Chapter 38: Friday, Jan. 5

Bain laughed his mean laugh. "She overdosed, like so many of my good friends. Then his laugh died to a snarl. He came towards me. "Mitzi was my friend. She took good care of me. You killed her. And I'm going to kill you, old man, with my bare hands. But first, did you bring the tape?"

"I have it."

"Give it to me."

"I will leave it in the foyer as Diantha and I leave."

Madness showed in his face. "You old fool! You give it now or ... I will kill both of you ... with my bare hands." He laughed. "Or should we inject them with enough of our new potion and let them go at it in the cage, eh, Fang?"

Fang, who had moved away from me, gave a sycophantic laugh along with the other two.

As much to stall for time, I said, "Is that what you did with Ossmann and Woodley?"

"I'm afraid so. Professor Ossmann proved uncooperative in the end."

"So you're the one behind the whole deadly business?"

"Business is right." He smiled wickedly. "When I see a business opportunity, I take it."

"From whom did you take it?"

"Oh, from poor Ossmann, of course. But he, I'm sure, took it from someone else. Now, give me the tape ... "

"What do you plan to do with the ... potion?"

"Free trade, mon vieux, free trade. I will ship it by the carload to the Far East, and, of course, bring back various controlled substances by the carload ..."

"A regular businessman, I see."

His smile became a scowl. He started towards me and stopped. "No, Herr Direktor, not a regular businessman. I will be a force to be reckoned with. I will wreak my vengeance."

"On whom?"

A thin smile shaped his lips. "On history, my friend, on history."

"I thought you said history comes and goes." Though fearful I had botched everything, that Diantha and I were both doomed, I still had this compulsion to argue with him.

"Yes. And I will make it stop."

"Make history stop? Of course, that is the essence of despotism, isn't it?"

"I am not in the mood for dialectical diversions, old man. Now, the tape. I paid good money for it. Give it here."

"First ..."

"No first!" he shouted. "You are not here to dictate terms. Perhaps if we started on Miss Lowe that would convince you."

As he turned towards her, I reached into my coat and took out the Smith & Wesson.

Manfred Bannerhoff stopped and threw back his head in a laugh. He turned to the others. "Oh, my goodness, fellas, look, Mr. de Ratour has a weapon."

"Listen ... damn you," I said, determined to get my points across.

Turning towards me, his face malignant, he snarled, "No, you listen, gramps. Face it, you don't have the balls to use that thing, so give it me before you hurt yourself with it."

He was right. I felt like some small beast transfixed by the eyes of a cobra. I could not move. A fatal paralysis froze my limbs, my hands, my fingers. But not my mind, not the urge to beat him with words. "You're wrong," I said, referring to something entirely different. "Hitler ..." I hissed, fierce with refutation.

He stopped and laughed, interrupting me, dismissively shaking his head.

"Listen ..." I started again.

"No! You listen! he thundered and came at me.

I felt the gun jump in my hand. The sound came like an aural shock from afar. More than anything, I think now, I was trying to get his attention. I hadn't even been aiming the thing, just pointing, but the bullet caught his upper left thigh. He went down on his knees, cursing and holding his leg. The other two started towards me and stopped when I swung the gun directly toward them. Fang uttered a cry and ran off behind the door I had come through followed by the others.

"You son of bitch," Mr. Bannerhoff cried. "You old ... " He reached under his tunic and pulled out a Luger.

I fired again, catching him in the right shoulder, making him drop the gun, which clattered to the floor in front of him. He looked at me, his rage turning to amazement. "You, you ... .," he muttered.

"I mean it," I said, still wanting him to pay heed. "Adolph Hitler was no artist."

He lunged for the Luger, screaming in German. I fired again, aiming at his heart. He went down with a thump and lay still. Blood began to pool around him on the polished wood of the floor, just like in the movies.

"And God is not a joker."

I spoke loudly, with bravado, knowing I had won the argument. But I was far more certain of my first utterance than of my second. I also felt a strange vacuity. You cannot argue with a dead man.

It turned into a blur after that. The three men had disappeared. I could hear a helicopter overhead. I took Diantha in my arms and held her. Then, the gun still in my hand, I led her out the way I had come in. We went out past the still Mitzi and up a ways along the hillside. I gave her my parka and we hid in a stand of thick hemlocks.

Presently, a helicopter from the SPD hovered a hundred feet off the deck, its loudspeaker booming orders for everyone to throw down their weapons and come out with their hands up. Not long after that, several ski-mobiles rocketed out into the woods from a basement garage. We could hear gunfire, sirens, men shouting. Then, after what seemed an age, we were both in the back of a four-wheel drive police vehicle. I was wrapped in a blanket. My teeth chattered, but not from the cold.

There's more. But I can't do it right now. I'm dead, dead tired. I'm going to bed, to sleep.

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