Haven, p.8
Haven, page 8
Three months passed before they first made love, and one more after that before she was able to travel without pain. The lovemaking was not all that he might have hoped for. He had fantasized, he supposed, that a day would come when she realized that she loved him just as much as he loved her. But when she did take him to her bed it seemed more with a sense of resignation than of passion. Gratitude mixed with a sense of inevitability.
There was no question that she liked him. And she'd grown to trust him. But the bedrock of it, he felt sure, was that she realized he was pretty much all she had. She knew that the Israelis would take care of her, even idolize her for a while, but if peace ever came they would want her to go quietly away. Until then, as a gentile, she would never really fit into their lives. Adulation would give way to pointed fingers. "See that woman, kids? That's the goyeh Black Angel. Eat your vegetables or else she'll come and chop you up in your sleep.”
Elizabeth was all Kessler had as well because there was nothing for him back in Germany. The two Germanys were being reunited and anyone who had worked for counter-intelligence was marked as either a Stasi informer or a party bully. At best, thanks to those comic books, he had probably become a quaint relic. And so they drifted. They chose new names and wandered around Europe for about seven years pretending to be just another still-young, moderately wealthy couple in search of life's gentle pleasures. Elizabeth needed to pretend. She needed to be someone else. The trouble was that they kept running into people they knew. Europe, by then, was awash with former communists in search of gainful employment. In France alone there must have been a thousand ex-Stasi or KGB agents trying to set up security services, firms specializing in industrial espionage, and even bill collection agencies. Some had become bounty hunters.
The bounty hunters had their hit lists. They also had computers with modems attached through which they often shared leads and pooled rewards. Kessler learned to his dismay that not only was he on these lists, but that he and Elizabeth had made the top ten. The same Arabs still wanted Elizabeth but there were even more people who wanted Martin Kessler. He was at a loss to understand why until much later. It was the Israelis, of course. They had made him larger than life. Not only had he killed those two in Geneva but he was also the man who had tortured and killed Martin Ceausescu before walking off with all those millions. The Israelis had spread that story, he assumed, to forestall any claims for the return of that money by the new Romanian government.
They had two close calls, one in Paris and the other in Amsterdam. Both were kidnapping attempts. In the first, Elizabeth took a knife slash along her hair line before opening up the man who cut her. In the second, it was he who had to kill again. It was time to leave the continent. It was time to try America.
So, thought Kessler, this is where he ends up.
Forty two years old, no friends, no family, nothing even to believe in any more. Sitting in a bar called Reilley's, his third beer in front of him, listening to old men talk about golf.
And who are these people in their ridiculous hats and sunburned arms? Are they honest men who worked hard and saved their money so they could come here and play golf? He doubted it. To save that much they were probably thieves. The new breed of thieves. Corporate big shots who, with their giant salaries and rigged deals have looted their companies just as shamelessly as all the third world dictators who have looted their impoverished countries. Throwing thousands out of work. Robbing them of their pensions.
Elizabeth's doctor is no great exception. Kessler knew about American doctors. The program 60 Minutes had exposed them more than once. In the former GDR, doctors would try to heal you and if they couldn't they would help you to die in peace. All this at very little cost. Here, all the doctors are gougers. They run tests costing thousands on vagrants off the street and Americans wonder why their own costs are so high. Here they don't prolong life so much as they try to prolong death. Never mind in how much agony a patient spends his final months. All that counts is that someone pays the bills.
Kessler took a breath and let it out with a sigh. He was being unfair and he knew it. To Elizabeth's doctor at least. This was his own disappointment talking.
“Hello, Martin.”
Elizabeth was suddenly in the seat next to him. He didn't know how long she had been there. He answered with an embarrassed nod. Caught, he dared not look at her. But Elizabeth placed both her hands on his shoulder and rested her chin on top of them.
“I know that you use two cars, Martin,” she said into his ear not unpleasantly. “You've done that as long as I've known you.”
He could only shrug.
“And now you're sitting here sulking because a nice normal man is finally interested in me.”
Finally, she said? What was he for nine years, her chauffeur? Also, hundreds of men have been interested in her except that half were too afraid of her and the other half wanted to kill her. But the approach of the bartender spared Kessler from pursuing the subject.
“Sir, that's Tom and Mr. Flood over there,” the young man said.
“Ah...who?”
“You were asking about Tom Reilley and his cousin. That's them. They just came in.”
Kessler followed his eyes toward two pleasant looking men, both in their late fifties, who were now moving toward the bar. The owner, Reilley, waved greetings to several patrons. He stopped at one table where he shook one man's hand and introduced him to the man named Jimmy Flood. Kessler now this Flood in profile. This man looked even more familiar than before.
“I lied about Jonathan,” said Elizabeth who was still at his ear. “We're good friends, nothing more.”
Kessler blinked. "That's your doctor's name? Jonathan?”
She closed one eye, skeptically. "You've been here a week and you don't know that? You haven't followed him home?”
“Who? Me? Why would I do that?”
“You haven't broken into his house? Checked the bedroom? Sniffed his pillows to see if you could smell me on them?”
“Certainly not,” he hissed at her.
