by Noel Hynd
Finally she made a decision.
No bolt of lightning would illuminate the whereabouts of The Pieta of Malta, no magical key would put everything in perspective. But now there was a crucial new piece to the puzzle.
She went back to her computer. She typed an email to both Mark McKinnon in Europe and her boss Mike Gamburian back in Washington, inquiring by name about Laurent Tissot and Stanislaw Jurjeznicz. She wrote:
I don’t know. It might be nothing, but I’d appreciate anything you have on either of these two.
Their names have surfaced.
Alex.
Geneva
She felt clever and compromised at the same time. Like Peter on the subject of Yuan and perhaps on the subject of The Pieta of Malta, she had not exactly told a lie. She had instead declined to tell the complete truth.
She waited for a few minutes. She found a cognac in the hotel’s overpriced minibar, and poured herself a double.
Then the email account flashed again with an incoming message. Something back fast from Gamburian, who must have been at the tail end of a long business day. No hits on the Pole, but there was some preliminary stuff on Tissot. After a stint in the Swiss Army, he was a career shady character, but mostly an arms merchant. Tissot was not an outright crook, but usually in the gray area of the law and the dark gray area of ethics and morality. Gamburian finished,
More details to follow, I’ll try to boot up an entire file tomorrow a.m. in DC. Cheers, stay safe.
She wrote back and thanked him. But now she was exhausted. Absolutely and positively. She shut down her laptop, made sure the door to her room was bolted, set up her weapon again, and settled into bed, her mind still teeming, trying to factor a dead arms dealer into the mix but not quite able. Not yet, anyway.
After several minutes, she realized not only that she was still awake, but she hadn’t even managed to close her eyes. She was staring at the dark ceiling, watching the play of shadows and light from the curtained window, and conscious of some distant movement in the adjoining hotel room, on the other side of her closet.
She opened up her iPod. She channeled into some light classical music, which did help her relax. Then, as sleep crept up on her, and as she was on the verge of dropping off into its soft embrace, more events and theories interconnected.
And another startling realization was upon her; as she worked scenarios in reverse and tried to distill inner truths from what she had been told, she had another answer.
Somehow, Peter had connected either Tissot, Stanislaw, Lee Yuan, or the pieta itself to Yuri Federov, the man she was in Geneva to find. Possibly he had done this through the computers of the man he had killed. She remembered Peter boasting about how he had broken into their database. Or possibly he had done this through other means. But from there, Peter-the name she continued to think of him as-went to Mark McKinnon, her CIA guy, with whom he had worked before.
Peter needed a way of accessing Federov. But why?
McKinnon, she theorized, had gone to the State Department and Alex’s c.v. had spun off a link to Federov. So McKinnon had contacted her boss, Mike Gamburian, and her phone had rung on a Barcelona beach. Conveniently, she was still in Europe. Hence, very late at night in a Geneva hotel room, she had the answer to a question: How had Peter known that she was assigned to the case before she did?
Well, it was a thesis, at least. It made sense. And then she realized, so did something else. Yuri Federov must have been in a position to know something about the pieta’s disappearance. Otherwise, finding him wouldn’t have been so critical.
It all made a tidy little bundle. And the tidy little bundle was part of a massive mess. Several people were already dead, the perps were still out there, and who knew what the motivation of the theft had been, where the money had gone, and-almost least important now-who knew where the lamentation was?
Well, she would put all this to Peter when she saw him and see what he had to say about it. She even had a bargaining chip: Interpol was on his tail, and he might not even know.
Then she found something new to worry about. Maybe Interpol had nailed him already when he had crossed the border into Switzerland, even though he had probably changed passports. Maybe she was on her own again. And maybe she was now under Interpol surveillance. She might have to work the department-store routine herself.
She blew out a long sigh. A third cognac helped. Her eyelids came together. It was past two thirty in the morning. The bed was finally comfortable. So, for a short while, she slept.
FORTY-NINE
GENEVA, SEPTEMBER 14, 5:32 A.M.
I n the hour before dawn, Alex’s eyes flashed open. She lay very still in bed. Somewhere close to her there had been movement in her hotel suite. But where?
The room was very dark. Her eyes tried to adjust. She made no movement in bed but slid her gaze to the night table. The LED on the clock radio told part of the story, but only a small part.
It was half past five in the morning. Very few good things happen at half past five in the morning. She counted her heartbeats. They accelerated. She knew she was not alone in her bedroom.
But how? She knew she had thrown the chain on the door. How could anyone have entered? Whoever was there was still in the room with her. She let her eyes adjust more and she looked for the pistol that she had left near the clock radio.
That told her for sure that she was not alone. The weapon that she had carefully placed there was gone.
Oh Lord, Oh Lord, Oh Lord!
She felt herself start to sweat. Feigning restlessness, feigning sleep, she kept her eyes open just as slits and rolled over. She forcibly had to control her fear because in the darkness two figures loomed right at her bedside. They were both men. They were big. Their arms were at their sides and neither appeared to hold a weapon.
