by Seeley James
“She’s a racist,” she said and shrugged.
Several minutes later, Mme. Marot took a seat in an overstuffed wingback chair, her son at her side in a matching chair. The Major sat on an ottoman in front of her, Miguel stood to the side. Mme. Marot studied the Sabel Security agents for a moment, then nodded.
“Madame Marot, Pia Sabel gave you her word she would try to find your husband’s assassin. I went with her to Cameroon, and we found him. Unfortunately, we were unable to catch him. We believe he was working with others and that some of them may have ties to your husband’s bank. Could you tell me if any of these names sound familiar? Elgin Thomas, Conor Wigan, Mustafa Ahmadi, Calixthe Ebokea?”
She shook her head and made it clear that she associated only with Switzerland’s finest families—she didn’t mix with French or English. She quickly added that she harbored no ill will toward them, simply had never made time to seek them out. She hadn’t even associated with Clément’s family in Geneva despite owning the family estate. She spent most of her free time with her own family.
“And where does your family live?” The Major asked.
“Wien.”
“Ah, the opera,” the Major said. “Mozart, Die Zauberflöte.”
“Don Giovanni,” Mme. Marot said with a smile. “You are a fan of the opera?”
“My aunt was a singer with big dreams and a great voice. She played Carmen in Santa Fe one summer. That’s as far as she got.” The Major looked away. “Bad choices in men.”
Mme. Marot nodded knowingly. “Men, a necessary evil.”
“Do you get back to Vienna often?” the Major asked.
“I am on the board of the state opera. My daughter, Daniela, goes with me to all the opening nights. My son,” she nodded at him, “will go if I bribe him. He would rather drive to the mountains. My husband went three times, but that was twenty-five years ago. He hated it.”
“Are you involved in any other charities there?”
“Opera fills all my time, especially when I have to live so far away. Philippe has a charity, I think—African children or something.”
She turned to him and spoke in French. A crimson hue rose upward from his neck as he replied in short clipped sentences. She turned back to the Major. “I’m afraid he was dragged into that one by his father’s friend, Mme. Bachmann.”
The Marots were called to dinner after a few more minutes. The butler showed Miguel and the Major out.
Driving to the next witness, Miguel pulled out the police translator’s business card and called him.
Lieutenant Marco Berardi answered. “Unfortunately, I cannot translate for you.”
“Shame,” Miguel said. “I have a question. Something Major Jackson told Capitaine Villeneuve surprised you. What was it?”
“The incident on the bridge—there is a small discrepancy in the report. No matter.”
Miguel said, “I can send you Major Jackson’s report. She said three shots ricocheted off the guard rail in front of the hydroelectric plant before she drew her weapon. Her reports are always accurate.”
“I am sure it is nothing but I will check it out.”
He clicked off.
Antje Affolter answered the door of her lakefront home in a robe—no makeup, over forty, waves of glossy brown hair framed high cheekbones. She apologized in German, then English.
“You have been to see Joey,” she said as she led them down the hallway. “It is bad he drinks, ja? I tell him, have a good cry. He says no. Such a man always.”
At that, Antje broke down. The Major and Miguel waited. After a minute, she motioned for them to go ahead of her and sit. In a weak voice she offered drinks, cheese, and crackers, all of which they declined.
“Reto was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Antje said. “I was just a schoolteacher, no hope for a privileged life. And I was the best thing for him. He was an accountant, overweight and not much to look at but good at math. I trimmed him up, he gave me an allowance. Our children go to the best schools. Now, all that is gone. It is my fault. I am punished, ja?”
“Punished?” Miguel asked.
“For my attentions to Joey.” Antje looked around the room, coming back to the Major. “Reto found out. He was so angry—for days he would not speak to me. The night Clément was murdered he worked with Eren all night. Then both killed. I never had the chance to…”
The Major got up, found a box of tissue, handed it to her, and sat again. After Antje blew her nose, the Major asked, “You said they killed him?”
