"The recital hall! You've blown it up?"
He crushed the restaurant worker's cell phone under his heel. "I'm afraid you were at the wrong place at the wrong time." He then glanced at Faust, who pulled out a silenced pistol and began to aim it at the worker.
"Please, sir. No!"
Which is when the spotlights slammed on, fixing Chambers, Faust and the others in searing glare.
The restaurant worker dropped to the grass and scuttled away as a loudspeaker blared, "This is Emmett Kalmbach, Chambers. We've got snipers and they're green lighted to shoot. On the ground. All of you."
The DHS man blinked in shock but he hesitated only a moment. He'd been in this business a long time. He was four pounds of trigger pressure away from dead, and he knew it. He grimaced, dropped to his belly and stretched out his legs and arms. The two thugs did the same.
Faust, though, hesitated, the gun bobbing slowly in his hand.
"You, on the ground now!"
But undoubtedly Faust knew what awaited him--the interrogation, the conviction and either life in jail or a lethal needle--and chose desperate over wise. He fired toward the spotlights, then turned and began sprinting.
The lanky man who'd made a job of running from the consequences of his actions got six feet before the snipers ended his career forever.
Harry Middleton walked forward into the lights set up by the FBI Washington field office crime scene team.
He glanced at Faust's body then shook the hand of the man who'd been their undercover decoy--the one who'd pretended to have seen Faust sneak from the recital hall.
"Jozef. You're okay?"
"Ah, yes," Padlo said. "A scrape on my palm getting under cover. No worse than that."
The Polish inspector was stripping off the restaurant worker's uniform he'd donned for the takedown. He'd flown in that morning. It was true that getting credentials for a foreign law officer to come into America was difficult, but red tape did not exist for men like Harold Middleton and his anonymous supervisors.
Padlo had learned that Faust was instrumental in the death of his lover M. T. Connolly and called Harry Middleton, insisting that he come help to find Faust and his co-conspirators. There'd be no extradition of any perpetrators to Poland, Middleton had said, but Padlo was willing to give the Americans evidence in the Jedynak murders, which could prove helpful in any prosecutions here.
Middleton joined Kalmbach and, flanked by two FBI agents, cuffed Dick Chambers, who was staring at the colonel.
"But . . . The fire. You were . . . " His voice faded.
"Supposed to die? Along with a thousand other innocent people? Well, a team disarmed the bomb this afternoon, pumped the gas out. But we needed to buy some time while we set up this sting. If there was no fire at all, I was afraid you might panic and stonewall. So we lit a controlled fire in the construction site next door to the hall. No damage, but a lot of smoke. Enough to get us some ambiguous breaking news reports.
"Oh, if you're interested, the concert went on as planned. The Chopin piece, by the way, was pretty good . . . I'd rate it A minus. I'm sure your boss enjoyed it. Interesting you gave your ticket to him, knowing that he'd die in the fire. Should have seen his face when I told him it was you who was responsible."
Chambers knew he should just shut up. But he couldn't help himself. He said, "How did you know?"
"Well, this story that Faust was the mastermind? Bullshit. I couldn't believe that. He was too arrogant and impulsive. I had a feeling somebody else was behind it. But who? I had some colleagues run a computer correlation on travel to Poland and Italy in the past few months tied to any connections in that part of D.C. where Faust called pay phones. Some diplomats showed up, some businessmen. And you--who worked for the agency that quote accidentally let Vukasin into the country. I found out you also called Nowakowski in prison the day before he offered to give up the Chopin manuscript.
"You were the number-one suspect. But we needed to make sure. And we had to flush Faust. So we set you up with a phony witness as a decoy. Jozef Padlo, who you'd never met."
"This is ridiculous. You don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah, I do. Dick. As soon as I got the call from Poland about the first Chopin manuscript, I became suspicious and made some calls. Intelligence from Northern Europeans suggested possible terrorist activity originating in Poland and Rome. Music might have something to do with it. So I went along, to see what was up. The trail led to a possible nerve-gas attack in Baltimore. We got the chemicals and it looked like the end of the story, except for tracking down Faust.
