A small walk-up bar, Central Vienna
“The summer wind / came blowing in / from across the sea . . .”
The old woman working behind the bar, mixing an old-fashioned, knew almost every song the pianist played by heart. If she were in a good mood, and if the right guests were in, she might even sing a song or two. The little bar, with its two large aquariums along the wall behind the bar and a handful of small tables, was an insider tip. Smoking was still allowed, there was no official closing time, no register for the tax office, no gadgets to electronically measure the drinks, no selfie takers or influencers, and no five-star rating on Tripadvisor. A good old bar, the kind that was regrettably hard to find these days.
The last verse of the song was very special to the elderly barkeeper. Tom always felt a shiver of excitement run down his spine in that final passage.
The old woman set his drink down beside the piano. Not many people knew that Tom played the piano there at least once a week, working through his favorites from the “Great American Songbook.” He had inherited his musical talent from his mother, sitting with her at the piano from the age of four, and had developed quite a talent over the years. He was able to remember music in a few very few people could: melodies, lyrics, arrangements, tempo, rhythm, volume and everything else that mattered. Tom only had to hear a piece once and it stuck in his head, like data on a hard drive. He would spend the evening playing in the bar without once looking at a sheet of music. He loved jazz, blues and the classic American crooners—Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Bobby Darin, Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin and Bing Crosby. His mother loved Bach, but for some reason, since her death, he could not play baroque music anymore. It had been erased from his memory, as his mother’s life had been.
Tom took a swig of his favorite drink and then launched into “Fly Me to the Moon.” At once, the bartender smiled and began to hum along. She only ever hummed the melody to this one out of deference to Sinatra, who had made the song world-famous. Nobody could hold a candle to Sinatra; she knew better than to try. Tom played the song at a slower tempo than usual, giving it a melancholy touch. It suited his mood today.
When the cloakroom attendant opened the door for Noah and his old friend rolled into the bar, Tom’s melancholy only grew. He finished the tune, picked up his old-fashioned and went and sat with Noah.
“You still look at me so pityingly. When will you get it into your head that you’re not to blame? It’s not your fault I’m in this thing.” He slapped the armrests of his wheelchair with both hands. “If you’d done anything differently back then, chances are we wouldn’t be sitting here together today. You’d be a pile of ashes.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. My head knows it, but my heart still has to figure it out. A guilty conscience is awfully hard to switch off. I still feel like I screwed up, and screwed over my best friend.”
Noah shook his head, his lips thin with annoyance.
“You know what you need, Tom? Something that fulfills you. You need a purpose in life, a reason to get up in the morning. You go around and around in circles, but you never get anywhere. Your parents’ death, the thing with Hellen, the mission we were on, your guilty conscience, your pyrophobia . . .”
“I don’t have pyrophobia, for Christ’s sake!” Tom had raised his voice, but none of the guests took any notice. No one turned around or took offense at his outburst of emotion. It was a real bar, and in a real bar the patrons minded their own business.
Noah raised his hands placatingly. “Okay, fine. Then let’s just talk about your last twenty-four hours. Like I said, I know that symbol from somewhere, I just can’t think from where. And so far, none of the databases has turned up anything useful.”
“Guerra was in the treasury today. He and his men stole the lance, and probably the rest of the relics.”
Noah’s eyebrows knotted. “Seriously? Okay, then let’s call a war council and see where we go from here. I’ll dive back into the databases and look for that symbol.”
“A war council won’t help. For now, I’m on a leave of absence. I’m lucky Maierhofer didn’t suspend me. But you’re probably right. I have to change something. I’m never going to be happy with what I’m doing here. I think I need a little time to myself.”
“Let’s have another drink and you can get your frustrations off your chest. Nobody’s waiting for you at home,” said Noah.
The bartender brought fresh drinks to their table, and they lifted their glasses and drank in silence. A few minutes passed without a word passing between them. Not that they had nothing to say to each other, but they felt no need to talk all the time. They appreciated that about each other. Apparently, Tom was in no mood to get anything off his chest.
