by Alex Archer
He blinked at her.
"I haven't been talking to my father."
"Oh, a significant other. That can be bad, too, even though I've never – "
"Not a significant other, either. He's my – " Annja tried to think how best to describe Roux " – mentor."
"Mentor – got it." Stanley looked sheepish. "Look, that stuff about fathers? The media doesn't really know how I got along with my dad before he died. I'd rather not see that in print anywhere."
"I won't tell a soul." Annja glanced at the cell phone, fully expecting it to have rung again before now. Instead, it lay there quietly.
"The really weird part?" Stanley said. "I didn't realize how much I loved him and needed him until he was gone. My first book hadn't even been published."
"I'm sorry," Annja said.
Stanley swallowed hard. "Maybe I'm a little naïve. People tell me that all the time. They don't expect that in me after they read my books. But I am." He sighed. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that maybe if I hadn't overreacted to my dad trying to help me – and I have to admit neither one of us were really skilled at being parent or child – then maybe I wouldn't have lost all that time with him." He paused. "It's just something to think about."
Annja glanced at the cell phone, which continued not to ring.
"If he thought enough to call at this time of night and interrupt whatever he's doing," Stanley suggested, "don't you think it's possible that he does care?"
"You're right." Annja picked up the phone.
Stanley smiled.
Still, Annja struggled with the idea of calling. It was like admitting defeat. She couldn't get around that. Finally, filled with curiosity as to why Roux had called, she pulled up his number and called.
"You'll feel better," Stanley said.
Annja hoped so. She was thinking that maybe she shouldn't have been so short with Roux because it wasn't his fault, but things were piling up too quickly. It was as if the stakes rose with every tick of the clock.
The phone rang again and again. There was no answer.
"C'mon, Roux, pick up," she mumbled.
But he didn't. Instead, Call Waiting signaled an incoming call. Glancing at the information window, Annja saw that it was Bart. She debated picking up, then decided it was better to be informed. They'd almost arrived at LaGuardia. In another few minutes, she'd be out of New York.
"Hello," she said.
Chapter 25
Wolfram Schluter eased his car into the parking spot near the refurbished manufacturing plant in downtown Vienna. The building had originally housed a munitions plant during World War I, then again in World War II. In between it had produced canned goods.
Twelve years ago it had become a club. Three years ago, without his grandmother's knowledge, Schluter had bought a major share in the club and used it to run his designer drug business. He'd renamed it Club Ripper.
Two men immediately stepped out of the security office overlooking the parking area. They were there to keep the riffraff moving along, and to provide security for the club's guests. People who got mugged tended not to come back, and Vienna still had problems with thieves and armed robbers. Some of them were Schluter's best customers.
However, whenever Schluter was parked at the club, their job was to protect his car. He got out and locked the car with the electronic keypad, then set the alarm.
"Good evening, Baron Schluter," one of the men said, echoed almost instantly by the other.
Schluter nodded at them.
The building's exterior was grim and foreboding, covered in soot and grease left there over tumultuous decades filled with anxious workers. Desperation seemed to have eaten into the bricks that made up the building. Schluter felt it every time he went there, but he didn't let it bother him. He kept his own dreams alive by feeding on the misery and addictions of others.
The two doormen stood a little straighter as he walked through the entrance. "Good evening, Baron Schluter."
Schluter nodded and never broke stride. After passing through the foyer, he stepped into the main entertainment area.
The dance floor was huge, packed with Vienna's youth. Industrial music pounded through giant speakers and threatened to turn bones to jelly. Bars on both sides of the room served an endless array of alcoholic beverages.
On the massive stage at the far end of the room, six band members played deafening death metal and screamed obscene lyrics. The three women on the stage wore leather and lace, looking provocative under the swirling light.
The bad mood that had settled on him when he met Garin Braden clung to Schluter as he made his way around the perimeter of the dance floor. Two security men fell into step ahead of him and bulled through the crowd, leaving disgruntled club-goers in their wake.
Schluter ignored them. In the end, they didn't matter. The club turned a profit, but it was modest. What really drove Schluter's finances was the drug trade.
Behind the bar on the right, Schluter went up to the offices on the second floor. A narrow balcony stuck out over the dance floor, offering a splendid view of the operation. The security cameras that constantly swept the dance area stripped away the shadows.
Felix Horst stood at the security system and stared out over the crowd. He was round faced and round shouldered, but Schluter didn't know anyone who was better at picking bands and music.
"Good evening, Baron Schluter," Horst greeted.
"Good evening, Felix. We've got quite a crowd out there." Schluter sat at his desk, which was identical to Horst's, and tapped computer keys to bring up the financial reports.
"We do," Horst agreed. "It's a new band I discovered. They're getting some play in the trades and the local word of mouth is positive."
"How long are they going to be playing here?"
"I signed them for a month, but I'm going to be surprised if they last that long. I've already had other talent scouts in the club."
Schluter scowled. Since the band had been signed, profits had gone up twenty-three percent. That was a significant move.
