A Death in Sweden(11)

“Okay, when and where?”

“Tomorrow? Usual time. Somewhere with nice waitresses.” Dan smiled—he was talking about the Café Florence, a place they’d met a few times in years past, and where Dan had complained jokingly about the lack of attractive waitresses.

“See you there.”

He ended the call, and said to Charlie, “Come on, I’ll talk while I’m working on your hand. We haven’t got time to sit around.”

He relayed the details of the call as he washed Charlie’s hand and then Charlie said, “So? You think he’s up to something?”

He could tell Charlie didn’t want to believe it, and nor did Dan, because they’d always trusted Patrick in the past and if he was playing them now, he’d probably been playing them all along.

“I really don’t think so. I could be wrong, but I never thought he was the type. Then there’s what Jack said. Who’s Bill Brabham?”

“I knew him when I was starting out, Paris station chief for years. He had a really attractive daughter, only sixteen or so at the time, and a son who was only a few years younger than me. Harry—he was a decent kid.”

“And Brabham himself?”

“I didn’t deal with him enough to have an . . . Ow, goddamn it!”

Dan had put pressure on the hand and knew now that one of the bones was badly splintered.

“You’ll have to have someone look at this.”

Charlie nodded and said, “I know a guy in Innsbruck can see to it.”

“Toto or whatever his name is?”

“Tito,” said Charlie, laughing.

“I never liked him, never trusted him.”

“He’s okay. I’ll get him to fix this, then I’ll disappear somewhere.”

“Good. Until the dust settles, so don’t do anything stupid.” Charlie smiled, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“I’m taking a vacation. You’re the one who’s meeting up with the guy who got us into this mess.”

He had a point, but the truth was, Dan would rather be doing something dangerous than nothing at all. He’d spent the last ten years tracking people down, and it just wasn’t in his DNA to sit on a beach somewhere while other people tried to do the same to him.





Chapter Six


Café Florence was decent enough, but it wasn’t the picturesque kind of place that attracted tourists—it was geared more towards locals. The street, too, was bustling, but not so crowded that Dan couldn’t make an assessment as he approached—if Brabham or Patrick White or anyone else had people in the area, they were either really good or Dan was slipping.

He walked in and immediately spotted Patrick sitting at the table he always chose, in the far back corner. He looked no different, smartly dressed, short grey hair neatly side-parted, like an upmarket lawyer or old-school banker.

Patrick smiled as he saw Dan and gestured to the guy behind the bar. He had coffee and cognac in front of him and was asking for the same for Dan.

Dan checked out the other people in there as he walked through, then nodded to Patrick, who reached up and shook his hand, saying, “I knew you’d come. I banked on it.”

Dan kept hold of his hand for a second and said, “I hope that’s all you banked on, Patrick, because if anyone follows me out of here, it’ll get messy.”

Patrick looked a little hurt, encouraging in itself, and said, “Give me some credit, Dan. No matter what, I would never set you up—you have my word on that.”

Dan nodded, wanting to believe in him and in his own judgment. He let go of his hand and sat down opposite, unable to resist another quick glance back out to the front of the café and the street beyond.

“So what are you doing here, Patrick? I heard you were finished.”

“Finished is putting it a bit strong, but I’m not a company man if that’s what you mean, not anymore.” So it was true.

Patrick reached into his jacket and put a card on the table. “I’m heading up a newly established office at the ODNI. Can’t go into too much detail but my team’s charged with tackling some of the more . . . troubling elements that have grown up within the CIA and other agencies in the last few decades.”

Dan noticed a waiter heading over so he picked up the card and slipped it into his pocket. They watched in silence as the waiter put down Dan’s drinks. Then Patrick raised his cognac.

“To old times?”

Dan nodded, giving him that, and said, “To old times.” They touched glasses and drank. Dan held the cognac in his mouth for a few seconds, the flavor and fire vying with each other, then swallowed it and said, “So you’re poacher turned gamekeeper?”

“Actually, that’s what I’m hoping you might become. By the way, did you pick up Ramon Martinez?”

“Never heard of him.” He waited a beat. “Unless you’re talking about the former Venezuelan Defense Minister—he was called Martinez, wasn’t he?”

Patrick smiled and said, “I guessed it was you. As it happens, he was a good man, not that we cared either way once he went into hiding. Still, on balance, shame you had to find him.”

Dan saw a flashback of Martinez strolling along the street with his son, laughing and talking about the things that mattered in the boy’s world. And he couldn’t help but remember the child holding his own hand, the soft pad of his footsteps next to him as he’d taken him home.