by Tom Wilde
He stepped back from the doorway and Caitlin and I squeezed in, the apartment being filled almost to capacity with an amazing collection of bric-a-brac of every description. We had to walk single file behind our host, between precariously stacked boxes overflowing with what might be politely described as “stuff.” The place looked like an entire secondhand store had been crammed into a closet.
We emerged from the man-made tunnel into a room that appeared to be surrounded by junk. In the clearing there was a round card table covered in dark plastic. Past the center of the room I could make out a kitchenette, half-buried under stacks of God knows what. To the left was a small hallway, narrowed like a clogged artery with boxes of mostly books, and to the right there was a window, shrouded in dark, dusty curtains. The whole place looked to be in imminent danger of an internal avalanche.
In the central clearing around the table, lit by a yellowish overhead lamp, were four individuals, two seated and two standing. For a group of people gathered to commit the crime of receiving valuable stolen property, they were an intriguing-looking bunch. Marcel Troyon made the introductions. “Our party is complete,” he said. “This is Monsieur Blake, the American expert I was telling you about, and his wife. Monsieur Blake, may I present Mademoiselle Rhea.”
Mademoiselle Rhea was a stunning example of Eurasian beauty. She was seated at the table to my left and attired in an expensively tailored business suit and coat, with a wealth of lustrous, raven-black hair, exquisitely coifed. She brought to mind a female version of the enterprising business sharks I’d seen cruising the financial districts of New York or Tokyo. She was a woman of mature years, but on her it was the age of perfection. She just gave me an impatient nod of greeting. “And her companion, Mr. Ajax.” Mr. Ajax looked like he could be stunning, too. Literally. He was well over six feet tall and looked like he’d been chiseled out of bronze. He also wore expensive-looking business attire, but he didn’t look comfortable in it. We got the silent nod from him as well.
Marcel continued. “And next we have Monsieur Ombra.” A small, spare man dressed in Continental class rose from his seat and shook my hand, taking it in both of his. He looked to be somewhere in his late fifties, with a pale, smiling face, well-groomed gray hair and beard, and sharp blue eyes behind rimless glasses. “Hello,” he said warmly, with traces of an accent I couldn’t place. “It’s a pleasure. And this is your wife?”
“Caitlin,” she replied. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t kiss her hand. As Mr. Ombra took his seat, he indicated the tall, slender man standing by the curtains. “And this is my associate, Mr. DeWinter.” DeWinter was dressed in a long, black coat and held a matching hat in his hand, in stark contrast with his white hair, combed back away from a narrow, hatchet-like face. He didn’t even offer a nod of greeting; he just stared.
Marcel had Caitlin and me take the two remaining chairs. “It appears we have a small change of circumstance,” he announced. “Mr. Ombra contacted me very recently. He also wishes to make a bid on our rara avis.”
I smiled at Marcel’s Latin title for the bronze eagle flag top, and hoped my expression covered my concern over this last-minute change of plan. Rhea wasn’t so concerned with hiding her feelings. “This wasn’t our deal,” she said sharply.
That identified the beautiful Ms. Rhea and the monolithic Mr. Ajax as emissaries of the mysterious James Phillip Vanya. Marcel shrugged expansively and said, “What am I to say, mademoiselle? I was surprised myself when Monsieur Ombra contacted me and told me he also wished to purchase the item in question. So I am thinking that we will have an auction, yes?”
Mademoiselle Rhea indicated me with a slight toss of her head as she said to Troyon, “And just what is Mr. Blake’s part in all of this?”
Troyon held a hand up as he explained, “Monsieur Blake is an expert in antiquities from the Argo Foundation. He will be able to ascertain that the article is genuine.”
“Actually,” I added quickly, “the foundation doesn’t know I’m doing this, considering the, ah, questionable provenance of the artifact. Namely that it’s stolen merchandise. So I’m acting on my own here.”
Everyone grew quiet in response to my statement, like I’d just made a huge social blunder. I deliberately put all the cards on the table for Caitlin’s sake. Anyone who stayed in the room now was patently tied into the conspiracy to acquire stolen goods. Mademoiselle Rhea started the ball rolling again. “Let us see what we came for.”
