Maestro: 4 (The Herbie Kruger Novels) Read online

  Herbie landed on top of the old man as the car shuddered from four or five bullets, and the Porsche, still burning rubber, hurtled up the ramp and crashed the bar of the exit, squealing as it turned back onto 65th Street.

  In Herbie’s mind there was great confusion concerning the various noises and events. The first burning squeal from the Porsche seemed to be overlapped by the terrifying thump of bullets finding their mark, while the cries, shouts and return fire were all jumbled into one sustained track of disordered sound.

  For a second, he pulled himself back from Passau; was aware of the police car and the FBI communications vehicle taking off in pursuit of the Porsche. He was conscious of at least one man stretched out on the sidewalk, and of blood. Then he heard Boomer again. Shouting this time, “Herbie, get him in! Get Passau in and go with him! Now! Move! Get the fucking Lincoln outta here!”

  He heaved Louis Passau into the car which began to roll almost before he could follow the Maestro and close the door. As they hit the street, the agent riding shotgun called back, “Is he okay? Is Passau okay?”

  “You okay, Mr. Passau?” Herbie realized that, for some reason he could not quite figure, he was short of breath.

  Passau nodded, leaning against the far side of the car, showing no sign of agitation, wearing a gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, with a blue and white polka dot tie—a matching silk handkerchief lolling out of his breast pocket giving him a slightly rakish look. The Lincoln was gathering speed, and Herbie, getting his backside onto the seat at last, glanced around to see the lights of the Chevy behind them.

  “What in holy blazes was that all about?” he asked nobody in particular.

  Calmly, Passau said that he gathered somebody had tried to kill him. There was a twinkle in his eye, and the corners of his mouth flickered with the makings of a smile. This guy, Herbie thought, has gone right round the pipe. He’s a crazy.

  Then Passau peered at Herbie. “Haven’t we met before? I don’t mean in the dressing room tonight. Some time ago? We have met in the past, yes?”

  The streets of New York were around them; everywhere seemed a blaze of light and people. Even the traffic was heavy, but they rolled through it all, switching lanes, going quite fast, their driver doing impossible things, cutting off cabs and private vehicles alike. You could feel the wrath of angry drivers in their wake.

  Kruger swallowed. “Yes, once we met. Very briefly we met. My name’s Kruger. People call me Herbie, or Herb.” He realized that he was gesturing with a handful of 9mm pistol.

  Passau put out a hand, “People call me Louis, or, more often, Lou. Nice to meet you, Herb.”

  (3)

  “I’M GOING THROUGH THE tunnel. Okay with you?” The driver cocked his head back towards his two passengers.

  “Me you’re talking to?” Herbie wore his puzzled look. The confusion was reflected in his voice.

  The agent riding shotgun snapped, “Just check the guys’re still with us.” Then, turning to the driver, “Yes, go through the tunnel, there won’t be much traffic this time of night.”

  “Which tunnel? Bloody Channel Tunnel?” Herbie, still holding the pistol, turned to make sure the trail car was with them.

  “I think they mean the Queens Midtown Tunnel.” Passau reclined in his seat. He had a distinctly middle-European accent. The Maestro would have pronounced it excent.

  “QMT!” The Shotgun nodded, looking to his front, as if that settled everything.

  “The tail’s still with us, okay?” Herbie looked into the smiling eyes of Passau again. “Yes. Yes, we met once.” At last answering the Maestro’s question. “I saw you in Vienna. Eleven years ago. You conducted the Mahler Second. One of the great moments of my life. Came to your dressing room afterwards. You wouldn’t remember me.”

  Passau made a grunting noise, neither confirming nor denying his memory. “You like Mahler?” He sounded surprised, as though he imagined Herbie’s musical taste could not possibly rise higher than Switched-on Classics.

  “Mahler I don’t like. Mahler I adore. Gustav Mahler is God.”

  The Maestro nodded, looking pleased. “The adoration of old Gus is well placed. Hope you are liking Mozart also. …”

  “Mozart’s a barrel of apples. Wonderful, but too much. I cannot keep up with the K numbers, and some of the symphonies I cannot detect difference. With Gustav you know where you stand. Nine and a half symphonies and two big handfuls of assorted diamonds. Mahler is king, president. Mahler is chairman of the board.”

