"The auction," he said, "shall begin in exactly ten minutes."
The lobby of Burghley's had taken on the look of a police command center. The metal detectors had been moved out of the way, and uniformed patrolmen and detectives in civilian clothes were everywhere. Outside, Madison Avenue began to look like a precinct parking lot.
"Chief, EMS is sending ten ambulances," someone reported.
"Three SWAT teams are on their way, Chief," someone else shouted.
Charley fought to keep his voice even. "Chief, you've got to listen to me! If you're gonna send in SWAT teams, you might as well forget the ambulances. You'll need a fleet of meat wagons. I keep telling you, this is a one-man job."
The PC rolled his eyes. "Officer Ferraro, you're on the art theft squad. What makes you think you're suddenly Rambo?"
"Sir, my partner's in there. So's my girl. Long as I can sneak in, I can enlist their help. That makes three of us."
"You told me yourself all the ways in are wired."
"Yes, sir. But I can crawl through the ducts. Before the videocams were shot out, I caught sight of an overhead heating vent."
"Yeah?"
"And it wasn't wired," Charley said, thinking: God help me if it is. I didn't see jack shit. But I'm willing to risk it. I have to risk it. Kenzie's in there.
For the first time, the PC began to look interested. He stood there looking thoughtfully at Charley. "Give me one good reason why I should stick my neck out and send you in."
"Because I have everything to lose, sir."
"Shit." The PC heaved a deep sigh. "Personal motives scare the living daylights out of me. How do I know you won't put everyone at risk just to save two people?"
"Sir, with all due respect, I think your way would put everyone at risk. The SWAT teams might work, sure. But how many people would end up getting killed in the process?"
"Chief," someone shouted. "The Eyewitness News van just pulled up."
"Goddammit!" the PC swore. "And we purposely used phones, not police band. Some fuck at EMS must have tipped them off. I find out who, his ass is grass!"
"Chief?" Charley said urgently.
The PC said, "All right, listen to me carefully, Ferraro. I don't want you to do anything that'll jeopardize the lives of those people. We both know there's strict SOP for dealing with hostage crises. I'm sticking my neck out by letting you go in. Got that?"
"Loud and clear, sir. And I really appreciate it. But I need you to do a couple of things."
"What are they?"
"Leave the heat on, but turn it way down. I don't want to roast."
"You fuck up, you will roast. I'll personally see to that. What else?"
"They've got Hannes's transmitter and earphones, so don't try to communicate with me. Think you can scare up an old-fashioned walkie-talkie?"
"You got it."
"And, if you could cover me by tossing out some fake info over the microtransmitters every now and then—"
"Done." The PC drilled Charley with hit-man eyes. "I just hope I'm not going to regret this, Ferraro."
"I hope I won't either, sir." Charley flashed him his most engaging, hard-to-resist grin. "But look at it this way, sir. What've you got to lose?"
"Just the mayor, the governor, two ex-presidents, and practically everybody on the Forbes 400. And that's just for starters."
"Right." Charley frowned. "We got any semiautomatics on hand?"
"Only a Wilkinson Linda we're holding for some tycoon's bodyguard."
"Good. I'll borrow it."
The PC didn't look pleased. He handed Charley a walkie-talkie. "Just don't disappoint me, Ferraro."
"I won't, sir. I really apprec—"
"Save it. Now get going before the Feds show up and nix this harassed plan of yours."
"Yes, sir."
The PC went with him to okay the appropriation of the pistol.
"I lost count of how many laws we've already broken, Ferraro, so I don't want to know about any others. You're on your own now. I'll try to buy you as much time as I can. But that's all I can do. And I might not even be able to do much of that."
"I understand, sir. And thanks." Charley stuck the pistol in his belt and the walkie-talkie in his pants pocket. Then sketching a wave, he sprinted back up the stairs.
Two minutes later, he had stripped off his jacket, tie, and shirt and was standing on a chair unscrewing an overhead heating vent.
Talk is cheap, he thought, tossing the grille to the floor. Now I've got to deliver.
