Loot

by Aaron Elkins

  "I'm in Vienna too, and I knew that this was where you stayed last time, so I figured you'd be here again and I've been calling your room for hours. I was beginning to get worried. Didn't you get my messages?"

  "Sorry, I came in and collapsed. If I'd known they were from you . . ."

  "It's all right, what matters is that I got you. I owe you an explanation."

  "No, you don't owe me anything. We just got our wavelengths crossed. It happens in the best of families."

  "No, there's more than that. My—"

  "Look, I'm just glad you called, that's all."

  "No, let me finish. You know my mother was Austrian. Well, she was born in Vienna, in 1930. She managed to get out with her parents and her sister when she was a child, but her uncles and aunts, and some of her cousins, stayed behind. My great uncle Menachem was a rabbi. He was seventy-two years old in 1938. On the day the Nazis came to power a crowd of people—civilians, fellow-Viennese—made him get down on his knees and wash the public toilets with his bare hands, wearing his yarmulke and tallis.

  "Alex—"

  "He died in the camps. So did all the rest of them. Not one of them lived through it, not one. We have some of their pictures at home. You should see them, they all look so, so . . ." Her voice trembled and broke and she took a long, quivery breath. "I've stayed away from Austria all my life, but I thought maybe I could handle it now after all this time, especially with you there, but I kept looking at everybody—even nice old Mrs. Obermayr at the pension—and wondering: were you one of them? It's funny because everybody's been so polite and nice, but I guess it was just too much for me. And then, talking to that, that . . . monster in Altaussee and thinking, here he is after so many years, calmly picking away at his perfect little fish, while my Uncle Menachem has been—"

  "Alex, I'm sorry. God, I wish you'd told me this before. I'd never have let you come with me."

  "No, I'm glad I came. I feel better now. Maybe I just had to get it off my chest—only I'm sorry you had to be the one to bear the brunt."

  I sank with a sigh into an armchair near the bed. "Thanks for calling, Alex. That's a load off my mind. I was feeling pretty rotten myself."

  "We're friends again?"

  "You better believe it. Hey, where are you, exactly?"

  "At this moment? Downstairs here at the Imperial. I'm on a house phone. I tried to keep an eye on the lobby, but I guess I missed you when you came in."

  "A house phone? Look, why don't you come on up? We can order a drink, or a snack, or something."

  "That sounds good, but it's late, and to tell the truth, I haven't even made my own room arrangements yet."

  "You don't have a hotel?"

  "No, I kept thinking you'd be in any minute. I just left my bags in the cloakroom here. It was stupid of me. I just hope I can find something this late."

  As I don't believe I have to tell you, swiftness on the uptake is probably not my forte, but that doesn't mean that I don't once in a while recognize opportunity when it clobbers me between the eyes.

  "All the more reason to come up and have something fortifying," I said off-handedly, or so I hoped. "It's busy season and it might take us a while to find you a room, but at least we can do it in comfort. And if worse comes to worst, there's always the sofa."

  There was a fractional hesitation. "All right, thanks."

  In the three minutes it took her to get there I was a blur, flinging my shoes and a few other oddments of clothing that were lying around into the closet and slamming the closet door on them, getting into shirt and slacks, tidying up the bed a little, glugging some mouthwash, and running a comb through my hair. I still wasn't sure of what I wanted to happen, but I was more willing than I'd been in Altaussee to let nature take its course.

  It didn't take long. When I first opened the door to her she looked anxious, even a little worn, but then this lovely, warm, melting look came into those luminous green eyes and I turned to butter.

  "Alex . . ."

  We each moved forward at the same time and then she was bundled in my arms with my hand holding her head against my shoulder. We stood there like that in the doorway for a long time, pressed so close that I couldn't tell which of us was trembling, or maybe we both were. When we finally kissed, it was gentle and almost chaste, and that lasted a long time too. Then we were inside the room and we kissed again; not so gentle or chaste this time. From then on it was only a question of time.

