Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9)

by Vincent Zandri

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  Chase Baker

  and the Seventh Seal

  (A Chase Baker Thriller No. 9)

  Vincent Zandri

  “I saw a scroll in the right hand of the one who sat on the throne. It had writing on both sides and was sealed with seven seals.”

  —Revelations, 5, 1-2

  CHAPTER 1

  Trenitalia High-Speed Train Service

  Somewhere between Innsbruck, Austria and the Italian Border

  The mirror mounted to the far wall of the narrow sleeper car gives the blue-eyed, ghost of a woman away. But then, she’s been following me for hours — ever since I boarded the train in Innsbruck for what I assumed would be a comfortable ride through some of the most stunning and lush scenery in Northern Europe. Fields of tall grass separated by streams of rushing water the color of blue gemstones. Thick pine forests as dark as night at mid-day. Deep gorges spanned by trestle bridges that make you feel as though you’re about to drop off the side when you peer out the window.

  She’s been able to maintain her distance, but I know in a matter of minutes . . . seconds . . . that distance will be breached. It began this morning as soon as we boarded. She followed me to the café car where she sat two tables away, sipping numerous espressos. Her surveillance continued during lunch in the dining car where, once more, she sat two tables away enjoying an entree of grilled chicken and steamed green beans while I ate split sausages smothered in a tangy mustard sauce and washed down with an ice-cold bottled lager.

  She was of medium height, athletically thin, but not too thin with pale skin and thick, if not lush, blonde hair parted carefully over her left eye, which was as stunningly blue as the right one. Unnaturally blue, like she wore colored contact lenses. She sported an ample bosom which, in itself, was enough to rob me of my oxygen, and a shapely behind accentuated by a sexy short black skirt over even sexier black, sheer stockings. Covering her feet and lower legs were black high-heeled leather boots which were also sexy as hell. For a shirt, a gray satin button down revealed considerable cleavage and, over that, a black leather motorcycle jacket. Chase the smitten.

  She smiled at me a few times, and I smiled back just to let her know how aware I was of her. But I wasn’t about to take the bait. That is, engage in a conversation which almost definitely would have revolved around the case I was wearing over my shoulder, criss-cross style so that the thick leather strap crossed-my-heart-and-hoped-to-die should someone decide to snatch it away from me.

  Its contents were the literary find of the century — two book-length manuscripts and four short stories belonging to Ernest Hemingway. The material had been lost for nearly a century, the then aspiring literary lion’s first wife, Hadley, having famously — or infamously — lost them while en route to meet her husband in Switzerland via Paris in December of 1922. So the story goes, Hadley packed all of her husband’s work in progress to date inside a leather case, along with all the carbons. But, while the train was still standing in the station at the Gare de Lyon, she left her berth to purchase a bottle of Evian water for the trip. Having left the case unattended, she returned to the berth to find that it was gone. The manuscripts were never recovered. Much like the relationship which, tragically, ended in divorce less than five years later.

  As Hemingway’s reputation grew, so did the value of those lost stories until they became priceless. That is, to the right collector. Which is where I came in. I’d been contacted by a young, hopelessly hip, and very wealthy collector in New York City who wanted to put my skills to work in retrieving them. Having managed a couple of leads via several treasure hunters and antique book dealers in Switzerland and Austria, I was led to an unassuming bookshop in Innsbruck that housed the material inside its original leather valise which, considering its advanced age, wasn’t in too bad a shape. Convinced of the authenticity of the material after forwarding several MMSs to my client back in New York, I paid the bookstore proprietor an ungodly amount of Euros and, without further ado, hopped the next train to Venice where a private plane would be waiting for me at the Venice airport.

  Which brings me to where I am now: walking back to my private berth after lunch for what I’d hoped would be a long two-hour nap until we pulled into the station. But given the fact that my pale blonde admirer is right on my heels, that prospect is beginning to look dim, to say the least. But then, no one said this project wouldn’t be without its challenges or dangers. Or so my client assured me when offering me a substantial advance which he graciously deposited via electronic transfer into my bank account.

  My eyes lock on her in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I stop. She stops too, the distance separating us maybe ten feet.

  “You’re following me,” I say into the mirror.

  Her brilliant eyes go wide as she runs her hands through her hair. She looks one way, then the other.

  “Are you talking to me, sir?” she asks. Her accent is strange. Not European, not North or South American. I’m guessing Middle Eastern. Perhaps Israeli.

