by Steve Berry
He stepped into the foyer and noticed the portrait of him and the kids still on display. He wondered how many divorcées kept a ten by twelve of their ex around for all to see. And how many insisted that their ex-husband retain a key to the house. They even still possessed a couple of joint investments, which he managed for them both.
The silence was broken by a key scraping the front door lock.
A second later the door opened and Rachel stepped inside. “Kids any trouble?” she asked.
“Never.”
He took in the black princess-seamed jacket that cinched her waist and the slim skirt cut above the knee. Long, slender legs led down to low-heeled pumps. Her auburn hair fell in a layered bob, barely brushing the tips of her thin shoulders. Green tiger eyes trimmed in silver dangled from each of her earlobes and matched her eyes, which looked tired.
“Sorry about not making it to the name change,” he said. “But your stunt with Marcus Nettles held things up in probate court.”
“He’s a sexist bastard.”
“You’re a judge, Rachel, not the savior of the world. Can’t you use a little diplomacy?”
She tossed her purse and keys on a side table. Her eyes hardened like marbles. He’d seen the look before. “What do you expect me to do? The fat bastard drops hundred-dollar bills on my desk and tells me to fuck off. He deserved to spend a few hours in jail.”
“Do you have to constantly prove yourself?”
“You’re not my keeper, Paul.”
“Somebody needs to be. You’ve got an election coming up. Two strong opponents, and you’re only a first-termer. Nettles is already talking about bankrolling both of them. Which, by the way, he can afford. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“Screw Nettles.”
Last time he’d arranged the fund-raisers, handled advertising, and courted the people needed to secure endorsements, attract the press, and secure votes. He wondered who would run her campaign this time. Organization was not Rachel’s strong suit. So far she hadn’t asked for help, and he really didn’t expect her to. “You can lose, you know.”
“I don’t need a political lecture.”
“What do you need, Rachel?”
“None of your damn business. We’re divorced. Remember?”
He recalled what her father said. “Do you? We’ve been apart three years now. Have you dated anyone during that time?”
“That’s also none of your business.”
“Maybe not. But I seem to be the only one who cares.”
She stepped close. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Ice Queen. That’s what they call you around the court-house.”
“I get the job done. Rated highest of any judge in the county last time the Daily Report checked stats.”
“That all you care about? How fast you clear a docket?”
“Judges can’t afford friends. You either get accused of bias or are hated for a lack of it. I’d rather be the Ice Queen.”
It was late, and he didn’t feel like an argument. He brushed past her toward the front door. “One day you may need a friend. I wouldn’t burn all my bridges if I were you.” He opened the door.
“You’re not me,” she said.
“Thank God.”
And he left.
SEVEN
Northeast Italy
Wednesday, May 7, 1:34 a.m.
His umber jumpsuit, black leather gloves, and charcoal sneakers blended with the night. Even his close-cropped, bottle-dyed chestnut hair, matching eyebrows, and swarthy complexion helped, the past two weeks spent scouring North Africa having left a tan on his Nordic face.
Gaunt peaks rose all around him, a jagged amphitheater barely distinguishable from the pitch sky. A full moon hung in the east. A spring chill lingered in the air that was fresh, alive, and different. The mountains echoed a low peal of distant thunder.
Leaves and straw cushioned his every step, the underbrush thin under gangly trees. Moonlight dappled through the canopy, spotting the trail with iridescence. He chose his steps carefully, resisting the urge to use his penlight, his sharp eyes ready and alert.
The village of Pont-Saint-Martin lay a full ten kilometers to the south. The only way north was a snaking two-lane road that led eventually, after forty more kilometers, to the Austrian border and Innsbruck. The BMW he’d rented yesterday at the Venice airport waited a kilometer back in a stand of trees. After finishing his business he planned to drive north to Innsbruck, where tomorrow an 8:35 A.M. Austrian Airlines shuttle would whisk him to St. Petersburg, where more business awaited.
