Page 34 of The Nameless Ones

‘We’ll look after that. As for the Vuksans themselves, the lawyer is the wedge you need.’

‘And his weakness is his daughter,’ said Louis.

‘That’s right. You ever consider going into the kidnapping business?’

‘No,’ said Louis, ‘but there’s a first time for everything.’

Chapter XXXI

Louis and Harris spoke for a while longer, but Louis understood that Harris had provided all the intelligence that was likely to be forthcoming, at least for the present.

‘Should I ask about weapons?’ said Harris, as he reached for his hat and coat.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Louis.

‘I figured you’d have your own sources, but I thought it was only polite to offer.’

Harris recited a telephone number, which Louis didn’t write down, but memorized. It was a US number, with a 571 area code.

‘It’s message-only,’ said Harris, ‘but if you call, I’ll get back to you immediately.’

Louis thought that 571 might be Virginia, in which case he would have bet a crisp dollar bill that the number would ring somewhere in Langley, home of the CIA. He decided that he’d have to be in a whole lot of trouble before he called it.

Angel arrived to check on Louis.

‘Did I miss something,’ said Angel, ‘other than a round of drinks?’

‘This is Harris,’ said Louis, ‘or maybe Hermes, if you want to view him as a luxury lifestyle choice. Personally, I prefer Harris. Harris, this is Angel.’

The two men shook hands.

‘Ross warned me about you,’ said Harris to Angel. ‘Is it true that you’re tormenting Connie Holt about restroom keys?’

Ross’s superior was being driven slowly crazy by a series of anonymous missives claiming knowledge of a secret network of FBI restrooms situated in strategic locations around the United States. The latest communication received by Holt had included a packet of Dr Singha’s Mustard Bath (single size) from the National Mustard Museum in Middleton, Wisconsin; a desk calendar from the Museum of Bad Art in Somerville, Massachusetts; and a framed wreath made from human hair, stolen from Leila’s Hair Museum in Independence, Missouri, and repurposed by replacing the photo of a deceased nineteenth-century woman at its heart with a picture of Conrad Holt himself. This final artifact had particularly enraged the FBI man, who was sensitive about his hairline. Each item came with a key attached, and a typed note complaining that the key in question did not fit the lock to the restroom. As with a number of the most recent letters to Holt, the envelope used was stamped Greetings from the Great Lost Bear, Portland, Maine. Remember: Good Bears Eat Their Honey! Holt was now of the opinion that the bar in question should be raided and its owners taken into custody. If they were not actively involved in his persecution, they were facilitating it by permitting the use of one of their rubber stamps.

‘Holt,’ said Angel, his face assuming an expression of wounded innocence that would not have shamed the Archangel Gabriel himself. ‘I gotta say, the name doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘You boys sail close to the wind, I’ll give you that,’ said Harris. ‘It was good talking to you. I wish you good luck in your endeavors.’

They watched him leave.

‘Another legat?’ said Angel.

‘No, a spook,’ said Louis. ‘He says he’s retired, but that’s like claiming to be an ex-alcoholic.’

‘Did he help?’

‘Some,’ said Louis. ‘He gave us a lead, and a bead on our first target.’

‘Here?’

‘Paris.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘I leave for Paris in the morning. You don’t.’

‘So what am I doing?’

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