Marcel nodded. “Bon. Give me a moment.” He disappeared into the narrow, darkened hallway. Rhea, Ajax, and DeWinter kept their eyes on the spot while Mr. Ombra said to me, “So, Mr. Blake, you are an expert on Le Petit Caporal?”
“The Little Corporal?” I translated, smiling at the use of one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s nicknames. “Not specifically. I’m more of a generalist than an expert on the general. But he was one of the greats.”
“One of the greats?” Ombra asked dryly.
“Sure, right up there with Temujin Genghis Kahn, or Julius Caesar.”
Ombra looked like he was just about to engage me in spirited debate when Marcel Troyon returned and set a small, inexpensive-looking plaster casting of a cherubic angel on the table, along with a short ball peen hammer and large flat-head screwdriver. All eyes were on Marcel as he chipped away at the statuette with the delicacy of a sculptor, slowly revealing a form wrapped in an old, faded newspaper. He carefully peeled the paper away, exposing the dully gleaming gilded eagle, wings spread, perched among the shards of plaster as if it’d just been hatched.
Ombra was smiling with quiet reserve, while Rhea was gazing at the eagle with razor-sharp intensity. I felt a touch of admiration for Troyon’s simple but brilliant method of hiding stolen property. No one would ever find such a treasure amidst the mounds of trash crammed into the apartment, and it made me wonder if he had any more genuine artifacts squirreled away nearby.
I reached out and picked up the eagle, feeling all eyes on me. It was cold to the touch and surprisingly light in weight, and it gave me that familiar thrill I feel whenever I get to hold an actual relic from the ages in my hand. I estimated it to be about ten inches from base to top and roughly the same width across the wingspan, with a circular hollow join at the base where the eagle would be attached to a flagpole. But frankly, the old bird had seen better days. Most of the patina of gold plate had been worn away down to the bronze, and based on the marks and scars it carried I could easily believe this military icon had been involved in numerous battles. I asked quietly, “I understand that there were other items taken from the Boston museum at the same time as this one?”
Marcel nodded. “Yes. I was in the process of making a deal with an Irish friend of mine, and he offered me the eagle as proof he had a connection to the rest of the artworks taken during the robbery. Unfortunately, he died suddenly.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. Damn. So much for getting a line on that Chinese bronze for Nick Riley. I brought out my small pocket monocular, took out the magnifying lens, and made a show of examining the eagle, turning it this way and that and holding it up to the light. The more I looked, the more I started to feel like I could be holding the genuine article. But overall, it was still a relatively ugly piece of gilded bronze, and in no way could it compare with the masterpieces that were also taken during the Boston museum robbery. Caitlin silently interrupted my chain of thought by delicately but firmly grinding the heel of her shoe into my ankle under the table, a certain signal to get on with it. I reluctantly set the eagle down and announced, “This is the one. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Mr. Ombra said, “Then it is my intention to purchase it. At any price,” he added with a polite nod to Rhea.
Rhea acted like she didn’t hear what Ombra said. “I need to make a test of my own,” she stated as Ajax bent down and picked up a small but heavy-looking hard-sided case. As Ajax opened it up, I caught a glimpse of a panel with a small screen inside.
“What do you mean, test?” Marcel aske
d.
“It’s not invasive,” Rhea said dismissively. “We have a machine here that works like a portable ultrasound. I just need to make a quick scan of the eagle. This will only take a moment.”
Mr. Ombra looked down, almost sadly, when he heard what Rhea said, then he stood up from the table and stepped aside. That’s when I saw that Mr. DeWinter had drawn a long-barreled pistol.
Everyone froze as Ombra announced, “I’m sorry, but now I must insist—” Before Ombra could finish, Ajax lurched up from his chair, his large hands diving under his jacket.
That’s when DeWinter shot Ajax twice in the chest.
CHAPTER SIX
I should have been dead by now.
The only reason I was still alive was that DeWinter thought Ajax was the biggest threat in the room and shot him first, even though I was closest to him. Though the pistol was silenced, the concussion of the blast as the bullet exploded out of the barrel was like having a heavy book slammed shut a millimeter from my face as fiery pinpricks of burnt gunpowder peppered my head. I made DeWinter pay for his mistake by grabbing his gun hand and his elbow as I launched myself as hard as I could out of my chair, breaking his arm in the process.