Silence surrounded him. No church bells clanging or cars screaming past on the autostrada. Just ancient groves of oak, fir, and larch patchworking the mountainous slopes. Ferns, mosses, and wildflowers carpeted the dark hollows. Easy to see why da Vinci included the Dolemites in the background of the Mona Lisa.
The forest ended. A grassy meadow of blossoming orange lilies spread before him. The château rose at the far end, a pebbled drive horseshoeing in front. The building was two stories tall, its redbrick walls decorated with gray lozenges. He remembered the stones from his last visit two months ago, surely crafted by masons who’d learned from their fathers and grandfathers.
None of the forty or so dormer windows flickered with light. The oaken front door likewise loomed dark. No fences, dogs, or guards. No alarms. Just a rambling country estate in the Italian Alps owned by a reclusive manufacturer who’d been semiretired for almost a decade.
He knew that Pietro Caproni, the château’s owner, slept on the second floor in a series of rooms that encompassed the master suite. Caproni lived alone, except for three servants who commuted daily from Pont-Saint-Martin. Tonight, Caproni was entertaining, the cream-colored Mercedes parked out front probably still warm from a drive made earlier from Venice. His guest was one of many expensive working women. They would sometimes come for the night or the weekend, paid for their trouble in euros by a man who could afford the price of pleasure. Tonight’s excursion had been timed to coincide with her visit, and he hoped she would be enough of a distraction to cover a quick in and out.
Pebbles crunched with each step as he crossed the drive and rounded the château’s northeast corner. An elegant garden led back to a stone veranda, Italian wrought iron separating tables and chairs from grass. A set of French doors opened into the house, both knobs locked. He straightened his right arm and twisted. A stiletto slipped off its O-ring and slithered down his forearm, the jade handle nestling firmly in his gloved palm. The leather sheath was his own invention, specially designed for a dependable release.
He plunged the blade into the wooden jamb. One twist, and the bolt surrendered. He resecured the stiletto in his sleeve.
Stepping into a barrel-vaulted salon, he gently closed the glasspaneled door. He liked the surrounding decor of neoclassicism. Two Etruscan bronzes adorned the far wall under a painting, View of Pompeii, one he knew to be a collector’s item. A pair of eighteenth-century bibliothèques hugged two Corinthian columns, the shelves brimming with antique volumes. From his last visit he remembered the fine copy of Guicciardini’s Storia d’Italia and the thirty volumes of Teatro Francese. Both were priceless.
He threaded the darkened furniture, passed between the columns, then stopped in the foyer and listened up the stairs. Not a sound. He tiptoed across a wheel-patterned marble floor, careful not to scrape his rubber soles. Neapolitan paintings adorned the faux-marble panels. Chestnut beams supported the darkened ceiling two stories above.
He stepped into the parlor.
The object of his quest lay innocently on an ebony table. A match case. Fabergé. Silver and gold with an enameled translucent strawberry red over a guilloche ground. The gold collar was chased with leaf tips, the thumbpiece cabochon sapphire. It was marked in Cyrillic initials, N. R. 1901. Nicholas Romanov. Nicholas II. The last Tsar of Russia.
He yanked a felt bag from his back pocket and reached for the case.
The ro
om was suddenly flooded with light, shafts of incandescent rays from an overhead chandelier burning his eyes. He squinted and turned. Pietro Caproni stood in the archway leading to the foyer, a gun in his right hand.
“Buona sera, Signor Knoll. I wondered when you would return.”
He struggled to adjust his vision and answered in Italian, “I didn’t realize you would be expecting my visit.”
Caproni stepped into the parlor. The Italian was a short, heavy-chested man in his fifties with unnaturally black hair. He wore a navy blue terry-cloth robe tied at the waist. His legs and feet were bare. “Your cover story from the last visit didn’t check out. Christian Knoll, art historian and academician. Really, now. An easy matter to verify.”