These men were professionals, otherwise they couldn’t have entered so furtively. They were between her and the door. That wasn’t an accident, either. Oh Lord, Oh Lord, Oh Lord! Her heart raced. Her sweat glands were in overdrive, her entire body was overheating. Her heart thundered. The only defense she had left now was to make the first move.
She bolted up in bed and swung her right hand at the closest man. But the two intruders made their moves at the same time. The nearest man threw out a powerful arm to stop her blow. She tried to force her way up from the bed, but even as she kicked, the second man grabbed her legs above the knees, forcing her back down.
His grip was powerful and overwhelming. She realized that both these men had stocking masks over their faces, and she knew that neither was Peter. Where was Peter now when she needed him again?
Then all of the weight of one of the men came onto the bed and onto her legs, pinning her.
She cursed violently in English. She fought back with elbows and two flailing hands, but the first assailant was adept at what he was there to do. He held down her right arm and forced her upper body down onto the mattress. Amidst grunts and curses, she felt something rip. It was her nightgown.
Then she smelled something that reminded her of ether or some medical sedative. Instantly, she knew what would follow.
She kicked and struggled, but her legs remained pinned. She fought with her left hand, striking incessantly at the head of the closest man. But she couldn’t manage an effective angle on him.
She couldn’t do any damage. Within seconds, he pushed a cloth to her face.
The cloth was warm and wet. It had the noxious medicinal scent that she already smelled. Her assailant forced her head back down. She felt as violated as she had ever felt in her life.
The chemical was powerful. It overwhelmed her immediately. The strength went out of her body, and the fight went out of her arms and legs.
Suddenly, the struggle didn’t matter, because it was over. Alex was drifting, losing consciousness, losing the ability to fight. Losing my life too? she wondered. Who are these people?
What are they going to do to me? Rape me? Kill me? Both?
She tr
ied to move her head, to breathe fresher air, but the powerful hand of her assailant kept the cloth and the vapors against her face. She felt as if her whole body were spiraling down a tunnel. They were speaking a foreign language, but she was so far gone she couldn’t unravel it. She didn’t even know whether she knew it or not.
Then the whiteness faded. Her body eased its struggle and consciousness gave way to an abyss of blackness.
FIFTY
GENEVA, SEPTEMBER 14, 10:00 A.M.
A lex’s eyes flickered, wavered, and came open.
She had no idea where she was. Her first realization was that she was alive. Then she realized that she was lying in a strange room under a single sheet and blanket. There was a pillow under her head. The bed was comfortable and clean, the sheets fresh.
She blinked again. She felt groggy. She let several minutes drift by, feeling as if she were floating. Finally, she tried to sit up, supporting herself on one elbow, but lost balance and slid back down again.
What had happened the night before? She had been abducted, right? Now it seemed as if she had imagined it. Then, as her mind focused back to reality, she knew. It had happened.
Her brain buzzed. She felt as if there were butterflies in her head. Her body ached where the two assailants had grabbed her.
She sat up again and this time was able to remain steady on her elbow. Across the room a double window that looked out onto sunlight and trees. There was a blue sky beyond. There was a door across the room on the other side. It was shut. There was a dresser and a mirror. The room had the feel of a private residence, the guest room of a comfortable home. For the first time in her life, she was waking up not even knowing what country she was in.
She looked across the room. Her attention fell upon the dresser near the window. It was low and wide, three rows of drawers, two drawers to a row. On top of the dresser was a fresh bouquet of flowers. Behind the flowers was a mirror.
Her weapon was gone. No surprise there. She looked at her wrist. Her watch was gone also.
She pushed the bedcover and sheet aside. She swung her legs off the bed to stand up. Realizations came upon her one by one as her brain began to function again.
The next realization was how she was dressed.
Holy -! She was wearing something that she had never seen before, much less worn. It was a deep ruby-red cheongsam, a traditional Asian silk gown with intricate gold embroidery. It felt cool against her body, and at that moment she realized that all her other garments had been removed, with the exception of the stone pendant that hung around her neck. Not only had she been abducted, but, yes, she had been undressed then re-dressed.
The gown flowed to her ankles but was slit at the side. She blinked and felt lightheaded. The moment passed.
On the floor by the bed was a pair of slippers. She slid her feet into them. They fit perfectly. Cautiously, she tried to stand, but wobbled, then sat back down hard on the bed.
Another second and she was up again, successfully this time. She took a few tentative steps that carried her to the window. She looked out. She had been correct. She was in a private home of some sort and was looking down into a garden. Beyond was a comfortable array of outdoor furniture. An expensive sitting area. The garden must have been an acre or more. She carefully studied what appeared to be the perimeter between this house and those that were contiguous. She noted quickly that there were high walls, maybe twelve feet, and on the top of the walls were wires, both barbed and those that formed a security link. She noted the position of the sun and the shadows it cast and reasoned that it was late morning.
She turned quickly and found exactly what she was looking for. In the corner of the room, where the wall met the ceiling, was a small security camera. She moved to the closet and opened the door. Neatly assembled on hangers were her clothes from the hotel. How nice. They had probably checked her out too. Maybe they had settled her bill for her as well.
