by Greg Rucka
I switched off the lights before leaving, exited the villa through the same door by which I'd entered. When I got outside, my watch said it was three minutes past midnight.
The air was cold and I started shaking as soon as it hit me, and I felt giddy, almost drunk, and I nearly tripped twice as I made my way the short twenty feet to the edge of Lake Geneva. I threw the Browning into the water, followed it with the duct tape, then turned and made my way back to the car, half-jogging, half-walking. It was where I'd left it parked, and I started the engine and pulled out, and my foot felt heavy on the gas. The streets were mostly deserted, and I took them carefully, mindful of the posted limits.
At the rental agency, I left the car in the lot and the keys in the slot, then stripped off my bloodied gloves and dumped them in a trash can on the corner before hailing a cab. The lobby of the Intercontinental was quiet and deserted but for the attendant at the desk, who greeted me in English as Mr.
Murphy, and who had to say it twice before I realized she was talking to me.
"Enjoying Geneva?" she asked.
"Time of my life," I assured her, and went up to my room.
It took me a while to fall asleep, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sorrow gnawing at my bones.
Chapter 7
When the bank opened the next morning I withdrew twenty thousand in American dollars cash, the rest in a draft. Then I closed the account and went back to the Intercontinental, where I cleaned out my room and checked out of the hotel. At the Gare de Cornavin I stopped in the men's room long enough to dump the Beretta in a trash can, then got a second-class ticket on the next train to Austria. I found a pay phone and fed it a lot of coins for the privilege of speaking with Robert Moore.
"Klein," I said when he picked up.
"How's business, then, Mr. Klein?"
"Lucrative."
"Oh, well, I'm delighted to hear that." From his tone, I couldn't tell if he was lying or not.
"I'm looking to do some business in Vienna," I said.
"So you'd mentioned. I've got someone I think would be perfect for you. Her name's Sigrid Koller, and I've already told her all about you."
"Where can I meet her?"
"There's a bar on Stephansplatz called Onyx, opens early, nine in the morning in fact. Perfect for you business types. Ms. Koller will be there tomorrow at a quarter to ten, looking for you."
"What does she look like?"
Moore laughed. "Don't worry about that, mate. Shall I tell her it's on?"
"I'll be there."
"Right. Good luck with your business, Mr. Klein."
"Thanks," I said, but he'd already hung up.
* * *
I slept most of the way to Vienna, which was better than being awake, because awake I worried. By now, Junot had certainly contacted Oxford, or at least had tried to; it would take him time to reach his employer, to put the word in the right locations that they needed to talk. But assuming that Junot had regained his courage shortly after his consciousness, that meant that Oxford either knew he'd been robbed, or was soon to find out.
Then what? It wouldn't take long to track the account number, to find out that Dennis Murphy had received the twenty-seven-million-dollar deposit, and that Dennis Murphy had the next morning withdrawn the whole amount. With a little more legwork, some routine inquiries, Oxford would find out where I'd stayed, would get my description. Even assuming that he didn't know I was behind the theft when Junot contacted him, once he had a physical description, there wouldn't be any doubt.
The real question was: how long would it take him? I was operating on the theory that he was still in the United States, that he was in fact in New York, and perhaps even closing in on Mahwah. Would the theft be enough to delay him? Would he abandon the hunt long enough to fly to Geneva and have words with Junot, to investigate the theft? Or would he assume it had been me? And if he assumed it was me, would he assume Alena was with me?
That last potential gave me the most hope, because if he believed that Alena and I had done the robbery together, he would have to assume that we were in Europe together. That would bring him out of the country, and if I was very lucky, he'd be arriving in Geneva about the same time I was headed back to New York.
If I was lucky indeed.
That didn't seem likely. If Gracey and Bowles were still in contact with him, Oxford wouldn't have to leave the U.S. He'd simply have them look into it. With their resources, Oxford would know exactly who had done what with his fortune by the time I landed at Kennedy. In that case, we'd be pretty much back where we'd started, but with a slight advantage in my court.
After all, I had his money, and I didn't care how professional or committed Oxford was or said he was -- nearly thirty million dollars was enough incentive to make him change his tactics, if not his plans.
That gave me comfort, until I started thinking about Alena, and her timing herself up and down the stairs in Mahwah.
* * *
The Vienna Hilton was across the street from the train station, so I took a room there using the Klein I.D. The nonsmoking floor was booked up, and I ended up with a queen bed in a room that was surprisingly un-Hilton in terms of decor and style, but that reeked of cigarettes and heavy air freshener. I dropped off my bags and changed and headed down to the fitness center, where I killed four hours. My energy surprised me. I'd never imagined an adrenaline rush could last so long.
I stayed in that night, dining in the room and watching Austrian television, which I found bewildering and vaguely disturbing for no reason that I could articulate. I fell asleep early, but woke once during the night, in the darkness, certain I wasn't alone in my room. I lay on my back, motionless, trying to control my breathing, to sound like I was still nursing my dreams, listening for any sound, any indication of where the intruder might be. The noise of the hotel was a muted rustle, and from the corner, by the window, I was sure I heard carpet crushing under someone's feet as they pitched their balance, trying to stay steady and still.
