The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

hospitality. Frank preferred to stand next to the door, from where he could keep an eye on him. For some time Silverstone said nothing, but simply observed Frank with his cold, analysing stare. His lips betrayed the trace of a smirk. The supercilious manner put Frank in mind of Breitner. He was more elegant than Breitner, more tasteful in his dress, more stylish – an East Coast American version – but he gave the impression there was little to choose between the two.

“Was it Breitner that fixed your makeup for you?” the American asked with a smile.

The coincidence of the question with Frank’s own thoughts left him momentarily perplexed. Silverstone ran a finger around the corner of his right eye to underline his question. Frank nodded.

“Nasty, isn’t he?” Silverstone added.

“Do you know him?” Frank asked. He was thinking of what Patricia had said earlier.

The American smiled. He considered the question carefully, seeming to test the options on his thin lips, which moved almost imperceptibly, as if rehearsing a response. It never came.

“You know what Scott Fitzgerald said about Switzerland?” Silverstone asked in turn. “It doesn’t so much draw people as accept them without inconvenient questions. That’s Breitner.” His smile thickened. “So what does he have against you? He surely didn’t do that just for a souvenir of my ID?”

“Well, he wasn’t too clear about that. He seemed to think I’d been messing around with his girl.”

It was Frank’s turn to be evasive. His answer did at least have the virtue of corresponding to a certain version of the truth. And since he was somewhat in the dark anyway as to the full truth behind his meeting with Breitner, it seemed as satisfactory a response as any other. But Silverstone was not satisfied.

“I didn’t know he had a girl.”

The distrust in his voice prickled and put Frank on the defensive.

“As I said, he was not entirely clear about the whys and wherefores. He was more interested in the sport. And, of course, he threw me into the usual fascist spittoon of socialists, communists, Jews and the rest.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“I guess it suited him,” Frank conjectured. “You know how it is with fascists if you don’t fit with their view of the world.”

“In what way don’t you fit?”

And so the interrogation continued. One lazy noncommittal remark succeeded another, and was instantly followed up each time by a relentless probing question. Frank’s initial discomfort and mistrust of this enigmatic American rapidly gave way to impatience.

“So what precisely did you want to talk about?” he eventually asked, “because I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here for a political discussion?”

Silverstone considered the question with the studious care of a chemist assaying for some obscure substance close to the limit of detection.

“You,” he said at last.

“I thought we’d been doing that. What more do you want to know?”

“I understand you’re planning to visit your mother in Cologne soon.”

The presumptuous intimacy of this man with Frank’s private life instantly hit a nerve. It heightened his dislike of the man to a pitch of near repugnance. And the fact that his understanding was not entirely accurate didn’t help. It simply added to a sense of betrayal that edged its way into Frank’s mood. It was clear that Achim had been talking to this man about him. And this hurt.

“What else has Achim been telling you about me?” he asked, feeling instantly irked by his failure to conceal the anger in his voice.

But Silverstone ignored the question.

“I’d like you to do me a favour,” he said.

“Really?” Again he had succeeded in taking Frank completely by surprise. “What sort of favour?”

“I’d like you to deliver a package for me.”

“And what would be in the package?”

“This kind of thing.”

Silverstone pulled a small booklet out of his coat pocket and threw it on the bed. It was little more than a slim primer on the rudiments of chess. Unimaginative in design and cheap in quality, but it looked harmless enough. Yet it didn’t fit with the image Frank had of Silverstone. Or with the man’s supercilious manner. But, above all, it seemed an odd request.

“Just supposing for a moment you were correct, and I were going to Cologne, what reason could I have for doing you a favour?”

“I figure you owe me,” came the self-assured response.

“And where does Achim come into this?” Frank persisted. “Was this his idea?”

Again the American ignored his question. He slipped the book back into his overcoat pocket, rose from his chair and turned to gaze pensively out of the window.

‘Was this really the stranger I had beaten to the ground and robbed only a few days earlier?’ Frank asked himself.

He found it difficult to square this whole scene – the expectation of favours, the careful deliberation – with the history of violence and assault. At length, Silverstone turned back from the window, a thin smile on his lips, but worry in his eyes.

“Perhaps you should come along with me. It might simplify matters.”

“Where to?”

“I’d like you to meet someone,” the American insisted, his right hand already reaching out for the door.

“Who?” Frank asked.

By now the door was open, and Frank saw Silverstone raise his left arm like the wing of Roc stretched in readiness to carry off its prey. The man’s propensity for ignoring questions irritated Frank intensely. And the invitation reminded him all too vividly of the last occasion when he was abducted from his hotel room. But Silverstone took a more subtle approach, and although Frank was disinclined to have anything to do with the man – let alone accept this invitation – he was sufficiently intrigued by the tight-lipped nature of his coaxing to follow him.

Out on the street, the air was filled with the tantalising aroma of roasting chestnuts, and Frank was sorely tempted to stop at one of the street vendors to buy a bag. But Silverstone was not for lingering. He gave the impression of not wanting to be seen. And lost no time leading Frank to the