But the next thing that occurred to her was much more ominous. If she had been abducted quietly overnight, she was here without backup. She would have no way to rendezvous with Peter or even contact him. And chances were, he would be unable to find her. Alex didn’t even know where she was, so how would Peter find out?
She turned toward the door, placed a hand on the knob, and turned it. It opened easily. She stepped out into a hallway onto the second floor landing of a modern house. There were other rooms in each direction, but she overlooked an entrance hall on what appeared to be the first floor below. There were stairs that led downward.
She saw no one. But she heard a distant man’s voice. A one-way conversation. She couldn’t discern what language and figured that the man was on the telephone.
She moved to the stairs. She began to walk down. The stairs had a slight creak to them, so whoever had abducted her now definitely knew she was up and awake, even if they hadn’t been watching via the camera.
At the bottom of the stairs, she was in a wide entrance hall that dominated the first floor of the house. To her left she saw a formal dining room with rich green walls. In its center was a long mahogany table that seated twelve. To the other side of the hall was a living room with plush sofas and several sitting areas.
There were various paintings on the wall-originals. She spotted a Picasso etching and a Miro. The living room, on second glance, was dominated by a Lautrec poster, again obviously an original, in exquisite condition. Minor works by major artists. Seven-figure price tags.
In the back of her mind, she was processing the conversation that she was tuned into, a man’s voice coming out of a study. It was in English, heavily accented, and seemed to be a consultation with a lawyer or financial advisor of some sort. There was some sort of legal flap in Canada.
It stood to reason. The owner of this place was rich, rich, rich. Art treasures and homes like this weren’t left by the tooth fairy.
She turned from the living room and walked softly to the open door of the study.
A handsome, rugged-faced man was seated at a wide desk with an enormous aquarium behind him.
He looked up at her and offered a broad smile, as if, on a very personal level, he was nothing short of thrilled to see her. He held aloft an index finger, indicating he would be another minute on his phone call.
She gave him a slow nod of assent. She more than recognized him.
Next to her in his office was half a wall of CDs. There must have been two thousand of them. She scanned the titles as he continued on the telephone.
Rachmaninoff. Peggy Lee. The Dixie Chicks.
What was it about high-testosterone Russian big shots that made their musical tastes so quirky? Was it the vastness of eastern European geography, or the bloody absolutism of the region’s history, or just something kinky in the DNA? She knew that John Gotti had liked Sinatra, Jerry Vale, and Bobby Darin, but who would have guessed that Yuri Federov was a fan of seventies Schlock Rock and had a complete set of Deep Purple? Spend a first night in a strange man’s home, her friend Laura had once said to her with a wry smile, and there’s no end to the things you discover about him.
How true it was! At her feet was a short stack of books and magazines that had slithered over onto its side. There was something about yoga, recent copies of Paris Match and Der Spiegel, a hardcover book with bookmark- Paris: The Secret History by Andrew Hussey-an oversized volume about Chelsea Football, and a couple of collections of comparative religious philosophies.
She turned back toward him as he concluded his phone call. Federov clicked the phone shut and placed it on his desk. He leaned back in his chair, almost to the fish tank, and smiled even more broadly.
“Good morning,” she said in English. Her tone was cold.
“Good morning,” Yuri Federov answered.
FIFTY-ONE
GENEVA, SEPTEMBER 14, 10:12 A.M.
S leep well?” Federov asked. He leaned forward again and folded his hands.
“Not particularly, thanks to you.”
“The bed was un
comfortable?” he asked.
“What do you think? I ought to have you arrested for abducting me,” Alex said.
“You ought to, yes, but we both know that as much as you’d like to, you won’t,” he said. “So why are we even talking about it?” His eyes ran her up and down. “You look beautiful in that gown, by the way. You wear red so nicely. It’s yours to keep.”
“I can’t wait to get rid of it.”
He laughed. “Take it off right now and drop it on the floor if you wish. I would have no objection!”
She unloaded on him with a creative run of profanity.
“Wrong color?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Wrong way to present a woman with a gift,” she said.
“I apologize sincerely. But I’d be deeply honored if you would keep it.”
“I’ll think about it, all right?” she said, an edge remaining to her voice. “Am I your prisoner?”
“Of course not! You’re my guest.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’m free to go?”
“Whenever you’d like,” Federov answered, “but again, we both know you won’t, not without what you came to Geneva to accomplish. I understand you very well, Alexandra. Educated, strong, articulate in several languages; there are very few women like you. But you have an ‘Achilles heel,’ if that’s the phrase. You don’t understand me.”
He reached for a humidor on the side of his desk and pulled out a small cigar.
“You don’t get the impression that I might be a bit indignant about the way I was brought here and the way your staff seems to have undressed me completely and then dressed me up in a garment that pleases you?”
“You really don’t like the gown? I think it’s rather beautiful, more so with you in it, of course.”
He lit the cigar with a flourish.