Reaching up into the duct, he put his hands flat on the sheet metal and did a neat pull-up.
The metal buckled under his weight and made a loud popping noise. Once he squeezed inside and released his weight, the metal popped back into shape with a peal like thunder.
He cringed and made a mental note to make less noise. Sound travels, he reminded himself. Especially through a metal tube.
But he was in and stretched out flat, his weight evenly distributed. Lifting his head two inches, he peered ahead into the gloom.
Every fifteen feet or so, little lattices of light leaked up through the grilled vents. Otherwise, the duct was dark, cramped, and stifling.
Now I know what being in a coffin is like, he thought. If I get through this, I'll rewrite my will; specify cremation. He changed his mind almost instantly. If this heat's any indication, I don't want that, either. Hell, last thing I need to think about right now is death. There are living people who need my help.
And using his palms, elbows, knees, and feet for traction, he began to crawl.
In the auction gallery, the ten minutes were nearly up.
From the sidelines, Kenzie could sense the growing air of dread. In the front row, Robert was holding Dina's hand, trying his best to console her. Next to them, Karl-Heinz had his arm around Zandra's shoulder, while whispering something.
All over the vast auditorium, nearly identical scenes were endlessly replicated.
On the dais, the Velazquez infanta seemed disdainfully superior to the dramas of mere mortals, and Kenzie wondered how many other horrors and tragedies she'd been mute witness to over the centuries.
Certainly none like this, she thought. This has got to be a first.
The ten minutes were up. "Mr. Jones" was back on the dais after conferring with his "associates" in the aisles.
With his reappearance, the temperature seemed to have plunged several degrees—at least, that was the way it felt to the defenseless captives in the plush red seats. Their fear was an almost palpable entity, like a giant turbulent cloud churning madly above their heads.
"Mr. Jones" was addressing them.
"Ladies and gentlemen. I have with me—" he unfolded a sheaf of paper he had in his breast pocket and placed it on the lectern "—a list of each of your individual estimated net worths. I must say it is highly impressive."
He scanned the rows of seats as dispassionately as a poultry farmer surveying a brood of fat hens.
"In the past, that wealth has bought you many luxuries, but this evening, it can buy you the most precious necessity of all—your lives. When I call your lot number, you will come forward and stand over there, beside that painting."
He paused and looked down at the lectern. Then he raised his rugged, lean face.
"Lot number one," he called out. "Will you please come forward."
The auction had begun.
For Charley, the going was slow. The cramped duct hindered his modified crab crawl and restricted his movements.
If only he could speed up!
But it was impossible. There was not enough height to get on his hands and knees, and his scrabbling low crawl depended upon using his elbows and legs for traction. It was all he could do to manuever forward a few inches at a time.
Worse, the furnacelike heat was rapidly weakening him, sapping himof energy. He was already drenched in sweat, and his arms and legs were numb and starting to cramp.
The temptation to just lie there and rest a while was ov
erwhelming.
Can't, he told himself, letting out a sigh, the exhalation like a loud blast of hot air in the stifling, metal confines. Mustn't stop. The hostages are counting on me. Kenzie's counting on me—
—Kenzie!
He had to keep moving. Rest was a luxury he couldn't afford—and the hostages could afford even less.
Runnels of sweat trickled down his forehead, burned saltily in his eyes.
On he crawled. On ...
"Lot number one. This is your last chance."
"Oh, hold your horses!" called a feisty, elderly voice.
People twisted around in their seats and craned their necks, curious to see who it was.
Near the center on the left, an imperious lady in her eighties with fluffy white hair like cotton candy was getting to her feet. She wore an old-fashioned gown shot through with jet beads, and diamonds to die for.
Leaning on her cane, she made a progress of apologies as she brushed against people who sat sideways or half rose to let her by.
Once in the aisle, she came forward at her own stately pace, her bearing proud and erect, her face unafraid. One of the Colombians approached to help her onto the dais.
