The Ludwig Conspiracy(36)
Then eyes again closed and headphones back on, the king hummed along to the aria from act two of Tannhäuser.
Lancelot bowed stiffly, like an old oak bending in the wind, and, following the old court ceremonial, walked backward out of the room. No one could say the king wasn’t barking mad, but the pay was good. Damn good. Lancelot had already worked as bodyguard for several millionaires, had been a security advisor in the Congo and for Blackwater in Iraq, but his present post looked like it would wind up being the most lucrative in his career to date—and possibly his last. Another year in The Royal Majesty’s service, and Lancelot would finally be able to afford the stylish forty-foot yacht he coveted. Then he could set off, never to be seen again, for the Caribbean, where he intended to spend the rest of his life with bare-breasted blondes and a large supply of well-chilled daiquiris.
He just had to track down that book and the infuriating little bookseller.
If he’d read the man correctly, the bookseller had not crept away to hide in a mouse hole. One thing that Lancelot had learned in his years of training was that a man who killed his opponent in cold blood didn’t hide; he went on the attack. Not to mention that this Steven Lukas seemed to be as inquisitive as a weasel.
Lancelot rubbed his old scar. It always itched when something aroused his hunting instinct—like some ancient animal. Finally he patted the holster under his leather jacket, where he had his semiautomatic Glock 17.
The knight smiled a chilly smile. This antiquarian bookseller shouldn’t present much of a problem. He could already smell the beach, and those daiquiris.
11
“NOT A BAD LOOK ON YOU,” Sara remarked, searching for a music channel on the car radio. “Makes you seem younger, anyway.”
“Oh, shut up,” Steven grumbled. “I feel stupid enough already, thanks.”
“Hey now.” Sara was swaying in time to a Nirvana song as she passed a honking Ford station wagon. “My dear ex-boyfriend David may have had the intellect of a twelve-year-old, but his clothes were always top quality.”
“Sure, if you like hooded sweaters and jeans so low that the waist is at my knees. And will you please switch off that damn radio before they broadcast my description again?”
“Anything you say, sir.”
Sara turned off the radio, and Steven stared out the window, where his weary, unshaven face was reflected in the side mirror. He wore Ray-Ban sunglasses with silver lenses, and above them a baseball cap with the New York Yankees logo. He had changed from his white cotton button-down shirt into a T-shirt with the dates of all the gigs from Bon Jovi’s most recent tour printed on it. Over that, he had a well-worn leather jacket with shoulder pads, and instead of his corduroy pants with their neatly ironed creases, he wore torn blue jeans. He looked like an American backpacker visiting Germany with the sole aim of getting blotto at the Oktoberfest.
“I’m dressed for a damn nightclub,” he muttered. “What does this famous ex-boyfriend David of yours do for a living?”
“He’s a reporter for a trend magazine,” Sara replied. “You have to look the part. It’s kind of like a uniform.”
“Oh, wonderful, I knew that was your type.” Steven pushed the cap well down over his face as a car came toward them on the other side of the road. “I guess I’d better interview myself. Antiquarian bookseller turns deranged murderer. It would make a great headline.”
“Don’t make such a fuss, Herr Lukas,” said Sara, switching into fourth gear. “It really doesn’t look so bad. It’s even kind of attractive, if you want to know the truth. And it does its job. I mean, did anyone give you a second look in that drugstore?” She winked at him. “What’s more, I think that jacket suits you much better than your boring old suit.”
“Just because I was born in the United States doesn’t mean I have to look like some spoiled prep schooler,” Steven complained.
“Are you really American? Don’t let the girls know. They’ll think you’re some kind of rock star and be all over you.”
“Very funny, Frau Lengfeld. You’d better concentrate on the road.”
They had stopped at a small drugstore to buy him a toothbrush, shaving gear, and deodorant. The girl at the register had smiled at him, and the few women who looked at him did so with obvious approval. Reluctantly, Steven had to admit that his transformation into a man in his midthirties with a midlife crisis aroused more goodwill than anything else in most people. All the same, he felt simply . . . wrong. This wasn’t him, and he was sure that others would sense it sooner or later.