Read Online Inspector O 04 - The Man with the Baltic Stare by James Church - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Church
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head.
The last time the doctor showed up, he stood at attention and opened the back door of his car with considerable fanfare. He pulled out a long board.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said, “but I think it’s a virgin.”
It was hard to do much in winter. My fingers were too cold to hold the tools, and I didn’t want to run out of wood while the road was impassable, which it usually was from late December until March. Summers were often too wet, and even when it wasn’t raining, the wood swelled in the humidity and the joints in my fingers ached. Autumn was the best time to work. I started at noon and worked through the day until the sunlight began to fade.
Most mornings in autumn I went for walks along the ridge of the mountain. There was no one to stop me from going into the valley on the far side, but I went only once and decided I would not go again. The trees were bent in odd shapes, which made the wind moan like a man dying of a grievous wound.
Chapter Six
No one called at noon to say a car was waiting. No one called at one o’clock. Or two. At two thirty, there was a knock at the door.
“Room service.”
Only it wasn’t. It was Major Kim, and he didn’t look happy.
“We’ve got a problem, O.” He walked past me as soon as I opened the door. “I’m supposed to be in Paris. I
should
have been in Paris, but no, no, I ended up here. Here!” He closed the curtains by hand.
“You just broke something,” I said. “Light bother your eyes?”
“I’ll tell you what bothers my eyes. Looking at the mess you call a city, that’s what bothers my eyes. Looking at that statue every morning on the hill, that bothers my eyes.”
“So, don’t look. Or take it down.”
He sat on the bed. “Not yet,” he said. “A problem, O, we have a big problem.”
“How come every time we meet, you say we have a problem? Last time it was little. This time it’s big. Doesn’t matter to me—whatever it is, it’s yours. I don’t have any problems.”
“Where are you, O?”
“In Room . . .” I went out and looked at the number on the door. “In Room Twelve Nineteen.” I stood in the hallway and looked from one end of the corridor to the other. No one washanging around. I came back in the room. “Makes you wonder. Does this hotel have guests, or did you build it specifically for me?”
The major took a piece of paper from his jacket. “Close the door,” he said, “and read this.” He handed me the paper.
I glanced at it and shrugged. “This is a State Security Department operational order.”
“I know what it is. I want to know what it means.”
“Do I look like I work for SSD?”
“Don’t screw with me, O.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Major, I don’t owe you anything. I still don’t know who you are. At this point, I only have a vague idea of what is going on. And for as long as I can remember, I have made it a practice never to inquire too deeply into SSD orders. They have their own codes, and they don’t spread around the decoding instructions. SSD does not get high marks for sharing. One of those three dogs at the table the other night seemed to be from SSD. He’ll roll over if you order him to, won’t he?”
“Not him. You, you’re going to tell me, and you’re going to do it in the next thirty seconds.”
“Or?”
“Don’t push me, O. I don’t have any patience right now. Why is SSD using code?”
“That’s what they do. They do it all the time. It’s in their nature. They think in code. They sleep in code. They probably make love in code. Don’t let it worry you.”
“What does it say?”
“If I knew what it said, it wouldn’t be much of a code, would it?”
“What. Does. It. Say.”
I looked at the paper. The grouping of numbers on the top indicated it was an alert order of some sort; of what sort I didn’t know. The two letters at the end of the number group indicated it was an immediate-precedence message. I’d learned this
The last time the doctor showed up, he stood at attention and opened the back door of his car with considerable fanfare. He pulled out a long board.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said, “but I think it’s a virgin.”
It was hard to do much in winter. My fingers were too cold to hold the tools, and I didn’t want to run out of wood while the road was impassable, which it usually was from late December until March. Summers were often too wet, and even when it wasn’t raining, the wood swelled in the humidity and the joints in my fingers ached. Autumn was the best time to work. I started at noon and worked through the day until the sunlight began to fade.
Most mornings in autumn I went for walks along the ridge of the mountain. There was no one to stop me from going into the valley on the far side, but I went only once and decided I would not go again. The trees were bent in odd shapes, which made the wind moan like a man dying of a grievous wound.
Chapter Six
No one called at noon to say a car was waiting. No one called at one o’clock. Or two. At two thirty, there was a knock at the door.
“Room service.”
Only it wasn’t. It was Major Kim, and he didn’t look happy.
“We’ve got a problem, O.” He walked past me as soon as I opened the door. “I’m supposed to be in Paris. I
should
have been in Paris, but no, no, I ended up here. Here!” He closed the curtains by hand.
“You just broke something,” I said. “Light bother your eyes?”
“I’ll tell you what bothers my eyes. Looking at the mess you call a city, that’s what bothers my eyes. Looking at that statue every morning on the hill, that bothers my eyes.”
“So, don’t look. Or take it down.”
He sat on the bed. “Not yet,” he said. “A problem, O, we have a big problem.”
“How come every time we meet, you say we have a problem? Last time it was little. This time it’s big. Doesn’t matter to me—whatever it is, it’s yours. I don’t have any problems.”
“Where are you, O?”
“In Room . . .” I went out and looked at the number on the door. “In Room Twelve Nineteen.” I stood in the hallway and looked from one end of the corridor to the other. No one washanging around. I came back in the room. “Makes you wonder. Does this hotel have guests, or did you build it specifically for me?”
The major took a piece of paper from his jacket. “Close the door,” he said, “and read this.” He handed me the paper.
I glanced at it and shrugged. “This is a State Security Department operational order.”
“I know what it is. I want to know what it means.”
“Do I look like I work for SSD?”
“Don’t screw with me, O.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Major, I don’t owe you anything. I still don’t know who you are. At this point, I only have a vague idea of what is going on. And for as long as I can remember, I have made it a practice never to inquire too deeply into SSD orders. They have their own codes, and they don’t spread around the decoding instructions. SSD does not get high marks for sharing. One of those three dogs at the table the other night seemed to be from SSD. He’ll roll over if you order him to, won’t he?”
“Not him. You, you’re going to tell me, and you’re going to do it in the next thirty seconds.”
“Or?”
“Don’t push me, O. I don’t have any patience right now. Why is SSD using code?”
“That’s what they do. They do it all the time. It’s in their nature. They think in code. They sleep in code. They probably make love in code. Don’t let it worry you.”
“What does it say?”
“If I knew what it said, it wouldn’t be much of a code, would it?”
“What. Does. It. Say.”
I looked at the paper. The grouping of numbers on the top indicated it was an alert order of some sort; of what sort I didn’t know. The two letters at the end of the number group indicated it was an immediate-precedence message. I’d learned this
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