“Ali, where the hell are you?”
The wet gurgling sound ran like a cold wave through her body.
“Ali, what’s happened?” she whispered. The sound went on for a few seconds, then stopped.
Shakily, Stella replaced the phone in her purse without ending the call. She pulled her hair over her ear to hide her headset and went back inside. Without seeming to hurry she wove through the crowd. Behind her relaxed smile she could feel her heart beat hard and fast. She climbed the stair to the second floor without being challenged. The house was enormous. Carefully she opened the doors to a few rooms just enough to glance in. One of them held an intimately occupied couple, but she saw no signs of Ali. Just as she was going to round a corner she heard footsteps. She opened the door closest to her, silently slid in and closed it behind her while praying to the beautiful Maitreya downstairs that nobody had seen the door move. She held her breath and heard them clearly as they walked past.
“Take the body out with the kitchen garbage when the party’s over. Just let it be until then.”
When they were gone, Stella waited for two minutes before returning to the hallway. She still seemed to hear weak, rasping breaths through the headset. She must find him. Before it was too late. She continued in the direction the two men had come from and stopped when she saw a small, almost black mark on the floor outside one of the closed doors. Blood. Almost certainly, and put there by someone’s shoe. She opened the door very slowly. The dark inside was impenetrable. As soon as the opening was wide enough for her to slip through she slid in, closing the door behind her. She turned on the light. A twisted body lay on the floor. Ali, a large, open wound in the middle of his chest. Blood had formed a pool on the floor around him. Stella went down on her knees beside him, feeling the sting of vomit in the back of her throat. She felt his neck, but there was no need. His eyes were staring blindly at the ceiling. Probably she had just imagined those last breathing sounds from her phone. Stella closed the call and carefully took Ali’s iPhone from his hand. She put on the long, black gloves she had worn when they arrived, stretched her hand under his body and felt along his waist, underneath his jacket. Warm blood enveloped her hand. There it was. His gun. She pulled it out, took off her bloody glove and used it to wipe off the gun. She might need it before the evening was over. With a last look at Ali, Stella rose and went over to the window. Standing in darkness, she looked out into the black night. Inside she was cold and hard. She had no time to feel. Later, not now. She saw the fluttering flames of the torches on the terrace below. At last she drew a deep breath, took out her cell and phoned Carl. He answered almost immediately.
“Ali is dead. Shot,” she said straight out.
“What? What are you saying?”
“What the hell have you put us up to?” she asked. “I want to know it all. Right now.”
“We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“No. Hell no. We have no evidence of anything. You’ll never be able to prove a damned thing. We’ll never get either Ali’s killers or the damned fools who are plundering Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan? What’s that got to do with anything?”
Stella gave an exasperated sigh.
“The antiques they’re selling here tonight are invaluable art treasures from Afghanistan, dug up by assholes whose only thought is to get money to wage war. I’ll get you evidence.” She spoke quickly but with exaggerated clarity.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“You have to trust me. I know what has to be done. I want a backup force in place at a quarter past midnight. Not a second earlier or later. Okay?”
“Stella . . .”
“Did you understand me?”
“Yes. Okay. But . . .”
Stella heard footsteps in the hallway outside and ended the call. She stood immobile, breathing slowly. There was nowhere to hide in the room. The steps faded. Stella felt a rush of relief. She weighed Ali’s gun in her hand and pulled out the magazine. It was fully loaded. Good. She wondered where to hide the gun. It was true that she did have large breasts, but nowhere near large enough for her to be able to hide a nine-millimeter pistol in her bra. On the other hand she wore enormous, flesh-colored “tummytuck” panties under the wide skirt of her 1950s dress. She slid the gun up inside her panties and carefully checked that it would stay there. It did. Peter’s cell phone she put in the inner compartment of her purse, along with her bloodstained gloves. She put on more lipstick and straightened her shoulders, then crouched down beside Ali’s body for the last time. Stroked his cheek. He looked very calm. She remembered his bubbling, ringing laugh. His special way of twisting his fingers in her hair to kiss her neck.
“I promise to find the bastard who did it,” she whispered to him. Not only that, she would personally make sure that he regretted what he had done. Then she stood up, straightened her dress and went back down to the party, without looking back. Gladly accepted a new glass of champagne and sat down on a bar stool. Carefully, so that the gun wouldn’t fall to the floor. She took out Ali’s cell and sent the identical text to the last five numbers he had spoken to. “I know,” she wrote. Then she let her eyes roam, trying to find someone just receiving a text message. She looked for a long time but saw no one. She resent her message. Peter was in the middle of the room, a giggling girl on his arm. Stella studied him, her anger carefully hidden. Instead she hoped to look vaguely admiring. He was at the top of her list of suspects. She looked searchingly at him. He was large, boisterous and extremely pushy, particularly towards the female guests. He behaved as if he owned the place. That made Stella suspicious. Hold on, now, she thought. If he really did own the place he wouldn’t have felt the need to behave as he did. Of course, the house might actually be his. But someone else was more powerful. Who?
