This, Erwein knew, was an idle threat, and would never happen. For some reason, Sofia never ranted or raved or threw fits in front of her brother. Somehow, Karl-Heinz was the one man she could neither frighten nor intimidate.
"The nerve!" she seethed. "The gall! The humiliation! Oh, how dare he? How dare he!"
"Wh-what did he write?"
"He wrote—" Sofia spat bitterly "—that we have to vacate these premises! He wrote that he's exercising his prerogative as first-born son! He wrote that he intends to make this Schloss his primary residence!"
Erwein didn't have to pretend to be shocked. He was, but for altogether different reasons than his wife.
To Sofia, Schloss Engelwiesen had always served as a personal showcase. It was her pride and joy, and although she and Erwein had lived in it through the good graces of Karl-Heinz, she had come to think of it as her very own.
To Erwein, Schloss Engelwiesen meant a degree—however slight—of safety and freedom. Because of its sheer size, it was the easiest of all the von und zu Engelwiesen castles and hunting lodges in which to hide from Sofia.
He couldn't imagine living anywhere else.
"Do you realize what this means?" Sofia keened. "Erwein. Erwein! We'll have to go and live in ... in Schloss Schweingau!"
Erwein's mind reeled. Schloss Schweingau, traditionally the residence of the eldest von und zu Engelwiesen daughters, was a dreary castle on the shores of that dreariest of all Bavarian lakes, Starnberger See, the very lake in which Mad Ludwig had chosen to drown himself.
Worse, Schloss Schweingau was small, and because of its compact size, Sofia would always be underfoot.
There would be no escaping her.
As these thoughts rushed through Erwein's mind, Sofia pressed one hand to her forehead and turned her back on him. Slowly she walked over to the nearest window recess and stared out across the frozen lake at the view of the distant snow-covered Alps, a view she had always taken for granted.
Tightening his lips, Erwein slid a glance over at the nearest door.
This is my chance, he thought.
Holding his breath, he slipped out of the chair and began to tiptoe stealthily out.
Sofia's voice stopped him before he was halfway there.
"Errrrrweiiiiin," she cooed in that parody of sexual intonations which always caused his hair to stand on end.
Erwein slowly turned around, his eyes white and frightened. He could feel his testes shriveling, and he began to tremble. He knew only too well what was in store. Sofia intended to take all her anger and frustration out on him.
She came slowly toward him, her fingers already unhooking the back of her ostrich-trimmed gown.
Erwein backed away. "Bitte, Sofia," he begged. "Don't hurt me?"
"Hurt you!" She laughed derisively and moved inexorably closer. "What makes you think I would want to hurt you, you miserable, cowardly, flatulent little Maus! You are not worth hurting!"
Sofia let the gown slide off her shoulders. Like a diaphanous mauve cloud, it seemed to hover in the air before drifting, crackling with static, down to the marble floor.
Naked, Sofia looked even more powerful and deadly than she did dressed. She was a Valkyrie, Erwein decided, not for the first time.
He swallowed nervously, his giant Adam's apple working overtime. A painful erection was already straining against the rough linen undershorts he wore as a kind of hairshirt to discourage tumescence.
Not that it helped. Nothing would, or could—not once he caught sight of his wife's naked breasts.
Sofia slapped her hands sharply against his face and held it captive. Then, yanking his head down toward a thrusting breast, she looked out over his head.
"I only hope for your sake, Erwein, that it turns out to be one hell of a rotten wedding!"
TARGET:
BURGHLEY'S
COUNTDOWN
TO TERROR
Porston Prison, Great Britain, January 27
The Victorians had not built this desolate, top-security prison for rehabilitation. The thickly walled compound with its watchtowers had been built expressly for punishment. It was said to be escape-proof, this island marooned upon the wintry, mist-shrouded moor.
Inside the cell block, footsteps echoed as Leatham, the uniformed guard, semiautomatic rifle at the ready, led the priest and the nun down a grim institutional corridor.
