Amanda had been tracking Astarte on her phone as she watched the demonstration on the local news. Astarte seemed to be right in the middle of it. She exhaled, glad she had not tried to talk Cam out of driving in. It was one thing to be a helicopter parent; it was another to turn a blind eye while your teenager confronted a violent mob.
And things had, in fact, turned violent. Sitting on the coffee table in front of the television, frequently hitting the pause button as the camera panned the crowd, she watched the two lines of protestors clash. There. Cameron fighting his way forward. Had he seen Astarte in danger? Ugh. She fast-forwarded back to live. Why couldn’t Astarte’s destiny have been to cure cancer rather than be some kind of social activist?
Her phone rang. Astarte.
“Mom, they took him, they took Dad!”
She stood. “Took him? Who?”
“The fascists. They put some kind of rag over his face and put him on a stretcher.”
That made no sense. “You mean the paramedics took him?” “No! The fascists took him. I’m with the police now, showing them the video.” A pause. “Here, talk to them.”
“Ma’am.” A female voice. “This is officer Crowley. I’m afraid your daughter is right. Your husband appears to have been abducted.”
Abducted? Amanda steadied herself against the edge of the couch. “Where? Why?”
“We don’t know. But I suggest you come down to the station.”
Katarina’s secretary knocked softly on the conference room door, interrupting her meeting. “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Waldburg.” She pronounced it correctly, with the ‘W’ sounding like a ‘V,’ and nodded an apology to the small group sitting around the table. Leaning into Katarina’s ear, she whispered. “It’s your brother. He says it is urgent.”
Katarina nodded and stood, her thoughts immediately turning to the demonstration. Had Detlef been arrested? Or hurt? She excused herself, strode back to her office and closed the door. “Detlef, what is it? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry.” He spoke quickly. “But I need you to come home. Now.”
“Home? To my house? Why?”
“Something important. I can’t say over the phone.” He lowered his voice. “You’ll see when you get here.”
Normally she walked the two miles back and forth across the river from the Back Bay to her Kendall Square office. But today she called a taxi; ten minutes later she turned the key to her front door.
She smelled Detlef’s cigarette before she saw him. “I said no smoking in my house,” she said as she strolled through the parlor and dining room toward the kitchen in the rear of the building.
He sat at the breakfast bar. Smiling nervously, he put out the cigarette. “Sorry, I’m a bit anxious.”
“Why? Why did you call?”
He took a deep breath. “You know the expression, it’s better to be lucky than good?”
“It’s hogwash. Luck runs out; skill is constant.”
“Well, yes, maybe for a trained athlete like yourself. For the rest of us mortals, we’ll happily take a lucky break once in a while.”
“Detlef, get to the point. Why am I here?”
“You told me to keep an eye out for Cameron Thorne.” He stood and smiled. “Well, he’s in your basement.”
Cam awoke in a dark room, his head pounding and his heart racing. His windbreaker covered him like a blanket, and his cheek rested on a rolled up towel. His body lay atop some kind of narrow nylon stretcher. A sliver of light penetrated beneath a closed door. The smell of heating oil told him he was probably in a basement, and footsteps from above told him he was not alone. But he had no idea where he was or why he’d been abducted.
Sitting up slowly, he reached for his cellphone in his jeans pocket. Nothing. He began to stand but conked his head on a pipe in the low-ceilinged room. Blinking back the pain, he noiselessly crab-walked across the dirt floor toward the door and quietly, but unsuccessfully, tried to push it open. So they had taken his phone and locked the door. Hardly a surprise. He checked his watch. Almost 10:15. The demonstration had not turned ugly until around 9:30. So wherever he was, it was not a far ride from Government Center.
From the wall opposite the door, through a narrow air vent, he heard the sound of light traffic. No trucks. So probably a residential neighborhood. And oil heat generally meant an older building. Which narrowed things down to two-thirds of the greater Boston area. He exhaled. Even if he knew exactly where he was, it would not necessarily help him escape.
Using his watch as a light, he examined the floor. Footprints from a boot, probably one of the white supremacists who subdued him. He turned to the pipes above. He touched them—one hot, one cold. And some electrical wires. Also an internet cable. He tugged at it, following it toward the front wall to find a pinprick of light and a slight draft of cold air. He managed a smile. They might do all sorts of unimaginable things to him, but he’d take his revenge by denying them internet and cable television.
Another wire caught his eye. A traditional gray telephone line. He followed it to where it exited the building—a relatively fresh-looking pile of sawdust rested beneath the exit hole. Why would someone install an old phone line if they had cable? The only possibility he could think of was a devoted alarm line. What would happen if he cut the line? It depended, he guessed: Some alarm companies would call the customer to make a well-being check, while others would assume the worst and call the police.
Moving back toward the door, he put his ear to it. A rustling, a sigh, a quick ding announcing an income email. Not surprisingly, a guard had been posted outside. Cam skulked away.