“Ja, the men on the video, two of them. The men who kicked him and shot him.”
She described how the police showed her the video in which Reto Affolter was beaten by two men. One fit the description of Mustafa, the other his blond accomplice. Silent and monochrome, the action occurred in a blurred corner of the screen. Despite the distance, it was clear from the body language that they were interrogating him. After they’d learned everything possible, they shot him.
“Same as Eren Wölfli?” Miguel asked.
“Ja. Lieutenant Lamartine thinks thirty minutes apart.”
The Major pursed her lips. “Why did he show you this video?”
“Capitaine Villeneuve wanted me to identify Reto. She asked me if I knew what they were asking him.”
Surprised, the Major glanced at Miguel. He shrugged.
“Did you?”
“No. We talked always, Reto and me—he told me everything about the bank. Things that make me sleepy, but I listened. Reto was everything to me. But he was so mad, he did not speak to me that week. Only to say he must attend to something at the bank with Eren and would be home late.”
The Major ran through the list of pirate names with no luck. When Miguel asked, she explained that Sandra Bachmann had been in charge of charities. Antje helped her with La Crèche de Tangier. They went there several times to inspect the place.
When asked about bank finances and having too much money, Antje said Reto never mentioned it.
“Did you hear about the ship that was hijacked a few months ago?” the Major asked.
“Objet Trouvé? Yes, Clément ruined a dinner party telling us all about it. Telling us too much. Reto said Clément should have gotten out when Banque Genève got out. All those ships, all that risk.”
“All what ships?”
“Objet Trouvé was the fourth or fifth ship of his that was … what did you call it, hijacked.”
“He owned them?”
“Oh no—he invested in voyage charters. A charterer hires a boat to take cargo from one place to another. Clément was the master of timing oil markets. He would buy the oil, hire the ship, and sell the oil when it arrived. His secret was to hire the oldest, slowest ships. They are cheaper and the price of oil rises during the voyage. He made a killing, except for piracy. At first he was insured, but after the third, well, he could get no insurance. So he was most angry. The Objet Trouvé was a total loss, fourteen million euros.”
“Yeah, that could sting,” the Major said.
“Reto always said this would happen.” She sniffed. “He thought tankers were a bad investment from the start. He invested in Cameroon’s oil services business. Much less volatile.”
The Major pressed her on Banque Genève International’s ties to Cameroon.
“Reto went once a year to sign papers, make sure everything was in order. I went once. I thought it would be an adventure. But such poverty. It was not fun.”
That was all.
Down the road, the Major called Sabel headquarters to have someone track down Reto Affolter’s travels. She wanted to verify Antje’s story and to know when any trips to Cameroon might have taken place.
After a few minutes of silence, Miguel said, “Sounds like Reto was involved. How many Swiss bankers would invest in Cameroon?”
“If there’s money to be made, all of them. But even if he was le Directeur, why did they kill him? And who took over?”
Chapter 34
* * *
<
br /> Vienna, Austria
27-May, 8PM
Pia imagined how le Directeur would want things to go: One, meet Monique and get all the information possible out of her. Two, kill her. Three, find and kill Pia Sabel. Pretty simple. Le Directeur would probably have Mustafa with him—or her, if le Directeur actually was a woman. The meeting place was top priority. No doubt le Directeur and henchmen would set a trap. Tania and Pia needed to perform flawlessly, and not just to keep Monique alive. One little mistake and they could all end up dead. The complexity of the whole thing made her sick.
She recalled the Major’s snide remark back in Washington: Let me ask you—worried?
Pia muttered aloud, “Yes, I am.”
Tania stared at her with a fork of broccoli halfway to her mouth. She said, “Yes you are what?”
“Worried.”
“Good. The only time you’re not scared is the second before you get killed.”
“You have to work on your pep talks, Tania.”
“Hey, where’s the hottie from Berlin?”
Pia shook her head. “He’s a nurse, not a hottie. Due in on a ten-thirty flight.”
“Guy nurses are hot, if you put them in tight shorts and make them dance.” She laughed at her joke.
