War Lord

by David Rollins

  ‘How long’s “a while”?’

  ‘She didn’t say, and there was no time to elaborate.’

  My partner scowled, well aware that pulling a disappearing act around von Weiss could mean the worst.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ I said, only because I couldn’t say much else.

  She sat back in her chair, let her arms hang loose by her side and closed her eyes for a few long seconds. ‘I appreciate the encouragement, Vin,’ she said when she opened them. ‘But Randy knew the risks. It’s important to me that you know my concern for him isn’t about our personal relationship. That ended before this mission began. I don’t even have the right to resent Alabama. She was just next in line. If it wasn’t her it would’ve been someone else. I’m concerned because Randy was my partner, professionally speaking.’

  ‘Vin?’ I said, a little stunned. ‘Have we broken through something here, Kim?’

  ‘Is that all you took out of what I just said?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’re not making this easy, y’know.’ She fingered the card from the restaurant. ‘You’re good at what you do, Cooper. It’s random and it’s not my way, but I have to admit it’s effective. You made contact with MI6 and now we’re going to be able to stay on von Weiss and maybe gain some intel on him in real time. I’ve been pretty uptight. I’m sorry that we haven’t worked more as a team.’

  ‘Is this an apology for being an abrupt, blunt, aloof, snooty, humorless, uncommunicative ice maiden?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘Don’t you ever take anything seriously?’ she asked.

  ‘Who’s joking?’

  Petinski blinked at me.

  ‘One thing, though. You mind if I stick with Petinski? Calling you Kim just feels like some other person.’

  She stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘To take a bath. That okay?’

  ‘You get an answer from Washington on this unknown guy with von Weiss?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘He’s not in our database. They’re checking with our friends and allies. There’s nothing we can do for the moment. So, if you don’t mind . . .’

  ‘Go right ahead. Hey, I might review the photos you took today. Where do I find ’em?’

  ‘There’s a folder on the desktop.’ Petinski disappeared into the bathroom and I heard the water run.

  I went to her collection of Mac products, selected the laptop, opened the folder and set up the six hundred and thirty-seven photos in it to run as a slideshow. At two seconds a slide, that would be a little over twenty minutes viewing time. I poured two Glenfiddich minis into a short glass with rocks, sat back and watched. I skipped the chopper landing and went straight for the party settling into the bar. First up: Sugar. She really was as hot as I remembered her and I felt a certain tingle, the memory of our time in the Bally’s pool coming back. Her smooth coffee-colored skin, that cute button nose and a pair of full lips that could suck the shell off a boiled egg. In the photo I was looking at, the tarantula was beside her, leaning back, one arm hooked over the back of his chair. He was smirking, his other hand unseen under the table. Knowing Sugar, and from the smile on her lips, I could guess at what it was up to. ‘Lucky bastard,’ I murmured.

  A procession of photos of Falco and Charles White came next, a continuous series of them dealing with the waiter, placing orders. Seeing photos of Charles White sitting happily instead of lying face down on the ground with the back of his head blown out was hard to take. Their dead bodyguard featured in several shots. Knowing the guy’s immediate future chased away the bad feelings and replaced them with a happy glow.

  Individual shots of von Weiss and then Shilling followed. I paused the show on a photo that captured them together. Von Weiss’s attention was directed at someone opposite, out of view, probably the tarantula, while Shilling’s was focused on von Weiss. On her lips was a Mona Lisa smile. I wondered what she was thinking.

  I examined von Weiss. His face was peeled and implanted to the point of absurdity – like an extreme makeover gone horribly wrong. He was one of Brazil’s richest men, an arms dealer, a suspected killer, the illegitimate child of an infamous Nazi war criminal, a world authority on snakes, and – given that he’d somehow managed to get his hands on one of our nukes and intended to use it – also something of an evil genius. A complex character. I wondered what type indicators would sit at the bottom of his emails.

