by Chris Angus
“What the hell . . .” said Sam. “You’re going to kidnap me? I don’t believe it.”
“Senator,” Ryan said, moving to intercept the man. “You can’t do this. I won’t be party to an attempted abduction.”
“You work for me, Baldwin. Don’t interfere if you want to be paid.”
Sam began to back away as the muscle-bound man approached her. He glanced easily at Baldwin, whose slim build gave him no reason to hesitate. It was a miscalculation.
He might have been a little rusty, but Ryan had had some of the best training in the world. He put one hand on the man’s chest and shook his head.
Graham’s bodyguard looked at the senator, who seemed mired in indecision. Then he simply nodded. The man smiled like a pet Doberman let off its leash. He made a move for Ryan.
Though obviously strong, the big man was a step too slow. He seemed inclined to want to grab his opponent and squeeze him like a rag doll. But Ryan avoided him easily. Each time the man tried to get close, he received a series of lightning-quick punches to his kidneys. Before long he was huffing and puffing and even slower than he had been. Ryan finished him off with a roundhouse that knocked him to the ground, where he sat looking dazed. It was all over in little more than a minute.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Baldwin?” Graham cried.
Ryan didn’t answer. He opened the car door, reached inside, and popped the trunk release. He pulled Sam’s bags out and slammed the lid down. He stared at the senator. “I’ll have her passport too,” he said.
“What you’re going to have from me,” said Graham, “is a legal nightmare. This will cost you your business, Ryan.”
“Oh, daddy, shut up!” Samantha moved forward and lifted her father’s suit jacket, deftly removing the passport from its inner pocket. Then she planted a kiss on his cheek.
“And you’re not going to do anything to harm Mr. Baldwin. Are we clear on that?”
There was a steel in her voice that Ryan hadn’t heard since she’d first confronted him with her walking stick on top of Laki. It was almost comical to watch this tiny woman stand down the great majority leader of the U.S. Senate.
Graham looked defeated. “Sam, I just don’t want to see you hurt. I love you more than anything. You know that.”
“I do know it. And I love you too. But you do the stupidest things sometimes. I wonder how you manage to run a country. I really do. Now please go home. I’m not completely helpless, you know. And I’m willing to accept Mr. Baldwin’s protection, which . . .” she looked down at the man still recovering on the ground, “is not, evidently, inconsiderable.”
Her father shook his head. “You don’t know what these people are capable of,” he muttered. He looked from Sam to Ryan and sighed helplessly. “I’m counting on you, Baldwin,” he said. Then he helped the bodyguard into the car and they drove away.
Samantha seemed none the worse for their experience. If anything, she appeared even more relaxed than the martinis had made her.
“Pretty impressive handiwork, Baldwin,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked, knowing exactly what she meant.
“Ha! You put that goon down faster than I finished my first martini. And trust me, if he worked for my father, he was no slouch.”
“He underestimated me. My size is helpful sometimes in that regard. Next time won’t be so easy.”
“Right.” She was holding onto his arm now, for she really was tipsy. “How about we go bake this alcohol out of our systems?” she asked.
“How do you suggest we do that?”
“There’s a pretty good geothermal pool not far from here,” she replied.
He knew the one she had in mind. Reykjavik was full of thermal pools and tubs scattered about the city. When the winter air was biting cold, it was exquisite luxury to envelope yourself in warm water while your head remained exposed to the night chill. The pools sported thick mist over the water, and there could be currents so hot they would curl your toes.
But he was pretty sure he didn’t want to do it. Patrons entered the water in the skimpiest of attire and more than a few then took off the rest. Sam was inebriated enough that she might be so tempted. Though he found her petite body undeniably sensual, he’d had more than enough frustration the past couple of days.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Let’s call it a night.”
She released his arm and looked at him oddly. “Must be losing my touch,” she murmured. Then she waved a hand at him. “I can find my own way home, Mr. Bodyguard.”
He watched her go, puzzled at her reaction, but staying close at hand in case any trouble should arise. When she entered Bjorg’s, he walked on for a few blocks, not wanting to have to confront her in the hallway or bathroom. By the time he got back to his room, her door was firmly shut.
***
He slept soundly, certain that his internal clock would wake him at three AM. Being able to rouse himself whenever he wanted was a skill he’d learned in the Service. It was something actually taught by the behaviorists. Through concentration prior to sleep, he could program his brain to wake at a certain time. It was a useful skill and saved money on alarm clocks to boot.
He got up, dressed quietly in dark pants, jacket, and black sneakers. He pulled a knit hat over his head, checked his pistol, and slipped out of Bjorg’s into the rear garden. He passed through the gate to Lindargata Street and walked briskly toward the waterfront.
It took twenty minutes to reach IranOil’s headquarters. The front of the building was well lit. He walked all the way around it, checking for surveillance cameras and security movements. For all the careful vetting he’d received as a visitor, the off-hours security appeared to be considerably more lax. There were no cameras that he could detect, though that didn’t mean there weren’t hidden ones. Nothing he could do about that.