"If any of the talent scouts get overly aggressive," Schluter said, "let me know."
Horst shot Schluter a pained look. Horst loved music and didn't care for the other aspects of the club. But he also loved the fact that the club provided enough money for him to hire emerging local talent.
"I'm serious," Schluter said.
"I know."
"What about the band?"
"What about them?"
"Can any of them be leveraged?" By that, Schluter meant blackmailed, bribed or physically beaten into submission. It had worked on other bands before.
"The lead singer has a younger sister with an ecstasy habit," Horst said. "She's got a long history of drug abuse. He's been trying to get her into rehab, but the good ones that can actually get the job done are just too expensive."
Schluter thought about the increase in profits. "If we take care of his sister, put her in a rehab center where she can get the help she needs, will that buy us some time with him?"
"I think so."
"Then get it done."
"That's only going to work for a while," Horst said. "In the end, that band is going to get a record deal and go big."
"Then we'll sign him to some exclusive nights here."
"You can't guarantee that."
Schluter grinned. "If we get his sister cleaned up in rehab, we can always threaten to kill her later. I'll bet he comes around then."
A pained look filled Horst's round face.
"Profit is profit, Felix. You're going to have to learn to be hard if you're going to survive in the music industry."
"I know." Horst sounded tired.
"I'll be needing the office tonight," Schluter said.
Horst looked troubled. "Is there a problem?"
Schluter smiled. "Nothing I can't handle." He nodded toward the door. "Why don't you get out of here? Go get something to eat for an hour or so."
"All right." Horst went to the cherrywo
od armoire in the corner of the room and took out his coat. He left without saying another word.
Schluter settled back to wait, his mind filled with dark thoughts about his grandmother and Garin Braden.
****
Garin stood in the snow a few blocks from Club Ripper. He ignored the cold, covered from neck to calf in a luxurious coat. His phone rang.
"Hello."
"Mr. Braden?"
"Yes."
"We're coming for you now, sir."
Garin looked down the street. "Do you know where I am?"
"Of course, sir. That's why you pay us. Look to your left."
Garin did and watched as a cargo truck rounded the corner and came toward him.
"Get in the truck, sir."
Folding the phone, Garin shoved it into his pocket and waited as the truck slowed to a crawl. A side door opened, temporarily revealing an interior that looked as if it could launch a NASA shuttle.
"Mr. Braden?" A young man in a black turtleneck and black slacks stood in the center of the cargo space. A half-dozen techs sat at computer workstations around him. The young man had round-lensed glasses and a goatee. "I'm Gunther Zellweiger. Please call me Gunther."
"All right, Gunther."
The young man smiled, but Garin couldn't tell if the effort was an honest one or just for show. Gunther wore a headset with a small mouthpiece at his cheek.
Garin looked at the monitors on the walls. All of them showed exterior and interior shots of Club Ripper.
"You have the whole club wired?" Garin asked.
"We do," Gunther said. "We are the most sophisticated and successful surveillance business in the country, Mr. Braden."
Garin grinned. "I know. That's why I bought the company six years ago."
"Of course, sir."
"Where's Schluter?"
Gunther spoke briefly. Almost immediately the view on the wide-screen monitor in the center of the wall changed perspectives and showed the interior of an office.
Wolfram Schluter sat at the desk, looking bored and restless.
"You've already received the background on the club, sir?" Gunther asked.
Garin knew it was the man's polite way of asking if he'd read the file. "Yes. Have you got any financials on Schluter's drug business?"
"He's deriving extra income from the sideline," Gunther said. "But it's only enough to keep the club operational and make some extra money. It's not enough to support his present lifestyle."
"So he's still largely dependent on his grandmother's money?"
"Yes, sir."
Garin didn't like the sound of that. If Schluter had been making enough to be responsible for himself, things would have been different. But he wasn't.
"Have you got his supply network mapped?" Garin asked.
"Give us another couple of days, sir, and we'll get it all for you."
Garin nodded. He didn't know the time frames or the scope of his involvement there yet. The men had been working on the surveillance job less than twenty-four hours.
"Hold on, sir," Gunther said. "It appears we have something interesting going on." He spoke into the microphone.
Immediately, the main screen changed again. This time it showed two men dragging a canvas bag from the back of a sedan. When the bag hit the ground, something inside it moved.
****
Schluter's phone rang. He picked it up from the desk, expecting one phone call but instead getting another.
"Mr. Schluter," the man said, "I'm afraid I have some bad news, sir."
It took Schluter a moment to recognize the man's voice, then remember that he'd sent him to watch the developments that took place regarding the woman, Annja Creed.
"What?" Schluter demanded.
"Dieter Humbrecht and his men have been taken into police custody."
Surprised, Schluter leaned back in the desk chair. "What happened?"
"They tried to apprehend the target, but she was able to overpower them."
"One woman?" Schluter was incredulous. Dieter and his men had fought in several campaigns throughout Africa.
