Sofia slid her cellular phone out of her purse and punched the automatic speed dial for the clinic outside Augsburg. Lifting the phone to her ear, she spoke softly into it. "Dr. Rantzau, please. Tell him it's Princess von und zu Engelwiesen."
Then she waited, ignoring the Lebanese who was cursing her from the aisle and gesturing that she put the phone away.
Dr. Rantzau came on the line. "Your Highness? I was about to call you. I'm sorry. Your father is slipping away. The priest has just been here to give him his last rites."
The priest! Sofia thought. Who gives a damn about the priest? "Are Herr Meindl and his son there?" That's what's important!
"Yes, Your Highness."
"They are to remain there to time and witness what happens."
"Yes, Your High—"
Sofia punched off the phone and slid it back inside her purse.
She thought: If Zandra should give birth now, it's doubtful the child will live. Not that it matters, anyway. There's not one, let alone the three requisite lawyers present to confirm the birth.
She was smiling.
Things really couldn't be working out any better . . .
Outside Burghley's, the floodlit Venetian facade throbbed with colors from the flashing blue, red, and orange light bars atop the various emergency vehicles. Inside the police barricades, the number of squad cars had tripled, joined now by FBI sedans, a total of twenty EMS vehicles, six fire engines, and two bomb squad vans.
Overhead, news helicopters circled the twin campaniles of Auction Towers like predatory birds, feeding live aerial footage back to the networks.
The number of spectators on the scene had multiplied, obviously a result of the breaking news headlines.
All over the country, people were glued to their TV sets.
This was television at its best. Not only was a real-life hostage drama unreeling, but the victims were among the richest, most powerful, and protected people on earth, the privileged few who waltzed through life inhabiting a seemingly more elegant and brighter parallel universe.
Now the sordid horrors of the real world had caught up with them.
And millions watched. Fascinated.
"The fuck is going on?" Charley muttered silently to himself. He was above the auction gallery, peering down through a ventilation grille. At first glance, everything looked normal, like an auction was in session.
Then a man with a semiautomatic Uzi revolver in each hand passed directly below him.
Definitely not normal, Charlie thought. Just about as far from normal as you can get.
Now that he was on the lookout, other gunmen caught his eye, eight if you counted the one behind the lectern. Beside him stood a well-known, elegant white-haired man in his seventies. Charley turned his head sideways, putting his ear to the grille to listen.
"Lot number two. Veroni, Maurizio Paolo. Age, seventy-three. Married. Resident of Bareggio, Como, Rome, Pantelleria, New York, Paris, and London. Industrialist. Fortune derived from Fido automobiles. Net worth six billion dollars. Your reserve price has been set at five hundred million ..."
Holy shit! Charley raised his head. They're auctioning off people!
He quickly crawled on, trying to move faster. Hoping to God that the painting storeroom wasn't guarded. That he could crawl out and hop down in there.
I've got to radio for help, he thought. There are too many of them. Trying to take them out single-handedly would be suicide. And I'm not ready to die just yet.
The police commissioner was taking the heat from the Feds. "You have done your part, now you stay out of this," the head of the local FBI office was telling him, punctuating each "you" and "your" with a jab of his finger. "From here on in, it's our call. You got that?"
As usual, the Suits had come barging in, trampling over everyone and leaving a trail of bruised egos in their wake.
Except this isn't a matter of bruised egos, the PC thought. It's a matter of life and death.
"Back off, buddy," he retorted, showing starch and backbone. "First off, I've put a man in there. No one jeopardizes him or does anything until we hear from him."
"And how long's that going to take?"
"Till I say so. Second, unless I personally hear differently from your director, we do this my way. You don't know diddly about what's going on in there. Third, you want to know how many of the hostages are personal friends of the President's? I'll gladly show you the list. You get trigger-happy, I'll go right over your head and call the White House. You'll be lucky if they send you to a field office in Alaska or North Dakota!"
