Everyone in the room held their breath. You could hear a pin drop. Or perhaps it was Hellen’s heart, which had abruptly sunk into her belly. She knew the auction rules, and knew there was nothing she could do about it. Tom could only watch as her stomach clenched and tiny beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. And Cloutard seemed to have no intention of outbidding her. He knew that neither Blue Shield nor UNESCO had set aside the money to buy this exhibit, and he was reveling in the knowledge. He put aside his bidding paddle—a clear sign that he was abandoning Hellen to the consequences of her unintended gesture.
“The bid stands at three million euros. Do I hear 3.5 million for this unique piece of human history? The shield of St. Joan of Arc is a one-of-a-kind medieval Christian relic, unearthed only recently, and its authenticity has been confirmed by a number of analyses. Its value is sure to increase dramatically in coming years. And UNESCO itself is showing an interest in the exhibit.”
The auctioneer intended to stretch the proceedings out as far as possible, looking to milk whatever he could from it.
“Do I hear 3.5 million euros?”
He looked across the room. No one moved. It was deathly quiet. No one dared to make a sound, or even to fidget in their seat. The entire room looked as if someone had pressed the pause button during a film. Cloutard gazed steadily back at Hellen and made no move to place another bid.
“The bid stands at three million euros,” the auctioneer repeated.
Hellen’s heart was pounding. Her eyes were as wide as they could get, and she could already start thinking about how she would explain this to Count Palffy and her superiors at Blue Shield and UNESCO.
“Three million going once.”
There was another long pause. Tom looked at Hellen in horror. Hellen looked at Tom in horror. Cloutard’s grin had transformed almost into a grimace.
“Three million going twice.”
Against her will, Hellen instinctively reached for Tom’s hand and squeezed it so hard it almost hurt.
“Three million euros . . .”
The auctioneer slowly raised his gavel. Hellen closed her eyes and waited for the hammer to fall, the sound that would seal her fate and end her career. But it didn’t come. Instead, she and everyone else in the room heard the shattering of glass, like an explosion in the dead silence, as a windowpane at the back of the room disintegrated into a thousand pieces.
25
Vlora, Albania
Their arduous fourteen-hour journey through Bulgaria, Macedonia and Albania at an end, the three men stopped a few miles outside the Albanian port city of Vlora. They got out, climbed onto the bed of the truck and began dismantling the plates that made up the floor of the cargo area. In a few minutes, the results of their efforts came into view.
An open space had appeared, into which the crate they were transporting fitted perfectly. The men lowered the box into the cavity and replaced the planks and panels. In minutes, everything was reassembled and the crate was all but undetectable, hidden beneath the bed of the truck.
They left the traffic circle marking the entrance to the city and drove on a quarter of a mile to a warehouse, where they picked up cargo to serve as camouflage and loaded it onto the truck: worthless, nondescript junk, in many different boxes with many different freight documents, meaning a lot of paperwork for customs to wade through.
More envelopes containing hundred-dollar bills had also been left for them, just in case an Italian customs officer in Brindisi decided to take his job too seriously. A ticket on the ferry from Vlora to Brindisi had been booked for them days earlier.
They arrived at the port and saw the utter chaos that would simplify their plans. With its pleasant Mediterranean climate, Vlora had been one of southern Albania’s tourist centers for years. At the harbor there were already countless cars, trucks, campers and containers standing around. The ferry would be more than full, a good starting point. They drove the truck to its allotted place on the ferry and made sure that nobody came too close, then decided a little rest was called for. The crossing to Italy would take six hours.
26
Auction room, Waldegg Castle, Solothurn
The auctioneer stumbled back a step and dropped his gavel to the ground. A small, red bullet hole flared in the center of his forehead. He keeled over backward, stiff as a block of wood. For a brief moment, everyone in the room sat as if paralyzed. Then panic swept the room.
Tom looked at Hellen. “Looks like you get off with a slap on the wrist again.”
His last words were drowned out by machine gun fire. The entire hall was on its feet within seconds: chairs toppled and people jumped up, screaming and pushing for the exit.
The guards at the entrance have probably been taken out already, thought Tom. He and Hellen had also left their chairs behind and found some cover. He saw Ossana exchanging a few words with Cloutard, then she jumped onto the stage and, with frightening precision, took out the two security guards flanking the shield: her true target.
“She’s after the shield!” Tom shouted to Hellen, who was struggling to make her way through the chaos of people and fallen chairs.
Guerra and his two men, wearing full-face masks, had trouble making headway through the mob streaming for the exits, but with raw, ruthless violence they soon found themselves standing in the middle of the hall. Then they spotted their target.
None of the guests cared that they were pushing and trampling others in their panic to escape; everyone just wanted to get out. Guerra knew what he wanted, too.
“Get her,” he ordered his men. Without a second’s hesitation, his two companions stomped off, grabbed Hellen and dragged her out of the hall.
