“Not the best place,” said Gellert, “to meet.”
The figure pulled out a chair and sat down, gesturing for the waitress to come.
“It does not matter now,” he said. “There are no secrets anymore.”
The waitress appeared.
“I shall have what my friend here is having.”
“Kleiner Scwarzen?”
“Ja.”
She disappeared.
The two sat in silence for a time, as people came and went around them, and an occasional maid appeared going in or coming out of the rooms above.
It was one in the afternoon.
The hotel was only half full.
The rooms needed to be ready by two, though, and this caused a bit of last minute bustle.
“So. What is the situation?”
A shrug:
“The situation is lost.”
“How can that be? Beckmeier had at least twenty good men. Paramilitary. Well trained. How many more could Red Claw have had?”
“He had no more. He had precisely twenty. The same twenty Beckmeier thought that he himself had.”
Gellert thought for a time, then nodded, and said, quietly:
“Red Claw bought them off.”
“Jawohl, mein Herr. That he did.”
“How much did he…”
“Twenty thousand dollars apiece. With more, probably to come. My sources tell me much more.”
“How is this man, this ‘claw,’ getting his financing?”
“Keine Ahnung.”
No idea.
The second cup of coffee came.
“Danke.”
“Bitte schon.”
The small man, who was dressed in a Styrian gray-green hunting suit that seemed to have been tailored for a child, sipped, winced at the burn, then sipped again.
“Where,” asked Gellert, “are my smuggling operatives?”
“Again, I have only a few sources still reporting to me. Many have left Styria. Or Austria.”
“I understand.”
“But one of them I do trust. The man tells me that these people you employed have been kept, let us say ‘under wraps’ in various estates, all of whose owners are loyal to Red Claw. They are now being brought to Eggenburg, even as we speak.”
“And when they arrive, Red Claw will burn the palace down. For them all to see. And for Beckmeier to see.”
“You are well informed.”
“I have my sources, too. Before the great conflagration, I assume all of the paintings in Eggenburg will be loaded in trucks and taken away.”
“Almost certainly.”
“How many paintings?”
“Fifty three.”
“My God. Beckmeier was quite a collector.”
“Or quite a thief.”
“Many would say they are one in the same,” said Gellert, quietly.
“Possibly.”
“So, all right. Red Claw wants his paintings back. What does he plan to do with my people?”
“No one knows. But the story seems to be that he’s recreating what the Holocaust must have been like. The Jews were forced by the Nazis to watch their ghettos burn—then they were herded like animals into trains or vans, and then…”
“Yes. I know what ‘then’ means. Beckmeier was no Nazi, though. Nor were my people.”
The small man shook his head:
“Beckmeier was no Nazi. But his father was.”
“Beckmeier’s father fought with the Nazis?”
“Beckmeier’s father owned factories that supplied weapons to the Nazis. No Hapbsburg actually goes to war in this century, or the last. Once the cavalry was eliminated, so was all military honor and glory, at least in the eyes of old aristocrats. Crawling around in the mud, machine gun fire—no, better simply to get rich and let the poor people die.”
“And Beckmeier’s father did get rich?”
“The family fortune quadrupled.”
“And now is payback time. But this still does not explain why this monster wants to send my operatives to gas ovens.”
“I did not say he did. I have no idea what he plans to do with them. But I do know that your plans, if I have understood them correctly, are completely insane.”
Gellert merely shrugged and said:
“That is my business. The question remains: can you get me to Eggenburg tonight?”
“If you go to Eggenburg, you will be taken like all of the others. Whatever happens to them will happen to you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not ‘perhaps.’ Certainly.”
“Then it will be a kind of adventure.”
“Your last adventure, Gellert. Certainly your last one. How can you possibly think of surviving, of getting out of there, even if you do get in?”
“Paintings.”
“Which paintings?”
“I have several still in my possession. I’m certain that Red Claw wants them. Perhaps we can bargain.”
“Or perhaps Red Claw will prove to be a man of medieval spirit. And he will simply put you on the rack. Then you will divulge the location of these masterpieces. And that will be the end of you.”
“That might also happen.”
“But Gellert—all right, you have the paintings! Disappear, for God’s sakes!”
Michael Gellert shook his head:
“The man is too smart. I don’t know how he derives his intelligence—but derive it, he does. I’d never feel safe. He’d find me somehow. And the paintings. No. I want there to be an end of it, one way or another. And besides, there’s someone who should not be at Eggenburg now, someone…”
He paused, then shook his head:
“Does not matter. The bottom line is, I shall go there tonight and beg. Now. Can you get me out there?”
“It’s a difficult thing. Besides the twenty armed men, there are others to deal with. You must know that Eggenburg Palace lies some kilometers to the south of Lake Moorbach, above which sits the small village of Altdorf.”