Pia shook her head. “Not going there.”
“We women have a lot of payback coming, y’know. The men of the world owe us some ass-wiggling.”
Pia gave her the shut-up look. Monique giggled.
“Why bother bringing him in, anyway?” Tania said. “We look like we need a nurse? What’s he going to do, help us get dressed in the morning?”
“The Major sent him. He’s all we have this side of London.”
Three tiered trays of cookies, pastry, and Sacher’s famous chocolates arrived after the third course. No one picked at the chocolates. They fought over them.
The Major called. She gave Pia a rundown of everything the next of kin said in the interviews, and Pia reviewed her plan for intercepting le Directeur.
“Make sure you and Tania stay far apart,” the Major said. “Keep the earbuds open all the time, maintain visual contact. They’ll be doing the same thing. There’ll probably be three of them. I doubt they’ll bring more because of the public setting, but there could be a fourth, a driver or someone hanging back.”
“Got it, thanks.”
“What bothers me most is that at least two of the victims knew their attacker. Sara opened the front door for her assassin. Pia, you know anyone would open the door for Alphonse.”
“Or for flower deliveries,” Pia said. “Or a co-worker, or family.”
“Whoever knocked on Sara’s door called first. Her phone was missing.”
“Just like the others,” Pia said.
“I’m telling you, do not trust anyone. Not Alphonse, not a delivery man, not an Austrian official, no one. Especially if they call first.”
“I talked to Alphonse and I’m pretty sure he’s true.”
“Ever have a man lie to you?”
Pia could only say goodbye and clicked off. The sick feeling in her gut kicked up a notch.
“The two of you are scaring me,” Tania said. “You need to let go of your fear and start getting pissed at these guys. Nobody cares that they killed a bunch of bankers, but they killed Ezra and they wanna kill us.”
Monique’s phone beeped.
Café Frauenhuber, 5 minutes
“Let’s go.” Pia said and pulled up Monique.
She swapped Monique’s phone for a Sabel Security phone and sent her to the Radisson Blu Palais on Parkring via cab. Pia and Tania jogged up Karntner Strasse. When they turned onto Himmelpfortgasse, Tania went ahead with her hoodie pulled up. She walked past the coffee shop on the opposite side of the street and reported back on her earbud comlink.
“Four heads visible: the barista, two at a table, and someone reading a paper. Can’t see past the paper. No one suspicious on the street. I’m in position, ready when you are.”
Pia stood in the foyer of the Danieli Restaurant across the street and texted le Directeur:
Have to change plan. Meet me at Raddison Blu Palais, table in my name.
No reply.
A car turned out of the alley a block away, swung onto Himmelpfortgasse, and stopped in front of the coffee shop. The newspaper reader in the café ran out, jumped in the car, and sped down the street.
“That would be the bad guys,” Tania said. “You plan on them having a car?”
“Everyone walks in Europe. How was I supposed to know?”
“Hold up. That could have been coincidence or it could be intended to flush us out. Stay where you are. Have Monique take a bathroom break until we get there.”
Pia smiled. Tania definitely had her moments. She texted Monique:
Go to the restroom, make sure the maître d’ knows where you’re going. Stay there until I text you again.
Her hoodie pulled low, Tania stepped out when the car approached and walked up the sidewalk until it passed her.
“Calixthe!” she shouted into her earbud. “It’s Calixthe and some old guy.”
Pia ran into the cool night air and looked for a cab. No cars in sight. Breaking into a sprint, she quickly closed the gap between her and Tania.
Ahead of her, a man stepped out of the Café Frauenhuber and broke into a trot.
It had been a trap. The man ahead of her would be the third—was there a fourth? She looked around but glimpsed only a middle-aged couple moving down the street. No one else in the café appeared interested in events outside.
