Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

tight voice.

'I just finished talking on the phone to a Long Island cop who tells me Sinclair kidnapped Emmet P. Neuberger last night- motive unknown, since he didn't ask for money in the note he left. I was about to call the authorities here to see if they knew, when you showed up.'

'Just because there was a note with Sinclair's name on it doesn't mean he did it.'

'He left a calling card; he killed all of Neuberger's servants, burned out their eyes. That does seem to be his preferred method of murder these days.'

Insolers had obviously discovered the hidden bar with its complimentary supply of booze during his earlier visit to my rooms, because that's where he headed now. He opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of malt Scotch, and poured himself a serious drink.

'Make yourself at home,' I said evenly. 'Maybe you'd like a drink?'

He turned around and sipped at his Scotch, staring somewhere over my head, as if he hadn't heard me. 'No,' he said at last, setting the half-finished drink down on top of the liquor cabinet.

'No, you wouldn't like a drink?'

'No, I don't think Sinclair snatched Neuberger and killed his servants.'

'Why not?'

It seemed a simple enough question, but it took him a long time to answer it. Finally, he said, 'I have my reasons.'

'Which are?'

'One of them is that even Sinclair can't be in two places at once, and there's very good intelligence, from a number of different sources, to indicate that he's still in Switzerland.'

'Maybe he had his people do it.'

Insolers dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. 'Sinclair always works solo, regardless of the odds. It seems to be a point of pride with him.'

'Well, there's little likelihood of a copycat killer at work. This is basically a European story, and it hasn't gotten much play in the American press.'

'The Swiss have the borders sealed off,' Insolers said distantly. 'He couldn't have gotten out.'

'Just like he couldn't have gotten out of Vietnam twenty-five years ago, right?'

'Ah,' Insolers said, fixing me with his pale brown eyes. 'You know about that.'

'It's in the public record, part of the legend. What do you want from me, Insolers?'

The CIA operative picked up his drink, walked across the room, and sat down on a beige sofa. 'If Sinclair really did get out of Switzerland,' he said carefully as he slowly rotated his tumbler on an open palm, 'I'm not going to be the only one surprised; not a few people are going to be downright disappointed. Zurich is beginning to resemble a convention center for a lot of different kinds of espionage types. So far, I've counted operatives from six different countries. It's another of the reasons why I don't think Sinclair did the Neuberger thing. These other people have been getting the same signals I have, maybe from different sources. The word is that he's still in Switzerland, lying low someplace.'

'Why are all these intelligence types interested in Sinclair? What's your interest? Sinclair's a murderer and con man, not a spy.'

'My interest is to find out what their interests are. My assignment is to try to sort out the players.'

'That's just double-talk. If you don't want to tell me anything, that's fine, but I still don't understand what you think you can find out from me.'

Insolers sipped at his drink while he studied me over the rim of the glass. After he had drained the tumbler, he resumed turning it in the palm of his hand. 'Does the term 'Cooked Goose' mean anything to you, Frederickson?'

He had tried to make the question seem almost casual, but I was certain I detected an underlying tension in his voice. I thought I was beginning to understand how Alice had felt when she'd tumbled down the rabbit hole. 'Insolers, somehow I sense that you're not talking about food, or the usual slang usage of the term. Am I right?'

'Level with me, Frederickson,' the other man said quietly. 'Do you know what it is?'

'I do not. You tell me. What is Cooked Goose?'

'I don't know,' Insolers replied evenly. 'I actually thought you might. It's well known that the Frederickson brothers have friends in very high places. I'm told that, over the years, the two of you-as well as your friend Veil Kendry-have picked up all sorts of. . interesting information.'

'Mr. Insolers,' I said, walking over to him and putting out my hand, 'if you'll be so kind as to give me that ID card of yours, I do believe I'll call that number at the bottom after all. I know you're jerking me around, but for the life of me I can't think what you're hoping to gain. Maybe Langley will tell me-if that really is a number for Langley.'

'Cooked Goose was the reason John Sinclair packed up his career and medals and deserted,' the man with the medicinal smell said evenly, — ignoring my outstretched hand. 'It was why he walked out of Vietnam, leaving five dead Rangers in his wake.'

'I take it the army was really serious about trying to stop him.'

'Oh, yes. And the reason for such concern had to have been his involvement with-or knowledge of-Cooked Goose. It was the code name for a secret operation, obviously, but I don't know what that operation was, or whether or not it was actually ever executed. Very few people know what that operation was all about, and I'm not one of them. It still carries the highest classification. I think Cooked Goose is the reason there are so many intelligence operatives milling around here at the moment; they all want a shot at him, some of them quite literally. Sinclair has make a lot of enemies, embarrassed a lot of very powerful people and organizations, including the Mafia, and not a few of these interested parties would love to claim the credit for killing him.'

'Now we're talking about assassination, not capture.'

I suddenly became aware of a distant thwap-thwap-thwap sound, which was rapidly coming closer. Insolers and I both glanced out the window as an olive-drab Swiss Army helicopter zoomed past. A few seconds later the sound died, as if the craft had landed close by, perhaps on top of one of the buildings.

'We're talking here about individuals, organizations, and governments with different agendas,' Insolers said, turning back to face me. 'There's no doubt some of these parties would like to kill him for revenge, but I think others want to capture him because of what he knows about Cooked Goose. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't believe the CIA much cares what I find out here. I think I'm being used as a front man to throw the people watching me off the track while some free-lancer they've hired accomplishes what they really want, which is to kill Sinclair. If Cooked Goose is so sensitive that it still carries the highest classification even after all these years, it's reasonable to assume that they certainly don't want him captured by some other intelligence outfit, or thrown into some foreign prison where he could use what he knows to bargain for his freedom, or maybe kick back and write his memoirs. No. The CIA definitely wants him dead, and I strongly suspect they've had a contract out on him for more than two and a half decades.'

I stared at Insolers in utter astonishment. When I realized that my mouth was actually open, I closed it. My throat was dry, and I swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture. I had the distinct feeling that something bad was happening to me, and I didn't even have the slightest idea what it might be. 'Jesus Christ, Insolers,' I said in a rasping voice. 'Aren't you spook types trained to withstand gruesome torture, or even encouraged to take a cyanide pill, before giving away the kinds of information you've just imparted to me in this casual little conversation? Why the hell are you telling me this stuff?'

'Because,' Insolers said, his voice low and very intense as he leaned forward on the sofa, 'I asked you to level with me, to trust me, but I gave you no reason why you should. Now I have. You appreciate very well how badly I could be hurt if you ever breathed a word of what I've just told you to anyone else.' He paused, leaned back on the sofa, crossed his legs. 'You see, I'm quite convinced you're keeping secrets of your own about your real reasons for being here, and I'm equally convinced I haven't told you anything you didn't already know.'

'You couldn't be more wrong on both counts, Insolers. I have never heard of Cooked Goose, and I had no idea anybody but law enforcement officials were after Sinclair-until now.'

Insolers abruptly rose from the sofa with a suddenness that startled me. In an instant, his whole demeanor had changed: His pale brown eyes had gone icy, and his casual air had completely disappeared. At that moment I