Eden's Gate Read Free Page A

however, she still turned heads.
    Lane waited in the crowd as she made her way across the street and went inside the Grand Hotel. He followed her inside in time to see her enter the lounge and take a seat at the empty bar. She took
a cigarette out of her handbag, but before she could get out her lighter he was there with a match.
    â€œJust like in the movies,” he said.
    She turned to look at him, her eyes soft, almost unfocused, her expression supremely indifferent. Close up he could see the lines under her makeup. “Thank you,” she said, taking the light.
    â€œMind if I join you?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I do mind.” She turned as the bartender, a young man with a large mustache and thick arms, came over, and she ordered a Sapphire martini; up, very dry, very cold. “Two olives, darlin’,” she reminded him.
    â€œYes, Mrs. Sloan.”
    If her husband had used his real name hers would have been Mrs. Helmut Speyer, wife of a former East German Stasi intelligence officer and hit man. The West German BND had lost track of him after the Wall came down, and it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that he was positively identified masquerading as Herbert Sloan here in Montana.
    The bartender took his time making her drink, and when he was finished he came to the end of the bar where Lane had seated himself.
    â€œWhat’ll it be, sir?” he asked. His smile was fake.
    â€œI’ll have the same as hers, but if it’s not as cold as outer Siberia you’ll have to do it again.”
    The bartender leaned a little closer. “Whatever your game is, pal, it’s not going to work. Just a word of advice? She’s a married lady, and her husband and his pals don’t take kindly to assholes.”
    â€œNice speech.” Lane grinned at him. “But I don’t think the management would take kindly to its guests being treated like this.”
    â€œLet’s see your room key.”
    Lane laid it on the bar. “Make that a Gibson, would you? Olives give me gas.”
    The bartender’s brows knitted for a second, but then he nodded stiffly. “Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir. But this time of year we get all kinds in here.” He glanced down the bar at the woman. “We tend to take care of our own.”
    â€œAn admirable sentiment.”
    The bartender went to fix the drink and a moment later two men walked in. One of them was tall and very husky, his light brown hair cut very short in the military style. He wore khakis and a bush jacket, and he remained standing by the door to the lobby. If he was
carrying a gun, Lane decided, it wasn’t in a shoulder holster. He wore an earpiece.
    The other man, much shorter, more compactly built, with short steel gray hair, a thin mustache, dressed in gray slacks and a blue blazer over an open collar white shirt, came directly across to the woman, who turned to him and offered her cheek.
    â€œI thought I’d find you here,” the man said with a hint of irritation. He was Helmut Speyer, aka Herbert Sloan.
    â€œI was tired of waiting,” his wife said languidly.
    The bartender broke off from making Lane’s drink. “Good morning, Mr. Sloan. Care for something?”
    â€œA glass of beer.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Speyer glanced briefly at Lane, and then turned back to his wife and said something too low to be heard. Lane looked over at the man standing by the door. He was Ernst Baumann, aka Ernest Burkhart, Speyer’s chief of staff and bodyguard. He was staring at Lane. The German Federal Police also had warrants for his arrest on several charges of murder, arson and kidnapping, including three car bombings.
    Lane nodded pleasantly and smiled at the man, then turned around as his drink finally came.
    â€œNo trouble, sir,” the bartender warned softly. “Please.”
    â€œThere’ll be no trouble from me as long as my Gibson is cold,” Lane said