"Fifteen minutes," the Fed snapped. "After that, it's our show. Fifteen minutes is all I'll give you." Again, he jabbed his index finger on the word "you."
Quick as a flash, the PC grabbed the digit and held tight.
"Hey—!"
"And fourth," the PC growled quietly, "next time you point your fuckin' finger at me, I'm gonna fuckin' break it off, buddy! You got that?"
Then the PC let go of him and strode toward the waiting SWAT teams to brief them on the heating ducts. I must be crazy, he thought. I've got more faith in Ferraro than all the Suits combined.
He wondered if maybe it wasn't time to get his head checked.
"Lady, you're becoming one hell of a pain in the ass. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now."
Dina was undaunted. "Because," she informed him calmly, "my friends and I are much too valuable to shoot. Or perhaps you'd like to use your beeper and ask permission from your superior?"
The blood blossomed under the skin of "Jones's" face, coloring it crimson. "I'm in charge," he snarled. "Maybe killing you will prove it." He raised one of his revolvers and aimed it at her.
Dina froze. For one horrible, drawn-out split second, she wondered whether she had actually gone too far.
Then his beeper emitted a single burst of sound.
He kept the revolver trained on her a moment longer before slowly lowering it.
So Heinzie and I guessed correctly! Dina thought. The mastermind really was out there somewhere. Somehow, we'll have to find a way to flush him out.
But that could wait.
She addressed the assemblage in a loud, clear voice: "I believe I recognized Dr. Irving Landau, the heart surgeon, when we first came in. Dr. Landau? If it is you, please. We need help desperately."
The handsome, gray-haired surgeon rose from the eleventh row on the right.
"I can't thank you enough, doctor. We shall cover your ... er, reserve price." Carefully avoiding Robert, who was no doubt keeping a mental tally and ready to go ballistic, Dina's eyes swept the rows of seats. "Also, to witness the birth, we need three practicing attorneys—"
"No!" Sofia screamed, jumping to her feet. "You can't let her—"
"Silence!" thundered the Lebanese on her side of the aisle, who raised his Uzi. "Sit down!"
"Erwein!" she whined. "Do something!"
Erwein did. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her down into her seat.
She shook off his hand and turned on him. "I told you to do something!" she hissed.
"I did. I was saving your life."
"Humpf!" she sniffed, turning away. Erwein saving me! she thought. What a joke!
"For legal reasons," Dina continued, "this child's birth must be witnessed by three attorneys. So please. If there are three of you, we'll be happy to pay for your reserves also."
Now she could distinctly hear Robert choke.
"Any three of you," Dina added urgently as five men rose from their seats. "But please! Hurry!"
Dr. Landau had reached the dais and Dina swiftly took him by the arm, guided him around the Velazquez, and into the painting storeroom. He took one look at Zandra and stripped off his jacket.
"Cover her with this." He tossed it at Karl-Heinz. "We don't want her to go into shock."
Unasked, Kenzie unbuttoned her suit jacket and gave it to Karl- Heinz, and Dina slid out of her burgundy cut-velvet silk jacket and did the same.
Kenzie stared at the attorneys as they shed their coats. Each was famous, a star in his own field.
One was the top divorce lawyer in the country.
Another was the infamous consigliere of a Mafia crime syndicate.
And the third was a well-known entertainment lawyer.
Only Dina could have come up with that selection, Kenzie thought admiringly.
"Water," Dr. Landau ordered, plucking the gold cufflinks off his white shirt, rolling up his sleeves, and kneeling between Zandra's parted legs.
Kenzie said, "There isn't any, I'm afraid."
He shook his head in despair and sighed. "Well, then we'll just have to make do. Perfume?"
"Zandra was still clutching her purse when we brought her in," Kenzie said. "Let me see."
She looked around, spied it, and snapped it open. "Will a spray bottle of Panthere de Cartier do?"
"In a pinch, yes." Dr. Landau held up his hands. "And be quick about it."
Kenzie liberally squirted both sides of his hands and half his forearms.