There was nothing more, no other noise, and the fear slipped over my skin until I was fighting to stay calm, and when I couldn't take it any longer I pushed into motion with a frantic rush, tumbling out of the bed and putting it between myself and the intruder. I yanked the clock radio from the nightstand and threw it at the intruder, ducking low, coming up again, finally getting a good look.
I was alone.
I turned on the light, saw the clock, broken, resting between the television cabinet and the window. I looked at the curtain, checked behind it, found the window closed and locked, and I was up too high for anyone to have come in that way, anyway. I picked up the clock and tried to plug it back in, found that I'd snapped the cord, too. I dropped it in the trash, feeling foolish and embarrassed and deeply frightened.
I filled a glass of water at the bathroom sink, drained it, filled another, drained that, and climbed back into bed, feeling my heart racing.
No wonder Alena had nightmares.
* * *
The Onyx was an American bar, meaning it was an Austrian version of what an American bar should be, which I suppose explained why it opened at nine in the morning. It was on the sixth floor of the Haas Haus, one level below Do & Co., which turned out to be a sushi restaurant, so I figured the whole building was basically a cross-culture experiment gone terribly, horribly awry. Out the windows was a nice view of St. Stephen's Cathedral, and when I arrived at twenty to ten, I was surprised to see a number of very well-dressed men and women already enjoying their first martinis and Bloody Marys of the day.
I got myself an orange juice from the bartender and took a seat at a table, and hadn't been there for more than a minute when a woman took the chair opposite me, and the moment she sat I knew why Moore had told me not to worry. She was in her mid- to late thirties, skin as dark as Moore's, and lovely. She wore black leather pants, the kind that, whenever I see women in them, I wonder how they pull them on and never doubt that they have to peel them off. Her turtleneck was
the color of dried blood, and she wore a man's tweed jacket.
"Mr. Klein?" she asked as she sat, the Austrian accent tripping over an upper-class English one.
"Ms. Koller," I said. "Nice to meet you."
"Robert says that you want to pay me a lot of money to do something very small."
"I need to do some banking."
"Perhaps you'd rather be in Switzerland, then?"
"I've been there, they don't have what I need. I want to open a Sparbuch account."
"Passbook, you mean."
"This is a very specific kind of account."
Sigrid Koller reached across the table and took my untouched orange juice, sipping it. Her eyes ran over me, then to the bar, then to the view. She set the orange juice back down.
"I know the account you mean," she replied. "It won't take long."
"I'm glad to hear it."
She rose, adjusting her tweed jacket, and smiled at me, so I got up too, and we left the bar together. A couple of the Bloody Mary pioneers watched us go. When we got to the elevator, I took two envelopes from my coat and handed them to her. She put them in the pockets of her jacket, one on either side.
"Each has ten thousand dollars in it," I said. "One is for the account. The other one is yours."
"You're paying me all up front?" Koller asked.
"Robert's word carries a lot of weight."
"It does for me, as well. Give me until noon. Where shall I meet you?"
"I'll be in the lobby of the Hilton across from the train station."
The elevator stopped, the doors sliding apart.
"Noon," she repeated, and we each went our separate ways.
I made reservations for a five o'clock flight to Heathrow, and then a connection from there back to JFK. Then I checked out of the room and left my bag with the bell captain and went for a short walk around Vienna. It was colder here than it had been in Geneva, and almost as clean. I did some window-shopping, and at an antique store picked up a fountain pen that I thought Erika might like as a present. I was back in the lobby of the Hilton by five of twelve, and Sigrid Koller was there waiting, reading what I assumed was a local newspaper at one of the chairs in the lobby. I went to the bell captain and got my bag, then headed out again, and she followed me onto the street and into the train station.
As I came through the doors she caught up with me, pressing the newspaper into my free hand and saying, "Sir? You dropped this."
"Thank you," I said.
She nodded and murmured, "It was nothing," and then she turned and went back out to the street. When I stepped out a minute later, there was no sign of her.
In the fold of the newspaper was an envelope, and in the envelope was a slip of paper and a plastic credit card. The paper had the name of a bank and a four-digit number, presumably the PIN code for the card. I dumped the newspaper in the trash, put the card in my wallet, told the first cabdriver I found that I wanted to go to the bank named on the slip of paper.
The beauty of a Sparbuck account, as Alena had explained it, was this: While Switzerland allowed for anonymous banking, it was a relatively simple task to force someone to access an account -- just as I had forced Junot to do. This account was far more secure, because while it remained anonymous, it required three separate checks before funds could be accessed. Not only did the account have to be identified and the proper PIN code provided, but the right card had to be used -- and the card was virtually impossible to forge. Created by Motorola, the card contained a transmitter that, when in range of the bank, would broadcast and receive a specific, encrypted clearance code. One could have the account number and the PIN, but if one didn't have the right card, the bank's computers would shut down the transaction instantly.
In essence, the card became the money in the account. Without the card, the money was untouchable.
* * *
After I deposited the draft, I withdrew another check, this for half a million dollars. If nothing else, Oxford could finance my little operation against him.
Then I caught another cab to the airport.