Based on the pattern of footsteps above his head, the dirt floor, the low ceiling and the proximity of the street, Cam guessed he was in a basement area under the front steps of on old brownstone. Areas like this were often used as coal bins when first built; later they stored firewood. He refocused on the cable and phone lines. Of course. They came into the building underground rather than from a telephone pole; Boston’s historic neighborhoods—such as the Back Bay and Beacon Hill—prohibited above-ground wiring. Not that figuring out he was in one of the city’s deluxe districts would in any way help him escape. But it did seem odd that a group of white supremacists would be holed up in a tony brownstone. Did a wealthy neighborhood mean an extra-attentive alarm company?
Cam focused again on the telephone and cable lines. His head still pounded from the chloroform, but he felt himself becoming more lucid. If he cut the alarm line, the alarm company would probably call the house. But what if the cable line were down also? Wouldn’t they then have no choice but to call the police?
It was worth a shot. And he didn’t really have any other ideas. Back on his knees, he crawled along the side wall until he found a stainless steel nail left over from some construction project. He grabbed the cable and telephone lines and, pulling them tight one at a time, sawed at them with the nail, the cable line first, cutting through the metal fibers one-by-one until he could snap the lines in half.
He tossed the wires aside, but kept the nail in case he needed some kind of weapon. Clearing his throat, he positioned himself beneath what he guessed was the front steps. He figured the police would arrive, if at all, within ten minutes. As soon as he heard footsteps, he’d yell like he’d never yelled before.
As Katarina followed Detlef down the stairs to her basement, her phone rang. She carried two cellphones. One she used for business and everyday use—hundreds of people had that number. The other she reserved for close family members and other private contacts such as her doctor and her company board of directors. It was the latter that sang out from her blazer pocket. “Beacon Alarms” read the caller ID.
“Hold on,” she said to Detlef, stopping on the landing where the staircase doubled back on itself. She jabbed at the phone. “Hello.”
“Is this Ms. Waldburg?”
“Yes.”
“This is to inform you that the police are on the way to your Marlborough Street
address. The alarm phone has been disabled, and the back-up land line is also not operative. Police will arrive within five minutes.”
She blinked, then covered the mouthpiece. “Detlef, check to see if the phone line is dead.” Removing her hand, she continued. “That will not be necessary. I’m home now, and everything is in order.”
“I’m sorry, but the police have already been called. Standard operating procedure is to conduct a wellness check.”
Detlef yelled down from the kitchen. “Line is dead.”
“Okay, thanks,” Katarina said, ending her call. She had a decision to make. Try to hide Thorne, and risk a kidnapping charge when the police arrived and found him. Or quickly release him, and lose the chance to find out more about the Just Judges painting.
Unless there was a third option.
Cam barely had time to react. Two thugs—probably the pair of rugby players—pushed through the door into his basement prison, shined a light in his eyes, and shot him with what he quickly realized was a Taser gun. Every muscle in his body spasmed as he fell to the floor. Gasping for air, he convulsed, writhing. Anyone who ever experienced a leg cramp knew the feeling, except that the cramps in this case extended through his entire body. From what seemed like miles away, he heard a scream, only to realize it came from his own mouth. Five seconds passed, interminably. The spasms ended, leaving his body puddled on the floor. As he lay panting, still barely able to move, his assailants bound his wrists and ankles with black plastic cable ties, pinching his skin.
They yanked him to his feet and dragged him down a hallway through a back door into a garage. An orange BMW roadster was parked inside with a striking blond woman at the wheel. His captors pushed him into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him; they stood guard outside the car in case he tried something stupid. Not likely—he could barely keep his head from lolling to one side.
The driver met him with a plastic smile, her features flawless but her blue eyes hard and cold. Cam had read once that beauty was a reflection of God in the universe, but he felt nothing divine in this woman’s presence. “Mr. Thorne, first things first: Your daughter is perfectly safe. I’m sure you are concerned.” She looked to him, waiting for his nod, before continuing. The knot in his gut loosened slightly. “Second, I owe you an apology. And an explanation. But for now, we need to move quickly.” Her blue eyes held his. “We are both, I am afraid, being targeted by the Mossad.”
Without waiting for his reply, she backed into an alley. Downshifting aggressively, she raced along and screeched through a turn onto a main road. He recognized Berkeley Street in the Back Bay and turned his head to catch the alley number, 423. Thirty seconds later they were on Storrow Drive, cruising west along the river. His heart sank. The police would be arriving any minute, but too late.
Settling into the left lane, she exhaled. “Okay. I think we are safe now.”
He spoke slowly, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “You may think that. I still feel abducted.”
Expertly, she swerved right across two lanes of traffic and squealed to a stop in the breakdown lane near Boston University. Using a gleaming hunting knife she pulled from her boot, she leaned over and, with a quick flick of her wrist, sliced through his plastic ties. “You are free to get out.” Again, she held his eyes. “But I think you will want to hear what I have to say.”