After a while he got up and sat at the piano again. Noah was surprised when Tom started to play the old Bobby Darin hit “The Good Life.” The bartender instantly joined him at the piano, leaned against it coyly and began to sing.
“It’s the good life . . .”
Tom stopped playing instantly.
“Fuck, I completely forgot!” he exclaimed.
Noah and the barwoman looked at him in astonishment as he jumped up from the piano and almost ran back to the table. He leaned in close to Noah.
“Cloutard. François Cloutard,” he said in a low voice. “The hijacker in the toilet said the name several times.”
“How do you know what the hijacker said when he was on the toilet?” Noah asked. But he quickly said, “No, wait, I don’t want to know.”
“Does the name mean anything to you?”
“Sure. François Cloutard: international art smuggler, thief, fence and God knows what else. He runs an army of grave robbers and a global smuggling ring. There’s hardly an art heist the guy hasn’t had his fingers in, and he’s damn good at it. There’s a file on him like a telephone book, but nobody’s ever been able to pin anything on him. It’s like he’s untouchable.”
“That would fit the picture. Art thief and smuggler. In our circles, you’d call that a lead.”
“I thought you were on vacation?” said Noah, irritated.
“Not if I have a chance to get my hands on Guerra. Can you find out where Cloutard is?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. But let’s have another round. Tonight’s my last chance to let myself go a little. Starting tomorrow, the pressure’s really on.”
“Oh yeah, the Atlas assignment? Maierhofer said something. That’s a crazy idea, isn’t it? All the European antiterror units working together. Would it work?”
Noah shook his head. “Never in a million years. We’d all be stepping on each other’s toes. You’re lucky you don’t have to be there.” Noah sipped his whiskey sour and decided it was going to be a long evening.
20
Tom’s houseboat, Danube River, Vienna
The taxi pulled up and Tom pushed a few bills into the driver’s hand, not really paying attention to how much it was.
“Thankssshh,” Tom slurred. His first steps outside the taxi told him he’d really had a few too many. The fresh air magnified the effect of the alcohol considerably; negotiating the gangplank to the houseboat door was a real challenge.
He fished the key from his trouser pocket, but it took him a few tries to get it into the keyhole. He smiled, not being too hard on himself.
“Winner!” he cried triumphantly when he finally managed to get the key into the lock.
But the door was not locked. He hesitated for a second, but then remembered that he’d told Denise just to close the door behind her. So much had happened that day that he’d completely forgotten about her. The pursuit with the BMW, the shooting, the crash at Stephansplatz, Guerra and the theft of the lance, Hellen and his own near-suspension. All of it had made him forget his little tête-à-tête with the flight attendant.
The evening with Noah had rejuvenated him. He saw clearly now that he needed a change in his life. He was actually glad to be on vacation: he could use the next few days to think about where he s
hould go from here, though he already knew he would probably go looking for Cloutard, wherever he was. He was even happier that his reunion with Hellen had been short-lived, and that she had disappeared out of his life again.
Tom stumbled inside and groped for the switch, but when the light came on, his heart skipped a beat. It took him a few seconds to properly take in, interpret and process the scene in front of him. From one moment to the next he was stone-cold sober—the torrent of adrenaline his body produced made sure of that.
Denise lay in his bed. On her back. Naked. Her arms and legs were stretched out and tied to the corners of the bed, and from her chest jutted—Tom had to blink to be sure—the Holy Lance. An enormous pool of blood had spread across the bed.
Tom stood as if rooted to the spot. Blood roared in his ears. Outside, the water splashed rhythmically against the hull of the houseboat. The sound of his cell phone ringing broke the silence. It was Noah. No sooner had Tom picked up than Noah started babbling.
“Tom, no idea what’s going on, but there are patrol cars heading your way right now. Someone called in an anonymous tip, something about you, your houseboat, and a murder. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The flight attendant from last night is lying on my bed with the Holy Lance stuck in her chest.”