Twenty-nine hours later, Scott Fowler and I went to meet two men from the CIA in a hotel room at the Holiday Inn overlooking Times Square.
Chapter 8
I'd reached Mahwah just past two that morning, exhausted physically and emotionally, the strain of the last several days finally catching up with me. One of the Russians who let me through the gate used a radio to contact the guards inside the house, and by the time I reached the front door, Natalie was there, clearly having just woken up. She gave me a hug once I'd gotten inside, and before I could even ask, she told me.
"No signs of him. Dan says that someone's been asking a lot of questions in Brooklyn, especially in Brighton Beach, and everyone is assuming it's Oxford. But no one has seen him, and there's been no contact, to anyone's knowledge."
"If he's working Brighton Beach, he's not far from finding us here."
"Not the way Dan talks," Natalie said. "The way he talks, his people will kill or die to keep their secrets secret."
"Dan talks big."
Her mouth curved in a wry smile. "Well, he's a big guy."
I blinked at her, and maybe it was the fatigue that let me see it, but it hit me and I practically choked. "You've got a crush on a Russian mafia hood?"
Natalie looked at me, indignant. "Hello, pot."
"Hello, kettle. At least I was abducted and brainwashed. What's your excuse?"
"And you don't think being locked up here for five days is a kind of Stockholm Syndrome?"
"You best be careful, young lady. Otherwise you'll find yourself being bought out by your partners."
"Unlike some people, I can keep a secret. You look flick-awful, Atticus. Didn't you sleep on the plane?"
"Some."
"You need some more."
"Soon. How's Alena?"
"She is fine, thank you." From the top of the stairs, Alena cleared her throat.
She had abandoned the crutches at some point, and now, in her left hand, was a metal cane like the ones I'd seen often in hospitals, with a black rubber grip for her hand, and a small platform with four feet at its base. The brace was on the outside of her sweat pants, a different one than she'd worn when I left.
From my wallet I produced the Sparbuch card and held it for her to see.
"Victory," I told her.
Alena nodded and perhaps contemplated smiling. She turned from the railing and rested her weight on the metal cane, looking down at me, and I understood that she wanted me to come up the stairs to her. I turned my attention back to Natalie, who was watching me, rather than her.
"We should plan to move tomorrow," I said. "A new location, I don't really care where, just outside of Manhattan. If we can arrange it without going through Dan, so much the better."
"I've got a place in Allendale lined up," Natalie said. "Smaller than this one."
"Does it have stairs?" Alena asked.
"I'm afraid so." Natalie turned back to me. "We can be ready to move by mid-afternoon."
"I'm still in the master bedroom?" I asked, gesturing upstairs.
"You are still the master, yes. I put some stuff away for you up there. There's a gun in the bureau drawer. Couldn't get a P7 for you, though, sorry about that."
"You should have talked to Dan," I said.
"You need to go away now," Natalie told me.
I nodded and headed up the stairs, and when I reached the landing, Alena pivoted on her good foot, letting me pass. I went into the master bedroom, saw that the bed was made, as Natalie had said it would be, and tossed the bag onto it. Alena followed me in and perched on the corner by the footboard, resting the cane between her feet, and I handed her the Sparbuch card, then went to the bureau and opened the top drawer. There was an unopened package of Munsingwear undershorts, and another unopened package of tube socks, and between them was a box of 9mm ammunition and a SIG P225. The drawer had been lined with contact paper, and the paper was blue with white an
d red roses on it. I took out the ammunition and the gun, and figured the gun must have come from Dan because there was no sign of a serial number anywhere on it. I checked the magazine, saw it was empty, and started loading the gun.
"How did it go?" Alena asked.
"Successfully. I took nearly thirty million dollars from him."
"A lifetime's work."
"Think it'll get his attention?"
"It would get mine."
"I don't think it was everything. There must have been investments, too."
"It would have taken too long to liquidate all of his assets. Thirty million... that is enough."
I finished loading the clip and put the magazine in the SIG, but I didn't chamber the first round. I put the gun on the bureau and the box of ammunition back in the drawer, then turned my attention entirely to Alena. She had shifted on the bed, the Sparbuch card still beside her, and was watching me closely.
"Did you exercise?" she asked, finally.
"I tried."
"It's hard to keep it up when you're working."
"It is."
"And the diet?"
"I forgot the supplements, but other than that I stuck to it best I could."
She considered that, nodding slightly. "You're shifting your weight, it is climbing into your back again. You need to practice your ballet."
"There wasn't anyplace that I could. I managed yoga in the hotel rooms."
"When I was traveling, ballet was always the first to go." She looked at the card beside her, then back to me. "You will see Agent Fowler in the morning?"
"Maybe. Ideally we'll arrange to meet Gracey and Bowles at the same time Natalie is moving you to Allendale. Oxford can't be in two places at once."
"It's a good tactic. It is more likely that they will notify Oxford where you will be meeting, and he will attempt to back-tail you from that location to me."
"Only if Gracey and Bowles know that I'm coming. They won't. Scott will arrange to meet them alone."
She pushed hair off of her cheek, nodding again, the same slight movement of her head. "Are you going to tell me what you did?"