"Now, here's what's required, sweeties," Dina was telling the attorneys. "If the child is a boy, we shall need an affidavit confirming its sex, the exact time of birth, and the fact that you each witnessed it, and that it came from the womb of Princess Zandra. That's all. Here. My watch keeps perfect time."
She unclasped her diamond-encrusted gold timepiece and handed it to the consigliere.
The three attorneys compared the time on Dina's watch with their own wristwatches, and looked at one another and frowned.
Meanwhile, Dr. Landau was putting his hand up inside Zandra to dilate her cervix. He felt around carefully.
Zandra clenched her teeth against the pain.
"I can't feel the child's head," Dr. Landau said. "The womb is blocked by the afterbirth. This won't be pretty, but—" Swiftly he began pulling out the bloodied tissue. When the obstruction was cleared, he broke the waterbag, and the amniotic fluid flowed forth. Then, gently but firmly, he guided the tiny, sixteen-inch child down the channel and out of Zandra's body.
"Eight-seventeen," the entertainment lawyer announced, consulting Dina's watch. The others looked at it and murmured their concurrence.
"Look!" Kenzie exclaimed. "The bleeding! It's stopped!"
"Thank God," Karl-Heinz offered up softly.
Dr. Landau placed the child on Zandra's abdomen.
"Is it ..." Kenzie began uneasily. "It doesn't seem to be breathing."
"Give it a second." The doctor gently rubbed the infant's back to stimulate its breathing.
Nothing.
Quickly he turned the child around, put his mouth around its tiny nose and mouth, and sucked to clear the passages.
Then it came. A feeble cry, but a cry all the same.
The child was alive! And breathing!
"Look!" Dina clapped her hands together in delight. "It is a boy! Oh, Zandra! Sweetie, it's a son! You have a son!"
"Truly?" Zandra whispered, looking up at Karl-Heinz.
He grinned. "You'll see for yourself in a moment."
"Scissors," Dr. Landau said.
"My Swiss Army knife has a tiny pair." Karl-Heinz dug it out of his trouser pocket.
"If anyone has a lighter, please sterilize it."
The divorce lawyer flicked his gold lighter and Karl-Heinz held the tiny folding scissors into the flame. Then the doctor took them, cut the umbilical cord, and tied it.
"Clean handkerchiefs."
Several were forthcoming, and Dr. Landau dried the tiny, skinny red infant. It let out a thin but indignant bleat and clenched and unclenched its tiny hands.
"It's very important you keep him warm," Dr. Landau cautioned. "I don't know whether it's my imagination or not, but it seems to have gotten decidedly chilly in here."
Carefully he placed the baby in Zandra's arms. "Here you go."
"Oh, gosh. But, he's so tiny and frail!" she exclaimed. "He feels frightfully light." She stared at Dr. Landau. "He can't weigh more than three or four pounds!"
"I know. Keep him under the covers, but don't smother him. He needs all the oxygen he can get. His lungs won't be fully developed yet."
Zandra nodded.
"Also, in order to survive, he'll require incubation. And soon."
Just then the heating vent on the overhead duct at the back of the storeroom popped open and Charley's head poked out, upside down. He was holding a finger to his lips and grinning from ear to ear.
Kenzie looked back and forth from him to the baby. It was hard to assimilate everything. Too much was happening all at once.
Then she felt a surge of joy the likes of which she had never known.
"It won't be long before he's incubated," she assured Zandra confidently. "See? My Charley is radioing for help already. Now let's quiet down and not give away what's happening. But first, will some of you men please help Charley down? That's quite a drop, and I don't want my hero to get hurt."
Chapter 66
In the lobby, the police commissioner listened to the squawks com ing from the walkie-talkie, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree. He flashed the Fed a grin. "Your guy?"
"That's right," the PC said. "SWAT team!"
The waiting special forces jumped to attention.
"Listen up good!"
He relayed Charley's information.
"Any questions?"
There were none.
"Go!"