“Now tell me about Maria.”
“There's nothing to tell.”
“Hmmph!”
“What's hmmph? I'm not entitled to a private life?”
She took his hand and lightly bit one finger. "Martin," she said gently, "I know that I was not very nice to you. But you're being just a bit of a jerk.”
Kessler made a face. This once, he told himself, she is not going to have her way. She is here for one reason only. She wants to know that he will not...who knows...buy more Swisher Sweets and blow smoke in her Jonathan's face. Or twist his stethoscope around his neck. Or, worse, tell him a few things about his lady friend.
“Martin....we need to talk. But not here.”
“There's no need. I won't bother you again.”
“Martin...listen. It's not that I don't have feelings for you.”
At this, this minimization of feelings, all he wanted to do was get away from her. The bar was becoming more crowded. More men had come in from more golf games and on many their sweat had not dried. It was as if they were gathering just to hear Elizabeth throw him another such bone. He was about to pull his hand away and get up from his stool when the door from the parking lot opened again. A man entered Reilley's who was not like the others.
This one was dressed in tennis whites. He wore a white floppy hat made of canvas and he carried a bag that said Nike on the side and had a pocket that was made to hold two rackets. The hair beneath his hat was blond and stringy but his clothing was still fresh and his skin was still pale. A tennis player who had not yet played tennis. He looked for a seat at the bar and found the one remaining vacancy at a place three stools away. An Englishman, thought Kessler. The English have not yet discovered shampoo. And now, sure enough, he is asking the bartender for Gleneagles, neat, without ice. His accent was British Midlands. Elizabeth, however, had paid him no attention.
“Martin, let's take a walk, okay?”
“Wait,” he answered. “Wait just one minute.”
Kessler knew that man. He was sure of it. The name was hiding in the back of his mind but this man had once been pointed out to him in Europe. Sprat?...Splat? It was a name like those.
Elizabeth signaled the bartender. She wanted Kessler's check.
The name remained just out of reach. But Kessler did know him. And he knew how this man made his living. At this his brain made one other connection. He suddenly realized why the cousin of Reilley had seemed so familiar to him. Kessler turned to Elizabeth. He brought his lips close to her ear.
“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I want you get up from your stool and say good-bye to me. Say it as if you don't know me very well. Then walk straight out the door.”
“Um...Martin, what's going on?” She turned her head to see his eyes.
“Please do it, Elizabeth. Do it now.”
Her eyes bored into his. She could see, as he'd hoped, that this was no game.
“There's a bank out back,” she whispered in his ear. “That's where I'll be waiting. I'll be watching the door.” She picked up her purse and slid from her stool. “Gotta go,” she said cheerfully. “Nice meeting you, Fred.”
Kessler had a strong feeling that her life on this island was finished. But this time, at least, she could not blame him.
SIX
Kessler watched the eyes of the man dressed for tennis. They did not so much as flicker at Elizabeth's parting. He did, however, reach into his bag. Kessler thought that he might have a signaling device but all he produced was a leather bound notebook which he placed on the bar before him. He opened it to a place that was marked by a folded map tucked inside it.
Kessler waited and watched. The man seemed less and less aware of his surroundings. Every so often he would rub his chin thoughtfully, jot a notation, then take another sip. At one point he unfolded and studied the map. Kessler remained alert all the same.
That this man never looked in Elizabeth's direction meant little in itself. A professional would hardly have sat gaping at her. That he did not follow her meant even less. If he had come for Elizabeth he would already know where she lives. But also, Kessler realized, he would not be alone. An associate might well be outside at this minute trying to drag her into a van. The thought of this caused his stomach to tighten but he fought to stay calm and deliberate. Elizabeth Stride, he reminded himself, would not be so easy to drag.
Kessler left a ten dollar bill on the bar and languidly slid from his stool. He moved toward the exit in a path that took him directly behind the man in tennis attire. He would try for a look at whatever he was writing. Failing that, thought Kessler, at least he would see how he reacts.
There was nothing subtle about his plan. There was also nothing useful because, as he passed, Kessler could make out nothing at all, not in the one or two seconds that the notebook was in sight. But he did see enough of the map to know that it was not a map of this island. The man made no attempt to cover these things. Nor had the hair on the back of his neck gone up. That alone was encouraging. It suggested that this Englishman did not know him by sight or else he was a very cool customer indeed. Kessler continued past the rest rooms and out through the door. He would rather have waited for the Englishman to leave but he needed to see that Elizabeth was all right.
To his instant relief, he saw her Ford Bronco and Elizabeth was sitting at the wheel. She was waiting perhaps fifty meters away. Elizabeth sat with one arm out her window, her fingertips tapping against the roof in a gesture of bored impatience. Kessler spread his hands and cocked his head questioningly. The gesture, he hoped, asked if anything was amiss. She spread her own hands and added a shrug. "Like what?" her own gesture was asking. He signaled that she should stay where she is, then he took a long moment to scan all the cars that were parked within sight of the door. This was meant to tell Elizabeth to watch them as well.