“Tom, something’s up. Interpol has put out a BOLO on you already, much faster than usual. They say you’re a flight risk, and that you’re ‘armed and dangerous.’ No idea who signed off on this internally, but the wheels aren’t turning as slowly as usual. Someone’s out to get you.”
Noah sounded nervous. He didn’t usually speak so rapidly.
“It’s all tied to Guerra,” Tom said. “Since I saw him in Milan, my whole world’s been turned upside down. I’m not going to stand around and let them arrest me now. I’ve got to find out what’s going on.”
“Yeah, and you’re the right guy to do it. I know where Cloutard is. He’s on the guest list at an exclusive art auction tomorrow night at Waldegg Castle in Switzerland. Joan of Arc’s shield is going under the hammer. Grab your go-bag and get out of there. I’ve just booked you a ticket on your fake passport.”
Noah had switched to battle mode. This was how Tom knew and loved his old friend. He could always count on him.
“There’ll be an Uber at your place in one minute to take you to the airport. Your plane to Zurich leaves in the morning, early. I’ve called in a couple of favors. When you land tomorrow, there’ll be a bag in a locker at the airport with some gear for you. I’ll send you the locker number and the code ASAP.”
Tom was impressed. “Thanks, bud.”
“Don’t mention it. Now I want to know what’s going on as much as you do. No one jerks us around. Good luck,” Noah said, and hung up.
A car pulled up just then, and Tom jumped in. The police were on their way to Tom’s houseboat, their blue lights flashing and sirens sounding, but they would be too late.
21
Zurich airport, Switzerland
Tom was dog-tired. After several hours spent successfully avoiding a run-in with the cops at Vienna airport, he had taken the morning flight to Zurich. Once again, he had not slept for hours. The jet lag and sleep deprivation he’d been dragging behind him since Acapulco were starting to wear him down. He had to pull himself together; he couldn’t afford any mistakes now. Get out of the airport as fast as possible, get to a hotel, get some sleep. In the evening, at the auction, he had to be in top form.
“Grüezi,” Tom said to the visibly overweight man at the information desk.
The Swiss greeting was completely off the mark, though, and the man just gave him a friendly smile and replied in perfect, accent-free standard German, “What can I do for you?”
“Where can I find the lockers?” Tom asked.
The man at the counter quickly explained, and Tom set off in the direction the man had indicated. He crossed the arrivals hall, doing his best to avoid the countless cameras. Moving through a modern airport was like running a gauntlet. He took detours, turned away at just the right moments, and tried to use other passengers for cover. After what felt like an eternity, he arrived at the lockers. He found the message from Noah on his phone and typed in the six-digit code. The door beeped and opened with a click.
Tom withdrew a black leather travel bag and placed it on the floor. He knelt down and opened it to briefly check the contents. A Glock G19C Gen4, with laser sight, holster and spare magazines. The invitation to the auction and a USB stick with information were in the bag as well, along with the outfit he would need: a dark gray Armani pinstripe suit, complete with shirt, shoes and tie. He dug deeper and found a laptop and a disposable cell phone—he would have to get rid of his old one to prevent anyone from tracking him. As always, Noah had his best interests in mind. Tom was always amazed at what he could pull together in a few short hours, and how far his contacts stretched.
Tom didn’t know what to expect that night, but he knew one thing: since the previous day, he’d been dealing with men who shot first and asked questions later. He needed to sleep as soon as he could, so that his head would be clear later on. With the rental car formalities behind him, Tom roared off in a dark-blue BMW X6 toward the town of Solothurn, where Waldegg Castle was located. Noah had reserved a room for Tom in “La Couronne,” a historic, four-star boutique hotel in the old part of town.