"But I got to thinking about things the other night. An attack out of revenge for our meddling in the Balkans? No, the ethnic cleansing there was about politics and land, not religious fundamentalism. That didn't fit the profile. Maybe Vukasin bought into the ideology but the main players, Faust and Rugova? No, they were all about money.
"And codes of nerve gas in a manuscript? Just the sort of thing the intelligence gurus would love and keep us from looking at the big picture. But in these days of scramblers and cryptography, there were better ways to get formulae from one country to another. No, something else was going on. But what? I decided I needed to analyze the situation differently. I looked at it the same way I look at music manuscripts to decide if they're authentic: as a whole. Did this seem to be an authentic terrorist plot? No. The next logical question was what did the fake nerve-gas plot accomplish?
"Only one thing: It brought me and the rest of the Volunteers out of retirement. That was your point, of course. To eliminate us. The Volunteers."
It was Kalmbach who asked, "But why, Harry?"
"Close to a billion dollars in stolen art and sculpture and manuscripts--stolen by the Nazis from throughout Europe and stashed in a dozen churches and schools in Kosovo, Serbia and Albania. Just like at St. Sophia. We knew that Chambers did a brief tour in the Balkans but got out fast. He must've met Rugova and learned about the loot. Then he bankrolled the operation and hired Faust to oversee it.
"A few years passed and they wanted to cash in by selling the pieces to private collectors. But Rugova preempted them--and he got careless. He didn't cover his tracks and word got around about the treasures. It was only a matter of time until the Volunteers started to put the pieces together. So Chambers and Faust had to eliminate Rugova--and us too. But to keep suspicion off them they had to make it seem like part of a real terrorist attack. They brought Vukasin and his thugs over here.
"Well, after I realized his motive, I just looked for what would be the perfect way to kill all of us. And it was obvious: an attack at the recital hall."
Now Middleton turned to Chambers. "I wasn't surprised to find out that you were the one at Homeland Security who suggested the concert, Dick."
"This is all bullshit. And you haven't heard the last of it."
"Wrong on number one. Right on two: I'll be a witness in your trial, so I'll be hearing a lot more of it. And so will you."
Kalmbach and two other agents escorted Chambers and Faust's two thugs away for booking.
Middleton and inspector Jozef Padlo found themselves standing alone on the chilly street corner. A light drizzle had started falling
"Jozef, thank you for doing this."
"I would not have done otherwise. So . . . It is finished."
"Not quite. There are a few questions to answer. There's one intriguing aspect I'm curious about: Eleana Soberski. She had a connection to Vukasin. But I think there was more to her. I think she had her own agenda."
He recalled what she said just before she was shot: "We are aware of your relationship with Faust."
"Ah," Padlo said, "so there's someone else interested in the loot. Or perhaps who has some of his own and would like to expand his market share."
"I think so."
"One of Rugova's men?"
Middleton shrugged. "Doubt it. They were punks. I'm thinking higher up. Someone highly placed, like Dick Chambers, but in Rome or Warsaw or Moscow."
"
And you are going to find out who?"
"The case is my blood. You know the expression?"
"I do now."
"I'll keep at it until I'm satisfied."
"And are you going to do this alone," asked the Polish cop, with a clever gleam in his eye, "or with the help of some friends?"
Middleton couldn't help but smile. "Yes, we've talked about reuniting, the Volunteers."
Padlo fished in his pocket for a pack of Sobieski cigarettes. He pulled one out. Then frowned. "Oh, in America, is okay?"
Middleton laughed. "Outside in a park? That's still legal."
Padlo lit up, sheltering the match from the mist. Inhaled deeply. "Where do you think the stolen art is, Harry?"
"Faust and Chambers probably have a half-dozen safe houses throughout the world. We'll find them."
"And what do you think you will find there?"
"If the Chopin is any clue, it'll be breathtaking. I can't even imagine."
Middleton glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. Still, this was northwest D.C., a yuppie oasis in the city that often sleeps. "Will you join me for a drink? I know a bar that's got some good Polish vodka."
