A Death in Sweden(74)

As they walked through to the study, a more cluttered space, full of military and travel memorabilia, books and journals, cuttings from papers, Tom said, “So you saw Eliot Carter—who put you on to him?”

“Georges Florian, from DGSE.”

Tom gestured to a chair, but stopped short of sitting down himself, saying, “Georges Florian? Was he in the Foreign Legion years ago?”

“That’s the guy.”

“Jeez. I thought he was dead.” He sat down now, and said, “And how’s that old queen, Carter? Still shacked up with his Arab boys?”

“Yeah, his apartment was very much a Little Morocco.”

Tom laughed and said, “God love him. And let me tell you, in our line of work, that guy is worth his weight in gold.”

Dan wondered how much Tom knew about his own career, or if he was just assuming they were in the same kind of business.

“Are you still active, Tom?”

“Not really. But you know how it is.” He reached into a drawer and searched around for a few seconds before pulling out an aged-looking envelope.

He held it up then and said, “It’s funny, I was only looking at this the day before Eliot called to say you were coming. I was relieved when he told me. See, when he disappeared, Jack sent me this key for a safety deposit box in Paris—the details are in there with it. He said he’d pick it up himself one day or that someone would come for it. Well, I guess you’re that someone.”

He leaned over and put the envelope on the desk next to Dan.

Dan was about to object, to explain that he had no right to act as Redford’s representative, but he didn’t. At first he told himself that Patrick would probably make use of whatever was in that box, but he knew the real truth, that he just wanted all the details he could find about Jack Redford and why he’d run.

“Thanks. Do you want it back?” Tom shrugged, shaking his head as if to ask why he’d want it back when he’d only just managed to pass it on. “On the subject of letters, Eliot told me Jack had received a letter not long before he disappeared, someone from Beirut, that it had unsettled him.”

Tom looked doubtful and said, “Not a letter, not that I’m aware of, anyway. I sent him an email and I know that upset him. A friend of ours, someone who’d been in Beirut with us, he was killed in a hit and run.”

Dan immediately thought of Mike Naismith in Baltimore, and said, “Suspicious?”

“Who can tell? Jack thought it might be. It upset him, I know that much. So chances are that’s what Eliot meant when he talked about a letter.”

That was disappointing, and apart from the promise of the key to the box, Dan felt he’d slightly wasted Tom Crossley’s time by coming here.

Almost as a way of making up for that and giving the brief meeting some substance, he said, “What were you doing in Beirut?”

He smiled broadly and said, “Cutting loose. It just so happened we were all of us free. I had some friends out there and suggested to Jack he should come out for a while. Then a couple more guys got wind of it and showed up. We were there for about six months, I guess.” He got up and moved across the room to an oriental chest of drawers, searching through them before pulling out a fat brown envelope. “It was a good time to be in Beirut . . .”

“So this was after the hostage crisis and all that?”

“Long after, years after. Yeah, things were looking up for Beirut back then, talk of it returning to the way it was before the war. Doesn’t look like it’ll happen now, but those were good days.”

He pulled a bundle of photos out of the envelope and flicked through them. He pulled one out and handed it to Dan. It was of three guys standing with arms over each other’s shoulders. One was Tom, his hair cropped but not shaved as it was now, but otherwise not looking much different. The one in the middle was tall and blonde, with chiseled features.

The third guy looked smaller, though Dan guessed he was average size and only looked small because of the scale of the two guys he was with. He looked relaxed, his hair scruffy, his shirt tucked in on one side but hanging out on the other—the kind of good-looking traveler who turned up in places like that with a guitar.

As he looked, Tom said, “The guy in the middle is Jonny, the guy who was killed in the hit and run.”

“Jonny? He looks German or . . .”

Tom laughed and said, “Everyone always thought he was German. He was from San Diego, a real surf dude—slightly crazy but a good guy to be around.”

Dan nodded and said, “What about the guy on the right?”

As if it was obvious, Tom said, “That’s Jack.”

“Really?” Dan looked at it again. “It’s not like the pictures I’ve seen. Is this how he looked?”

Tom reached out and took the photo back, smiling as he looked at it, saying, “Yeah, that’s him alright. He was a charmer, could charm the leaves off the trees. Very unassuming guy, but, I don’t know, I guess that was part of his appeal. And I tell you, those were happy days.” He flicked through some more of the photos and handed another one to Dan. “That’s kind of a typical night out there, typical dinner.”

Dan looked at the picture, which showed half a dozen people sitting at a restaurant table which was laden with plates and wine bottles.

“You’re not in this.”