The long pistol spun away and I made a grab for it as Ajax fell back like a sack of sand into a tall cupboard of crockery, pulling it down with him in a crashing avalanche, but Rhea, quick as a snake, snatched the gun out of the air. Faster than a blink, she pumped three shots into DeWinter, cutting off his scream as he collapsed onto the table.
The next thing I knew I was violently yanked backwards by the collar of my coat and my legs were swept out from under me. I curled up to turn my backwards fall into a rolling somersault and saw it was Caitlin who pulled me down, getting me out of the line of fire. I glimpsed a flash of Caitlin’s arm as it chopped the pistol from Rhea’s grasp just as Rhea grabbed the eagle with her free hand and rammed it into Caitlin’s stomach.
Caitlin fell back and slammed down on top of me, and instantly it felt like I had an armful of angry jungle tiger. She fought her way upright and launched herself after Rhea, who was already heading for the door with the eagle. I swear I heard Caitlin growl as she pounced.
I scrambled to my feet just in time to see Ombra pull a gun from his coat and turn to aim it toward the running women. My hand found the large screwdriver Marcel had used to crack open the eagle’s plaster nesting place. I swept it off the table and threw it hard, slamming the blade of the screwdriver into Ombra’s back, high, near his right shoulder. His diminutive body seized up like he’d been hit by electricity as the pistol spun away from his hand and he fell into a pile of books.
I glanced back and saw that Marcel Troyon had raced over to the kitchenette, where he was wrestling with another door at the back of the room, off to the right. I heard a crash, and turned to see that Rhea had managed to get the front door open. I watched as she and Caitlin, wrapped together in snarling combat, tumbled out into the hall. I vaulted over Ombra, and as I made it to the doorway I saw the bronze eagle fly from between the women, who both rolled off the landing and down the stairs.
I made a grab for the eagle and scooped it up, just in time to see Caitlin and Rhea collide with a pair of dark-coated men wearing black ski masks. The whole human avalanche crashed down to the first floor, and one of the men managed to raise a pistol in my direction, squeezing off a muffled shot before I could pull back and slam Troyon’s door shut. My fingers were shaking from the adrenaline charge as I fumbled one-handed with the latches on the heavy door, locking it shut, and I could hear a woman’s scream from outside calling out in French for the police.
Caitlin was trapped out there, and for a split second I froze, locked between my training and a sudden, unbidden desire to try to save the woman. But the rapid, thudding sound of booted feet and the impact on the locked door as someone tried to crash their way inside snapped me back to the fact that there were at least two armed men out there and I had to be smart, not suicidal.
Turning back toward the room, I was just in time to see Ombra, eyes mad with pain, lunge at me with the bloody screwdriver that he had managed to extract from his back. I smacked the impromptu weapon out of his hand with an upward slash of the bronze eagle I held, and finished up with a looping, backhanded blow to the side of his head, dropping him like a stone. That’s when I saw Troyon across the room as he managed to yank the side door open. For the briefest instant, I saw a flickering green spark flutter across Troyon’s chest, then he got kicked backwards and landed on the floor in a boneless heap. There was a sniper outside, armed with a laser-sighted gun.
I felt like a piece of porcelain perched between a hammer and an anvil with the sound of the gunmen slamming themselves into the door behind me and the sight of the lethal, bright green spark as it fluttered through the kitchenette, looking for something else to kill as it blocked the only other way out of this junkyard killing floor.
I leapt over the moaning body of Ombra and looked over to the curtained windows on the right; it was the only chance left. There was a cracking sound behind me as the front door started to give way, telling me it was time to get the hell out of here. I couldn’t see the switch for the overhead light, so I just grabbed an old metal alarm clock close to hand and threw it upward; there was a pop and flash and the tinkling sound of glass falling to the table in the sudden darkness. I tucked the eagle under my arm, grabbed ahold of a standing metal lamp that was close to the window, then swung it through the curtains, blasting a hole through the glass and frame. The curtain broke away from its mooring and dropped, revealing a moonlit landscape of sharply angled rooftops and the blazing lights of the city beyond.