  Back to Shilling/Shaeffer. If I had known nothing about her, her presence at the table wouldn’t have been surprising. Von Weiss might’ve looked a little freakish, but he had money, and money, generally speaking, seemed to help beautiful women overlook plenty. Shilling fit the part of the rich guy’s trophy perfectly: perfect golden hair, perfect golden skin, eyes that hinted at infinity, perfect body. They seemed the perfect couple. Only, as Shilling herself had said, it didn’t take much for von Weiss to disappear people who weren’t who they said they were. Given what I knew about the real Emma Shilling, I could see a few bumps ahead in their relationship. I hoped she knew when to run.

  I sipped at my single malt and watched one of White’s bodyguards get directions to the head, followed not too long after by Shilling, who excused herself, stood up from the table and also took directions from one of the bar staff, right around the time I was being stomped on.

  The slideshow continued while I chose an ice cube and rolled it around in my mouth. Von Weiss summoned Salvadore, who took the same exit Shilling did, presumably because she wasn’t back from the powder room quick enough for his liking. More photos of the Whites, the tarantula, von Weiss, Sugar and the bodyguards. Eventually Shilling reappeared, followed by Salvadore.

  With the chopper’s arrival, the party vacated the bar and headed for the heliport in a hurry. Petinski had snapped off shots of the arriving chopper, and then swung her camera back to von Weiss’s party, and then back to the chopper. There were close-ups of the aircraft’s registration and other markings. It pivoted and approached the heliport with the cockpit front-on to the camera. Close-ups on the aircrew followed. It was when she brought the lens to bear on the pilot that I nearly choked on the ice cube. I went through several photos to make doubly sure, and then enlarged the clearest of them. Jesus, there was no doubt. I knew this pilot. His name was LeDuc. He was the little French fuck who’d double-crossed me and a bunch of others back in the Congo. He’d flown us into a trap on a UN chopper and then sprung it. People died because of this asshole’s perfidy. LeDuc was AWOL from the Armée de l’Air, the French Air Force, and had made Interpol’s Most Wanted list. He was near the top of mine. I owed this cocksucker a strike with a rusty machete to the side of the neck, and seeing his Frog face suddenly back in my world I renewed the vow to collect.

  That LeDuc was part of von Weiss’s troop made sense. The weapons the Whites were trading in central Africa came from the Brazilian arms dealer. And in the Congo, LeDuc was teamed up with Charles White. LeDuc, White, von Weiss – they were all in it together. The blood pounded in my temples. I downed the rest of the single malt, put the laptop back on the desk, stood up, turned to go to the fridge and ran straight into Petinski – hard. She rebounded off me. I grabbed her hand so that she didn’t end up sprawled on the carpet, and her towel almost fell away. In a panic, she snatched it and held it against her breasts. We were close. I could smell her peppermint breath and her moisturizer. I grinned and said, ‘Oops,’ as I released her hand.

  Our lips were only inches apart. Did I read something in her eyes – a weakening of her resolve, perhaps? I closed the gap between us an inch or so, reading her signals, feeling the electricity.

  ‘Don’t even fucking think about it, Cooper,’ she whispered.

  Twenty-one

  The cab pulled up outside Olympe forty minutes ahead of our booking. We were early because the layout of the place had to be known to us before von Weiss arrived. The restaurant was in a small stand-alone
wedge-shaped building in the Rio ’burbs, situated at the end of a narrow one-way street. We expected to be the first patrons to arrive, but inside the door I was surprised to see the maître d’ accompanied by a gorilla in an expensive suit, with a jaw like reinforced concrete and wearing an earpiece. I recognized him from the excursion to Sugarloaf. If nothing else, the forward planning told me the people handling the security for von Weiss were pros.

  ‘I must examine you,’ he informed us once the maître d’ was satisfied we had a reservation.

  ‘I’ve had my yearly check-up,’ I told him. He frowned like he didn’t understand, so I made it easier for him. ‘I don’t think so, mac.’

  ‘We are sorry, sir,’ said the maître d’, wincing, seemingly pained by my reluctance to submit, ‘but tonight there is security. We have a VIP coming to Olympe. If you will not satisfy this request, then we must postpone your reservation for another night.’

  ‘Go with it,’ Petinski advised me.