His vision settled as his eyes adjusted to the light. He reached for the match case. Caproni’s gun jutted forward. He pulled back and raised his arms in mock surrender. “I merely wish to touch the case.”
“Go ahead. Slowly.”
He lifted the treasure. “The Russian government has been looking for this since the war. It belonged to Nicholas himself. Stolen from Peterhof outside Leningrad sometime in 1944, a soldier pocketing a souvenir from his time in Russia. But what a souvenir. One of a kind. Worth now on the open market about forty thousand U.S. dollars. That’s if someone were foolish enough to sell. ‘Beautiful loot’ is the term, I believe, the Russians use to describe things such as this.”
“I’m sure after your liberation this evening it would have quickly found its way back to Russia?”
He smiled. “The Russians are no better than thieves themselves. They want their treasures back only to sell them. Cash poor, I hear. The price of Communism, apparently.”
“I am curious. What brought you here?”
“A photograph of this room in which the match case was visible. So I came to pose as a professor of art history.”
“You determined authenticity from that brief visit two months ago?”
“I am an expert on such things. Particularly Fabergé.” He laid the match case down. “You should have accepted my offer of purchase.”
“Far too low, even for ‘beautiful loot.’ Besides, the piece has sentimental value. My father was the soldier who pocketed the souvenir, as you so aptly describe.”
“And you so casually display it?”
“After fifty years, I assumed nobody cared.”
“You should be careful of visitors and photos.”
Caproni shrugged. “Few come here.”
“Just the signorinas? Like the one upstairs now?”
“And none of them are interested in such things.”
“Only euros?”
“And pleasure.”
He smiled and casually fingered the match case again. “You are a man of means, Signor Caproni. This villa is like a museum. That Aubusson tapestry there on the wall is priceless. Those two Roman capriccios are certainly valued collectibles. Hof, I believe, nineteenth century?”
“Good, Signor Knoll. I’m impressed.”
“Surely you can part with this match case.”
“I do not like thieves, Signor Knoll. And, as I said during your last visit, the item is not for sale.” Caproni gestured with the gun. “Now you must leave.”
He stayed rooted. “What a quandary. You certainly cannot involve the police. After all, you possess a treasured relic the Russian government would very much like returned—pilfered by your father. What else in this villa fits into that category? There would be questions, inquiries, publicity. Your friends in Rome will be of little help, since you will then be regarded as a thief.”
“Lucky for you, Signor Knoll, I cannot involve the authorities.”
He casually straightened, then twitched his right arm. It was an unnoticed gesture partially obscured by his thigh. He watched as Caproni’s gaze stayed on the match case in his left hand. The stiletto released from its sheath and slowly inched down the loose sleeve until settling into his right palm. “No reconsideration, Signor Caproni?”
“None.” Caproni backed toward the foyer and gestured again with the gun. “This way, Signor Knoll.”
He wrapped his fingers tight on the handle and rolled his wrist forward. One flick, and the blade zoomed across the room, piercing Caproni’s bare chest in the hairy V formed by the robe. The older man heaved, stared down at the handle, then fell forward, his gun clattering across the terrazzo.
He quickly deposited the match case into the felt bag, then stepped across to the body. He withdrew the stiletto and checked for a pulse. None. Surprising. The man died fast.
But his aim had been true.
He cleaned the blood off on the robe, slid the blade into his back pocket, then mounted the stairs to the second floor. More faux marble panels lined the upper foyer, periodically interrupted by paneled doors, all closed. He stepped lightly across the floor and headed toward the rear of the house. A closed door waited at the far end of the hall.
He turned the knob and entered.
A pair of marble columns defined an alcove where a king-size poster bed rested. A low-wattage lamp burned on the nightstand, the light absorbed by a symphony of walnut paneling and leather. The room was definitely a rich man’s bedroom.
