Pop Goes the Weasel

town, he was the one to go there.
    Bayer didn’t want to be seen at the British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, but he had spoken to a few friends who he knew would keep silent about having been contacted. The news about Shafer was as bad as he’d suspected. He was seeing women outside his marriage, and he wasn’t being discreet. There was a psychologist who was also a sex therapist, and he had been observed going over to her place several times a week, often during working hours. It was rumored that he was drinking heavily and possibly taking drugs. Bayer suspected the latter. He and Shafer had been friends and they had done their share of drugs while posted in the Philippines and Thailand. Of course, they were younger and more foolish then — or at least that was true of Bayer.
    The D.C. police had recently put in a complaint to the embassy about a reckless-driving incident. Shafer might have been high at the time. His current assignments at the embassy were minimal, and he would have been dismissed, or sent back to England, if it weren’t for his wife’s father, General Duncan Cousins. What a terrible mess Shafer had made of his life.
    But that’s not the worst of it, is it, Geoffrey? George Bayer was thinking as he drove into the Northeast section of Washington known as Eckington Place. There’s more, isn’t there, dear boy? It’s much worse than the embassy thinks. It’s probably the biggest scandal in the long history of the Security Service, and you’re right at the heart of it. But of course, so am I .
    Bayer locked the doors of his car as he pulled up to a traffic light. The area looked highly suspicious to him, like so much of Washington these days. What a sad, totally insane country America had become. What a perfect refuge for Shafer.
    Famine took in the sights on the mean streets as he continued through the decidedly lower-class neighborhood. There was nothing to compare with this in London. Row upon row of two-storied redbrick garden apartments, many of them in dreadful disrepair. Not so much urban decay as urban apathy.
    He saw Shafer’s lair up ahead and pulled over to the curb. He knew the exact location of the hideaway from the elaborate fantasy tales Shafer had spun for his fellow players. He knew the address. Now he needed to know one more thing: were the murders that Geoffrey claimed he’d committed fantasies, or were they real? Was he actually a cold-blooded killer, operating here in Washington?
    Bayer walked to the garage door. It took him only a moment to pick the lock and let himself in.
    He had heard so much about the “Nightmare Machine,” the purple and blue taxi that Shafer used for the murders. He was looking at it. The taxi was as real as he was. Now he knew the truth. George Bayer shook his head. Shafer had killed all of those people. This was no longer a game.

Chapter 25
    BAYER TRUDGED UPSTAIRS to the hideaway apartment. His arms and legs felt heavy, and he had a slight pain in his chest. His vision was tunneled. He pulled down the dusty blinds and began to look around.
    Shafer had boastfully described the garage and taxi several times during the game. He had flaunted the existence of the hideaway and sworn to the other players that it was real and not just some fantasy in a role-playing game. Geoffrey had openly dared them to see it for themselves, and that was why Bayer was in Washington.
    Well, Geoffrey, the hideaway is real , he agreed. You are a stonecold killer. You weren’t bluffing, were you?
    At ten o’clock that night Bayer took Shafer’s taxi out. The keys were there, almost as a dare. Was it? He figured he had a night to experience exactly what Shafer had experienced. According to Geoffrey, half the fun of the game was foreplay — checking out the possibilities, seeing the whole game board before you made a move.
    From ten o’clock until half past eleven, Bayer explored the streets of D.C., but he didn’t pick up a fare. He kept his off-duty sign on. What a game , Bayer kept thinking as he drove. Is this how Geoffrey does it? Is this how he feels when he’s prowling the city?
    He was pulled out of his daydream by an old tramp with a crushed hat who wheeled a cart filled with cans and other recyclables right in front of him. He didn’t seem to care whether he got run over or not, but Bayer braked hard. That made him think of Shafer. The line between life and death had faded to nothing for Geoffrey, hadn’t it?
    Bayer cautiously moved on. He drove