The nun was sweet-faced, and wore the traditional black-and- white habit, complete with wimple and veil, and seemed to glide rather than walk.
The priest was ruddy-complexioned, and had on a black suit with a black shirt and a white clerical collar. He was carrying an ancient leather satchel, the contents of which had already been searched twice.
Inside it were the portable accoutrements for celebrating Mass: a collapsible crucifix, a container for the Host, a missal, a plastic vial of holy water, and two candles.
They came to a steel-barred gate.
At a signal from Leatham, it rolled noisily aside. A few yards farther on, a second, identical gate remained locked.
The priest and the nun looked at Leatham questioningly.
"Father. Sister." With the rifle, Leatham gestured for them to precede him.
The nun eyed the weapon warily as she passed him.
"Sorry, Sister." He raised the barrel higher. "It's necessary, you know. We keep the most dangerous and violent prisoners 'ere."
Smiling sweetly, she nodded and cast her eyes demurely downward.
Leatham followed them and signaled again.
Behind them, the heavy steel gates clashed shut. The nun flinched.
Then the gate ahead rolled open. Leatham led the way and they continued on; behind them, the gate slammed shut.
Leatham said: "Too bad you can't see 'im in the visitin' room. It was built so's you can't see the walls and watchtowers. Just the moor, properlike."
"Good heavens!" the priest exclaimed as they approached a walkthrough metal detector flanked by two more armed guards. "Another one of these gadgets!"
"Security in 'ere's tight, Father. 'As to be."
"That's quite all right, my son."
The priest handed over his satchel and a ring of keys from his pocket.
"Sister?"
The nun undid the rosary from her waist and relinquished it.
She walked through the metal detector first, and the priest followed.
The detector was silent.
The satchel was thoroughly searched for a third time. Then it was handed back, along with the keys and the rosary.
Now they had to pass through yet another set of heavy barred gates.
The nun gazed around in consternation. This cell block was even more eerie than the one they had just left.
No natural light intruded. No windows punctuated thick stone walls. Only naked high-wattage bulbs, mounted high and covered with mesh, glared and cast long evil shadows.
To the left and right, lining both walls, were rows of thick iron doors inset with peepholes. Near the floor, each had a slot where meal trays could be slid through.
The nun glanced at Leatham.
"Solitary confinement," he explained.
She crossed herself swiftly.
He was waiting. Seated on his narrow cot like a predator, head tilted.
They were coming.
Donough Kildare looked down at his hands. Very slowly, and seemingly on their own accord, his strong callused hands began clenching and unclenching.
Freedom.
It was so close he could almost taste it.
As they passed the steel doors, they could hear sounds. Coming from behind one, hisses; from another, crazed laughter; from yet another, screamed curses. And always, from far away, the eternal echoes of slamming gates.
"God help them," the nun whispered.
Another guard, semiautomatic rifle at the ready, huge ring of keys clipped to his belt, patrolled the corridor.
" 'Ello, Brompton," Leatham greeted. "They're 'ere to say Mass for Kildare
."
"Well, you'll 'ave to be present, Keith. You know the rules. 'E can't 'ave no visitors alone. Not even clergy."
"We know that," the priest said quietly.
"Might as well get it over with, eh, Brompton?" Leatham said.
"It's yer funeral, Keith."
"Yeh. I guess it is, mate."
Brompton undipped his ring of keys, selected one, and approached a steel door. He peered in through the peephole and stuck the key in the lock.
Kildare hung his head, clearing his mind, feeling nothing, fearing nothing, doing nothing, permitting events to unfold by themselves. His forearms rested on his thighs and his hands stilled; he appeared relaxed, yet was as tense as a tightly coiled spring.
Suddenly he heard the key being inserted, and what passed for a smile crossed his lips.
His friends were here.
" 'E looks quiet enough," Brompton told the priest and nun. "But be careful. 'E's already got so much blood on 'is 'ands, 'es got nothin' to lose from spillin' more."
"God will protect us," the priest said with quiet conviction.
