by Seeley James
They walked another block in silence, the Major working over the bits and pieces in her mind. Marina started to say something, then stopped and touched her shoulder.
“Do you know who did it? Who killed my sister?”
“I have a few ideas. I know there were two people in Geneva. I know one had to have banking experience. A rival, a junior executive, a disgruntled employee? We’re working on it.”
“Thank you, Major Jackson. I’m glad to have run into you. You’ve told me more than the police. I’m not sure they know what to do.”
She watched Marina start up the entryway toward her house, a standard Victorian with a front porch and high-pitched roof. The garage was tucked on the side in the back of the property. The Major stared at the garage.
“Excuse me, Ms. Bachmann,” she called out, “did your sister use the garage the night she was murdered?”
“She did.”
“Do you have a side door she normally went through?”
“Yes. But the gunman called to her—I heard the voice just before the gunshot.”
“She knew him?”
“The police thought so, but she would have answered to anyone who called her name. This is a friendly city full of friendly people.”
The Major said goodbye and left.
Around the corner she called a cab to carry her to the hill overlooking Ramona Wölfli’s penthouse. Once there, she crossed a small park and found a bench with a perfect view. The binoculars were the right size and power to see directly into Ramona’s kitchen. She propped a laser detector on the bench next to her and aimed it at the windows. It would sound a warning when anyone moved through the visible end of the apartment.
For a few moments she watched the sun rise over the Alps. Mists swirled at the eastern end of the lake, still shrouded in the mountains’ shadows. She wondered if Sabel Security would open an office in Geneva. She sighed, gave up her delusions, and started pacing.
What about Wölfli’s first wife? Or second? What about Mme. Lena Marot? Was it her superior attitude that made her the Major’s prime suspect? Or her racism? She stopped herself. No supporting evidence pointed to Marot.
She ran through the mental list of survivors who had connections that could run a pirate ring three thousand miles away. She eliminated the alcoholic Campbell and the domestic Bachmann as incapable. Antje Affolter and Ramona Wölfli had that skill set. Ramona because gold diggers are capable of amazing things when their allowance is threatened.
Back to Marot. Dammit, no matter how much she wanted it to work, she had nothing that connected the woman to any part of this conspiracy.
Someone knew the banking business and had access to criminals. Who was the missing link between a bank executive and Calixthe?
She slowed her pacing. Think.
Bankers play golf, vacation in Greece, aspire to country clubs. They don’t hang out in dive bars on the waterfront. Could someone have moved the other way? Could a criminal move up the ladder inside the banking business? Unlikely. It would take too long, and criminals aren’t known for patience. Still, there must have been cross-pollination. A banker and a criminal got together somehow, somewhere, some place. Ramona made a good candidate for supplying the criminal connections. What banker, other than Eren, would fall into her web?
Any of them. None of them.
Pia Sabel called and reported on her evening’s excitement. After darting Walter Walcott for failing to give up le Directeur, she’d darted them all again and taken her normal a three-hour nap while Klaus kept watch. Then she’d gone through the captive’s possessions. Calixthe carried a packet of matches identical to the one found on Mustafa the night of the murder. Possibly the exact same one, since Geneva lost the evidence bag. Pia had called the number, no answer. She chalked that up to the early hour and would try again later.
“Sabel’s intelligence group,” Pia said, “dug up interesting background on Susan Duncan, aka Calixthe Ebokea. Two years ago she retired from the CIA. She spent twenty years as a field operative in all the places you might expect: the Hague, Stockholm, Berlin, Lyon, Hamburg, London. Her last two stops were Geneva and Vienna.”
“Then she definitely masterminded the pirate operation,” the Major said. “That leaves open the question about who the banking connection is. And how did they meet?”
“There were two people, a woman and a man, who called themselves le Directeur. Calixthe met with them, Monique spoke to them, Walter saw them. How do we find them?”
“You have everyone tied up. Wake them up with smelling salts and have them start talking. I’m not sure what you’re going to do about the polizei. That could be tricky. Might want to wake up your lawyers and have them on standby. What about Alphonse?”
