The Ludwig Conspiracy(77)
The squawking of the gulls robbed Lancelot of the last of his nerve. Wearily, he wiped blood from his forehead where the king’s champagne glass had hit him. He was going to do just this one job, take the money, and then get away from all this lunacy forever. By now, he sometimes thought he was going crazy himself.
“The United States,” the king murmured suddenly, eyes curiously empty. “I’m sure it’s only a coincidence, but I must be sure. Find out everything you can about the man. His parents, any siblings. I want to know where he went to school, what he likes to eat, what his favorite books are. Everything.”
“How are we supposed to do that? The man’s a nerd, there are no friends we can pump, no . . .” At the same moment Lancelot knew that this remark had been a mistake. He only just managed to dodge the champagne bottle sailing through the air to smash on the rail of the yacht.
“What do I pay you for?” the king screeched. “To ask stupid questions? You’re my best knight, so come up with a good idea, and do it soon.”
Lancelot rose, with difficulty, and bowed.
Just this one last job, then I’m off to the Caribbean. But first I am going to wring this crazy bastard’s neck with my own hands . . .
“At Your Majesty’s orders,” he said, and moved in the direction of the stern, walking slowly backward as court ceremonial demanded. “I’ll get our people in Munich and New York on it. Meanwhile I’ll find the book for you.”
“Within twenty-four hours.” The king swiveled away from Lancelot and stared abstractedly at the picturesque Alpine range. “I want the book and the man within twenty-four hours. And I want the man alive. If I don’t get him, and alive, you can forget about that account in the Caymans.”
The one-eyed knight climbed down a ladder at the rail into the little dinghy and started the outboard motor. He was having difficulty controlling his breathing. One minute longer on the yacht and he’d probably have murdered the king—but then, of course, the account in the Caymans would be gone as well. He must get this thing tied up quickly; his employer’s lunacy was increasing to an ever greater extent. At first he had thought the king’s conduct was mere eccentricity, but by now Lancelot couldn’t be sure of anything. He must get out of here, fast. Just this one last job, and then the Caribbean beckoned.
Think of the girls, the champagne, fishing for tuna. Damn big tuna. Their blood will dye the sea red . . .
Lancelot suddenly remembered that he was to deliver that bookseller alive. His glance fell on the small crate at the stern of the dinghy, and he couldn’t keep back a grin. A good thing he had kept some of the gear he’d used in Serbia; he had a hunch that he could use it today. At least it would speed things up a good deal; the man wouldn’t have the faintest chance of defending himself.
And no one had said a word about letting that woman leave the island alive.
FOR THE FIRST TIME in days, Steven didn’t feel afraid of anything.
They were lying side by side on a carpet of red and yellow leaves, watching a spotted woodpecker send its messages out into the wood in Morse code. Steven could smell the nicotine seeping through the pores of Sara’s skin. Curiously enough, he found it exciting, like a new perfume that he didn’t yet recognize.
She had kissed him for a long time, and then placed a finger on his lips to close them, as if any wrong word spoken now would destroy the magic between them. Eventually, they began talking about their favorite songs, about American soap operas unknown to him, and the stupidest weather forecasters they’d seen. They disagreed on whether Psycho or North by Northwest was the best Hitchcock movie of all time. They talked about everything except the present and their own past lives, and for just under an hour they were far, far away from Marot’s diary, the Cowled Men, the magician, and the blinded giant. Only now did Steven realize how long it was since he had exchanged more than a few words with another human being. He had retreated into his books as if into a cocoon.
“What’s it like to grow up without books?” he asked Sara, who was cracking beechnuts beside him and munching the kernels with relish.
She laughed. “Is that how I seem to you? A female nerd raised by computers?” She looked at him, shaking her head. “What on earth do you think of me? I’m more interested in the contents of a book than its form, that’s all. Why would I need a library when I can download all those volumes to my tablet instead?”
“Maybe because it’s pleasant to leaf through books, smell them, sleep with books beside you?” Steven said. “Because books are like nourishment for oddballs like me, and I’ve always had them around me? Somehow I can’t get used to the idea that all that will soon be a thing of the past.”