"Yeh. But if he don't, just 'oiler. I'll be right out 'ere."
And Brompton turned the key and swung the door open.
Leatham went in first, keeping his rifle aimed on Kildare, seated on the cot. The priest and nun followed him inside. There was barely room for one; the four of them comprised a crowd.
The thick iron door slammed shut and the key turned in the lock.
They were alone with the killer.
Donough Kildare slowly raised his head and looked up. He was a handsome man of thirty-eight, hard-faced and lean of body. His eyes were the deep dark blue of bottomless lochs, and he had thick black hair, beetling brows, and a full beard.
"You came, priest."
"A man of God always comes when summoned, my son," said the priest, opening his satchel and emptying its contents on the cot. "Are you ready to hear Mass?"
"I'm ready for everything." Kildare smiled, and a dazzling array of shiny white teeth gleamed moistly.
"Then let us begin." The priest made the sign of the cross. In nomine Patris et Filii ..."
.. et Spiritu Sancti."
Leatham was Church of England, and to him Latin was mumbo jumbo, as indecipherable, foreign, and lulling as voodoo or Swahili. Numbing enough to put a man to sleep.
Not that he was about to nod off. The cramped quarters of the tiny cell bothered him; kept him alert and on edge. With three of them standing, and Kildare kneeling, he had to keep his rifle aimed at the ceiling instead of the prisoner.
God help us if Kildare tries anything, he thought. There isn't enough room in here to aim.
"Mr. Leatham?" the nun whispered.
He relaxed his guard on the trigger and looked sideways.
She was fingering her rosary. "God will forgive us all," she said.
As she spoke, she unscrewed the top of the small crucifix hanging from her rosary. Then, quick as lightning, she plunged the needle into Leatham's side.
He felt the prick and jerked. "What the—"
"Sssssh ..." The nun put a finger to her lips. "Mustn't talk during Mass, Mr. Leatham!"
And then he was paralyzed by the poison, his lungs unable to breathe. He dropped to his knees, and the nun gently took his rifle.
The last thing he saw was her sweet, gentle smile.
Outside the cell door, Brompton sensed a change in the rhythm of the Latin coming from behind the iron door. He looked through the peephole, but all he could see was the priest's back. He was holding the Host aloft and invoking prayer.
Christ! he thought in disgust. Bloody Papists! There ain't enough Masses in the world to help fuckin' Kildare!
Brompton stepped back and began to pace. He wished the priest would hurry the hell up.
How long does a bleedin' Mass take?
Suddenly three bursts of gunfire thundered from inside the cell.
"What the bloody—"
Brompton lunged for the nearest alarm button, and sirens instantly began wailing. Dashing to the door, he peered through the peephole, then swiftly unlocked it and ran inside the cell. Dropping to his knees, he felt all four bodies for pulses.
The nun—dead.
The priest—dead.
Kildare—dead.
He was afraid to turn over Leatham's body. The guard's uniform was soaked with blood. His face was unrecognizable, grisly with flesh and blood and bits of bone.
Oh, Christ—
Taking a deep breath, he felt the neck for a pulse, then twisted around, and screamed: "Get a bloody chopper! Now! Leatham's still alive!"
The helicopter climbed and began to turn, then dove into the twilight, skimming across the dark barren moor.
"How's he doing?" the pilot shouted over his shoulder.
"He may make it," the medic shouted back, unaware that the body on the gurney was unstrapping itself. "I don't bleedin' get it. Blood pressure's fine. Pulse is fine—"
He never finished. Donough Kildare, wearing Leatham's uniform, reached up, twisted the young man's neck, and broke it.
A minute later, the screaming pilot was kicked out in midair.
Kildare climbed over the seat, grabbed the controls, and brought the spinning and yawing chopper under control.
Turning it around, he dropped below radar level and headed for the coast—and a rusty tramp freighter which waited, beacons blinking, out in international waters.
The five crewmen were also his friends.
For now.