“My mood shifts by the hour about him. He’s dirty. He’s clean. Dirty. Clean. How can I figure it out?”
The Major took a deep breath.
“Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Pia said. “When he wakes up, he’s going to hate me for suspecting him. If he’s in with her, he’s going to make me feel guilty. If he’s clean, I’m going to feel guilty. Maybe I should give him a gun and let him shoot me.”
“Please figure out a better way,” the Major said. “I’m thinking Ramona is the femme fatale and she seduced some junior executive. Oh, hey, my alarm went off, which means she’s up and moving around. Three hours earlier than I expected. Got to go.”
They clicked off. The Major pulled her binoculars up and steadied her elbows on her knees. Wölfli’s penthouse rose above the skyline with picture windows facing the lake and a balcony running the length of two sides. Facing her were a series of expansive windows. She could see some of the kitchen, most of dining room, and half the living room.
As she adjusted the focus, Ramona came in looking like she stepped out of lingerie catalog. She strode through the living room, strutted in front of the picture windows, and disappeared into another room. In that flash of legs and skin, the Major understood Ramona’s confidence in attracting a wealthy mate. She had a body men would die for: long lean legs, perfectly round butt, flat tummy, modest implants, and lace around all the curves.
“And I work out for hours just to keep my gut from hanging over my belt,” The Major muttered to herself.
Agent Miguel called.
“No movement at Maison Marot, but there are three driveways,” he said. “I can only see two. Place has three guest houses, a main house with ten bedrooms, a boathouse on the lake. Only three family members live there.”
“You did some recon before sunrise?”
“Sort of,” he said. “Property valuations, with detailed estate descriptions, are on the canton’s tax assessment website.”
“Clever boy. Any of our suspects staying there as guests?”
“No, and stakeouts bore me,” Miguel said. “But the boredom is over. The Marot limo’s pulling out. Should I follow them?”
“Can you tell who’s inside?”
“No.”
“Hang on a sec. I lost Ramona.” The Major scanned the Wölfli’s windows for signs of Ramona. Nothing. She cursed herself for the momentary lapse and pulled down the binoculars. Then she saw them. Two people leaning over the balcony’s railing. Possibly the missing le Directeur. One wore a thick robe and held a coffee mug. True to The Major’s opinion of her, Ramona put nothing over her lingerie outside. The Major lifted her binoculars to get a better view of the mystery guest—and howled with laughter until she caught her breath.
“What’s so funny?” Miguel asked.
“Miguel, you’re not going to believe this.” The Major laughed again. “That gold-digging little tramp. Her sugar daddy’s dead only a week and she’s out prowling already. Were my eyes playing tricks on me, or did I just see Ramona Wölfli tying tongues with Madame Lena Marot?”
Chapter 38
* * *
Vienna, Austria
28-May, 7AM
Pia stood behind Lieutenant Alphonse Lamartine and wafted smelling salts under his nose
one more time. His eyes blinked, his head snapped back, and he sank into sleep again. She crushed another dose between her thumb and forefinger and placed it even closer to his nose. At last his eyes were fully open. She peeled off the tape that held his head upright. It stayed up. He shook his head and snorted. While he took a deep breath and got his bearings, Pia slipped around the table and into his line of sight.
Pushing apart the chairs of Calixthe and Detective Janko, she placed her hands on the table and leaned toward Alphonse with an apologetic look.
“Pia?” he mumbled. “What happened?”
“Ah, well. What can I say? You came at a bad time.”
He looked around. “Susan Duncan?”
“Yes.”
“And the man—Detective Janko, oui?”
“Yes.”
“Not the good thing. Not good to capture police officers.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked down at his arms. “And we are all tied up?”
“Yes.”
He took another deep breath and shook his curly locks.
“I have done something wrong?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
He looked up at her. “You suspected me. Then I showed up unannounced.”
“Yes.”
“I checked in with the police. They were discussing you. They questioned me. I was worried. I … should have called.”