The assembled squad rushed the stairs with a clatter, heading toward the open vent on the floor above. The cavalry was on its way.
In the painting storeroom, time was passing with excruciating slowness. For everyone, the wait for the SWAT team seemed the longest and most difficult of their lives.
Out in the gallery, the obscene mockery of an auction had resumed. The air of mutiny had given way to resignation, and "lots" two through eleven had capitulated. The high and mighty, reduced to fear and power- lessness, were on the telephones, arranging for the delivery of bearer bonds.
No one wanted to join Mildred Davies. Lot number twelve was being called.
In the storage room, time seemed to have come to a complete standstill.
Behind one of the rolling racks laden with sideways stacked paintings, Kenzie was keeping Charley company, the two of them sitting on the floor.
"You risked your life being the first one through!" she marveled. "What made you do it, you lovable fool?"
"Keep your voice down," he whispered, raising his revolver and chancing a moment's glance around the corner before ducking back out of sight. "Last thing we need's for one of those thugs to come investigate."
"Is that any way to answer a question?"
"If you must know, I have a personal stake in this," he said.
"Oh?" Her eyebrows, raised in amusement, disappeared up under her bangs. "And what might that be?"
"What do you think, you amoral, heartless, infuriating, two-timing, prick-teasing pain in the ass?"
"Why, Charles Gabriel Ferraro!" she said huskily, staring at him in pleased, wide-eyed wonder. "I do believe that's your way of saying you love me!"
"Maybe," he said, holding his revolver with both hands and keeping it pointed ceilingward in readiness.
"And to think," she murmured, "how much misery I put you through. All because I was unable to decide."
He squinted at her. "This mean you finally made up your mind?"
"Oh, I think so."
"And?"
She held his gaze. "First, why don't we see about getting out of this alive."
"This your way of saying yes?"
"Could be."
"Still afraid to commit," he said in exasperation. "That it?"
She shook her head. "You're my number one hero," she said.
"What does that mean?"
"Oh, really, Charley! Don't you ever pay attention to the movie
s? The hero always gets the girl in the end."
"Takes a tough man," he cracked, "to win a tender woman."
Intuition told Dina not to press her luck by interrupting the "auction" yet again. "We have pens, sweeties," she informed the attorneys, "but no paper. In order to be legal, the affidavit doesn't have to be written on paper, does it?"
The divorce lawyer shook his head. "So long as the wording's correct, and it's properly signed and witnessed, it can be written on most any surface."
"Splendid!"
Dina looked around, spied a small gilt-framed painting in the nearest rack, and appropriated it without giving it a glance. She placed it up- side-down atop the rack, the back of the aged, stretched brown canvas facing up.
"Here you go, sweeties," she purred. "You can write up the appropriate legalese on this."
The three men looked at one another and shrugged.
"Why not?" said the consigliere. He gave Dina a solemn look. "Just so long as the prince buys the painting. If anyone else winds up with it, he's out of luck."
"Oh, he'll buy it, sweetie," Dina assured him. "Don't you worry about that."
The men huddled around the canvas, deep in whispered conversation about the precise wording of the document.
Zandra, holding her newborn under the warmth of the jackets which covered her, lay with her head cradled in Karl-Heinz's lap.
"You see?" he whispered, smiling down at her. "Did I not tell you everything would be fine?"
She stared up at him. "Yes," she said softly, "you did." Then her voice took on an anxious edge. "But, darling, what about an incubator? He needs one in order to survive!"
"You heard Kenzie," he said. "Help is on the way. Give it a few min—"
He was interrupted by the chirrup of his cellular phone. Reaching out to where he'd dropped it, he picked it up, and took the call.
"Yes?"
"Your Highness? It's Dr. Rantzau."
Karl-Heinz instinctively tensed, bracing himself for bad news. "Yes, doctor?"
"If I might extend my most sincere condolences," the director of the clinic said gravely. "His Highness, Prince Leopold, passed away several minutes ago."
Too Damn Rich Page 65