He climbed into his own car and, with a moment's apprehension, turned the key in the ignition. The engine spat but it did not explode. Putting it in gear, he steered directly toward Elizabeth's Bronco. As he approached her, he was pleased to see that her eyes were still locked on Reilley's exit. Good girl, he said in his mind. This island has not yet turned your brain to pudding. He pulled part way into the space next to hers, stopping at her open window.
“It's clear behind you," Elizabeth told him. "What am I looking for?”
“You saw the man in tennis whites, blond hair in need of a washing?”
“Of course I did. Who is he?”
“He's a bounty hunter, Elizabeth. An Englishman but his name eludes me. Years ago he tracked dissidents, sometimes for the Stasi. Last I heard, however, he has a new specialty. He hunts Muslim women who have run.”
Her eyes narrowed. "Would his name be Pratt?”
“That's it. Cyril Pratt." Kessler slapped his head.
Her eyes went cold. "You're sure about this?”
Kessler nodded vigorously. "And I'll tell you something else, Elizabeth. You saw the man named Jimmy Flood who came in with the owner of that restaurant? The last time I saw him he was Ian McShane.”
It was years ago, fifteen at least. Kessler was still with GDR counter-intelligence. McShane was IRA. Not one of the bomb-throwers or ambushers but he ran the security force that protected the leaders of Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA. Such a job would only be offered to a man of unquestioned loyalty. Ruthlessness would also have been a prerequisite and it would need to have been demonstrated. There were stories that he worked his way up over the bodies of informers and of British agents who tried to infiltrate Sinn Fein. Also, Kessler wondered, who knows about Reilley? Do we think that he's only a restaurateur? Do we think he sits around and watching for his sign to tell him St. Patrick's Day has come? He's probably an IRA gunrunner himself. Kessler said all this to Elizabeth. Her expression was now one of blinking confusion.
She asked, "Why do I even listen to you?”
“Okay, not a gunrunner. A fund-raiser maybe.”
“Martin...get real here. How do you know McShane?”
“We tried to recruit him. We hoped to use him against the British. But I never met him face to face. It was all through intermediaries. In any case he wouldn't take our money or even our weapons. He didn't like us any better than he liked the British.”
“Okay, now stay with me. What in God's name does this have to do with Pratt?”
Not much, he supposed. Except it's possible, of course, that Pratt has come here for McShane. McShane, like themselves, still has a price on his head. Sedition is the least of the charges against him and Pratt, perhaps, has gone back to working for the British.
“Or else," said Elizabeth, "Pratt followed you from Europe.”
Her tone was accusatory. But Kessler doubted it strongly. The route he had taken was so labyrinthine that a surveillance would have needed a dozen men. And why would they have been so patient? That many could have taken him along the way. They could have tortured him until he told them where Elizabeth is if they think she's alive after all.
“So in short you don't know if he's here after me," she responded.
“You want me to go back in and ask him?”
“What I want is for you to..." She didn't finish. She threw up her hands. "Damn it, Martin. Everywhere you go, you bring trouble. Just when I've...”
Kessler glared at her. "Elizabeth...go home.”
She realized that she'd been unfair but she was stubborn. "First it's wait. Now you tell me to go home?”
“Elizabeth..." He spoke quietly but he showed his teeth. "In ten minutes I have identified a potential ally and a more than potential catastrophe which you would never have seen coming. In those same ten minutes...”
“The ally is who? McShane?”
“Why not? You have both made new lives. You've both chosen this place to begin them. You both have something to protect.”
“Martin...I have no wish to...”
“And if you both chose this place, how many more fugitives might have done so as well? Keep your eyes open, Elizabeth. You might be surprised who your neighbors are.”
“Are you out of your mind?" This was the last thing she wanted to hear.
He raised both his hands. "As I started to say....”
“Martin, I have no intention, damn it, of forming a mutual defense league with every island resident who's wanted for something.”
“As I started to say," he repeated, speaking quietly, "in those same ten minutes you have done nothing but patronize me, insult me, and blame me. I will now say good-bye to you, Elizabeth.”
He slid his gear shift into reverse and allowed the car to coast backward.
“Martin...wait.”
“I've been waiting long enough. No more.”
”Damn it, Martin, here comes Pratt. He just came out of Reilley's.”
“He's all yours, Elizabeth. Enjoy your new life.”
Kessler backed his car all the way out. He slapped his transmission into drive and steered for the parking lot exit. There he paused and looked into his rear view mirror. Her car had begun moving as well but she was not coming after him to say she was sorry. She was moving in another direction. So be it, he decided. Good-bye for the last time, Elizabeth.
But why, he wondered, was she moving so slowly? Suddenly, he realized what she was doing. Her eyes were locked on the cars behind Reilley's. She was going to follow Cyril Pratt. Kessler muttered a curse. In her stupid Ford Bronco, a red one no less, she's intends to conduct a surveillance. Her brain had turned to pudding after all.
Kessler cut his wheels sharply, he tapped his horn twice. She saw him. She waited. Kessler let her see the anger on his face and he showed her a fist through his windshield. But then he opened the fist and showed her two fingers plus a thumb that he pointed at himself. She nodded that she understood. Now he pointed at her car and made a series of gestures. Again, Elizabeth nodded.