“There was nothing you could do, Alphonse.” She looked away. “Before I turn you loose, I have to ask you some questions.”
“No, no. Do not turn me loose.”
“If you’re innocent, and I think you are, then I need your help.”
“No, no, no. I am in trouble now with my Capitaine because I came here—”
“I saw the text.”
“And when I arrived, I reported my intentions to the local police—”
“Janko?”
“Oui. They detained me an hour. And now—”
“I get it,” she said. “If I untie you now, you’re in more trouble than if I keep you tied up.”
“That is half the problem.”
Pia waited.
“If I were you,” Alphonse said, “and found so much evidence against Lamartine, I would not trust the man. I do not want to live under the suspicions of Pia Sabel. I ask you—keep me here until you trust me. The decision you make on your own, not because of my persuasions.”
Pia stared at him. Not the reaction she expected. It would have been better if he were angry.
“OK then, you stay tied up. Now for the questions. First, who is Susan Duncan?”
“Mata Hari,” he said with contempt. “The CIA temptress of the worst kind. She made havoc of NATO soldiers stationed in Berlin.”
Pia raised her eyebrows. “She’s not exactly a looker.”
“Women have the mistaken impression of what appeals to the man. Yes, beauty is an appeal. It is easy to see and easy to identify. But mostly men fall for availability and the willingness.”
“What?”
“Most men can only obey Mother Nature. If he finds the woman both willing and available, he will oblige Mother Nature’s directives to, ehm, reproduce. Some men have the higher moral code. Soldiers, far from home, listen more to Mother Nature more than moral codes.”
“And you—you oblige Mother Nature’s directives whenever you find a woman willing and available?”
“I must admit, before I met you, moral codes seemed most inconvenient. Now, my thinking is different. I think the moral code most desirable and worthwhile.”
“Yeah, sure.” She huffed and paced. She wanted it to be true, but in her experience with men, truth was a moving target. “Why were you dismissed from the army?”
“Heh, heh. Ah, the Mother Nature problem is mine also. The general’s daughter, just back from university in America, was willing—”
“Yeah. OK. I get it.” She paused. “So Susan Duncan seduced NATO soldiers. Why?”
“She was the recruiter, one who persuades men to share the secrets.”
“By sleeping with them?” Pia asked.
“I did not know the details. Only the problem.”
“But Walter and Conor were English. The CIA wants spies in the UK?”
Alphonse shrugged. “They were long before my time. But she was still active five years ago. Besides, the CIA is the CIA. They do what they do. They cannot help themselves. Do they spy on the ally to ensure he is still the ally? Or do they spy on the ally because they can?”
“Did you give up France’s secrets?”
“I was the cure. Seducing her was my duty, for France.” He coughed. “Only for France.”
Pia smiled. “So I’m looking at the stud muffin of the French army. Impressive. When I wake her up, will she verify this?”
Alphonse shrugged with a smirk. “After I filed my report, the CIA sent her away within the hour.”
“When was the last time you contacted her?”
“Yesterday. I asked her about Elgin Thomas—I thought she might know how to find him. Later I discover he died of cancer two years ago.”
“And until yesterday you never contacted her.”
“No reason. Her idea of love was full of enthusiasm but without soul. She called on me many times. I did not encourage her. I even considered getting the … what do you call them in America? The restraining order?”
Pia stopped pacing and stared at him for a moment. Laughter erupted from deep inside her. She looked at Susan Duncan-Calixthe Ebokea-Elgin Thomas. A seductress to Conor and probably Walter. But she meant nothing to France’s official NATO stud. At first Alphonse seemed a little embarrassed. Then he laughed with her.
“You think I am full of myself, oui? Ah, I think you are right.”
Pia composed herself, handed the smelling salts to Klaus, and pointed to Detective Janko. While the salts tickled his nose, she positioned herself across from him. She pulled up the compromising pictures of the detectives on her phone and held them up. They were the first things he saw.