Running too fast to pull her gun, she overtook him instead. As she closed in she saw a sun-bleached mop of hair and leathery skin—the pirate who held a knife to Tania’s throat in Cameroon. Tania hadn’t recognized him in the café because she never saw his face when they fought in the Zodiac. Pia grabbed his collar, planted her feet, pulled him backwards, and threw him to the ground.
He landed on his back, his arm extended.
Only then did she see the gun in his hand.
He fired.
“Pia, you OK?” Tania on the earbud. “I heard a shot.”
No time to reply.
Pia jumped on him and smashed her knees into his belly. His gun fired into the air again. She batted his wrist in an unsuccessful attempt to knock the gun away. Three rapid punches to his windpipe choked him. When she reached for her own weapon he brought the barrel of his gun to her face. He was still lucid enough to kill her, or at least try.
She swatted at it again and tried grabbing his wrist. He struggled to breathe as he twisted beneath her, enough to throw off her balance. She leapt to her feet in time to see the gun swing back at her. She ducked sideways, slammed a foot into his head. He rolled away from a second kick accidentally trapping his gun hand underneath his body. She smashed a powerful kick into his kidneys. He writhed in pain. She darted him.
“I’m good,” she said. “Subdued your pirate pal. Keep going. Cover Monique.”
The middle-aged couple stopped and stared from across the street.
“Rufen die Polizei!” she called out to them. Which she hoped meant, Call the police.
Their eyes widened. The woman tugged at her escort and the two ran away as fast as their dress shoes would allow.
“No problem,” Pia called after them. “I can handle it. Better for my street cred if I do it myself anyway.”
She looked down at the pirate. She wasn’t about to kill an unconscious unarmed man. Leaving him alive meant she’d better win this thing tonight—otherwise he’d be up and around in a few hours, one more adversary to deal with when she was already outnumbered.
She pulled the Sabel dart out of his body, hit him with an antidote injector, and took off for the Radisson.
While running, she called the polizei herself. The language barrier was too high for the time she had left—best she could tell, they thought she’d killed someone. She gave up.
She caught up to Tania in three city blocks, passed her a
nd found the boutique hotel’s street door.
“Hey, do NOT go in there alone!” Tania called on her earbud. “You hear me?”
“Yeah.” Pia said. “I’m waiting.”
Tania came up behind her a few seconds later. She whispered, “Holster that thing, you’ll start a panic. Look, over there—the car that stopped at the café. Empty. There were two people in it when they passed me. We’re looking for two hostiles inside, got it?”
Pia nodded, holstered her gun, texted Monique:
Go back to the table now. We’re here.
No reply.
Tania whipped out her knife and slashed the car tires, then they walked down the narrow curved steps to the hotel’s basement lobby. The small entryway had three openings: elevators, Sapori Restaurant, and the H12 bar. Tania searched for a back door while the maître d’ led Pia to a table in back.
Monique looked beyond terrified, drained of all hope. She was seated between a man with his back to Pia and Calixthe Ebokea.
“So you’re le Directeur,” Pia said.
Calixthe smiled. Without a trace of accent, she said, “We’re all here. Pull up a chair and join us. I have a pistol jammed in your friend’s ribs, so mind your manners.”
Pia stepped up to the table.
“Hardly a friend. She was going to kill me. So go ahead, shoot her.”
Calixthe nodded to her companion. “You’ve never been properly introduced. Pia Sabel, allow me to present Elgin Thomas.”
The man in the chair rose and offered a slight bow. Average-sized, dark hair streaked with gray, a thick goatee around a thin-lipped mouth. Pia tensed, her fists clenched, her teeth clamping down hard. His eyes rose to meet hers. He twitched a smile. She caught the glint of the P225 in his hand, half concealed beneath his leather jacket.
“You both have P225s?” Pia said. “What, you guys stole a truck full of them somewhere?”
“Good intel,” Tania’s whisper came over her earbud. “Keep it coming. I’m slipping through the kitchen.”
Calixthe said, “Sit down.”
“I’d love to,” Pia said. “But there’s only three chairs, and there’s no way I’m sitting with my back to the door and you two on either side of me.”