Sword of Allah by Marc Olden

Author:Marc Olden [Marc Olden]
Language: eng
Format: epub

CHAPTER 10

THREE MEETINGS

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“They’re tryin’ to keep it quiet,” said the Baron in a tone of voice indicating he didn’t think this news would stay quiet for long. “Somebody in Washington’s come up with a cover story, if the press starts gettin’ too close. Car accident. That’s what they gonna let get out. Nine people died in a mass car accident outside of Houston last night.”

The tall Texan ran a hand through his white hair, pulling his lips to the side and shaking his head in knowing cynicism, If Washington could get anybody to believe that story, then it was time the Easter bunny ran for Congress.

“How come Roger Aarons didn’t let you know about this raid?” asked Robert Sand. He was stretched out on the couch in the Baron’s hotel suite, hands behind his neck, eyes closed. Rest. He needed rest like people needed sex and money.

Right now there wasn’t much chance of his getting more than a little. So he took his rest when he could. Still, he was alert—eyes closed, yes, but not his mind Never his mind.

“I called that Aaron bastard this morning,” said the Baron, “just after you phoned me from the airport. His story is he didn’t know about it that MacArthur Compton probably fingered the Russians and whoever else was with ’em. That’s what he tells me.”

Sand sighed. Everybody’s lying these days. Lying and crying. And dying. Poetry. Sort of.

And that made him think of Ann. He opened his eyes, blinked several times, and looked across the room at a window framed by white-and-blue draperies.

The sky’s the same wherever you go. It’s blue in Washington, in France, in Japan. It’s the same. But it’s different. Ann’s dead.

She had introduced him to the poetry of François Villon, not your everyday prissy rhyme maker. No way. Sand smiled, thinking of Villon, a man who would be right at home in the twentieth century.

Born in Paris in 1431, a man whose personal life was known only because of his police record. Villon. A pimp, thief, murderer, liar. A jailbird And a poet. A damn good poet.

What was that Villon line Sand liked so much? Now he remembered. It was from Ballad of the Ladies of Bygone Times and the line was, “But where are the snows of yesteryear?”

Yes, that’s the line. Everything disappears in time, nothing lasts forever. But where are the snows of yesteryear? Good question. Where is Ann? Where?

“You with us?” The Baron was sitting in a brown leather chair, frowning at Sand, a gnarled hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon and branch water. Us. There were just the two of them in the luxury Washington hotel suite.

“Yeah, I’m with you. Just thinking.”

“About her?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you gave some of it back last night.” The Baron stopped. What the hell can you say? Ain’t no sense in telling somebody you know how he feels, not until you been cut just as deep as he has.

Then you know. Not before.

Still, Sand’s doing a good job, thought the Baron.

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