It didn’t take long to scratch down to the bitch in her.
“Oh, I don’t need an appointment.” He went to a bank of seating upholstered in thick silk damask. He sat and stared back at her. “Just tell him Stag Maguire wants to see him.”
He smiled. It wasn’t often that a scraggly cripple made demands on Luc Portier. But these were no longer normal times. No, these were extraordinary times, and it was best they all get up to speed. No time like the present.
Angelika watched Maguire enter the Tarnhelm building. Maguire didn’t know who or what he was dealing with or he’d never have been so bold. But she couldn’t help but be a little impressed by his steadfast, awkward gait. He walked into the dragon’s den without hesitation, and the sheer audacity of it left her wanting to hold her hand over her mouth, breathless.