  Later, forehead to forehead and knee to knee, I watched her eyelids slowly, tremblingly drift closed, then open halfway—accompanied by the faintest, dreamiest of smiles—and then close again and stay closed. Her fingers lay, relaxed and curled, on the pillow next to my lips. My

  hand was on the smooth skin of her waist, caught by the wrist between her arm and her side.

  With my own eyes starting to close, I whispered to myself what I hadn't dared to say aloud before, for fear of tempting the fates: The corner had been turned. The gods were with me again.

  Thank you, gods.

  Chapter 32

  I woke up in the morning barely having moved. Alex, now six inches away and buried up to her nose under the comforter, was watching me. As soon as I opened my eyes she burst out into one of those wonderful, explosive little giggles that made her cover her mouth with her hand in a gesture that was already familiar to me, and moving. I wondered what idiot had long ago told her that her mouth was too large or her teeth too big.

  "So that's what you look like when you're sleeping. You're so . . . tousled. You look like Dennis the Menace. Did you know you have a cowlick?" She reached around to the back of my head and tugged.

  "Thank you so very much for pointing it out to me," I said, but I was pleased. She looked so honestly happy to see me there across the pillow. And I sure was honestly happy to see her.

  "You know, I really didn't think this was going to happen," she said.

  I smiled and touched her mouth with a fingertip. "Regrets?"

  "Mmm . . . too early to tell. Let's see what you're going to feed me for breakfast."

  "What would you like?"

  "A lot. I missed dinner, and I never did get that snack you were going to order from room service last night."

  "Sorry about that. More pressing exigencies intervened."

  She laughed. "That's one way to put it."

  "I'll order up something right now," I said pushing myself up onto one elbow and turning back the comforter. "How does a full English breakfast sound? With all the trimmings?"

  But with a hand on my neck she pulled me, unresisting, back down. "In a minute."

  * * *

  Showered and in fresh clothes, seated at the elegant table that had just been rolled in, we plowed into a strapping meal of bacon and eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, toast, and tea. And just like a real English breakfast it was, with the bacon underdone and the mushrooms overcooked, which didn't stop us from stowing it away with gusto.

  While we ate I brought her up to date, telling her about Nussbaum, Wittgenstein, and the Hammer. She listened avidly, but the more detail I went into the paler and more set her face became.

  "My God," she murmured, laying down a slice of toast she'd yet to bite into, "he could so easily have . . . you might have been . . ."

  Seeing her looking at me like that was balm for the soul, honey for the heart. But he didn't and I wasn't," I said reaching across the table to touch her cheek. "Thanks to the noble Wittgenstein, here I am, sitting right here, eating this absolutely terrific breakfast with you, which, of all things in the world, is what I'd most like to be doing."

  She sighed. "It's wonderful. I can hardly believe it. You actually did what you set out to do. My uncle's killer is behind bars." Her eyes were shining. "It's just amazing. I told you could do it."

  I didn't feel quite as satisfied as she was because, as I saw it, Janko was merely the arrow, not the bow. Oh, he deserved whatever he was going to get, all right, but as far as I was concerned, Simeon's real killer was
whoever had ordered him to do it. And he was still walking around free. Still, I wasn't about to put up an argument; not with her eyes glowing at me like that.

  "Yes, you did tell me," I said. "You know, it really was you that got me going on this. That first time we met at Ciao Bella—I came away steaming mad, but it was just what I needed."

  She burst out laughing. "I came away mad too—and absolutely positive that you were nothing but a self-satisfied twit."

  "I was a twit; I take exception to the self-satisfied."

  She pushed away her plate and poured us both some more tea. "You've changed a lot since then, Ben," she said seriously. "You're like a different person."

  "No, I'm the same person."

  "No, you're not. You're—I don't know, engaged—in a way that you weren't when I first met you. Since you've taken this on, you've become a man with a purpose; maybe that's what's made the difference."

  "Maybe it is," I said, thinking that maybe it was.

  When the telephone rang I motioned to her to answer it; it was on an end-table beside her.

  "Are you sure you want me to? What about your reputation?"

