“Well, since he was released, on this committee’s instructions, to pursue his own investigations into the identities of the kidnappers, he has been located in a number of European situations and then vanished again. He was detained in Holland at the scene of a murder, then released by the Dutch police for lack of evidence…”
“He was released,” said Weintraub quietly, “because he could prove he was miles away when the crime was committed.”
“Yeah, but the dead man was a former Congo mercenary whose fingerprints have now been found in the house where Simon Cormack was detained,” said Kelly. “We regard that as suspicious.”
“Any other evidence on Quinn?” asked Hubert Reed.
“Yes, sir. The Belgian police have just reported finding a body with a bullet hole in the head, stuck on top of a Ferris wheel. Time of death, three weeks ago. A couple answering the description of Quinn and Agent Somerville were asking the dead man’s whereabouts from his employer around the same time the man disappeared.
“Then in Paris another mercenary was shot dead on a sidewalk. A cabdriver reported two Americans answering the same description fleeing from the scene in his cab at the time.”
“Marvelous,” said Stannard. “Wonderful. We let him go to pursue inquiries and he leaves a trail of bodies all over northern Europe. We have, or used to have, allies over there.”
“Three bodies in three countries,” observed Donaldson acidly. “Anything else we should know about?”
“There’s a German businessman recovering from remedial surgery in Bremen General Hospital; claims it was because of Quinn,” said Kelly.
“What did he do to him?” asked Walters.
Kelly told him.
“Good God, the man’s a maniac,” exclaimed Stannard.
“Okay, we know what Quinn’s been doing,” said Odell. “He’s wiping out the gang before they can talk. Or maybe he makes them talk to him first. What has the FBI been doing?”
“Gentlemen,” said Kelly, “Mr. Brown has been pursuing the best lead we have-the diamonds. Every diamond dealer and manufacturing jeweler in Europe and Israel, not to mention right here in the States, is now on the lookout for those stones. Small though they are, we are confident we will be on top of the seller the instant they show up.”
“Damn it, Kelly, they have shown up,” shouted Odell. With a dramatic gesture he pulled a canvas bag from the floor near his feet and turned it upside down over the conference table. A river of stones clattered out and flowed across the mahogany. There was a stunned silence.
“Mailed to Ambassador Fairweather in London two days ago. From Paris. Handwriting identified as Quinn’s. Now what the hell is going on over there? We want you to get Quinn back over here to Washington to tell us what happened to Simon Cormack, who did it, and why. We figure he seems about the only one who knows anything. Right, gentlemen?”
There was a concerted series of nods from the Cabinet members.
“You got it, Mr. Vice President,” said Kelly. “We… er… may have a bit of a problem there.”
“And what is that?” asked Reed sardonically.
“He’s vanished again,” said Kelly. “We know he was in Paris. We know he rented an Opel in Holland. We’ll ask the French police to trace the Opel, put a port watch all over Europe in the morning. His car or his passport will show up in twenty-four hours. Then we’ll extradite him back here.”
“Why can’t you telephone Agent Somerville?” asked Odell suspiciously. “She’s with him. She’s our bird dog.”
Kelly coughed defensively.
“We have a slight problem there, too, sir…”
“You haven’t lost her as well?” asked Stannard in disbelief.
“Europe’s a big place, sir. She seems to be temporarily out of contact. The French confirmed earlier today she had left Paris for the South of Spain. Quinn has a place there; the Spanish police checked it out. She didn’t show. Probably in a hotel. They’re checking them too.”
“Now look,” said Odell. “You find Quinn and you get his ass back over here. Fast. And Miss Somerville. We want to talk to Miss Somerville.”
The meeting broke up.
“They’re not the only ones,” growled Kelly as he escorted a less-than-pleased Director out to their limousines.
Quinn was in a despondent mood as he drove the last fifteen miles from Cauro down to the coastal plain. He knew that with Orsini dead the trail was at last well and truly cold. There had been only four men in the gang, now all dead. The fat man, whoever he was, and the men behind him if there were any other paymasters, could bury themselves forever, their identities secure. What really happened to the President’s only son, why, how, and who did it, would remain in history like the Kennedy killing and the Marie Celeste. There would be the official record to close the file, and there would be the theories to try to explain the ambiguities… forever.
Southeast of the Ajaccio airport, where the road from the mountains joins the coast highway, Quinn crossed the Prunelli River, then in spate as the winter rains tumbled out of the hills to the sea. The Smith & Wesson had served him well at Oldenburg and Castelblanc, but he could not wait for the ferry and would have to fly-without luggage. He bade the FBI-issue weapon farewell and tossed it far into the river, creating another bureaucratic headache for the Hoover Building. Then he drove the last four miles to the airport.
It is a low, wide modern building, light and airy, divided into two tunnel-linked parts, dedicated to arrivals and departures. He parked the Opel Ascona in the lot and walked into the departures terminal. The place was just opening up. Half-right, just after the magazine shop, he found the Flight Information desk and inquired about the first flight out. Nothing to France for the next two hours, but he could do better. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Sundays there is a 9:00 A.M. Air France flight direct to London.
He was going there anyway, to make a full report to Kevin Brown and Nigel Cramer; he thought Scotland Yard had as much right as the FBI to know what had happened through October and November, half of it in Britain and half in Europe. He bought himself a single ticket to Heathrow and asked for the phone booths. They were in a row beyond the information desk. He needed coins and went to change a bank note at the magazine shop. It was just after seven; he had two hours to wait.
Changing his money and heading back to the telephones, he failed to notice the British businessman who entered the terminal from the direction of the forecourt. The man appeared not to notice him either. He brushed several drops of rain off the shoulders of his beautifully cut three-piece dark suit, folded his charcoal-gray Crombie overcoat across one arm, hung his still-furled umbrella in the crook of the same elbow, and went to study the magazines. After several minutes he bought one, looked around, and selected one of the eight circular banquettes that surround the eight pillars supporting the roof.
The one he selected gave him a view of the main entrance doors, the passenger check-in desk, the row of phone booths, and the embarkation doors leading to the departure lounge. The man crossed his elegantly suited legs and began to read his magazine.
Quinn checked the directory and made his first call to the rental company. The agent was in early. He, too, tried harder.
“Certainly, monsieur. At the airport? The keys under the driver’s foot mat? We can collect it from there. Now about payment… By the way, what car is it?”
“An Opel Ascona,” said Quinn. There was a doubtful pause.
“Monsieur, we do not have any Opel Asconas. Are you sure you rented it from us?”
“Certainly, but not here in Ajaccio.”
“Ah, perhaps you went to our branch in Bastía? Or Calvi?”
“No, Arnhem.”
By now the man was trying very hard indeed.