Stella sipped her champagne, carefully weighing everyone in the room, one by one. At last she found him. A thin man of average height, light-skinned, with black hair and dark eyes. He was absolutely calm and relaxed. Polite but without the least interest in impressing anyone. He reminded Stella of her black tomcat, Sherlock. He, too, acted just that way: friendly, relaxed and condescending, as if he owned the world. In this case it might well be true. Both the dark-eyed one and the gray-haired man he was talking to turned toward her and looked at her. The dark-eyed man raised his glass to her in a silent toast. She returned the gesture and simultaneously recognized the gray-haired man. He was an art collector. One of Rodin’s regular customers. Her cover was blown. Hell!
Time for a new plan. Stella slid off the stool, in the same movement returning Ali’s phone to her purse. She too knew how to look as if you owned the world. It came easier to women. Tits out, sway your hips and you’re fine. She crossed the floor, went straight up to the dark-eyed man and put out her hand.
“Stella Rodin. I want to attend the auction.”
His velvet eyes smiled at her. His eyelashes were so dark that they looked painted. He took her hand, pressing it slightly.
“Markus From. Aren’t you already at the auction? I assume you have an invitation.”
“No. I came with someone else. I had hoped to be more discrete, but that plan didn’t seem to work out. I represent a client of the Rodin auction house. Someone who is prepared to pay well for your objects. The Maitreya by the wall, for instance, would fit my client’s collection perfectly.”
“And how am I to know that you are who you claim to be?”
“I assume you already know.”
Their eyes locked for a long moment. Stella’s patience began to run out.
“You’re very welcome to phone our office to get confirmation, if you want. I believe my brother is still in.”
She could see that he already was familiar with Rodin and that the man beside him had told him who she was. Hopefully he only knew that she was Rodin’s daughter, not that she was a cop. It was hardly something her father boasted about. On the contrary. And if the man had known and told velvet eyes, she would already be locke
d away or dead, so it was probably all right. It made her furious to stand here and hint that she or her father would ever buy invaluable antiques stolen from a country torn by war, but in this situation she had no choice. The dark-eyed man watched her searchingly, slightly amused. She appreciated the fact that he at least showed her respect enough not to try to pretend that he wasn’t in charge here. She kept eye contact and hoped fervently that the white-hot anger and grief burning inside her didn’t show.
“Give the number to Daniel.” He gestured to a man who had been standing a few steps behind him and had probably listened to every word they’d said. “Have another glass of champagne, and I’ll see that you get your answer shortly.”
Stella nodded briefly, gave the office number to his assistant and walked toward the terrace. Again she gratefully accepted the heavy blanket one of the waiters offered her at the door, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Now her life might very well depend on if Nicholas realized what was happening and proved a convincing liar. It would be pointless to try to warn him. She had seen the assistant, Daniel, begin to dial as she turned away. Stella thought of Ali’s body upstairs, then immediately forced herself to stop. If she wanted to grieve, she could do it later. First revenge. For Ali and the Maitreya and the rest of the war spoils inside. She spent the rest of her wait making new plans. There was still plenty of time before reinforcements would arrive. After a short while, the man called Daniel came to fetch her.
“Stella Rodin? Everything’s in order; the auction will start in ten minutes.”
Stella thanked him and locked herself in the rest room to prepare. She slipped her iPhone inside her bra to get the best possible sound reception. She carefully wiped Ali’s cell with toilet paper, then tried to fix his gun against her thigh in a more comfortable position. She couldn’t find one. Giving up, she set the cell phone between her breasts to record, then rejoined the throng outside. This time she carried Ali’s phone in her purse. At the door to the auction room two forbidding but polite men were collecting cell phones from the audience. She had counted on that. They surely didn’t want anyone to record this auction. She smiled a friendly smile, put Ali’s phone on the table and put the number tag in her purse. The room, otherwise probably a large dining room, was furnished with numerous chairs turned to a podium, just as at Rodin’s. Peter took the floor and spread his arms.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to this informal auction. I realize that you all want to be certain that the items we offer you are genuine.” A slide presentation began on the wall behind him. Desert and caves. Close-ups of items being dug out of the ground with rough hatchets and shovels. “All objects for sale today have been discovered in Afghanistan. All of them have been found during the last year and are absolutely unique. In age, they vary from around one thousand BC to around five hundred AD. For reasons I’m sure you will understand, no documentation will be provided, so what I now tell you is the only guarantee you will have. However, we do have an expert on the relevant period present.” He pointed to an elderly man who gave the audience a friendly nod. Stella recognized him; he sometimes helped Rodin’s by authenticating objects. “Please make use of his expertise, and after the auction you are welcome to ask him anything you may want to know about the objects you have purchased. Now, let us begin.” He spread his arms and stepped down from the podium. Another man stepped up in his place.
“The first post is this beautiful collection of silver dinars, minted during the fifth century AD.”
