The Negotiator

“No, I never saw them.”

“Mmmm. They didn’t seem to like you. From what you have just told me about Orsini, I can understand why. No matter. My colleague… took care of them.”

“Your tame Englishman?”

“Andrei? He’s not English. As a matter of fact, he’s not even Russian. Ethnically, he’s a Cossack. I don’t underestimate your ability to handle yourself, Mr. Qui

“Thank him for me,” said Qui

“I disagree, Mr. Qui

“I’d be picked up within the hour,” said Qui

General Kirpichenko went back to his desk and beckoned Qui

“I’m afraid it was taken while you were drugged,” said the general. “But then, aren’t they all? The passport is quite genuine, one of our better efforts. You will need clothes with Canadian maker’s labels, luggage-that sort of thing. Andrei has them all ready for you. And, of course, these.”

He put three credit cards, a valid Canadian driver’s license, and a wad of 20,000 Canadian dollars on the desk top. The passport, license, and credit cards were all in the name of Roger Lefevre. A French-Canadian; the accent for an American who spoke French would be no problem.

“I suggest Andrei drive you to Birmingham for the first morning flight to Dublin. From there you can co

“General, I don’t seem to be making myself clear. Orsini never said a word before he died. If he knew who the fat man was, and I think he did, he never let it out. I don’t know where to start. The trail’s cold. The fat man is safe, and the paymasters behind him, and the renegade I believe is somewhere high in the Establishment-the information source. They’re all safe because Orsini stayed silent. I have no aces, no kings, queens, or jacks. I have nothing in my hand.”

“Ah, the analogy of cards. Always you Americans refer to aces of spades. Do you play chess, Mr. Qui

“A bit, not well,” said Qui

“You should,” he said. “Like my profession, it is a game of cu

He offered the book to Qui

“You are in check, Mr. Qui

General Kirpichenko summoned his operative Andrei and issued a stream of orders in Russian. Then Andrei took Qui

Qui

As promised, he read the book in the departure lounge in Sha

At Toronto his passport was no more queried than it had been at Birmingham or Dublin or Sha

At a used-car lot in Quebec’s first city, Qui

At the border post on the shores of Lake Champlain, where State Highway 89 passes from Canada into Vermont, Qui

There is a land in the northern fringes of the state of Vermont known to locals simply as the Northeast Kingdom. It takes in most of Essex County, with pieces of Orleans and Caledonia, a wild, mountainous place of lakes and rivers, hills and gorges, with here and there a bumpy track and a small village. In winter a cold descends on the Northeast Kingdom so terrible it is as if the land had been subjected to a state of freeze-frame-literally. The lakes become ice, the trees rigid with frost; the ground crackles beneath the feet. In winter nothing lives up there, save in hibernation, apart from the occasional lonely elk moving through the creaking forest. Wits from the South say there are only two seasons in the Kingdom-August and winter. Those who know the place say this is nonsense; it is August 15thand winter.

Qui

Winter had come early to the Northeast Kingdom and the hills closed in, huddled against the cold; the occasional vehicle coming the other way was another anonymous bubble of warmth, with heater full on, containing a human being surviving with technology a cold that would kill the unprotected body in minutes.

The road narrowed again after West Danville, banked high with snow on both sides. After passing through the shuttered community of Danville itself, Qui

The little town on the Passumpsic River was like an oasis in the freezing mountains, with shops and bars and lights and warmth. Qui

“A cabin? Well, sure, we rent out cabins in the summer. Mostly the owners want to spend a month, maybe six weeks in their cabins, then rent out for the rest of the season. But now?”

“Now,” said Qui

“Anywhere special?” asked the man.

“In the Kingdom.”

“You really want to get lost, mister.”

But the man checked his list and scratched his head.

“There might be a place,” he said. “Belongs to a dentist from Barre, down in the warm country.”

The warm country was at that time of year only fifteen below zero, as opposed to twenty. The realtor rang the dentist, who agreed to a one-month rental. He peered out at the Jeep.

“You got snow chains on that Renegade, mister?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll need ’em.”

Qui