  The inspection rankled, but I put my arms out from my sides anyway and allowed myself to be patted down. He found nothing.

  ‘Your wife now,’ he said.

  ‘Fiancée,’ I said.

  Petinski took half a step forward.

  The man bent down to run his hands up the inside of her calves. ‘Careful, pal,’ I said, ‘if you value your thumbs.’ He hesitated, probably wondering what the hell I meant, but took his paws elsewhere anyway. There wasn’t much to check. Petinski was all breasts and legs in a flimsy almost see-through babydoll number that hung barely to mid-thigh. After buying it in a hurry from a dress shop at the Palace, she’d told me it wasn’t her style. I told her it should be.

  The security guy finished the job by feeling the hollow of her back, and withdrew against the wall with a grunt and a flick of his hand to send us on our way.

  The maître d’, a middle-aged guy with a big nose and a tub of product in his hair, directed us to our table.

  ‘Who’s your VIP?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘Sorry, sir, I cannot say.’

  I let it go. I knew who was coming to dinner anyway. The dining area was split into two sections, a room with a couple of larger tables in the center and, off to one side, a long red-paneled seat that ran the length of the wall faced by smaller tables. We were being led to the wall, which meant that either Petinski or I was going to have to sit with our back to the room. I drew the short straw – back to the room.

  The maître d’ flipped out the napkin, put it on Petinski’s lap and said, ‘Please, my apology for this.’ He meant the security check rather than the seating or the napkin. ‘Can I get you a drink? It is a courtesy of the house.’

  Petinski chose something from the menu, some local extravaganza with pineapple pieces and cherries that looked and sounded like a Carnival float. I ordered my usual, a fine selection of single malts in plain view at the bar.

  ‘You said you didn’t drink,’ I commented.

  ‘You’re not the best influence, Cooper.’

  I looked her up and down. ‘It’s what I do, but you’re resisting.’

  ‘Are you referring to the moment back at the hotel?’

  ‘Maybe. Have you given it some thought?’

  ‘Haven’t you learned that getting involved with your partner is not such a great idea? I have.’

  ‘Who wants involvement? I was thinking more along the lines of a shallow meaningless roll in the hay. And you haven’t answered the question.’

  ‘Despite what you might think, I’m not an ice maiden, Cooper.’ There was the suggestion of a smile in her eyes. ‘Of course I thought about it and I decided against it. Now, can we get back to work, please?’

  We spent a few minutes in comfortable silence, looking around, taking in the surroundings. The maître d’ returned with our drinks on a tray. He set Petinski’s on the table in front of her, then mine in front of me. Petinski picked hers up and took the straw between her lips and went back to keeping an eye on the front of house.

  An excessive number of waiters stood around, hinting at the size of the tab Uncle Sam would be picking up for Petinski and me. This was no cheap eatery. The bar was not actually a bar but a bench where drinks were prepared. Behind it through a slatted blind was a kitchen half the size of the seating area, staffed by chefs in white aprons and tall white hats.

  I excused myself, got up and went to the bathroom. The facilities for men and women were side by side, located behind a screen at the rear of the restaurant. The men’s was the size of a closet, with only enough room for two. A small window on the back wall was locked partially open, and barred. The layout of the women’s probably wouldn’t be any different. I wasn’t sure what Shilling had planned, but separating her from von Weiss without raising suspicion, even for a few seconds, was going to be a problem. At least without a little help. I took out my cell and put in a call.

  As I returned to our table more diners arrived to experience the unusual greeting at the front door. No one seemed to mind it all that much, which was surprising. Perhaps getting frisked was a regular feature of the fine dining experience in Rio. I understood the reason for the security. In this place, if a gunman with a grudge came through the front door there’d be nowhere to go for von Weiss but straight to hell. I liked to think that White’s missing bodyguard might have had something to do with all the precaution, but then, maybe not. If I was von Weiss’s security, I’d have vetoed this venue. The conclusion I came to at the end of all this consideration was that von Weiss was quietly confident, at least in his hometown.

