Loot

by Aaron Elkins

  Janko Golubov, the Hammer. Simeon's murderer.

  "Don't let him in!" I yelled, but it was too late. Golubov, dressed in what appeared to be the same ill-fitting dark suit and ruler-thin tie he'd worn in Simeon's shop, wrenched the door from Nussbaum's hand and shoved it closed behind him.

  The old man stepped back, shocked and trembling. "Was . . . was wünschen Sie? Wer—"

  Golubov swatted him irritably, almost carelessly, across the chest with his heavy forearm. Nussbaum gasped and went staggering back, collapsing in a loose heap against the wall, like a puppet that had had its strings cut. Wittgenstein, yapping with outrage, popped out of his arms and charged, nipping at Golubov's ankles. A kick—a shake of one thick leg, really—caught the dog under the belly, lifting him into the air and sending him twisting and yiping across the length of the room and into the Kabinet, the closet-like little half-room built into the older Viennese apartments for reasons no one has figured out. I heard the small body smack into the wall and slide to the floor. Then nothing.

  "Mein Gott," Nussbaum whispered weakly from the floor. I breathed a sigh. At least he was alive.

  Through it all, from the moment he'd come in, Golubov had never taken his eyes off me. The astounded look in them couldn't have been clearer: YOU again! I knew just what he meant too.

  I snatched up the coffee-press and heaved it at him, missing his head by a foot and splattering the white wall with coffee-grind muck. Then, almost before he'd finished ducking, I followed it with a heavy, square-cut glass ashtray, flinging it like a discus and catching him in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, which must have hurt like hell—but had no visible effect beyond a brief grimace that showed those snaggy, yellow-brown teeth again, and the gap in front. Kicking the ashtray aside, he came slowly toward me, his hands held out from his sides, palms up. He wiggled his fingers encouragingly: Come on, tovaritch, let's mix it up.

  Like hell, I thought. The guy looked more like King Kong than ever. I backed away and moved sideways along the wall, searching desperately for anything else that I could throw at him, while he kept coming. When I ended up, inevitably, in a corner, he moved with a quick lunge to close in and cut me off, then stood there, rocking from one foot to the other. I felt like a matador watching the bull slowly flick its tail back and forth while it considered which part of him would be the most fun to gore.

  He shook his wrist. There was a click, and a double-edged knife with a thin, six-inch-blade jumped open in his hand. He tossed it lightly from one hand to the other and back again, daring me with rounded eyes and pursed mouth to make a grab for it.

  It's funny, I wasn't feeling any more brave or confident than I'd been when I'd faced him in Simeon's shop—my knees were shaking every bit as much, my heart thumping just as wildly. What I was, was madder. This repulsive bastard had beaten Simeon to death and pounded me to agonized jelly. Well, that was enough; I wasn't about to let him do it to me again, that's all. Or to Nussbaum either.

  I knew he was expecting me to snatch at the knife, because his eyes were on my hands. So I kicked him, aiming for his crotch and swinging my leg as hard and as I could, which was taking a terrific chance, because if I missed him I was going to do a half-somersault and wind up flat on my back. But I didn't miss him.

  I didn't exactly hit him either. At least not in the crotch. I was heading there, but Golubov, despite that UPS-truck physique, was a man of quick reflexes, as befitted his trade. One hand darted down to block my foot. But being a person whose mental reflexes ran somewhat behind his physical ones, the hand he chose was the one holding the knife. My foot caught him in the wrist, squarely and hard, and the knife went flying. When his head instinctively turned to follow it I started swinging my fists, leaning my body into the blows, hitting him first in the temple and bringing a satisfying grunt, and then, as he turned back to me, in the mouth, splitting his lip and cutting my knuckles on those wolfish teeth.

  It pained him, I could see that, but it sure didn't daze him. Hard as I'd hit him, his head, solidly mounted on that gorilla-neck, hadn't moved; no give at all. He pressed his hand to his mouth, stared at the blood on his fingers, and then, with a low growl, at me. Now he was mad, which didn't make me feel any better about things overall.