“Sorry, Detective,” she said. “You came at a bad time last night. Sitting next to you is Susan Duncan, a former CIA operative wanted for murder and piracy in Cameroon. With her are two of her associates. I missed the fourth in their party, a man named Mustafa Ahmadi. Either I let these killers go free or I turn them over to you. I’ll ask you about that in a minute.
“In front of you is Lieutenant Alphonse Lamartine, recently on assignment with the Geneva Police. He can confirm my story. If he’s not enough, the weapon used to shoot both Agent Tania Cooper and Monique Tsogo are here on the sideboard, complete with fingerprints.” She let it sink in for a beat. “What would you like to do, detective?”
Janko’s eyes seared into her. His wrists strained, his entire body shook with anger. Pia pointed a gun at him.
“Or I can put you back to sleep, email these pictures to your coworkers, and leave you two handcuffed to the bedpost naked. So take a minute to think things through.”
Alphonse looked at Janko and shook his head. He said, “Look around you, Detective. She’s a twenty-five-year-old footballer who captured everyone at this table, including you and me. She offers you the credit for these arrests. You are the smart man to take this offer.”
Detective Janko looked away, his face screwed up tight. He took a few deep breaths and came back to look at Alphonse. He said, “You work with this woman?”
“I am bound as are you, monsieur. Working together is not the good description.”
Janko bit his lip.
“Let him think,” Alphonse said. “Perhaps his assistant will be the more agreeable one.”
Pia smiled. “I don’t need either of them. I was just trying to be nice. Next one to wake up is Calixthe.”
After several repeated applications by Klaus, Calixthe’s eyes opened and snapped around the room. She winced at the sight of her goons tied up and drugged. When she recognized Alphonse, her face flushed red.
“Sucks, huh, Susan?” Pia said. “All those year
s as a CIA agent and you get zapped by a spoiled rich kid—not just once but twice. Don’t make me do it a third time.” She pointed. “I’m getting tired of dragging your carcass around. The guy sitting next to you is Detective Janko of the Vienna Polizei. He’s looking for the woman who tried to kill Monique Tsogo and Tania Cooper. I’ve got your gun over there, with your fingerprints all over it, ready to hand over for evidence. Now, I want you to pay close attention Susan-Duncan-Elgin-Thomas-Calixthe-Ebokea, whatever your name is. Here’s the deal. You give me a clue, just a little clue, that will lead me to le Directeur, and I turn you loose right now. You get a head start on Detective Janko. Not much of a chance, but a lot better than you have at the moment. All you have to do is tell me something I can believe. Ready? Go.”
Calixthe glared at her.
“Oooh, you remind me of the Ukranian captain just before she got a red card for taking a swing at me,” Pia said. “But she wasn’t tied to a chair. C’mon, think about it, Calixthe. What? I’m not hearing anything. Want the deal? Calixthe? Susan? Hello? No? OK.”
“You could have planted fingerprints,” Janko said. “While she was tied up. You have no chain of custody documentation.”
Something about that phrase struck a chord in Pia’s mind. Chain of custody. She knew it was important. Everyone stared at her while she thought. Where did it fit in? She concentrated for a moment but the meaning eluded her. It would come to her when she stopped thinking about it.
She turned her gaze back to Janko.
“Are you really a policeman?” Pia leaned into his face. “Monique is in critical condition, but they say she’s going to live. You think she can identify the person who dragged her out of the women’s room at the Radisson and shot her in the ribs? How about Tania? She’s on pain meds in the next room. Want me to wake her up and ask her? We can make a little line-up right here in this room. We have three women to choose from: Calixthe, me, and you—the pussy of Vienna.”
Alphonse laughed until Janko glared at him.
Pia caught Klaus’s eye and pointed to Walter Walcott. While he administered smelling salts, she leaned across the table into Calixthe’s face. She said, “Walter here was less than pleased when I told him you killed his pal Conor. I’m thinking I can skip the whole Austrian criminal justice system and just give Walter a gun. I think he’d blow your brains out, Susan. What do you think?”