  “Keep an eye out at the tollbooth.” The driver spoke in a monotone. Like a robot, Herbie thought. He transferred thoughts into words—

  “Okay, Hal, anything you say.”

  “The name’s Rube. What’s with the Hal?”

  “Two Thousand and One. Movie. You sound like Hal.”

  “Horseshit.” The driver indeed sounded like the robot from 2001. Even more so when he did one-worders like “horseshit.”

  “Remember we’ve got some class in the back here. Watch the language, Hal.” Herbie was fully turned around. “Shit!” he said loudly and with more feeling than the driver.

  “I got it,” the Shotgun muttered. “Damned great U-Haul’s pulled in between us and the trail car.”

  Indeed it had: a big slab-sided truck with the dark orange U-Haul logo and a couple of long-haired urban cowboys in the cab. Herbie could see the passenger was resting his feet on the dash. He was probably drinking Michelob.

  The car radio burst into life with a flash of white noise, followed by a garbled voice which the Shotgun seemed to understand. He turned his head a fraction to speak. “They’re telling us they’re behind the U-Haul. …”

  “Einstein you got driving the trail car?” Herbie spoke with a smile in his voice.

  “We’re to pull over on the exit. There’ll be uniforms waiting so Sunray’ll get a safe ride to La Guardia.”

  “Who is this ‘Sunray’?” Passau asked.

  “Sunray is you, Lou.” Herbie turned to look at him. “For things like this they give us names. Me? I’m ‘Blue Boy,’ like in the painting.”

  Passau chuckled.

  The driver tossed money into the little correct change container at the tollbooth and they moved towards the tunnel, staying in the left lane, obeying the large sign. Traffic seemed to pour past on the right.

  “‘Sunray,’ huh?” Passau grinned and began to hum quietly.

  It took Herbie a moment to realize what the musical genius was humming—“Is old Insects song,” he said. A little hint of shock.

  “Beatles,” Passau corrected. “Not Insects! Beatles! So? Here comes the Sun King. Here comes the Sun King,” he sang quietly. “Nothing wrong with Beatles. You know what I heard the other day, Herbert?”

  “The name’s Herbie or Herb! Not Herbert!” Kruger sounded angry. “Herbert is joke, foolish, as in, ‘You stupid Herbert.’”

  “Excuse me,” with mock deference. “Okay, you wanna know what I heard, Herb?”

  “Why not?”

  “Couple of young guys, all leather, chains and ripped off Judas Priest CDs coming out of their pockets.”

  “What is Judas Priest?” Herbie’s eyes widened.

  “Never mind. Cacophonous heavy metal group. Don’t ask what is heavy metal. I tell you what I hear. Exact, just as it was said. I passed them on the street, and one of these young guys was saying, ‘Of course, if the Beatles were around today they wouldn’t make shit.’ Funny, huh?”

  “Ach!” Big Herbie flapped a hand. “What do they know? They probably say the same about Mahler.”

  “Maybe they don’t even know of Mahler, Herb.”

  “Then to hell with them. I …” Herbie looked to his right, and stopped talking. A large black stretch limo was beginning to pass them. Ahead he could just see the tunnel exit, but long experience alerted Kruger. There was an unaccountable tingling in his mind, and his stomach turned over. Something was just not right about the limo, which was being followed by a little white VW Cabriole
t. “Watch it!” he ordered, and the driver’s head moved just as Herbie turned to see the U-Haul pull out and nudge the Volks to its right.

  One did not have to be a genius to realize that switching lanes in the tunnel meant either a foolhardy or criminal act. Everyone in the Lincoln knew this was not foolhardy, so it had to be the other thing. The driver began to pile on the horses.

  “Christ!” The Shotgun pumped the action on his weapon, and started to lower his window. Then everything happened like a slow motion ballet. Herbie saw the U-Haul push the Volks to one side so that it turned hard right and tried to climb the tunnel wall, which was not an option for a Range Rover, let alone a Cabriolet.