  I feel the swaying of the train car and the weight of the leather bag strapped to my shoulder. The weight not only conveys density and mass, it conveys importance. It is a treasure that more than a few antique book collectors and writers, no doubt, would give their left nut for, not to mention their life’s savings. I guess you could say the lost Hemingway manuscripts are the holy grail of antique books.

  Slowly moving my right hand, I slip it inside my charcoal suit jacket, my fingertips tickling the stock on the 9mm Beretta presently on loan from my Innsbruck contact.

  “Yes,” I say, slowly turning to face her. “There’s no one else standing out in the corridor of this carriage. Who else would I be talking to?”


  She smiles, her blue eyes peering into my brown eyes. The gaze goes through me, makes the small hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. It also makes my heart beat faster. Now that I have a full, unobstructed frontal view of her, I can see just how truly stunning she is.

  “You must be mistaken,” she says, pulling her hands out of her pockets, and crossing her arms over her chest. Clearing her throat, she approaches me. “But, now that you mention it,” she goes on, “I couldn’t help but notice the bag you’re carrying around your shoulders. I haven’t once seen you without it.”

  I cock my head to the side.

  “Call me safety conscious,” I say.

  “Not a bad way to be in this day and age,” she replies. Then, reaching for the carriage door beside me, her hand gripping the latch. “Listen, I was going to open a bottle of champagne. Would you care to join me?”

  My built-in shit detector speaks to me. It says, Chase, proceed to your assigned berth and wait this one out all the way to Venice. But the unattached man in me says, Here’s a beautiful young woman who can’t keep her eyes off of you. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy a simple glass of champagne with an attractive woman. After all, better to keep tabs of her every move rather than lose sight of her. That is, in case she poses a danger to you and Mr. Hemingway’s precious cargo.

  I paint a smile on my face. Not too gracious wide. Not too greedy small. I straighten the ball knot on my black and red-striped rep tie and casually shove one hand into my trousers, making certain my Swiss Army pocket knife is handy. What I wouldn’t give to be outfitted in my usual uniform of a worn bush jacket over Levi jeans and lace up boots, but this job requires the grace and finesse of a rare book dealer. One has to look the part or be denied by underground book dealers who can be as ruthless to threats as they can be obsessive over minute details like spine construction, page bleeds, and typesetting.

  “I’d be delighted to join you,” I say.

  She opens the door, and I step inside. She follows, closing the door behind her, locking the latch.

  CHAPTER 2

  The berth is narrow with a sleeper bed on the right-hand side that’s been returned to the wall storage space by the porter. In its place is a long couch with armrests on each end. A square mirror is mounted to the wall above the sink to my left, and a private bath sits in the far corner beside it.

  As if expecting me, a silver bucket of champagne is sitting out on the small counter space beside the sink. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling inside a pile of ice and two glasses resting on cloth napkins. Outside the large window, the green, mountainous, Austrian landscape speeds by. Vibrations can be felt coming up through the floor of the carriage, through the leather soles on my cordovans, into my feet. Or maybe it’s the sheer stunning beauty of my new, mysterious friend that’s making my legs tremble ever so slightly.

  “Won’t you have a seat?” she says.

  “Nice berth,” I say, turning myself to be seated. “Must have cost you a few euros.”

  She reaches out, takes hold of the strap on my bag. I yank it out of her hand. She gazes back at me startled.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just assumed you’d like to hang up your bag.”

  Once more her eyes connect with mine, and I feel a cold, steely chill run up and down my backbone. Gently, I slip the bag off my shoulder, take a seat on the couch, careful to position the bag tightly between my left side and the far armrest.

  “That better?” I say.

  “I just want you to be comfortable.” She turns, pours us each a glass of champagne. She hands me mine and sits down beside me. Close to me.

  She raises her glass.

  “So,” she says, “what shall we drink to?”

  “What’s your name for starters?” I ask, the effervescent champagne sloshing around in my glass with the movement of the train.

  “Forgive me,” she says, lowering her glass, resting it on her stockinged thigh. “I am Vanessa. Vanessa Gabor.”

  I respond with my name. Then, “And where does Vanessa Gabor hail from?”

  “Israel,” she says. “I’m here on holiday. And what brings you to Austria, Mr. Chase Baker? Are you on holiday also?”

  “The culture,” I fib. “I’m a rare book dealer. I’ve been spending my time seeking out some rare editions.”

  Raising her glass back up.

  “To culture,” she says. “And the great writers in and out of our time.”