"I neither want nor need help," she snapped, wielding her cane threateningly. "Especially not from the likes of you!"
Chagrined, the Colombian gave her a wide berth and she slowly ascended the three steps. Standing beside the Velazquez, she raised her chin, her forthright, denim-blue eyes flashing.
"Mr. Jones" said, "Mildred Davies?"
"That's Mrs. Davies to you," she clarified acerbically.
His features fluttered with a muscular tic, and he lifted one, then two sheets of paper; ran an index finger down the third.
"Here we are. Davies, Mrs. Edgar. Age, eighty-two. Widowed. Resident of Washington, Connecticut. Fortune derived from Yankee Corrugated Cardboard. Net worth eight hundred fifty million dollars."
"So you read Forbes," she sniffed. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"
The eyes of everyone in the gallery were riveted on her.
"Your reserve price has been set at fifty million dollars. Who would you like to call to arrange payment?"
"No one," she said succinctly.
There was a communal gasp.
"Sorry?"
"If you didn't hear me, young man, I advise you to have your ears checked. I said, you're getting nothing for me."
"You do realize the alternative?"
"Death?" She laughed. "You young fool! I'm not afraid of dying. The doctors only give me eight more months, anyway. So go ahead. Shoot. You'll be doing me a favor."
"Mr. Jones" motioned to one of the Colombians, who came trotting.
"You're sure, Mrs. Davies? This is your last chance."
"I'm positive, may your soul be damned to eternal hell!"
The Colombian raised one Uzi lazily and, amid horrified screams of protests, pressed the trigger.
Semiautomatic gunfire chattered—rat-tat-tat!—and the old lady seemed to dance like an amphetamine-crazed marionette before collapsing, as though her strings had been cut, abruptly to the floor.
The screams of the multitude suddenly stopped, as if a circuit had been switched off. Everyone sat there in frozen shock.
"Mr. Jones" banged the gavel. "Bought in," he called out.
He paused and looked around.
"You'd all better start taking this seriously," he advised grimly. "Unless, of course, you want to join Mrs. Davies, there?"
No one responded.
"All right, then," he continued, "lot number two—"
At that instant a cry of agony rent the air.
Chapter 65
Zandra's face had gone chalk white. Her eyes bulged, and with one hand she clutched Karl-Heinz, her fingers digging painfully into his thigh; with the other, she gripped Dina's arm as though to crush it. Then her body convulsed, and it was all she could do to hold on tight as she doubled over.
"The baby!" she gasped. "Oh, bugger it! Something's happening. Oh, Heinzie—!"
She raised her perspiration-slick face and stared at him in fear and pain.
"Hush," he said gently, starting to get up.
She grabbed his arm. "No!" There was a pleading note of desperation in her voice. "Please don't leave me!"
"I won't," he said gently. "I promise." He got to his feet.
"Sit down!" "Mr. Jones's" voice cut the air like a knife.
Karl-Heinz stood his ground. "My wife is going into premature labor," he said calmly. "She requires immediate hospitalization."
"Mr. Jones" shook his head. "No one leaves here."
"For God's sake—"
"Sit down!" "Jones" thundered. "Or do you want to join Mrs. Davies?"
Karl-Heinz's face narrowed. He refused to be cowed and remained standing. Everything about this situation—the armed criminals strutting about, the dead woman lying on the dais, Zandra in torment—filled him with rage.
"I don't have time to argue with an underling!" Karl-Heinz snapped coldly. He raised his hand and pointed an accusatory finger at the lectern. "You're not in charge. You don't have the brains to be. I suggest you consult whoever's really running this fiasco. Or hasn't it occurred to you that we're not worth anything to you dead?"
"Jones's" face reddened with fury, but Zandra's sharp cry robbed him of a response.
Karl-Heinz bent down to soothe her. "It's all right," he told her softly. "Everything will be fine."
She looked up at him and shook her head. "No, Heinzie." Her eyes filled with tears. "It isn't—"
Suddenly she shuddered and blood began staining the lap of her loose white gown. Something was obviously very, very wrong. She was hemorrhaging badly.