  At the same moment the limo slewed in front of the Lincoln, broadsiding in a mist of burning rubber, and causing the FBI driver to stick his foot almost through the floor.

  There was no crash—except from the Volks and, possibly, the trail car behind the U-Haul, which was successfully turned sideways on, blocking everything behind them. The black stretch walled off their front.

  “Get down, Lou! Down on fucking floor!” Herbie yelled as the automatic fire blew away a considerable portion of engine, the windshield, most of the driver’s head, and half of the Shotgun’s chest. Three long bursts by two weapons.

  Herbie scrabbled for the right-hand door latch, swung it open and rolled his large body out onto the filthy oily road. He did all this with an incredible grace and at the speed of light. Later, during the night sweats that followed the incident, he realized the only thing revolving in his head were the opening bars of the Mahler Sixth—the solid beat of the bass strings, and timpani, too loud: probably his heart.

  The two men who had emerged from the rear of the limo were taking their time, changing magazines. They were professionals, dressed in black, with short leather jackets, and they probably thought that a dose of two magazines from their Uzis had effectively offed everyone in the car.

  On his feet, Big Herbie, arms outstretched, the 9mm an extension of himself, knew he did not have the luxury of time. He put two rounds into the first man, moving his body, but not his legs, to look over the pistol as it came to bear on the second, who took two rounds in the throat. There was a fraction of time when both killers looked surprised, almost out of sorts that this impossible thing could happen. Then they both tipped backwards, one almost vertical for a second, the other scrabbling at the air before he hit the stretch limo’s trunk.

  A third man came from the front seat like a rocket, but Herbie took him out before he even had a chance to raise the pistol in his hand. Of the three of them, he was the only one who screamed as the top of his head disintegrated.

  “Mother of God, can this be the end of Louis?” The Maestro did a passable imitation of Edward G. Robinson.

  “No. Just saved your life. But not these, I fear.” Herbie looked at the driver and Shotgun, then averted his eyes. He was shaking, and realized he was going to throw up if he did not take a few deep breaths. Inhaling one deep breath in this tunnel was like smoking three packs of cheap French cigarettes, so he ended up spluttering, looking at Maestro Passau in the back of the Lincoln. The old man suddenly seemed to have aged, his face gray with fright.

  “You okay, Maestro? Is okay. Danger’s over, but who the hell are these people?”

  Passau nodded, then spoke, his voice quivering for the first time, even while trying to put on a bold front. “I could make a guess.” He breathed heavily for fifteen seconds.

  Herbie thought the old man was in shock. There were noises off, from behind. People trying to get through. Two shots, exploding in the tunnel confines like sticks of dynamite, then sirens, coming from the far exit of the tunnel. Once more, in his head, Big Herbie heard Young Worboys—“Try to force the issue, Herb. Try to get him on his Todd and go through him like shit through a goose.”

  He went over to the stretch limo and hauled the dead driver by the collar of his jacket. He was already half sprawled from the car, and one pull spun the body onto the road. He looked inside. The keys were still in the ignition. As he lumbered back to the Lincoln, he could see that car was not going anywhere.

  Leaning inside, he stretched out a hand to Passau. “Trust me, Maestro. Just trust me. Come. Out of the car.”

  “Name is Louis, or Lou, Herbie. Maestro is unfashionable these days.” Passau pushed himself towards the outstretched hand, and now it seemed a great effort of will as well as a physical feat. But, when he stood erect outside the Lincoln, he nodded, put back his shoulders, asked what they would do, and if Herbie would kindly bring his topcoat and scarf, plus the luggage from the Lincoln’s trunk.

  “We take over the stretch, okay?” Herbie patted him reassuringly.

  “If you say so, Herb. If you say so.”

  The cops arrived just as Passau was settled in the front seat. Herbie went over to the two cars and spoke with the uniformed men, some of whom were fanning out, moving further into the tunnel from which sounds of violence were still coming.

  The conversation was quick and easy.

  “Blue Boy,” Herbie said, flourishing his I.D. to the police captain who appeared to be in charge. “I have Sunray, and I’ve commandeered that car.”

