Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Thirty-Eight

There was a certain aptness to the Rivard LLC delegation staying at Hotel Zauberberg. The lodge was built into the side of the mountain à la Roche Rivard, rising skyward in terraced levels that became narrower—and more exclusive—the higher they climbed. With dormers and spare white arches, the establishment oozed Old World haughtiness.

Quaid entered the lobby by ten-foot farmhouse doors and immediately heard the fuzzing of Geiger counters. A guard in a suit waved him through. Ahead, concierges busily loaded skis onto a brass luggage cart as a man wearing a cape and handlebar mustache looked on.

Off the lobby was an inviting bar area—marbled oak, teardrop chandelier. Quaid decided to wet his whistle with a prairie fire before starting out after Fabienne.

The whole facility was likely under surveillance; the heiress might at this very moment be reclining on some velvet chaise, watching him via closed caption feed.

Quaid had, perhaps, oversold his "tête-a-tête" to the others. It was true he and Fabienne had discussed possible contract work during the Anarchy, but they hadn't spoken in months. The backchannel operator they'd corresponded through had gone dark, and though Quaid likely could have reached her by different means, he preferred to shield his ties to Rivard LLC from his more reputable contacts.

Still, Quaid believed when Fabienne saw him—and remembered their night in Bucharest—she would respond with enthusiasm.

The server brought Quaid something that wasn't a prairie fire—did he taste grenadine?—but he drank it without complaint and ordered another.

As he imbibed, Quaid gauged Hotel Zauberberg's security. It was ironclad as expected, but showed a level of technical sophistication beyond anything he'd seen in the States. Liquor bottles had digital pourers to detect poisons. A red-pulsing laser net below the ceiling morphed with his and the server's movements.

It made Quaid think of his friend Manuel's question about missile defense at Roche Rivard.

How long does a thing like that take to pull together?

That Rivard had conspired with the Blind Mice seemed clear, but there was more to know about the relationship. Were the Mice unique as instigators, or had Rivard contracted with other similar groups? How tight was the coupling? Had Rivard merely ridden a wave the Mice had set in motion, or engineered it themselves? Profiteering was one thing, but that would be quite another.

Quaid finished his second drink—grenadine, definitely—then joined a waiting group at the elevator bank. The car arrived. All shuffled on. As others disembarked at lower floors, he checked his sandy hair by its reflection in gold plating, re-mussing a spot on the right.

Quaid had charmed a range of women over the years, but Fabienne Rivard was a category unto herself. Stephen Hawking, Christiano Ronaldo, Princess Charlotte of Monaco—her trysts were legendary, and legendarily confounding, to Rivard-watchers around the globe.

At the elevator's ding for twenty-two, Quaid smacked his palms and strode forward with conviction.

"Arrêtez!"

Three men aimed assault rifles at Quaid's forehead. They wore dark, trim clothes and what looked like driving gloves.

"You guys'll be wanting the fitness center," Quaid said, gesturing around the bend. "They have ellipticals, if that's your workout of choice."

None cracked a smile, their muzzles remaining steady.

"Quelle est votre enterprise?" asked the middle one, who despite the choice of language had a Spaniard's look. "Personne n'est autorisé ici."