Chapter 17

“I saw the news today, oh boy! (Hang your head.)
A thousand pictures of the lies we live. (Hang your head.)
Small minds play at some big-time games,
and everybody else pays. (Hang your head.)
They’re on the take, and they don’t give breaks.
They like to take it away. (Hang your head.)”
-Devo, “Some Things Never Change“

Detective Inspector Luc Allaine of Interpol did not have many friends in the Munich office. Waking them up at 10 PM to go obtain warrants and search Schön Klink’s records did nothing to increase the number.

The labels on the pill bottles had identified the patient prescribed them as Gareth Finnegan. A few hours’ digging through Schön Klink’s records said that he had visited several of their facilities eighteen times in the past three years for a malignant and slowly-growing brain tumor. No known aliases had returned from Interpol’s records under that name. However, the fingerprints on the bottles came back with the name Francis Morgan, an American contract killer who’d dropped off the radar fifteen years previously.

“There was a rash of high-profile knife murders at that time,” he relayed to Generalissimo Hernando Ramirez over the telephone. “Businessmen, the leaders of a couple of political movements who’d been making too much progress for the liking of some, the odd organized crime figure. Morgan’s name came up as a suspect in a number of them, but he was never caught. Then he dropped off radar.”

Ramirez sat up in bed with a notepad, his wife in bed next to him with her back turned to his bedside reading lamp. He took in Luc’s words, ignoring her grumbling about how it was now 3 AM; and the Generalissimo had finally gotten home, had a sandwich, and gone straight to bed less than an hour before.

There had been nothing left for him to do at the scene. Everyone had been safely evacuated from the Ministry of Science before the explosion destroyed the first three floors. Unfortunately, the fragments of the vial that Morgan dropped before the attack appeared to have gone up in the explosion. If there was anything left to analyze, it would be weeks before it would be found. Since they could learn nothing more from it, the two had written it off as “probably poison” and moved on.

“If he was coming to Munich for regular treatments,” Ramirez said, trying to keep his voice low. “They would need to be able to contact him. The Finnegan address in his file would have to be genuine, or at least someone who would relay the information.”

“Oui,” Allaine replied, lighting a cigarette. “Gareth Finnegan has an address in Kerry County, a poultry farm about 10km along the coast from Tralee. Sending the information to you now. His file says that he’s married and has twin teenage children; a boy and a girl. The love of a woman, children, and a place to call his own. This sounds like perfectly good motive for a smart young man to get out of the game.”

“Not for you, of course, Old Man,” Ramirez joked.

“Not when I have a good man who permits me to stay IN the game, non.”

“How is Sam?”

“Bien. And I hear Violeta in the background. Sorry for waking you, Violeta.”

Ramirez turned to his wife.

“Luc is sorry to wake you,” he told her. She grumbled a reply about having “those old queens” come to dinner sometime to make up for it.

“So,” Luc said, getting back on topic. “You’ll be sending your people to kick in some Irish doors?”

“I think not. The wife and children are likely not part of this. La Contessa may want to talk to them personally.”

“So, things are looking better for her?”

“Her condition has been downgraded to Serious, and she is being moved to a regular recovery room. Some old friends have come to sit by her side; I think they may be helping.”

“Ah,” Luc exclaimed. “A woman who has everything, including real friends? Rare as Monsieur Morgan’s dream. But something went wrong with his dream. After buying a farm and settling down, raising two children; simply that much travel back and forth to Munich would put a dent in any retirement fund he had remaining. He’s almost certainly thrown away money on quack remedies, as well.”

Hernando thought on that before replying.

“Si. Like the American television show. He has nothing left for her and the niños, he already has lost his hearing, and his body is betraying him.”

“Then, perhaps, a man comes to him with an offer too good to pass up: one last job. One that he won’t walk away from. ‘Die a manly death in a hail of bullets, and they will be taken care of; or waste away in a hospital bed, watching helpless as they try to pour snake oil down your throat, and cry themselves into the poorhouse over you.’”

“No choice at all. I would still want proof,” Ramirez offered. “With so much at stake; even if you were the one offering, I would need assurances. A token of good faith.”

“Oui, a down payment of some kind. So, now, we are looking for money.” Luc took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Jerking Munich around is, as the English say, ‘jolly good sport.’ We are treading dangerously close to the waters of ‘Official Channels.’”

“If it comes to that, I shall ask that you be given the case.” Ramirez thought for a moment more. “One of La Contessa’s friends is supposed to be very skilled in matters of money. He may be of some assistance.”