They both knew she only made the dramatic offer because she was certain he would refuse. She would assume people didn’t shrug away being targeted by the Mossad. And he was curious as to what a neo-Nazi group wanted with him. “I’m listening,” he said.
She slid the knife back into her boot and powered the roadster back into traffic; Cam sensed she was the type of person who did everything well or did not do it at all. Also someone who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Without preamble, she began. “Our people were watching you in Ghent. But we weren’t the only ones. A Mossad agent was doing the same.”
Cam did his best to sit up. “Wait, who are your people? And why were you watching us?”
She ignored his questions. “We are all after the same thing, Mr. Thorne. The Just Judges painting.”
Of course it came back to that. Were he not so foggy-brained from being Tasered, he would have realized that. But what did the painting have to do with today’s demonstration? He opened his window, hoping the air would help clear his head. At least he had regained partial control of his arm and hand.
She continued. “You want to unlock its mystery. Just like the rest of us.”
“This is a strange way to ask for help.”
She nodded. “Again, I apologize for that. When you hire gorillas, you should not be surprised when they bang on their chests. But, obviously, it is not a good way to begin a friendship.”
Friendship? With neo-Nazis? He recalled Menachem’s words from the toilet stall: Silly boy. When the next Hitler comes, do you think the black-booted soldiers will stop to ask how you identify yourself before dragging you away? He thought about the demonstration, the military precision of the white supremacists, even this luxury sports car. And, of course, about being dragged away by black-booted soldiers. These people had resources; perhaps Menachem had not been exaggerating the threat. Cam decided to remain silent. He would learn far more from listening than from speaking.
“Why, I wonder, would the Mossad be interested in you?” she asked.
“I have no idea.” He could ask the same of her, but the answer, of course, was that she belonged to a neo-Nazi group—of course a Jewish state would take notice. Without realizing it, Cam found himself on the side of the Mossad. Menachem may have pinned his face to a toilet bowl, but Cam still preferred the Israelis to white supremacists.
She cut into the left lane and powered through a turn. Cam sensed her driving was becoming more aggressive. Perhaps because she was becoming frustrated with his responses. “We are willing to pay for your help, Mr. Thorne. Just help us find the painting.”
He needed to be careful here. Who knew where she was bringing him? “Honestly, I have no idea where it is.”
“But you know someone who does.” She rode up to within inches of the bumper of the car in front of her and laid on the horn, then zipped past as the vehicle moved aside. “Give us the name. Then we will leave you alone.”
Another threat. First the Mossad, then Gus, now some kind of Aryan aristocrat. Cam was getting tired of playing defense.
As she came to a sudden stop at a traffic light, he focused all his concentration on making his left hand do his bidding. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m feeling light-headed.” Reaching out as if to adjust the center vent, with a sudden movement he changed course and snatched the car keys from the ignition. With a quick flick, before she could react, he tossed them out his window. Smiling, he opened the door. “I don’t like people who threaten me.” One foot on the asphalt, he spoke slowly so his words would be clear. “And I don’t like people who drive like assholes. It usually means they are one.”
She didn’t miss a beat, her voice cutting through the traffic noise as he stumbled away. “Yeah, well, this asshole knows where you live, Thorne. And what your daughter looks like. So don’t do anything stupid like going to the police.”
Chapter 8
Cam barely slept Wednesday night, his dreams haunted by black-booted soldiers and Aryan demonesses dragging Amanda and Astarte away; every time he grabbed their hands to try pull them back, he was zapped by paralyzing, excruciating surges of electricity. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out the nightmare—his family was in danger, he had put them there, and there was little he could do to protect them. He thought about calling the police, but, in the end, the blond woman had let him go unharmed. Clearly, there had been a crime, but the best Cam could hope for would be that some of her knuckleheads would get arrested. She and the other group leaders would still be free, at least for a while. And, as she made clear, they knew where Cam lived. Sometimes it was best to just let the snake slither away.
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nbsp; By four in the morning, trying to sleep had become more tiring than staying awake. In addition to his nightmares, the Advil had worn off and every muscle in his body ached from being convulsed by the Taser shot. Throwing on some sweats in the dark, he lumbered downstairs and booted up his laptop at the kitchen table. Dream or no dream, the truth was that they really were in danger. The Mossad. Gus. The Aryan Ice Queen and her band of merry Nazis. He needed to figure out the painting mystery and put this all behind them.
Two days ago, at breakfast, Bruce had shown them the alterations to the towers in the background of the Ghent Altarpiece paintings. Amanda had explained her theory that the Dom Tower was a key clue; Cam was intrigued by the discovery, and he had no doubt that it played into the mystery somehow. But in Cam’s mind, the tower alteration was the most promising clue—had he not spent yesterday jousting with Nazis, he would have tried to decipher it then. But now, in the dark quiet of a sleeping house, he could give the mystery his full attention.
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