He walked onto a pier that thrust into the harbor opposite the building and sat on a bench. During daytime hours, it was a popular tourist spot with food stands, a band platform, and several historic old crafts from another age that were now exhibits. He was alone, except for a man who appeared to be sleeping off a bender from the night before.
He watched the building for an hour. A single police car drove past a little after four, on routine patrol. It paid no special attention to IranOil headquarters.
He saw no security details moving about the building, no changing of the guards, no lights going on or off inside. Either IranOil had complete confidence in its alarm systems or it had nothing whatsoever to hide.
Fine. That was what he was here to determine.
At a quarter to five, he got up and walked around to the rear of the building. He pulled out a small, hooded flashlight and studied the back entrance. The door was flanked by large trash bins that cast a shadow nicely across the area where he stood.
Lock picking was a carefully studied art in the Service. One never knew when an agent might want quick access to a suspect’s apartment or need to find an alternate escape route, should a carefully planned attack on the President lead his protectors to take an unexpected path through a hotel or convention center. Ryan had been one of the best.
He removed a small device from a zippered inner pocket of his pullover and held it up to the lock. He slowly ran it around the entire surface of the door. The LED light on the device stayed green. There was no alarm system.
A moment later, he was inside. He stood silently, listening to the building. He could hear the muffled sound of a heating system but his instincts told him he was alone. He avoided the elevators and took the stairs to the top floor, where he expected to find the executive offices.
Except there were no executive offices.
Room after room contained nothing at all. No desks, no copy machines, no file cabinets, no chairs, no Mr. Coffee. Nothing. Not so much as a paper clip.
Maybe IranOil didn’t need the extra space, or maybe they planned to rent it out to some other concern. But it was pretty strange
given the massive infusion of capital the business was putting into Iceland. They’d constructed holding tanks on the waterfront and a refinery outside of the city. They’d invested in shopping malls, housing developments and numerous small local industries. Certainly, they would need executives to run an operation of such size.
He descended several floors and found the office of Mohammad Reza, the Community Relations man who’d nearly coughed up eighty grand to Ryan’s firm. The floor contained a reception area with two secretary stations, a small conference room, a smaller kitchenette, and a spacious lounge. Reza’s was the only private office.
He went through the man’s files, checking the drawers of his desk and generally making a snoop of himself, careful not to leave any evidence of his intrusion. The files contained mostly records of the various donations and investments IranOil had made over the last year. There were a lot of them but even so, it was a remarkably small record trail. No follow-up information about any of the investments that Ryan could find. No secret plans to exploit some gigantic new natural gas discovery, no business models for future expansion of the oil giant itself. Just file after file of ordinary, run-of-the-mill, charitable and business donations.
After half an hour, he slumped on a sofa in Reza’s office. He was utterly stumped. Why was IranOil here at all? It made no sense. He stared out the window at Reykjavik’s waterfront. It was almost five-thirty and the sun was coming up. He needed to leave.
As he went down the stairs, he stopped on each floor long enough to assure himself of what he now knew for certain. The lower floors were as empty as the top ones had been. The great IranOil headquarters building was making use of just a single floor. Reza’s office was perfectly situated on a middle level. Visitors would assume that lower floors held busy offices full of employees and that upper offices held the top executives who made the big decisions.
It was all a sham. Even the security procedures he’d undergone during his visit were for show, since there was no other security whatsoever. It was all a pretense for visitors seeking IranOil money. He remembered how he’d been escorted directly to Reza’s office. So he wouldn’t stray onto empty floors by accident?
He left the building, locking the door behind him, and walked slowly back to Bjorg’s. Whatever IranOil was doing in Iceland, it was clearly a front for something else entirely.
***
Eva listened to David’s description of what he’d seen in the boys’ locker room with a growing sense of fury. She’d known something was wrong. The poor girl must be scared out of her mind. A new kid in a strange environment being molested by some of the biggest, strongest, and most popular seniors in the school.
“I couldn’t get her to sit still long enough to talk to her,” said David. “Not that I think I could have been much help . . . maybe let her know someone else knew what was going on.”
“That may have scared her more than anything,” said Eva. “She might be scared of her parents finding out. Some cultures blame the girl when she’s molested by men.”
“Are you serious?” David asked.
“Yes. The argument is that she brought it on by her own come-hither actions, by the way she dressed, by being somewhere she shouldn’t, like in or near the boys’ athletic locker room.”
“Jeez . . . she wasn’t there voluntarily, mom. It would have been easy for Sven and Nils to wait till she was alone somewhere and force her to go with them.” David stared at the floor. “If she’s too scared to do anything about this, it could go on all year. We have to tell someone. Maybe we should tell dad.”
Eva put a hand on his arm. “Yes, but we’ve got to be careful. I don’t think we should tell her parents . . . at least not right away. It’s hard to know what their reaction would be. They might blame Sahar. Let me talk to your father, see if he can do anything.”
“Well do it quick, mom. She looked scared as a rabbit.”
Eva nodded tightly. She knew her son was right. Something like this could drive a young girl into a serious depression or psychosis. Even suicide. The girls’ parents probably sensed that something was wrong. Sahar was certainly not her usual, cheerful self. Even a neighbor who’d done nothing more than wave at the girl could tell that.