  Behind him and off to the side there was a startling, shattering crash, and there stood Nussbaum, at the window, apparently having just tossed something through it—the square-cut ashtray, I think.

  "Polizei! Polizei!" he was screaming at the top of his thin, quavery voice. "Hilfe! Hilfe!"

  Golubov turned away from me and rushed toward him. My God, I thought, he's going to throw him out the window. I took off after him, using the overstuffed sofa as a sort of launching pad, a trampoline, to fling myself into the air, arms outstretched, for all the world like a middle linebacker going after the quarterback on Monday Night Football.

  I hit him solidly too, God knows how, a fraction of a second before he got his hands on the shrinking Nussbaum, and the two of us went reeling across the room, tumbling over each other on the floor. I was faster than Golubov in jumping up—no doubt because I was more scared than he was—and managed to leap back a couple of steps into the kitchen before he was able to get his hands on me. While he got furiously to his feet, I looked around for something to use to keep him off. Pots, ladles—why did I always seem to be defending myself against this monster with kitchen utensils?

  There was a scuffling noise on the kitchen floor, a maniacal yapping, and here came the redoubtable Wittgenstein, conscious once again and scuttling straight for Golubov's ankles. As the Russian drew back one foot for a kick, an energized Nussbaum suddenly burst into the kitchen behind him. Using both hands and almost leaving the floor with the effort, he brought a heavy frying pan ringingly down on the Russian's head.

  You may recall that, back in Boston, I too had hit him with a frying pan, to no avail. But that had been an aluminum dime-store model with a cheap, non-stick coating. This was the genuine item, a solid, black, cast-iron job that was half-an-inch thick and big around as a dinner plate. The Hammer frowned, as if puzzled by the strange ringing in his ears, and dropped like a felled ox, going straight down as his legs gave way, so that his knees hit the floor with a thud. There he remained for a moment, erect and perfectly still, seemingly listening. Then his eyes lost their focus and rolled back, and over he went with a crash, like an ex-dictator's statue being pulled down with ropes.

  Wittgenstein, under the impression that it was he who had brought this colossus down, gave a triumphant, deep-throated bark and trotted off a few steps to stand beside his master, keeping an alert eye on Golubov in case he was needed again.

  "Benjamin?" Nussbaum said weakly. "Would you mind putting this pan on the counter for me? I don't have the strength any more."

  When I took it from his rigid hands I almost dropped it myself. The thing must have weighed five pounds.

  "Well, all I can say," I said with a smile, "is that you sure had it when it counted."

  I could hear reassuring sounds out in the hall, the heavy footsteps of several people taking the stairs two at a time. Here came the polizei.

  All the same I hung onto the frying pan until they got there.

  Chapter 31

  The rest of the day and most of the evening were spent at police headquarters, mostly sitting around, but also talking to Pirchl, who seemed possessed of a conviction that I had some idea what the hell was going on. And so the same questions kept coming, over and over. Why did Janko Golubov and/or his friends keep showing up wherever I happened to be? Why all the murders? The mafia, whatever else they were, were not capricious; they didn't go around killing people for no reason at all. Why were they following me around, what were they trying to accomplish? And so on, for six hours, except for a twenty-minute break for bratwurst, ham sandwiches, pastries, and coffee that was delivered to the station at eight o'clock.

  All I could do was shake my head and say I wish I knew, which didn't improve his mood or mine eith
er. And, as might have been expected, the police were getting no help from the Hammer, who'd had nothing to say since being taken into custody. When Pirchl finally finished with me at 9:45 PM, I was bored, tired, and terminally grubby, but hugging to myself the considerable consolation of knowing that the Hammer was not only safely locked up but nursing a sore head and a split lip as well.

  When we finally finished, Alois offered to drive me to the Hotel Imperial. For a while we drove quietly along Franz-Josefs-Kai, Alois chewing on the stem of an unlit pipe. It had rained earlier, but now the air was still, and the Kai gleamed under the street lamps, almost empty of traffic.

  "How's Mr. Nussbaum doing?" I asked.

  "Fine. A little shaky, that's all. Don't worry about him, we'll be keeping an eye on him. The dog had a couple of cracked ribs, though."