The inspector smiled, sadly. "I think not. I'm tired. My job is done here. I leave tomorrow. And I must get up early to say farewell to someone. Maybe you know where this is?"
He showed Middleton a piece of paper with the address of a cemetery in Alexandria, Virginia.
"Sure, I can give you directions. But tell you what . . . How about if we go together? I'll drive."
"You would not mind?"
"Jozef, my friend, it would be an honor."
PART II
The Copper Bracelet
1
JEFFERY DEAVER
Finally the families were alone.
Since the start of their vacation two days ago, they'd been in public constantly, taking in the sights in this touristy area along the beaches near Nice, France. They'd seen the museums in Antibes Juan-les-Pins, the fragrant perfume-making town of Grasse, the violet fields of medieval Tourettes sur Loup and nearby Cannes--a dull provincial village when emptied of film-makers, paparazzi and actors.
And wherever they went: too many people around for him to move in for the kill.
Now, at last, the Americans were alone, picnicking on a deserted stretch of white sand and red rocks near le Plages de Ondes at Cap d'Antibes--a postcard of the South of France. Sullen autumn was on the land now and everyone had returned from holiday. Today the weather was overcast and windy, but that hadn't fazed the two families--a husband and wife in early middle age and a slightly younger couple with their baby. Apparently they'd decided to take the day off from sightseeing and strolling past the tabacs, cafes and souvenir shops, and spend the day alone.
Thank you, thought Kavi Balan. He needed to get the job done and leave. There was much to do.
The swarthy man, born in New Delhi and now, he liked to think, now a resident of the world, was observing the family through expensive binoculars from a hundred yards away, in the hills above the beach. He was parked in a rented Fiat, listening to some syrupy French pop music. He was taking in the gray water, the gray sky, looking for signs of gendarmes or the ubiquitous governmental functionaries that materialized from nowhere in France to ask for your passport or identity card and snidely demand your business.
But there was no one about. Except the families.
As he studied them, Balan was wondering too about a question much on his mind the past few days: how he would feel about killing a whole family. The adults were not a problem, of course, even the women. He'd killed women without a single fleck of remorse. But the younger couple's baby--yes, that murder would bother him.
He'd lain awake last night, considering the dilemma. Now, watching the young mother rock the infant's bassinette absently, he came to a decision. Balan had been instructed to leave no one alive, but that was because of the need to eliminate anyone with certain information. He hadn't seen the baby, but it couldn't be more than a year old. It could hardly identify him, nor would it have retained any conversation between the adults. He would spare the child.
Balan would tell his mentor that he'd grown concerned about somebody approaching as he'd been about to kill the child and had left the beach quickly so he wouldn't be detected. This wasn't unreasonable, and wasn't a complete lie. There were houses here, cars and trucks passing nearby. Even though the beaches were deserted, people still lived in the area year round.
There. He'd decided. Balan felt better.
And he concentrated more closely on the task before him.
The families were enjoying themselves, laughing. His ultimate target--the American husband in his fifties--joked with his wife, who was a bit younger. Not classically beautiful, but exotic, with long dark hair. She reminded Balan of an older Kareena Kapoor, the Bollywood film star. Thinking this, he felt a wave of contempt course through him at these people. Americans . . . they had no idea of the richness of Indian cinema (no American he'd ever met even knew that that Bombay supplied the "B" for Bollywood, which, they also didn't know, was only a part of the nation's film industry). Nor did they understand Indian culture in general, the depth of its history and its spiritual life. Americans thought of India as customer-service call centers, curry and "Slumdog Millionaire."
On the beach the two men jumped to their feet and pulled out an American football. Another shiver of contempt raced through him, as he watched them pitch the elongated ball back and forth. They called that a game, gridiron football. Absurd. Big men running into each other. Not like real football--what they called soccer. Or the most sublime game in the world: cricket.
He looked at his watch. Soon, he thought. Just one phone call away. He checked his Nokia to make sure it was working. It was. Balan was known as a fanatic about details.