The bidding became brisk. Stella bid on a couple of objects, but made sure not to win any of them. The atmosphere was so tense that you could cut it with a knife. Just as at a Rodin auction. Nobody even glanced at anyone else; everyone stared as if mesmerized at the auctioneer and at the objects for sale. Everyone wanted to win. The room was simmering with passion, happiness, anger, frustration, but nothing could be heard or seen on the surface. When the magically beautiful bronze statue was finally displayed, Stella stubbornly bid until the Maitreya was hers. After all, it was just pretend money anyway—once the police arrived, everything would be impounded.
Once the auction was over and all arrangements about how and when money would be exchanged had been made, Stella retrieved Ali’s cell. And finally held the Maitreya in her hand. She went back to the rest room to check on the recording made by the phone between her breasts. The important part was what the dark-eyed man had said. She hoped fervently that it would be evidence enough, but she knew how extremely difficult it was to get anyone convicted in cases of this kind. She mailed the sound file to Carl and added a text. Now only one thing remained. To find Ali’s killer. It was eleven-thirty. She had forty-five minutes left. If she hadn’t identified him when the police arrived, it was all over. She sat down by the bar again. Took out Ali’s cell and sent a new text to the five last numbers on his log.
I know. The terrace at midnight.
That was all she wrote. She remained by the bar, watching the crowd. After a short wait she got two replies, which she immediately discounted. Obviously none of them had any idea of what she was talking about, nor were they at the auction. It was a quarter to midnight. She began to feel very stressed. At last she saw it. One of the guests discretely took out his cell, then put it back in his pocket and looked around. His forehead seemed damp and his hand shook almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t been present at the auction. She slowly weaved through the throng to get closer to him. She was in luck. The expert on Afghan antiquity was standing almost directly next to the man she suspected of being the killer. She talked politely to him about the bronze she had just bought, meanwhile studying her suspect. All of his features were strangely colorless. She tried to come up with some way of taking his picture and sending it off to Carl, but realized that there was no way to do it without being seen. The man had an expensive suit, but it fit him badly. When he turned to look at his watch she saw it. Three small, black, round stains on the cuff of his shirt. Blood. Good. She went out on the terrace. It was freezing cold, even with her blanket and the heaters set up. She liked the cold. It honed her brain. Waiting, she caressed the cool bronze of the Maitreya. Five minutes to go. At the stroke of midnight, the colorless man stepped out on the terrace. At the sight of him, Stella again set her cell to record. He looked around, realizing she was the only other person there. She gave him a warm smile and stepped closer, put her head on one side and lightly put her hand on his arm.
“Why? It’s really all I want to know. After that, I’ll leave you alone,” Stella said.
He looked at her. Surprised. Uncertain how to react. She held her Maitreya in front of him. It was cold as ice. Stella spoke calmly, softly.
“We’re all in the same boat here, so to speak. I don’t want to know who you are. Just why you shot Ali. If I don’t know why, I’ll never be able to let go of it. I’ll chase you forever just to learn why. So just tell me, here and now, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
Stella knew she had just fifteen minutes before Carl would arrive with his backup force. If she hadn’t been able to make him talk before then, it was all over. But she hadn’t dared risk that he would tell the dark-eyed man about her questions before more police arrived, so she had cut it as close to the raid as possible without risking the entire operation.
He looked uncertainly at her, gave a small, disdainful laugh and shook his head. Looked down at the ground. She stepped even closer.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why?”
“He asked too many questions. He wanted to take over. Tried to get close to Markus. I had to stop him. He—”
The silence of the black night was shattered by the sound of cars. Many cars. There was movement in the shadows. Steps crunched through snow. They had arrived. Stella glanced at her watch, realizing her mistake just a moment too late. The man had seen her gesture.
“Hell! You’ve called the fucking cops!” he yelled, pulling Stella to him with a sudden twist of his arm. Her head was thrown violently to one side. She felt a sting of searin
g pain. He held her neck locked hard in the crook of his arm. “Bitch,” he spat in her ear. She felt her throat constrict. She couldn’t breathe. Sparks lit up in front of her eyes. She felt panic rising within her. In a desperate attempt to break loose before fainting she grabbed the heavy, cold Maitreya in both hands, slamming the base of the statue up as hard as her fear and anger allowed. There was a crunching, thudding sound close to her ear. The man screamed and let go of her. She felt hot blood running down her cheek. She spun round and looked at him. His left eye was a mess of blood and flesh. She glimpsed the white bone of his eye socket. He fell screaming against the terrace railing, through it and into the snow below that immediately began turning red. Stella stared at him, frozen. Why in hell had the police come this early? She clawed her gun out from under her skirt. They weren’t supposed to be here yet. A movement in the corner of her eye made her spin around. A man ran out on the terrace, the gun in his hand aimed at her. Before she could even react there was a loud bang behind her and the man fell headlong. Another man in a black uniform, helmet, and a bulletproof vest ran up to her. The police backup. With thick, black gloves he took hold of her arm, carefully but firmly pulling the gun from her hand. He looked searchingly at her through his protective glasses.
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