Racing against the sniper outside, I rolled out of the window and crouched on the deck of a narrow wooden balcony. I blindly reached for the edge and got a grip while I slid my body off the deck and swung into space. I tried to keep my hold on the rough wood, but my own weight yanked me down and I broke free, flailing my arms on the way down. Muffled bullets slapped the air over my head in the brief flash of free fall, then my feet collided with hard pavement and I instinctively tried to roll with the fall as if from a bad parachute landing, bringing my hands up to guard my head as I was slammed onto hard stone and kicked in the side as if by a raging bull.
I don’t know if I went unconscious or not; my first semi-cogent thought was that I’d been shot in the chest. I grew aware that I was lying on cold, wet, hard cobblestone, and that there were dogs barking somewhere in the distance. My eyes started to bring lights into focus, coming from a jumble of windows above me, along with the bright beam of a high-powered flashlight that quested from one of the angled rooftops. My arms and legs started to move like they were coming back to life on their own and my numbed left hand fumbled across my chest until it found the cause of my agony: the bronze eagle. I must have landed on the damn thing.
I managed to pull myself up with the help of a nearby brick wall, noticing my right leg didn’t want to cooperate at all. Through the diffused lights from above, I saw I was now in a narrow brick cul-de-sac surrounded by six different doors. There was a small decorative fountain in the middle of the tiny courtyard, and I was grateful that I hadn’t impaled myself on it when I fell to earth. The first two doors I tried were locked, but the third opened to reveal a narrow hallway with stairs running up one side and another door directly ahead, and I was glad to see that I didn’t stumble right back into the apartment building I’d just escaped from. I hobbled to the door and pushed through, finding myself outside in a narrow, crooked alleyway lined with small shops packed closely together, leading to a brighter street beyond. I silently cursed my lagging body and stumbled down the path, hoping I wasn’t heading right back toward the enemy.
I emerged from the mouth of the alley and into the lights and sounds of a busy street. I ducked back around the corner and slipped off my overcoat, noticing how it had taken the brunt of the damage of my escape, and wrapped the eagle up into a bundle. I heard the high-pitched, two-tone whi
ne of a French police vehicle, the direction of the siren giving me a bearing on the location of the recent disaster. Keeping my head down, I joined the small parade of people and walked away from the trouble as best as I could manage. Making my way along the sidewalk, I was hoping my mere appearance and limping gait weren’t frightening the people as I forced myself to adopt the lingering stride of the Parisian pedestrian, hoping to blend in with everyone and glad I was in a populated, cosmopolitan city. The lights of the giant rectangular skyscraper I’d spotted earlier gave me a general bearing as I made my way north.
I was struck by a sharp edge of fear and suddenly felt trapped on the cobblestone street that was too narrow, wedged between white stone buildings with too many darkened windows, amidst too many people and noisy vehicles to watch all at once. I was tempted to duck down into the Paris Métro subway, but decided against the risk of getting caught underground. Instead, when I figured I’d hiked my way out of the immediate danger zone, I looked for a hiding place off the street among the restaurants, which included Greek and Chinese places, and chose a small, cozy-looking bistro that wasn’t overly populated. I wove through the tables that crowded the outside sidewalk and made for the bar, where I ordered a small, expensive brandy with a large tumbler of water, happy to note that the young man bartending didn’t give me a second glance. I took a little table toward the rear that afforded a view of the front door. Marking my territory with my drinks, I headed for the back of the place, spotted a possible rear exit, and then found the toilet and went to check myself over for any obvious signs of damage. The pale, wild-eyed face in the mirror was a familiar sight as I smoothed my hair back into a semblance of normality. My ribs on the right side hurt like hell and felt like they’d been cracked again, a feeling I was far too familiar with. My lower pant legs and shoes were wet and smudged, but it didn’t show much against the dark material. I rewrapped the eagle in my overcoat so as not to display the obvious damage to the coat. I was mildly surprised to see I wasn’t leaking any bodily fluids this time.