David left and Eva got into her car and drove straight to the police commissioner’s office. Dagursson was her ex-husband. She’d only been dissembling a little when she told Ryan that the commissioner was ethical but hard-nosed. It was the hard-nosed part that led to the divorce. She’d never had any reason to tell her boss who her ex was. She wanted to put that part of her life behind her. Dagursson had taken the divorce reasonably well and he was a good father to David. They remained on friendly terms.
Dagursson looked up as Eva walked into his office. She’d never come to the station before.
“Eva. Is anything wrong? David . . .”
“David’s fine. I need to talk to you about something though.” She closed his office door and sat across from him.
Before she could start, Dagursson said, “I met your boss the other day.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“He knows I’m police commissioner. It was pretty clear he didn’t connect me with you.”
“Someone’s been trying to kill him,” said Eva. “It would be nice if you didn’t let that happen.”
“I’ll do my best . . . though I get the distinct impression that Mr. Baldwin is not so easy to kill. What’s on your mind?”
She told him what David had seen.
His face grew dark as he listened. “That girl needs help. You were right to come to me.”
“You have to help her without telling her parents,” said Eva.
“I’m not sure that’s the best thing, Eva.”
“You know what can happen,” she said. “She could be blamed for it. The family is not well to do. Both parents work. They probably wouldn’t want to make waves in the community. And it would almost certainly make things even worse for Sahar.”
“They could take her out of the school.”
“You know it’s the only public school there is. I’m sure her parents can’t afford private. What are they going to do? Home-school her?”
Her husband stared at her silently for almost a minute. Then he pressed a button on his intercom and said, “Would you ask Officer Berenson to come in please.”
A moment later a young woman entered. She was short, dark-haired, and pretty.
“This is Officer Margret Berenson. Margret, my ex-wife, Eva. Tell her what you told me, Eva.”
When Eva was through, Margret’s face wore a black cloud. “I went to that school,” she said. “We need to do something for that girl.”
“Here’s what I want you to do,” said Dagursson. “I’m going to call the school and tell them that we’re putting an undercover agent into the school because we believe there are drugs being marketed to the kids. You will pose as a substitute teacher, Margret, and you’ll keep an eye on Sahar.”
“Just keep an eye on her?”
“If you happen to learn anything about our two playful youths, Sven and Nils, that wouldn’t hurt.”
Margret smiled a hard smile. “Always hated jocks,” she said.
Chapter Nine
May 1943
Carinhall, outside Berlin
Fritz Kraus fidgeted. The drive from Berlin to Carinhall, Hermann Goering’s ostentatious hunting lodge on a lake fifty miles from Berlin, was just long enough for those summoned into the great man’s presence to imagine all manner of horrors.
He had no idea why he’d been called, and by the time the Reich Supreme Commander’s private car arrived to pick him up from his apartment in Berlin, his thoughts were awash with possible infractions he might have committed.
It had been a long journey that had taken him from that awful glacier to a post in the Third Reich. Greta’s disappearance had placed him at the center of an investigation, for his girlfriend’s family was well known in Iceland. However, with the lack of either a body
or witnesses, there was little that could be charged, much less proven. Still, he had suffered. As a German citizen, he was persona non grata and the government deported him. He would never defend his PhD thesis or be able to prove that he was as brilliant as Greta had always maintained.
Back in Germany, he was quickly absorbed into Hitler’s Third Reich, becoming a low-level science advisor to the great industrial war machine. Greta became a bittersweet memory that he fought to repress, only partly successfully.
The car left the main highway and passed through heavy forest, winding along the shores of a lake until the first view of the lodge appeared. It was the picture of ostentatious luxury and poor taste. The building sprouted wing after wing, additions to provide gallery space for Goering’s stolen art collection. After the war, this looted art, taken mostly from Jews, would be valued at more than sixty million pounds.
The building, Fritz knew, had been named after Goering’s first wife, Carin, who died of tuberculosis in 1931. Here, Goering organized great bacchanals and state hunts where he affected an archaic Germanic style of hunting dress centering on green leather jackets, boar spears, and medieval peasant hats. He flaunted his medals, styling himself as “the last Renaissance man.”
The car pulled to a halt before the three-story mansion’s pillared front entrance and Kraus got out. He was met by an aide who nodded and indicated that he should follow. They passed inside, through a large hall, and out to a central courtyard surrounded by hunting statues. Here, Goering stood holding a rifle, dressed in his ridiculous garb that Fritz thought made him look even fatter than he had heard.
“Ah, Kraus. Good. I’m about to leave on a hunt. But we’ll have a few minutes to talk.”
He indicated a table where glasses of heavy, dark German beer had been put out, along with Goering’s favorite Bavarian meal, thick black bread with gänseschmaltz or goose fat drippings. The two men sat and Fritz watched as the Reich Commander downed a tumbler almost in a single draught, burped heavily, and leaned back in his chair.
“What do you think of my hunting lodge?” he asked.