  She drinks.

  I drink.

  She gets up, pours us two more drinks.

  “Clever use of the Hemingway title,” I say, sipping more champagne.

  “Excuse me?” she says, sitting back down.

  “In Our Time,” I say. “Hemingway’s first collection of short stories.”

  “I didn’t realize I’d said that. One of my very favorite books. It was, how you say in America, a game changer for literature.”

  “Score one for the pretty lady on the train,” I say. “You know much about Hemingway? His writing?”

  “A little,” she says, raising her free hand, making a small space between her index finger and thumb-pad. “I used to teach English in London. Now I work for the Israeli Antiquities Authority.”

  My pulse picks up. She’s onto me. Or what am I saying? She’s been onto me since I stepped onto the train. Is she really interested in Hemingway and his early works? Or is she interested in something else? I’m a treasure hunter. Maybe I’m in trouble with the Israeli government.

  She drinks down her champagne. I do the same. She pours us two more. Already, I’m feeling the effects. I feel good. Lighter than air.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Baker?” she asks, that smile on her face looking more and more inviting with each passing second, with each bit of rail bed covered.

  I feel myself smiling. “I am.”

  Using her free hand, she pushes her skirt up on her thighs so that lacy tops of sheer black thigh-high stockings are exposed, the black elastic straps to her garter belt plainly visible.

  “Tell me, Mr. Baker,” she goes on. “Do you find me attractive?”

  Judging by how tightly my trousers are now fitting, I find her extremely attractive. She reaches out, gently takes hold of my hand, places it on her thigh, uses it to push her skirt up far enough so that her black silk panties are exposed. She spreads her legs slowly.

  “I think it only fair to warn you,” she whispers, as she pulls me in closer to her, “I laced the champagne with Molly. Do you know what Molly is, Mr. Baker?”

  Chase Baker slipped a Mickey . . .

  Rookie mistake if I don’t say so myself.

  If I weren't so filled with desire for her, I would make a fist and ball it in her mouth. But instead, the drug takes over, seducing me as much as she is. I set the champagne glass down onto the carpeted floor and kiss her.

  When I come up for air, I say, “It’s a sexual enhancer. That’s what Molly is.”

  “Combine it with a soup of intoxicants and you won’t want to ravish me. You’ll want to devour me.”

  Well, you walked right into this one, Chase old boy . . .

  Pulling off my jacket and tie, I climb on top of her, unbutton her gray shirt as fast as I can. I unclasp her bra and expose her breasts. Pulling off her skirt, I unclip her garters one at a time and pull off her panties. As the train enters a tunnel and the exterior daylight is eclipsed, I enter into her. I listen to her moans and screams as the world around us turns black and the train shrieks through the tunnel. This is not making love but, instead, something far more primal and physical, the skin bleeding where her nails dig into me, where her teeth bite through my shirt.

  When we both arrive at that special place, the train pulls through the tunnel, and the sunlight returns. It’s then I see not only those two stunning blue eyes that attracted me to Vanessa in the first place, but my own gun staring me in the face.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I’ll be happy to relieve you of the books, Mr
. Baker. My client is prepared to stop at nothing to see their return.”

  Slowly, I shift myself back onto the couch. At the same time, I pull up my pants, button them, buckle the belt. I press my backside against the leather satchel.

  “Your client wants them returned?” I say, hands raised. “Having them returned suggests they were his to begin with.”

  She thumbs the safety down, her index finger tickling the trigger. She’s playing for keeps.

  The train sways. For a moment, I think she might slip off the couch.

  “The tracks are rough along this part of the journey through the mountains. I wouldn’t want to press the trigger accidentally. Now, why don’t you hand over the books? Before something disastrous happens.”

  My hands are still raised over my shoulders. “You’re going to kill me and dump me off this train first chance you get, Vanessa. At least tell me who your client is. Because it certainly isn’t the Israeli Antiquities Authority.”

  “My client is beside the point.”

  “So then, what is the point, Vanessa?”

  “Your death,” she says, “and nothing more.”

  I feel a giant smirk growing on my face, just as the train enters into another tunnel, and the lights go out.

  I lunge for the gun.

  CHAPTER 4

  She presses the trigger as I grab hold of her wrist. The discharged cartridge illuminates the berth for a split second, like lightning flashing in the dark night sky. It’s enough for me to see the panic on her face. With one hand now wrestling for the pistol, I grab hold of her throat with the other.