Book Four
THE BIG BANG
Terrorist Still At Large
LONDON, Feb. 11 (Reuters)—After two weeks of Britain's most intensive manhunt ever, police here and in Ireland admit they are no closer to capturing Donough Kildare, who escaped from Porston Prison on January 27 by murdering five persons.
"It's as if he disappeared into thin air," a Scotland Yard spokesman said, referring to the Irish Republican Army explosives expert who posed as a wounded guard and hijacked a medical emergency helicopter.
In a bizarre twist, IRA leaders stoutly deny any involvement in aiding and abetting the fugitive.
"We've washed our hands of him long ago," reads a statement signed by the most respected and influential Catholic leaders in Northern Ireland. "Years ago he was perceived as a hero, but that was before he became a common terrorist-for-hire."
The manhunt, consisting of forty thousand troops and fifteen thousand policemen, has been the country's largest.
"Quite frankly, we have no idea," the Scotland Yard spokesman said, when questioned whether Mr. Kildare was still thought to be in the United Kingdom. "We've had roadblocks set up everywhere, and all ports of entry and exit have been under tight security."
He added that the helicopter used in the escape has still not been recovered, and that Interpol, the Surete, and the FBI have been called upon to assist.
"He could be anywhere," he said, "but one thing is for certain. Wherever he is, he isn't there to promote peace."
Chapter 44
New York City, February 12
It's been gorgeous to see you, too, darlings. Actually, I feel fright- fully guilty running off, but there's so much to do. Can't wait till all this is over. I'm just dying for some girl talk. Mwah! Mwah!"
They exchanged a flurry of air-kisses and then Zandra rushed off in a breathless whirlwind of vigorous navy plaids (diagonally patterned vest, horizontal-and-vertically patterned blazer), black turtleneck, slim-cut black leather mini-skirt, tattoo-patterned tights by Jean-Paul Gaultier, and black paddock boots with stacked heels—proof positive that cast-offs, thrift shop finds, and one pair of frivolously expensive tights could hold its own in a restaurant full of the world's haughtiest and hautest couture.
"A bridesmaid, a mere run-of-the-mill bridesmaid ..."
Dina, unable to vent her steam in public, spoke tightly from between falsely smiling lips as she and Becky sat back down on the banquette and watched Karl-Heinz escort Zandra out of L
e Cirque, where the four of them had lunched together.
"... really, sweetie. I've never felt so ... so thoroughly humiliated."
Becky, wearing a fitted black-and-white plaid wool dress by Valentino, with white collar, big black floppy velvet bowtie, and diamond and onyx cufflinks on starched white cuffs, paused in the midst of lifting a cup of cappuccino to her lips.
"Cherie, please. Listen to me. The slight of which you speak, if indeed it is a slight—"
"Of course it's a slight. What else can it be?"
"—is unintentional. Oui." Becky set down her cup and nodded.
"Unintentional? How can it be unintentional?"
Dina, wearing a fortune of velvet scraps—a fantasy of hand-sewn, crazy-quilt patchwork, from Christian Lacroix—had felt positively matronly beside Zandra's vibrantly youthful, inexpensive outfit. Just another of the many recent injustices she felt she had been expressly selected to suffer.
"Of course Zandra did not mean any harm!" Becky said.
"No? Sweetie, not only did my so-called best friend wait this long to ask me ... and when she did it wasn't even to be the matron of honor but a mere bridesmaid ... and you don't think I should feel slighted?"
"Of course not! You are her oldest and closest friend."
"Oh, really?"
"Oui. You know you are."
Dina, smile cemented on her face, waggled her fingers, returning a wave from another table. "Then why, pray tell, was she too busy—yes, sweetie, too busy—for the dinner I planned for her? Why did I have to settle for this lunch—what?—two weeks later, instead?"
"Chere amie. You must try to understand. Ever since the wedding was announced, Zandra has been deluged. Overnight, she has had to assume endless obligations. Becoming a princess is not easy, you know. There are serious responsibilities."
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