22
Waldegg Castle, Solothurn, Switzerland
Even the approach to Waldegg Castle was impressive. The edifice was illuminated by countless floodlights set into the ground, and even while driving the third of a mile along the avenue leading straight to the castle, one could almost smell the grandeur. Visitors in tuxedos, dinner jackets and one-of-a-kind couture gowns already thronged the spacious twin stone staircases that arched to the left and right beyond the wrought-iron gates, over the small baroque garden and up to the castle’s main entrance. The entire event practically dripped with old-money aristocracy and the sparkle of the nouveau riche.
Tom pulled up in front of the black gates and climbed out. A young valet in a red jacket instantly jumped into the BMW, and Tom watched as the young man drove off in his car toward the back of the grounds. He slipped the ticket into his pocket and walked along the gravel path, through the perfectly symmetrical baroque garden and past six white obelisks, toward the entrance. He paused. At the door were two security guards who looked to be the equal of any US Secret Service agent. Tom immediately noted the bulges at their armpits where they carried their pistols. They wore bulletproof vests and headsets, and metal detectors had been set up at the entrance. No expense had been spared. The super-rich guests and the nearly priceless exhibits were ample justification for the security.
Trying to get inside with his handgun was out of the question. Annoyed, he found his way to the parking lot at the back of the property. With his spare key he opened the BMW, which the valet had parked between an Aston Martin DBS and a Bentley Continental GT. Tom mouthed a silent “Wow!” at the sight of the luxury autos.
Returning to the entrance, Tom risked a look through the expansive windows into the banquet hall. He heard soft music, the clinking of glasses and the incomprehensible chatter of a crowd, which always reminded him of a goose farm.
He spotted his target, François Cloutard, who was clearly enjoying himself immensely. Tom recognized him right away; Noah had placed the man’s entire file on the USB stick, and Tom had studied it carefully in the hotel. Cloutard was an eccentric Frenchman, neat and dapper in a three-piece suit, a glass of cognac in his hand. On one side of Cloutard stood a short, balding man; a stunningly beautiful, dark-skinned woman clasped his elbow on the other. Both were talking to someone Tom could not see from where he stood. A waitress came, bearing a tray of champagne glasses and a bottle of cognac. Cloutard replenished his own glass first, then distributed the glasses of champagne to the group. He passed a glass to the balding man, then to his beautiful companion, and then . . . Tom couldn’t belie
ve his eyes. Cloutard handed a glass of champagne to Hellen, who was chatting brightly with him, laughing and joking.
Hellen and Cloutard? Things were getting stranger and stranger. What was Hellen doing here? Why was she talking to his target, an art smuggler and a thief? Hellen and Tom had once been very close, but had since become estranged. He had tried to forget her—or rather, he had worked hard to become indifferent to her. Not an easy task, and the sight of her still stirred the old emotions, even after all this time. He thought he knew her well: she was ambitious, and was certainly willing to go to great lengths to advance her career. But associating with a criminal? Especially one who apparently had his fingers in some very big, very dark undertakings?
Okay, Wagner, take a deep breath and stay cool. You can’t afford sentimentality or misplaced emotion now.
Tom took the invitation from his jacket pocket and handed it to the woman at the entrance. She scanned the ticket, checking its authenticity. One couldn’t simply walk in here just like that. She nodded and gave him a friendly smile.
“Welcome! Good luck, and I hope you enjoy the auction tonight,” she said.
Tom stepped past the two beefy security guards and into the castle. An attractive waitress appeared instantly and offered him a glass of champagne. Just as well, too: he definitely needed a drink. The fizzy stuff was by no means his drink of choice, but it was better than nothing. He knocked it back in a single gulp, and set the glass back on the next waitress’s tray as she scurried past. Then he noticed Cloutard and his little band departing from the hall. Tom pushed his way through the throng of guests and followed. Leaving the banquet hall, he saw the group ahead of him, entering a room at the end of the hallway. He knew hanging back and observing would not get him anywhere; he had to tackle this head on. He was already curious about how Hellen would react.
The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure Page 7