  The joint began to fill fast. I checked my watch: seven twenty-five. Von Weiss was late. And then the door opened and Dolph Lundgren walked in, ducking slightly to avoid bumping his head. Yeah, he was a big motherfucker. He had a few words for his colleague getting personal with the dinner patrons, and then went back out. He came in again a handful of seconds later, another goon following, then von Weiss walked in with Shilling and both were fawned over by the maître d’ and the chef, who raced out from the kitchen. Two more bodyguards brought up the rear, immediately breaking off and going on an inspection of the restaurant, double-checking the facilities, entrances and exits.

  ‘Turn around, Cooper. It’s impolite to stare,’ I heard Petinski say.

  ‘Just fitting in with the general trend,’ I said, noting that pretty much everyone in the restaurant, men and women, had also forgotten their manners.

  In my case the reason for the etiquette slip was Shilling, who was peeling herself out of a tight-fitting coat to reveal a long filmy canary-yellow dress with no back and barely a front that glimmered in the low light. Her hair did likewise while her skin glowed with a touch of the sun.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Petinski, stating the obvious.

  ‘Scrubs up okay.’ I again compared the woman handing her coat to the maître d’ to the one hauling a Minimi light machine gun through the mud. ‘What’s von Weiss doing?’

  ‘Being shown to their table.’

  Behind me, I could hear the maître d’ chatting away, being super friendly, laughing. The mental picture I had of the restaurant told me that von Weiss and Shilling had been allocated the single table in the area behind ours, rather than seating against the wall. The bodyguards, with the exception of Dolph, had taken up stations at strategic points in the restaurant: by the front door, outside the restrooms, outside the kitchen. I glanced over my shoulder quickly and saw that Dolph was standing close to his boss, but not too close.

  I was right about where von Weiss and Shilling were seated. Petinski had a clear view of both of them over my shoulder. ‘This is not good for any meeting with Shilling. They’ve got the place bottled up,’ she murmured.

  ‘Let’s see what develops,’ I said.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Let’s eat,’ I said, motioning at a waiter.

  ‘We’re not here for the food.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  I sensed movement behind me, followed by the scent of
expensive perfume. Then I saw Shilling walking to the facilities, every male head in the joint following her progress. The lummox guarding the restroom stood aside to let her past.

  Petinski cleared her throat and glanced briefly down at her lap. Something was up. ‘What just happened?’ I asked her.

  ‘Von Weiss looked at me,’ she replied, leaning forward, using my bulk as cover. ‘It was a certain kind of look. I need a shower.’

  ‘It was just a look.’

  ‘Trust me, there was a lot packed into it.’

  *

  The atmosphere in the restaurant settled down into a kind of normalcy, despite the heavy security and the fact that the staff took every opportunity to grovel over their extra-special guests. Meanwhile, however, I managed to even the score with Petinski over her breakfast effort and ordered a plate of barbecued meats to share. Genuine conversation between us was almost non-existent, though Petinski put on a good show, giggling occasionally, leaning forward to touch my hand, doing the things couples in love do when it’s dinner for two at a swanky restaurant.

  Shilling got up again to go to the bathroom. This time I followed her a minute later. Maybe there was something about this restaurant I hadn’t considered, a way we could communicate that I hadn’t spotted. The security guard’s eyes bored unblinkingly into mine as I approached, issuing a kind of primal challenge.

  ‘Evening,’ I said with a smile as I tried to edge by. ‘Need to do number two.’ I got no sense that he understood anything other than my desire to visit the john. He stopped me, blocking the way, just to show me who was in control, I figured.

  I put my hand in my pocket and brought out some loose change. ‘Hey, you keep a nice bathroom, buddy,’ I told him and pressed a few coins into his giant paw. ‘Nice clean towels. I like a clean towel.’

  As I sidled past him, I saw the guy look at the money in his hand like it was something picked up off the pavement, drop it on the floor and wipe his hand on his trousers.

  I did what I had to do in there, which was basically to inspect the space again. Nothing. Shilling was on the other side of the wall. I tapped on the brickwork but received zip in reply so I washed my hands, dried them with the air blower and went back to my table.