  "It'll enhance the hell out of it, go ahead."

  "Hello," she said and listened for a few seconds. "Ja. Ein moment, mein Herr." She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Stetten."

  "I'll take it on the other phone," I said, getting up. "Go ahead and listen in; it's bound to be interesting."

  It was Stetten in full semi-hysterical mode. "Ben, where have you been? I left three messages last night. Why haven't you returned my calls?"

  Because this lovely woman showed up and re-ordered my priorities and I never did get around to checking my messages, that's why. I mimed a kiss to her. "I'm sorry, Albrecht," I said soothingly, "I was going to call you this morning. A lot has happened. First, Nussbaum won't be putting in a claim on your—"

  "Listen, I've had a telephone call. They have my pictures—all of them! They—"

  "Who has your paintings?"

  "—said I'm to rent a vault at the Banque de la Suisse Romande in Zurich, and then come there tomorrow prepared to make an immediate wire transfer of ten million dollars from my bank in Vienna. They'll have them all there to show me, and they're insisting on—"

  "Albrecht, slow up, will you, please?"

  "—no police involvement whatever. If the police are informed, everything's off. They wanted me to come alone, but how could I? I'm too excited, I hardly know what I'm saying, I—"

  "Wait!" I shouted into the phone. "Slow down, will you? I don't know what—"

  "—need you, I need—what? Did you say something?"

  "Yes, I said I don't have any idea what the hell you're talking about. Who called you?"

  "What? Why, the people who . . . well, I don't know, really. It was a man named Adler who telephoned. The account that the ten million is to be transferred into if everything is satisfactory is . . . just a minute, where did I . . . it's a company called Slalom Super Sport. But I think that may be a, what do you call it, a front."

  Yes, just maybe, I thought. "This Adler—he said they'll have all your pictures there? All seventy-three?"

  "Yes, that's right—well, seventy-two; that other Velazquez is still in Boston. I'm to engage the vault in the Banque de la Suisse Romande, to make ten million dollars available for immediate transfer, and to meet him at the bank at noon tomorrow—"

  "And you can do that? Have ten million dollars by tomorrow?"

  "It won't be easy, but yes. It means everything I own will be in hock; I'll be in debt up to my eyes. But my credit's good and I have the collateral. Later on, if I must, I can sell off one or two of the paintings. I'll still have the great bulk of them."

  "Yes, but—"

  "My God, I'm glad I reached you. I was going out of my mind. Now, listen, there's an Austrian Airlines flight from Vienna leaving at nine-twenty-five in the morning and arriving at a quarter to eleven. Flight OS3. Can you be on it? I'll meet you at the gate in Zurich. My plane gets there a few minutes earlier."

  "I can, yes, but this is crazy, Albrecht. This is the mafia you're talking about. You're going to let these bloody-handed bastards walk away with ten million dollars?"

  "I don't care who they are, if they really have my pictures. Don't you understand what I'm saying?"

  "But what's the hurry? They've had the things for fifty years, why tomorrow?"

  "I don't know and I don't care," he said impatiently. "I don't see that we're in any position to set conditions. And we'll have the entire day, until four o'clock to look at the pictures."

  "One day? One afternoon? But—"

  "If we're satisfied, the money goes to them and the pictures go to me, then and there, out of their vault and into mine. And that's all there is to it." I heard him catch his breath, and then he added softly: "After so many . . . many . . . years."

  "Albrecht, listen to me. Even if you had an army of experts with you, there's no way to authenticate that many paintings in one day. It can't be done."

  "Ah, you're forgetting my father's catalogue. I'll bring it; we'll be able to match them detail by detail."

  "All right, that's true, but what about the provenances? There sure won't be any time to verify them—assuming they even have provenances. You have to stall for time. If you get those pictures this way, you'll be setting yourself up for legal wrangling for the next twenty years."

  "Yes, but at least I'll actually have them. What do I have now?"

  "But—"

  "Ben, please! I don't know the answers to all these questions, but I beg you, my friend—don't argue with me. Help me. You know I can't let a chance like this pass."