  "I feel for him. Brave little guy. So's Nussbaum, for that matter." I shook my head. "How the hell did Janko know Nussbaum was going to be talking to me? How do they always know? Have you gotten anything out of him at all?"

  "As of yet, no, but let me ask you something: you made your appointment with Nussbaum from Altaussee, right? Was it by telephone?"

  "Yes."

  He glanced at me as we pulled up to a red light. Alongside us the Danube Canal flowed, black and glinting, with a murk hanging over it. "From your hotel room, I suppose?"

  "Yes. You think my telephone was tapped?"

  "I see the thought's occurred to you."

  "Sure it has, but, Alois, I just don't get it. Following me from one country to another, bugging my room . . . what have they been doing, watching my every move since I got here? That's crazy."

  "Why, how hard would it have been? We're dealing with professionals and you weren't making any special attempts to cover your tracks, were you? That is, excepting your speedy departure from Budapest."

  "No, why would I?"

  "Exactly." He shifted inexpertly into first and with a jerk we started up again.

  "But what could they possibly hope to get from following me around?" My voice was getting shrill. I shoved it down a notch. "What do I know?"

  "I've been giving that some thought, and it occurs to me that they might think you're hot on the trail of all the paintings, the whole Stetten collection, maybe the whole lost truckload; that the people you're talking to might lead them to the pictures."

  "Then why the hell do they keep bumping them off?" I stared gloomily out the window. The rain was beginning to mist down again. "Anyway, what trail? I haven't gotten anywhere at all. All this chasing around," I said bitterly, "and what have I accomplished? Nothing, not one goddamned thing, do you realize that? Aside from getting a bunch of people killed."

  Alois pulled the car up to the curb on a side street next to the hotel, turned off the engine, and lit up his pipe. I shifted a little farther away and rolled down the window.

  "Don't be so hard on yourself," he said kindly. "We now have Golubov, thanks to you."

  "Thanks to Nussbaum and Wittgenstein."

  "No, Ben, thanks to you. And Golubov's involvement here raises some extremely interesting questions. We believe that, until now, he's been used primarily in England and the United States because he speaks the language."

  "Barely."

  "Enough to do what he needs to do, which is get himself through Customs on the way in and on the way out. He doesn't need to be a conversationalist. But now, here he is, attempting to kill someone in Vienna. As far as we know, it's the first time he's been used here. You see the implication?"

  "Uh . . . no."

  "Certainly you do. It implies an association between the Chetverk people and Klaus Loitzl."

  "I shook my head. " I'm afraid—"

  "The Chetverk family is the Moscow gang that Golubov works for—I keep mentioning this to you, you should start paying attention—and Klaus Loitzl is the local mafia—"

  "Right, I remember. The Viennese John Gotti."

  "Correct. And now we find Golubov working in Loitzl's territory. This is significant because these groups take their jurisdictional privileges very, very seriously and such things don't happen without prior agreement. So, whatever it is that's going on with these paintings of yours, it must involve not only the Russian mafia but our more modest local version as well."

  "I see." I was starting to fall asleep.

  "I'm not sure you do. If I can help it, Janko Golubov is going to be the first crack in Loitzl's armor, our opening wedge. And with your deposition and Mr. Nussbaum's readiness to help, I think our Janko's going to find himself, in the interest of self-preservation, with sound reasons to cooperate."

  He jabbed the stem of the pipe at me. "I tell you, Ben, this is going to be a body blow to the mafia's power here in Austria. I feel it in my bones."

  "Well, I'm glad to hear that," I said, and the truth is that I was. I mean, how could anybody not be pleased about striking a body blow against the mafia in Austria or anyplace else? But more than that, I was only now fully taking in the fact that I had finally come face to face with the brute who had murdered Simeon and—with a little help from a 77-year-old man, a valiant miniature Schnauzer, and a frying pan—had actually landed him in police custody. And whenever Vienna was through with him it would be Boston's turn. That was extremely pleasant to think about.

  My eyes felt sandy. I massaged them with my fingertips. "I think I'd better get to bed before I fall over. Thanks for everything, Alois."