“All right. Go on.”
“For tonight, all ways into Eggenburg are closed off. Red Claw wants no chance witnesses to what he’s going to do. There are several places along the lake where boats can land. But they’re all being watched. Watched carefully. If you’re found attempting to cross Moorbach, by any of the villagers who’ve been paid off by Red Claw—why, then you will not be escorted into Eggenburg to plead with Reklaw. You’ll be shot, and your body will be thrown into the lake. Punkt. Schluss. Fertig.”
“So how can I…”
“As I say, I’m not without a few contacts. One of them—one of the paramilitary—still remains loyal to me. At least, I believe he does. Now. You have money?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see it.”
Gellert opened a portfolio which sat on the floor beside him.
He shoved it across the table.
The man sitting opposite him opened it, examined the contents, then said quietly:
“That is satisfactory. All right. Here’s how it will work. If it will work at all.”
“Go on.”
“There’s only one village tavern in Altdorf. Drive down into the village; you’ll see it. Go there. Try to arrive in the early evening.”
“All right.”
“Wait for a call. If no call comes, then go home, the thing has failed.”
“But if it does come…”
“Then you go up the hill to the cathedral which overlooks both Altdorf and Lake Moorbach. The cathedral houses an ossuary, a charnel house.”
“A boneyard.”
“If one wishes to be crass about the thing.”
“Bones are bones.”
“At any rate, the cathedral is never locked. Most village sanctuaries such as this remain open, for villagers who want to go in at midnight or later to pray. If one is old, and one is in Altdorf, there’s nothing more to be done.”
“I understand.”
“From the cathedral, you can enter the charnel hou
se. In the charnel house, you enter a tunnel. This tunnel leads down to the lake.”
“Why in God’s name would anyone have built such a tunnel?”
“It goes back hundreds of years, as does the cathedral itself. It was meant as an escape tunnel, to be used by the villagers when the place was besieged by whatever local warlord thought he’d achieved enough power to thumb his nose at the Hapsburgs.”
“We take the tunnel down…”
“It leads to a landing which cannot be seen. It was built that way. You will at least be able to get on the boat. Maybe snow clouds will cover the moon. The boat will be small. You may remain unseen.”
“And one on the other side?”
“My man will pick you up and drive you the three kilometers to Eggenburg. Where you will almost certainly be killed.”
“That is my problem.”
“It most certainly is. At any rate, you should stay here in the hotel for the afternoon. You have a room?”
“Yes.”
“Stay in it until five. There will be a rental car waiting for you, parked on the sidewalk outside on the Sackstrasse. You know the way to Altdorf?”
“I’ll find out. I can read a map.”
“Then do so. The car will be locked, but the key will have been left at the front desk.”
So saying, the man sitting across from Gellert rose, turned, turned back, said:
“You are insane.”
And then left.
Gellert stayed where he was for another half hour.
Then he climbed the spiral staircase which led to his room on the fifth floor.
He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
The room had been freshly made up, the down comforter lying two feet thick on the bed beneath as if it were a hibernating polar bear.
He threw himself on it, made his mind be blank, set a mental alarm clock for five o’clock, and immediately went to sleep.
The mental alarm clock did not go off.
It did not have time.
He was awakened, instead, by a knocking.
He was groggy for a time.
Then he rose, crossed the room, and opened the door.
Nina Bannister stood before him.
“I’m insane,” she said, “but I’m here.”
“Well, there’s a lot of insanity going around.”
“What do we do now?”
He shrugged.
“We go see the Red Claw.”
And they left the room together.
Michael negotiated the narrow banks of the parking lot concrete with more ease than she’d expected, and within minutes, Nina found herself watching the Mur River and its traffic of coal barges more closely than the traffic lights and turn signals that she’d expected to worry about.
They passed the city administrative buildings, then paralleled the Number Eight streetcar tracks which skirted the train station.
The traffic began to lessen. Villas began to dot the lush hills mounding around them, and wisps of fog hovered over the forest as the sun began to set.
“All right. This is how I read the map. We turn in two miles. Turn left, to the west. The road is 465. We follow the arrows. We go to Althofen. In the town is an ossuary. Just beside it is a tavern. Go there. Sit outside and wait.”
The world was darkening, as the sun had dropped below the range of mountains to their left.
No snow was falling now, but limbs in the surrounding forests were white,
At approximately quarter mile intervals, there were street lamps along the side of the country road. These lamps were beginning to turn themselves on, and could be seen shimmering a translucent blue.
“How was your flight?” Michael asked.
“Ten hours in first class, direct from New Orleans to Graz. Thanks for the ticket.”
“My pleasure.”
“What airline was it? The plane wasn’t marked.”
“Not all planes,” he said, “belong to airlines. How was the food and drink?”
“I’m sure it was wonderful. They served lobster and champagne.”
