you. But I’ll give you my word…I won’t put a hit out on him. Not without running it by you first.”
“Deal.” Jill nodded. She squeezed my hand. “I know you’re worried for me, Lindsay. And, really, I love you for it. Just let me see it through my way. And leave the cuffs at home next time.”
“Deal.” I smiled.
Chapter 44
For a Swiss, Gerd Propp had acquired a lot of American tastes and habits. One of them was going after salmon. In his room at the Governor Hotel in Portland, Gerd excitedly laid out on the double bed the new Ex Of?cio fishing vest he had just acquired, along with some hi-tech lures and a gaff hook.
His job, as an economist with the OECD out of Geneva, might be thought by some as stiff and tedious work, but it did bring him to the States several times a year and had introduced him to men who shared the same passion for coho and chinook.
And that was where Gerd was headed tomorrow, under the guise of finalizing his speech before the G-8 gathering in San Francisco next week.
He put his arms through the brand-new fishing vest and regarded himself in the mirror. I actually look like a professional! As he adjusted his hat and puffed out his chest in his fancy vest, Gerd felt as energized and manly as a leading man in a Hollywood film.
There was a knock on the door. The valet, he assumed, since he had left word at the front desk to bring up a press for his suit.
When he opened the door, he was surprised to see a young man not in a hotel uniform at all but in a black fleece jacket and a cap hiding part of his face.
“Herr Propp?” the young man asked.
“Yes?” Gerd pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What is it?”
Before he could utter another word, Gerd saw an arm shoot toward him. It caught him in the throat, knocking the air out of him. Then he was shoved back onto the floor, landing hard.
Gerd tried to shake his head clear. His glasses were no longer on his face. He felt the ooze of blood running from his nose. “My God, what is going on?”
The young man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. All of a sudden there was a dark metallic object in his hand. Gerd froze. His eyes were not too good, but there was no mistake. The intruder was holding a gun.
“You’re Gerhard Propp?” the young man asked. “Chief economist of the OECD in Geneva? Don’t try to deny it.”
“Yes,” Gerd muttered. “By what right do you barge in here and —”
“By the right of a hundred thousand children who die annually in Ethiopia,” the man interrupted, “from diseases that could easily be prevented, if their debt repayments
weren’t six times their national health care coverage.”
“Wh-what?” Gerd stammered.
“By the right of AIDS patients in Tanzania,” the man went on, “who the government lets rot because they’re too busy repaying the debt you and your well-heeled bastards have swamped them with.”
“I’m just an economist,” Gerd said. What did this man think he did?
“You are Gerhard Propp. Chief economist of the OECD, whose mission is to advance the rate by which the economically advantaged nations of the world expropriate the resources of the economically weak in order to convert them into the garbage of the rich.” He took a pillow off the bed. “You are the architect of the MAI.”
“You’ve got it completely wrong,” Gerd said, panicked. “The agreements have brought these backward countries into the modern world. They have created jobs and an export market for nations that could have never hoped to compete.”
“No, you are wrong!” the young man shouted at the top of his voice. He walked over and switched on the TV. “All it has brought is greed and poverty and plundering. And this TV bullshit.”
CNN was on, the international business briefs, which seemed appropriate. Gerd’s eyes bulged as he watched the intruder kneel down next to him, at the same time hearing the TV voice announce how the Brazilian real was under pressure again.
“What are you doing?” Gerd gasped. His eyes bugged out.
“I’m going to do what a thousand pregnant mothers with AIDS would like to do to you, Herr Doctor.”
“Please,” Gerd begged. “Please … you are making some kind of serious mistake.”
The intruder smiled. He took a look at the supplies on the bed. “Ah, I see you like fishing. I can work with that.”
Chapter 45
I got in to the office at seven-thirty the following morning and was surprised to find Deputy Director Molinari on the phone behind my desk. Something had happened.
He signaled for me to close the door. From what I could make out, he was talking with his office back East, getting briefed on a case. He had a stack of folders in his lap and he jotted down the occasional note. I could make out a couple: 9mm and Itinerary.
“What’s goin’ on?” I asked when he hung up.
He motioned for me to sit down. “There’s been a killing in Portland. A Swiss national was shot in his hotel room. An economist. He was preparing to leave for Vancouver this morning on a fishing excursion.”
Not to sound blas?, but we already had two national-security murder cases and the leaders of the Free World were eyeballing our every move. “I’m sorry,” I said, “this relates to us, how?”
Molinari flipped open one of the folders he was holding, which turned out to be a set of crime photos he’d already had faxed from the scene. They showed a corpse in what looked to be a fishing vest with two bullet holes. His shirt was ripped open and his bare chest seemed to have had some letters scratched on it, MAI.
“The victim was an economist, Lieutenant,” Molinari said, “for the OECD.” He looked at me and smiled tightly. “That makes it clear.”
As I sat down, my stomach sank. Immediately clear. Murder number three. I studied the crime shots more closely. Shots to the chest and a coup de gr?ce to the forehead. A large fisherman’s hook in an evidence bag. The letters scratched into the victim’s chest. MAI. “These letters mean anything to you?”
“Yeah,” Molinari said, nodding. He got up. “I’ll tell you about it on the plane.”
Chapter 46
The “Plane” Molinari had arranged for us was a Gulf-stream G-3 with a red, white, and blue crest on the fuselage and the words GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES. The deputy director was definitely up there on the food chain.
It was my first time climbing aboard a private jet in the private section of SFI. As the doors closed behind us and the engines started up as soon as we hit our seats, I couldn’t deny a thrill shooting through me. “This is definitely the way to travel,” I said to Molinari. He didn’t disagree with me.
The flight up to Portland was a little over an hour. Molinari was on the phone for the first few minutes. When he got off, I wanted to talk.
I laid out the crime photos. “You were going to tell me what this meant. MAI?”
“The MAI was a secret trade agreement,” he explained, “negotiated a few years back by the wealthy