  "You'll come back if we want you as a witness?"

  "Absolutely. With pleasure."

  "I'll look forward to it. Oh, and Ben? You should know that Pirchl's taken the liberty of having his people examine your room for eavesdropping equipment."

  I threw him a glance as I got out of the car. "You can tell him I appreciate the service, but it might have been nice if he'd asked me first."

  "I agree, but that's not the way Pirchl works. He prefers to operate on the need-to-know principle."

  "Right, and why would I have to know? Anyhow, I can assume my room's bug-free?"

  "So it would appear. All the same, if I were you I'd use a public telephone for my calls. Just to be on the safe side."

  * * *

  I poured myself a fizzing glass of Mix-it Sodawasser from the refrigerator, turned off most of the lights, took off my shoes, propped up the pillows, and flopped down on the bed with every intention of making my mind a restful, pre-sleep blank, but it refused to cooperate, jumping from question to question, puzzlement to puzzlement. It wasn't until ten minutes later, when I'd given up trying to make sense of things and was standing under a hot shower trying to shampoo the police-station grunge out of my hair, that a few things began slipping into place. For a full minute, maybe more, I stood there motionless, afraid even to rub the shampoo out of my eyes for fear of jogging the fragile train of thought that had produced them.

  It was thinking about Janko that done it. I'd been going over the scene in the apartment in my mind and remembering the expression of astonishment on his face when he'd seen me. If they had really been following me around from country to country and knew where I was all the time—a theory that I was coming to believe in—what was Janko so surprised about? And how had he come to choose the worst time of all, the very moment that I was right there in the apartment with Nussbaum, to pay his visit? As Alois had surmised, I'd made the arrangement with the old man on the telephone, the day before, from Altaussee. If the wiretappers of whom Alois was so certain had really been at work, why hadn't Janko gotten to Nussbaum long before I arrived?

  At which point it came to me. Alois was right. My room in Altaussee had been bugged, and probably every other hotel room I'd been in. The mafia snoops had been on the job, all right, and they'd listened in as I'd made an appointment with Nussbaum from the Seevilla for two days hence.

  But I never did keep that appointment, because when Alex had left I'd canceled the day-long drive to Vienna. So I'd called Nussbaum the very next day—today—to re-set our meeting time to 2:30 this afternoon—
only that call was placed from a post office pay phone a couple of blocks from the Vienna police station, so no one was listening in. That meant that, as far as the mafia people were concerned, they were sending Janko out to do his work in plenty of time, a full day before I was going to be seeing Nussbaum. No wonder he'd been surprised.

  I was too worn-out to take it any further, so I toweled off and slipped gratefully into bed; I'd talk to Alois first thing in the morning. It was only when I turned off the lights that I noticed that the message indicator was blinking. The first person I thought of, with a little surge of hope, was Alex, but that was impossible; she had no idea of where I was staying. I looked at it for a while longer, wondering sleepily if it was safe to pick up the phone, until I realized that if this room was bugged, whatever was on the machine had already been overheard anyway.

  That made me chuckle, which made me realize that I was too slap-happy to deal with whatever it was anyway. I'd take care of it in the morning.

  * * *

  But the telephone had other ideas, dragging me complaining out of what I thought was a profound slumber, although a glance at the clock radio showed that it was only 11:02. I'd been asleep for less than ten minutes, but that didn't make me any more kindly disposed to whoever it was.

  "Hallo," I growled, then went on grumbling to myself in case whoever was calling thought I was being friendly, "Christ, can't they even let—"

  "Ben, it's Alex."

  "Alex?" I sat up, wide awake. "Alex, Alex, I'm glad you called. It was my fault, I don't know why—"

  "No, my fault, my fault. I'm so glad I got you, I feel awful. I'm not like that, Ben, that's not the way I am. I can't believe I was so—"

  "Where are you? How did you know I was here?" I stood up, leaning my forehead against the wall, eyes closed. Something deep in my chest that had been taut, and cold, and brittle suddenly relaxed, as if warm blood had begun to flow to it again.