“It was good?”
She shook her head.
“I’m a little off my feed right now.”
“I’m sorry. A little…”
“Off my feed. It’s how your digestion gets to be when you’re about to be murdered.”
“I see. I did warn you not to come.”
“I know.”
“How did you explain Carol’s disappearance to the authorities in Bay St. Lucy?”
“I told them to forget it, and that it wasn’t any of their business. Which is what I told them about my trip.”
“And they accepted this?”
“I’m a school teacher. They do what I tell them.”
“I see. But, Ms. Bannister, I still must insist that you…”
“Nina. I want to be on a first name basis with people I get killed with.”
“All right. Nina. I still must insist that you…”
They drove on, as the world darkened around them.
What a strange thing, Nina found herself thinking. The great trip she’d never taken with Frank, and that she had planned so eagerly with Carol.
It was merely a dark, frightening and somber thing.
She was too exhausted to be frightened.
Why was she here?
This was not her business.
And yet, of course, it was her business.
Carol was her business.
She could not sit idly in Bay St. Lucy, and walk along the coast.
Which she had done with Carol.
And putter about in Elementals.
Which she had done with Carol.
And plan a wonderful trip to Austria.
Which she had done with Carol.
And so…
...and so, she was taking a terrible trip to Austria, a dark and horrifying trip to Austria.
But it was the only thing she could do.
At seven o’clock, they entered Althofen.
The village proved to be the postcard that does not quite exist in real life, except that it did exist, below a massive gray castle-fortress, and abutting a lake that was a black sheet of water set in snow white hills.
She could see Michael braking as the road leading down into the village became steeper.
Beside them on the right, just outside the village limits, were farmhouses. These were half-timbered structures, also half barn, in which the open haylofts gave out onto courtyards where chickens squawked and panicked their way between and around troughs of water, and massive mounds of decaying compost.
The village itself was perfectly white—partially this came from the fact that it was snow-covered, but it was white in any season, from the whitewashed walls of stucco cottages, to the white and gleaming needle-towered cathedral overlooking them as the Opel crawled over a cobblestoned main street.
The shops themselves were closed now, but the windows had, of course, just been washed, and whatever was inside looked as though it were sitting outside. She felt she could reach in and touch bicycles arranged as though they were beginning a race that would lead from the interior of the shop out into the main square itself; or ready-to-broil chickens hanging despondently, like victims of war, interspersed with hams and massive sausage cylinders, all reaching to within a foot or so of equally massive barrels of cheese.
They’d descended halfway down to the lake when they saw the tavern on the right side of the road.
Michael parked the car.
The building they walked into was tripartite.
Stretching before them was the garden, a few tables laid out beneath the carnival lights, their checkered tablecloths dotted with twigs and smaller leaves that had fallen from the massive oak overshadowing them.
Directly across from them was the interior of the tavern. They could see a bar, a few stool, two haggard women in black dresses and aprons, and ornate turn-of-the-century mirrors that invariably stood behind such bars, so t
hat people could enjoy watching themselves get drunk.
Other than the two women and a bartender, no one was in the bar area.
Nor for that matter was anyone seated in the garden.
That was for summer.
Directly to their left though was another building, almost an addendum to the bar area itself. This was a plain structure, and might have been taken for a garage, had cars been parked inside it instead of people.
It was packed.
People squeezed themselves through the single entry, hung out of windows, pushed, prodded, and alternatively shouted and shut completely up, so that whatever event was happening in there provided alternatively the most intense moments of a tent show revival and a presidential funeral.
People had packed into this small house in order to die and go to heaven, or to reverse the process, except more often, and with more animation about them, than is generally the case.
“What are they doing over there?” asked Nina.
“Soccer. In a village like this, everybody comes to the tavern at night to watch soccer.”
One of the women came out of the bar carrying, balanced on one palm, a brown plastic platter with six steins of beer on it.
She skirted the two of them, then walked into the TV building, then returned.
There were cheers from time to time.
Finally, she came over to the table where they were seated.
“Was darf es sein?”
What will it be?
“Zwei Pils.”
“Jawohl.”
She left.
“What did you order?”
“Two beers.”
“I don’t think I can…”
He shook his head.
“You don’t have to drink it. Just let it sit there. We had to order something.”
“Ok. So. What happens now?”
“We wait for a call. If everything works out all right, there will be a boat.”
Silence for a time.
A few cheers.
The clink of beer steins from the adjoining room.
An hour later, the call came.
Michael Gellert clicked open his cell phone, listened for a few seconds, then shut it.
He looked across the table at Nina.
“Let us go,” he said, “and meet our Mr. Red Claw.”
The chandelier resembled a helicopter made of crystal and diamond. It must have been, thought Carol, ten feet high and at least as massive in diameter.
Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) Page 20