  Sure he couldn't, who could? In his place I'd probably feel the same way. But I wasn't in his place.

  "Albrecht, please, think this through with me." This was the mafia, I stressed again, the men who had murdered the harmless and good Simeon Pawlovsky, and the not-so-harmless and good Attila Szarvas, and Sykmund Dulska, and who knew how many other people—all apparently over these very paintings. And we were supposed to reward them for that with $10,000,000 and then let them walk away with it? And had he thought about what they might do with that money? Drugs, guns—

  "No!" he said agitatedly, "No, I won't listen to any more! The Nazis, the mafia, I don't care who's had them. I don't care who's been killed—no, that's not true, of course I care." I heard him draw a breath to collect himself, and when he continued he was calmer. "But whatever has happened, it's past, Ben, it can't be undone. And so now the question is, where are these paintings going to be after tomorrow? Safe at last, or still in the hands of these murderers? And if in their hands, what will they do with them now? What will happen to them? Do you want the responsibility?"

  Good questions all, and hard to argue with. I was silent.

  "Will you help me, Ben?"

  I looked at Alex, listening on the other telephone. We exchanged eyebrow shrugs. "Of course, I'll help you," I said, "but it's a lawyer's help you're really going to need to see you through this, Albrecht. Does Leo Schnittke know about this?"

  "Yes, I spoke to him last night."

  "And what does he say?"

  "Exactly what you do—not to touch this with a ten-meter pole."

  I laughed, siphoning off some of the tension. "Well, he's a good lawyer, all right. Are you going to be bringing him?"

  "I don't know. He wants to be there. Do you think I should?"

  "I sure do. And Albrecht, there's one more thing. About not telling the police—I don't like that. Look, I've been working pretty closely with Feuchtmüller. He's as reliable as they come. Don't you think we—"

  "No!" he said shrilly. "It's forbidden. Please, Ben don't jeopardize this. They mean what they say, I can tell. I couldn't stand the idea of losing them again. It would be too . . . Later, afterwards, yes, we'll go to them, we'll tell them everything, but not now. I'm afraid. Benjamin, please."

  "Okay," I said reluctantly, "we'll keep it to ourselves for now.
"

  "That's all I ask. Then I'll see you in Zurich tomorrow?"

  "You sure will."

  "My dear friend, thank you. You'll never know what this means to me."

  "What are you going to do?" Alex asked when we'd hung up.

  "Tomorrow? Fly to Zurich."

  "And now?"

  "Go to the police, what else?"

  She smiled. "Good for you."

  "But first I need one more cup of tea."

  A couple of minutes later, musing over the last of the tea, I said: "Well, at least now we have the answers to the big questions, don't we?"

  "What questions?"

  "What all this killing has been about. I always thought that there was too much effort being put into just the two Velazquezes. Now we know: they have them all, the whole load, maybe the entire Lost Truck; that's what Yuri thinks. That's what it's about."

  "What is it about?"

  "What I just said. The paintings, the Lost Truck."

  "Yes, but what about the paintings? Why all the killing? Why is Attila Szarvas dead? Why did they come after Mr. Nussbaum? One of them was lying and the other one was mistaken; neither of them really had any connection to the paintings at all, so what was the point? And what have they been following you around for? And if they were going to offer them back to Stetten for ten million dollars, why didn't they just go ahead and do it a long time ago?"

  I drained my cup and looked at her thoughtfully. "Alex," I said at length, "I don't have a clue."

  Chapter 33

  With Alex I went downstairs to the public telephones, then decided to play it even safer by walking a few blocks to the Bristol and using one of their long-distance booths. A few days ago that kind of wariness would have seemed like paranoia. Now it didn't.

  "Polizeioberstleutnant Feuchtmüller is away from the office," I was informed in German. "Is there anyone else with whom you would like to speak?"

  "No, thank you—wait, yes. Is Inspector Pirchl in?" This wasn't going to be pleasant, but I didn't know where Alois was, and time, as Dulska had said to me a few murders ago, was of the essence.