  “Who took out those guys?” The captain had flinty eyes which looked as though they saw death in many guises every day and most nights.

  Herbie waved the 9mm. “This took them out. Now I got to get Sunray to La Guardia. Is essential we move him on quickly. You know the score, Captain.”

  The cop nodded, looked closely at Kruger’s I.D. “I’ll give you an escort. Just wait ten minutes and …”

  “I’m not waiting for nobody. This is second time someone tries to ice Sunray. I don’ want to make it three in a row.”

  The captain pushed his cap back on his head and scratched his scalp, thinking for all of ten seconds. “Okay, I’ll radio La Guardia. The plane’s waiting.”

  They were near enough to the limo for Passau to hear the short conversation. “La Guardia,” he said to Herbie when the big man shoehorned himself into the driving seat.

  “Sure, La Guardia. Why not?” Herbie looked over the controls, working out which stalk activated the indicator lights. “Always with a different car I indicate right, and the windshield washers come on usually.”

  “I remember that well.” Passau gave a heavy sigh. “With me it was only the speed that mattered. I still drive fast cars.” Pause. “Sorry, I used to drive fast cars. You think I’ll ever drive again, Herbie?”

  “Depends on what you tell me, Lou. We got much talking to do. Jawing, they say back in London. Jawing and, sometimes, rabbiting.” The limo started at the turn of the key. Slowly, Herbie edged it forward, getting the feel of the steering.

  “This kind of talk is new to me.”

  “You talk a lot and is rabbiting. You talk nonsense, is load of old bunny. This I learned long ago when I first go to England.” He was confident now, increasing speed. An ambulance and more police cars passed them, heading towards the tunnel.

  “Strange talk. This is slang, yes?”

  “This is definitely slang.” The limo was back into a normal traffic flow now. “Takes a long time to learn.” Herbie realized that shock was setting in. His hands trembled on the wheel: it had been years since he had been involved in violence, and even longer since he had killed anyone in the line of duty. Killing people was not part of his work profile back in the Secret Intelligence Service, in the freezing zone of the Cold War, but he had done it on occasions. He always regretted it in the end, and wondered if he would live to lament this.

  They reached a dividing point in the road, the big green and white signs shouted from overhead.

  “Weren’t we going to La Guardia?” Passau asked, almost casually.

  Big Herbie nodded. “Originally that was the idea.”

  “You just took the exit to JFK, Herbie.”

  “I know it.”

  “You want to tell me why we’re heading for JFK, Herb?”

  “In a way
I’m engaged in a felony. Maestronapping—which is kidnapping con brio.”

  “Why?”

  “Because is better for you, if we get away with it. Better for us to talk alone, instead of having FBI, CIA and that bunch bashing at your ear. With me, you get only the best questions, Lou. I promise.”

  “Then you give me asylum?”

  “Possibly. Who knows. Depends on the answers.”

  Passau leaned back, smiling. “It’s a long story.”

  “Save it then and we play at Arabian nights. Bet it makes good telling, Lou.”

  “Depends where you’re standing—like a traffic accident.”

  “Trust me, Lou, you’ll get a better deal with me.”

  “There’s nothing to lose.”

  “Except both our freedoms, Lou. What I’m going to do is something naughty. A big bit of the naughties. To do it I’ll have to tell a few large porkies.”

  “Porkies?” Passau’s brow creased and Herbie looked at him. There was plenty of light now from the sodium arcs along the Van Wyck Expressway. “Porkies?” the Maestro repeated.

  “Once more the slang. London slang, what they call the rhyming slang. Pork pies equals lies. See, it rhymes. Pies, lies. Thus, porkies. Verstanden?”

  “Clever, yes. Porky pies, lies. Good.”

  Herbie gave a big grin. “As the man in the movie says, ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”

  “So what we do now, huh?”

  Herbie was taking the car up to the Pan Am terminal, into the overhead parking. Finally he found a slot, on the third level, pulled in and switched off the engine, leaned back and began to explain.

  “Lou, we are not invisible men, right? Neither of us can be chameleons. We have little camouflage. You’re striking: a face known all over the world, right?”

  “Well, maybe. Some people might recognize me.”