“Involving a civilian? It feels unwise. There is serious planning here. Someone had to know who Finnegan used to be, and be aware of his medical condition to approach him with such an offer. And if this bombing was part of it ... Morgan’s file makes no mention of bomb-making skills. You found no such tools in his room?”

“Nothing,” Ramirez said, sensing the call might go on and leaving the bedroom. “As was noted, he ‘set up his shrine, took his pills, had a siesta, and left.’”

“There is organization behind this, my friend. And it seems they extend an olive branch. Whoever pulled Morgan’s strings also gave you a perfect cover-up. The shrine alone would convince the media that this Carlos Jimenez was a lone stalker, and they will eat it up. They’ll trace the address in Spain, where no one will even know him; so, they’ll tell the cameras what a quiet man he was, just to be on the television, and that will be it. ‘Up next is Henri with the Football.’”

“And any questions left would be the speculations of conspiracy nuts, I see. So, if we SAID we found bomb tools, maybe some kind of anti-science literature...”

“C’est la vie.”

“Not an olive branch, but a patsy. This, too, sounds like a matter for La Contessa, when she is able to tend to it.” Ramirez glanced back towards his bedroom. “I have another woman who may kill me if I do not get sleep soon. You can sit on what you have until then?”

“Oui. Nobody above me has seen this. If I stop now, I have just shown an interest in a cold case. And if I leave Munich alone, they’ll be too happy to see the back of ‘The Cocksucker of Lyon‘ to cause a stir. There is nothing to connect the two. Though I suspect I will update some of my boxes anyway.”

Ramirez was one of the few who knew about the string of safe deposit boxes that Luc maintained, containing everything he had on the people most likely to kill him. Sometimes, he and Sam’s weekend trips to San Finzione were a cover to update the boxes there.

“Maybe you should come for a weekend soon, just to update Munich’s box.”

The two of them laughed. They ended the call, and Ramirez went back to bed.

Susan Bailey had thought that the best bed in the world was the one that she often shared with Troy and Julie Equals. Her own was nice, a closer fit for three, with no real room for more, unlike theirs. The ones in the Contessa Class suites on Air Finzione were a pretty even match with the Equals’ bed.

She hadn’t tested La Contessa’s bed when she’d been in Helen’s room. A part of her had suspected that Helen might secretly keep recording equipment running in her bedroom at all times, so she’d been wary of snooping too much. Then there’d been that explosion, and she’d panicked and gone back down to the Study to wait for Jeanne to come show her to her room.

She had a feeling that Helen’s bed was probably better than this one, but Susan couldn’t see how it was possible. Thus, until she received further information, she declared the one she was in to be the best bed in the world.

Susan felt for the first time that she was in a palace, rather than a castle. Castle Finzione was technically “Finzione Palace,” because La Familia Royale were in residence. Count Vincenzo’s father, Count Ernesto, had changed the name at the start of World War II, because, as he’d stated, “It was always meant to be a stronghold of hope for The People in a time of war.” After the War, the name had been made permanent; to show that although it now also housed Società Finzione, La Familia’s corporation, the castle’s purpose would always be “To Protect, Defend, and Serve the People.”

Wiklpedia had prepared Susan a little for her visit, but if it had known about the guest beds in the Palace Wing, it had said nothing.

And she wore nothing, Jeanne having said what she interpreted as having her clothes laundered. Since everything she’d brought needed washing now anyway, Susan didn’t protest, and all of the other women in her head were now relaxed, too, and too grateful for the silks and satins brushing against her entire body to complain. She hadn’t had much experience with the idea of “luxuriating,” but imagined that was the word for what she was doing now in the bed; spreading out, rolling around, feeling it everywhere.

Either or both of two things would have made it perfect. The male one carefully opened the door.

“Susan?” Troy whispered.

“Mmm ... in here,” she replied, looking over at him. “I thought you’d have it. Where’s Julie?”

“Staying at the hospital. They’ve moved Helen to a room now, so they brought in a recliner and blankets for Julie. I left it with her.

“And how’s Helen doing?”

“Sleeping off a different sedative now. Hopefully, she comes out of this one better.”

Susan nodded.

“So, coming to join me, Good Sir Knight?”

“Merely awaiting milady’s invitation.”

“You e’er have it, good sir,” Susan giggled. They’d done this bit before, but now, she was struck by the fact that they were doing it in an actual castle. “Did you get to see Maria?”

“Just for a bit,” Troy said, closing the door, and walking to the bed. He undressed as he spoke. “She and Stavro were heading to bed when I got in. Got a few minutes with them. I’d only met Stavro briefly the last time we were here, good guy.”

“Yeah,” Susan said, rolling onto her side, and watching Troy get naked. “Doesn’t talk a lot.”