He turned the binoculars on the families again. Since they were about to die, he couldn't help wondering where they were on the ladder of spirituality. A Hindu, Balan had an appreciation of the concept of reincarnation--the concept of returning to earth after death in some form that echoes spiritual justice for your past life. His philosophy was a bit at odds with traditional Hindu views, though, since he believed that though he devoted his life to death and torture he was doing higher work here on earth. In an odd way, perhaps by hastening the families' deaths--before they had a chance to lead even more impure lives--he might hasten their spiritual growth.
He didn't need this idea to justify what was about to happen, of course. All that mattered was that his mentor, Devras Sikari, had singled him out to kidnap the husband--and kill anybody with him--then torture the man to find out what he'd learned on his recent trip to Paris.
There are more than 300,000 deities in the Hindu religion, but Sikari, though flesh and blood, was higher than them all, in Balan's mind. In India, the social and economic caste system is impossibly complicated, with thousands of sects and subsects. But the religious text the Bhagavad-Gita defines only four castes: the highest are the Brahmin spiritual leaders, the lowest, the working-class Sudras.
Devras Sikari was in the Kshatriya caste, that of spiritual warriors and leaders. It was the second most spiritual class, below only the Brahmin. The Bhagavad-Gita says that those in the Kshatriya caste are "of heroic mind, inner fire, constancy, resourcefulness, courage in battle, generosity and noble leadership." That described Sikari perfectly. His first name, Devras, meant servant of God. The surname meant "hunter."
The man took the names when he was "twice born," a phrase that has nothing to do with reincarnation, but refers to the coming-of-age ceremony for Hindu youths. Balan believed a name was important. His own first name, for instance, meant poet, and he did indeed have an appreciation for beauty and words. Mahatma Gandhi's surname meant "greengrocer"--and was a perfect description of the mild-mannered commoner who changed the history of his country though peace and passive resistance.
Devras Sikari, the hunter chosen by god, would change the world too, though fa
r differently than Gandhi. He would make a mark in a way that befit his name.
Balan now recalled the day he left for this mission. The dark, diminutive Sikari--his age impossible to guess--came to Balan's safe house in Northern India. Sikari was wearing wrinkled white slacks and a loose shirt. From the chest pocket blossomed a red handkerchief. (Red was the color associated with the Kshatriya caste and Sikari always wore or carried something red.) The leader had greeted him in a soft voice and gentle smile--he never shouted or displayed anger--and then explained how vital it was that he find a particular American, a geologist who had been making inquiries about Sikari in Paris.
"I need to know what he's learned. And why he wants to know about me."
"Yes, Devras. Of course." Sikari insisted that his people use his first name.
"He's left India. But find him. Kill anyone with him, then torture him," he said as casually as if he were ordering a cup of Kashmiri shir chai--pink salt tea.
"Of course."
His mentor had then smiled, taken Balan's hand and given him a present: a thick copper bracelet, an antique, it seemed. A beautiful piece, streaked with a patina of green. It was decorated with ancient writing and an etching of an elephant. He'd slipped the bracelet on Balan's wrist and stepped back.
"Oh, thank you, Devras."
Another smile and the man who had brought so much death to some and hope to others whispered one of his favorite expressions: "Go and do well for me."
And with that Devras Sikari stepped out the door and vanished back into the countryside of Kashmir.
Now, remaining hidden from the victims soon to die, Balan glanced down at the bracelet. He knew it signified more than gratitude: the gift meant that he was destined for some place high in Sikari's organization.
It was also a reminder not to fail.
Do well for me . . .
Balan's phone trilled.
"Yes?"
Without any greeting, Jana asked coolly, "Are you in position?"
"Yes."
"I'm up the beach road, a hundred yards." Jana had a low and sultry voice. He loved the sound. He pictured her voluptuous body. In the past few days, as they'd prepared for the attack and conducted their surveillance, she'd worn bulky clothes that had concealed her figure. Only last night, when they'd met in a cafe to survey the escape route, had she worn anything revealing: a thin t-shirt and tight skirt. She'd glanced down at the outfit and explained dismissively that it was just another costume. "I'm only playing tourist."
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