The woman sitting on the edge of the bed was naked. Long, dramatic red hair framed a pair of pyramid-like breasts and exquisite almond-shaped eyes. She was puffing on a thin black-and-gold cigarette and gave him only a disconcerting glance. “And who are you?” she quietly asked in Italian.
“A friend of Signor Caproni’s.” He stepped into the bedchamber and casually closed the door.
She finished the cigarette, stood, and strutted close, her thin legs taking deliberate strides. “You’re dressed strangely for a friend. You look more like a burglar.”
“And you seem unconcerned.”
She shrugged. “Strange men are my business. Their needs are no different from anyone else’s.” Her gaze raked him from head to toe. “You have a wicked gleam in your eyes. German, no?”
He said nothing.
She massaged his hands through the leather gloves. “Powerful.” She traced his chest and shoulders. “Muscles.” She was close now, her erect nipples nearly touching his chest. “Where is the signor?”
“Detained. He suggested I might enjoy your company.”
She looked at him, hunger in her eyes. “Do you have the capabilities of the signor?”
“Monetary or otherwise?”
She smiled. “Both.”
He took the whore in his arms. “We shall see.”
EIGHT
St. Petersburg, Russia
10:50 a.m.
The cab jerked to a stop and Knoll stepped out onto busy Nevsky Prospekt, paying the driver with two twenty-dollar bills. He wondered what happened to the ruble. It wasn’t much better than play money anymore. The Russian government openly banned the use of dollars years ago on pain of imprisonment, but the cabdriver didn’t seem to care, eagerly demanding and pocketing the bills before whipping the taxi away from the curb.
His flight from Innsbruck had touched down at Pulkovo Airport an hour ago. He’d shipped the match case from Innsbruck overnight to Germany with a note of his success in northern Italy. Before he too returned to Germany, there was one last errand to be performed.
The prospekt was packed with people and cars. He studied the green dome of Kazan Cathedral across the street and turned to spy the gilded spire of the distant Admiralty off to the right, partially obscured by a morning fog. He imagined the boulevard’s past, when traffic was all horse-drawn and prostitutes arrested during the night swept the cobbles clean. What would Peter the Great think now of his “window to Europe”? Department stores, cinemas, restaurants, museums, shops, art studios, and cafés lined the busy five-kilometer route. Flashing neon and elaborate kiosks sold everything from books to ice cream and heralded the rapid advance of capitalism. What had Somerset Maugham described? Dingy and sordid and dilapidated.
Not anymore, he thought.
Cha
nge was the reason he was able to even come to St. Petersburg. The privilege of scouring old Soviet records had been extended to outsiders only recently. He’d made two previous trips this year—one six months ago, another two months back—both to the same depository in St. Petersburg, the building he now entered for the third time.
It was five stories with a rough-hewn stone facade, grimy from engine exhaust. The St. Petersburg Commercial Bank operated a busy branch out of one part of the ground floor, and Aeroflot, the Russian national airline, filled the rest. The first through third and fifth floors were all austere government offices: Visa and Foreign Citizen’s Registration Department, Export Control, and the regional Agricultural Ministry. The fourth floor was devoted exclusively to a records depository. One of many scattered throughout the country, it was a place where the remnants of seventy-five years of Communism could be stored and safely studied.
Yeltsin had opened the documents to the world through the Russian Archival Committee, a way for the learned to preach his message of anti-Communism. Clever, actually. No need to purge the ranks, fill the gulags, or rewrite history as Khrushchev and Brezhnev managed. Just let historians uncover the multitude of atrocities, thievery, and espionage—secrets hidden for decades under tons of rotting paper and fading ink. Their eventual writings would be more than enough propaganda to serve the needs of the state.
He climbed black iron stairs to the fourth floor. They were narrow in the Soviet style, indicating to the knowledgeable, like himself, that the building was post-revolutionary. A call yesterday from Italy informed him that the depository would be open until 3:00 P.M. He’d visited this one and four others in southern Russia. This facility was unique, since a photocopier was available.