Karl-Heinz glanced around, his face filled with alarm.
Even Dina, who had never given birth, could tell that Zandra's heaving body was trying to expel the child. Quickly she rose to her feet.
"What the hell—?" "Jones" roared, glowering at her.
You stupid idiot bastard, Dina thought, and said: "Unless you let us do something, she's going to bleed to death. Is that what you want?"
He glared at her in silence.
Dina continued to laser him with her eyes. Why do things in halves? she thought. Once you're on a limb, you might as well climb all the way out.
"If she dies because of you," she went on, "you can kiss her ransom good-bye. As well as Prince Karl-Heinz's, I would imagine. And the same goes for the Goldsmiths. My husband and I."
Her words had a galvanizing effect: a mutinous rumble of angry murmurs rose from the crowd.
"It seems to me," Dina added, with stinging scorn, "that you're intent upon shrinking your imaginary coffers by the minute."
For a moment "Jones" seemed confused. This volley of verbal arrows was the last thing he'd anticipated.
These people aren't easily cowed, he thought. And as to whether or not this woman's bluffing, that's not my decision to make.
Dina saw him glancing around, his eyes searching the gallery as though seeking advice—no! Not advice, she realized. Permission! She followed his gaze, but nothing caught her attention.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she whispered to Karl-Heinz.
He nodded. "Yes. Besides the eight of them, there's a ninth. Whoever the ringleader is, he's seated among us."
"Jones's" pager emitted three short beeps.
"All right," he barked. "Move her to an aisle. But she can't leave. No one can."
An aisle? Kenzie thought, with outrage. They're going to lay Zandra down in one of the aisles? She was shocked. This was no way for anybody to have to give birth—least of all someone suffering serious complications. Zandra won't have to, she decided. Not if I have anything to say about it!
Kenzie stepped forward. Her throat felt constricted, and her heart was ka-booming. For an instant she wondered if she might not be making a terrible mistake. But there was no time to consider the consequences. Zandra's life was at stake.
"What about taking
her into the painting storeroom?" she called out." That way, it won't interfere with .. Her voice trailed off. With whatever, she thought grimly.
"Right," "Jones" decided, and grinned. "Since you thought of it, you can help carry her in there."
Gladly, Kenzie thought, hurrying around to the front.
"The prince and I will help also," Dina decided imperiously. "My husband has our lot numbers."
Without waiting for a reply, Dina tossed her purse into Robert's lap and tore off her black mesh gloves. Then she and Karl-Heinz reached down, placed one of Zandra's arms around each of their shoulders, and lifted her upright. As gently as possible, they held her up between them and did a slow sideways shuffle to the aisle.
Kenzie was waiting. She grabbed Zandra's feet and lifted her legs.
Together, the three of them carried her, like a fragile, priceless heirloom, to the dais, up the steps, and around the easel and through the double-width doorway behind it.
Once inside, they lowered her slowly to the floor between racks of paintings. Zandra's stomach was heaving again, and Karl-Heinz took the cellular phone and his wallet out of his breast pocket and tossed them to the floor. Then, swiftly shedding his jacket, he rolled it up and placed it under her head.
"You'll be fine," he kept telling her softly. "Do not be afraid."
Zandra stared up into his face, her eyes darkened by shadows. She shook her head. "I'm going to lose the baby."
"Hush. Don't talk like a fool." He put his hand over hers and covered it. She gripped his fingers tightly.
Dina and Kenzie, kneeling on either side of her, pushed the bloodied white gown up to Zandra's waist.
Kenzie drew a deep breath. Oh, shit, she thought.
The hemorrhaging had not abated. If anything, it was even worse.
Dina met her gaze levelly. "We need a doctor," she said firmly, getting to her feet.
"Where are you going?" Kenzie asked.
"Why, to fetch one, sweetie," Dina said, surprised that she should ask. "Where else would I be off to?"
Kenzie stared at her in amazement.
Too Damn Rich Page 64