"Yes, sir."
Schluter thought about that. Dieter knew a lot about him. They'd been working together for almost four years. Doubtless the New York Police Department knew that Dieter and his people were responsible for the death of Mario Fellini. Schluter wasn't certain if the Americans could indict him and have him brought to their country to stand trial, but it would all be extremely embarrassing.
On top of that, there was the Viking treasure to find. He was certain the last time he'd been to Riga that he was getting closer to it.
In spite of their friendship, there was only one thing to do. "Get someone inside the holding cell. Buy someone inside. I want Dieter and his people out of the way."
"Yes, sir."
Schluter closed the phone. He had to get things under control. Nothing was working out as he'd planned.
A moment later, the phone rang again.
"Baron Schluter," the gruff voice said. "We have your package."
Schluter glanced at the monitors displaying the parking area outside the building. He spotted the men dragging the canvas bag and settled down to wait.
At least someone was about to have a worse night than he was.
Chapter 26
"Annja?" Bart sounded short-tempered.
Why, Annja asked herself, am I having that effect on everyone tonight? "Yes," she said.
"Where are you?"
"I'm writing up the statement on what happened tonight."
"No, you're not. I sent an officer to your hotel room to check on you. Imagine my surprise when he discovered you'd checked out."
"Bart, you couldn't have been that surprised if you sent someone to check on me. You could have called me."
"You would have told me you were writing up that statement."
Annja couldn't argue that.
"You've got a history of doing what you think you need to do," Bart said angrily.
That's something to be proud of, Annja thought. She remained silent.
"I was worried about your safety," Bart said.
"If you were worried about my safety, you'd have shown up yourself."
Bart cursed. "I've been kind of busy cleaning up the messes you've been leaving."
"That fight wasn't my choice," Annja said.
"No, but you seem to be at the center of it."
"Is this going to get personal?" Annja asked.
"It doesn't have to be." Bart spoke in a carefully measured tone.
"Good. After the last couple of days of being chased around New York – "
"Which you still don't have a reason for, right?"
Okay, that was sarcasm. Annja grimaced.
"Tell me where you are," Bart said. "I'll come get you."
"I don't want to be gotten."
"Annja," Bart said, "you're in over your head. These guys aren't playing around."
"I kind of got that when they killed Mario," Annja replied coldly.
The silence on the line lasted long enough that Annja thought Bart had hung up on her. It wasn't her night for performing well at phone relationships.
"Bart?" she said. "Look, I'm sorry."
"I know." He sounded tired.
Annja felt guilty because she knew she was partly the reason for that. "Those guys killed Mario. I'm sure that you'll find a way to prove that they did. And maybe you'll even find out who hired them to do it."
"Believe it or not, I'm good at my job," Bart said.
"I know that."
The limousine passed through security and rolled out onto the tarmac toward the hangars where the private aircraft were kept.
"The guy behind this is out of the country," Bart continued.
"They're German," Annja said. "Mario was Italian."
"But he had recently moved to Riga."
"That's a lot of area to cover."
"Then how do you know who hired Humbrecht and his team?"
Annja answe
red honestly. "I don't."
"Then why are you going to Venice?"
Gazing through the window as the limousine slowed, Annja saw the small airplanes and jets sitting in front of the hangars. Evidently a few people were taking off for parts unknown.
"Mario wanted to consult with me about something he'd found."
"And he left you a clue where to find it?"
"I think so."
"You could let the police handle this," Bart suggested. "It might take a little time, but I can get some coordination between the NYPD and the Venice police."
"No offense, Bart, but I wouldn't try to tell you how to lift a fingerprint or interrogate a suspect – "
"Person of interest," Bart interjected. "We don't say 'suspect' anymore unless we're certain someone has done something."
"The point being, you've got your specialty and I've got mine. I'm not trailing a murderer. I'm leaving that for you. I want to try to find whatever Mario found."
"You don't owe him that. From what you've said, you hadn't even been in touch much over the last few years."
"We hadn't been."
"Then why – ?"
"Because we shared the same dreams, Bart. You live your whole life hoping you'll find something incredible that will add to what we know about the world that went before us. Something that will illuminate some dark little corner of history and culture that we hadn't seen before."
"You've done that."
Annja thought of everything she'd done since she'd entered the field. She'd been fortunate even before she'd found the sword.
"I have," she said, "but Mario hasn't."
Bart was quiet again. "I understand, but I still worry about you."
"I know. I appreciate that."
"I'll see you in a few minutes."
Before Annja could ask what he meant, Bart hung up.
****
A few minutes later, the limousine glided to a stop in front of a sleek Learjet. An unmarked police car sat on the other side of the aircraft.
Even without the flashing lights, Annja recognized it for what it was. And she knew whom it belonged to. Her heart pounded. She wasn't looking forward to the coming confrontation.
Clad in a black leather jacket, Bart leaned a hip against his car and watched the limousine's approach. No emotion showed on his face.
"Oh, dear," Stanley Younts said.