Tom, meanwhile, had reached the stage. Ossana was at the shield, turned away from him. He shoved her aside. Catlike, she exploited his thrust, using the momentum to her own advantage. Her lightning-fast reaction impressed Tom, even as she aimed a blow at his neck. At the last second, he was able to partially block it with his forearm, but he knew that if he hadn’t parried, the strike would have knocked him out. Ossana looked at him and a smile appeared on her face. There it was again, that look—a mixture of hostility and admiration, even desire. Tom couldn’t deal with that now, nor did he want to. He cursed all the tedious Cobra missions: now, in direct combat, he realized how rusty he’d become. This woman would beat him senseless if he didn’t get his act together immediately. Tom faked a left, but Ossana didn’t fall for it and saw the right hand coming. Still, he managed to throw her off balance, at least a little.
“Dr. Pfeiffer, you surprise me,” Ossana said. “Did they teach you that at your sensal school?” Tom saw excitement in her eyes. They faced off in classic martial arts style.
“Karate summer camp and junior state champion,” he countered quickly and relaxed his stance a little. Have I blown my cover? he thought. The “summer camp” part was true, but it had been with the IDF, the Israeli Defense Forces, and his Krav Maga trainer had given him an excellent score.
“Help!” Tom suddenly heard.
He turned to see three men dragging Hellen toward the exit. One had taken his hand off Hellen’s mouth for a moment, and she had used the opportunity to cry out. He left Ossana on the stage, jumped down and ran after the three men taking Hellen.
Ossana, obviously disappointed that the exhilarating duel she had anticipated had been interrupted, turned her attention to her original goal. She grabbed the shield and, seconds later, leaped through one of the French doors that had been opened as an escape route and into the garden.
Tom’s confusion was growing. What the hell was going on? What was this all about? The artifacts? Or Hellen? And if they were after Hellen, then why? All these thoughts ran through his head as he ran to pursue them. He saw the kidnapper pressing a gun to Hellen’s head. She had stopped fighting back. Tom fought his way through the crowd, but he was too late. When he made it out of the castle through the main entrance, he saw a black SUV, into which Hellen had already been bundled. The SUV
swung into the avenue at full throttle, spitting gravel in all directions, and Tom lost sight of the car just a few moments later.
27
In front of Schloss Waldegg
Tom’s mind was racing. The police would be there in a few minutes. The Interpol warrant on him was already out—he couldn’t afford to be arrested here in Switzerland and shipped back to Austria. He had to get out of there fast; he could forget about going after the SUV. His BMW was parked at the back of the castle and the kidnappers had fled in the opposite direction.
He ran to the right, along the front of the castle, then turned right again, sprinting past an outbuilding and across the rear garden to the parking lot. Panic-stricken guests were scattered all around the estate. Tom ran to his car, fishing in his pocket for the key as he ran. He could see the chunky BMW from a distance—it practically towered over the Aston Martins, Lamborghinis and Ferraris. Tom jumped in. Ignoring all the other cars already causing a small traffic jam, he simply drove the X6 cross-country through the castle grounds and fields until he reached the road. As expected, the sirens of the Swiss police were already audible, coming from the southeast. They would be coming up the avenue, but Tom took the road to the north, behind the castle. After a few minutes he was sure that he wasn’t being followed; his Swiss colleagues would have their hands full at the castle. He drove on a few miles and then pulled off onto a forest path in a wooded area, until the BMW was no longer visible from the road. He had to think. He called Noah to bring him up to speed.
“If I’m seeing this right, Cloutard is still your only lead,” Noah said.
“I can only assume he’s mixed up in this. He wanted the shield at any price, and it looks like he got himself a bargain. The shield was also the reason Hellen came to Switzerland. And yes, Cloutard is still my only lead, but now it’s definitely confirmed.”
“Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll find out where he lives. You can pay him a personal visit,” said Noah.
“By the way, his girlfriend’s name is Ossana. I don’t know her family name. From somewhere in Africa, I guess. Legs a mile long. Maybe you can find out something useful about her. Still nothing on that symbol?”
“Yes and no. The NSA knows something about the symbol, but isn’t telling me what. You know the Americans and their ‘national security’ bullshit. Give me a minute to find out where the Frenchman is, and I’ll call you back.”
Noah was about to hang up, but Tom stopped him.
“Hold on. Can you dig up the number for Hellen’s boss? The head of Blue Shield, Palffy. I should let him know. He and Hellen are close.”
Tom was leaning against the massive hood of the BMW when a convoy of blue lights and sirens roared by out on the main road, making him flinch. He drew a deep breath. He was certain that everything that had happened in the last three days was somehow connected—and it was his job to find out how. First, he had to find Hellen; no one but he and Noah knew she had been kidnapped. No official authority—not in Austria or Switzerland, and certainly not Interpol—would believe his story, even if he weren’t wanted for murder. He’d have trouble convincing a school crossing guard.
His cell phone buzzed. Damn, he’s fast, Tom thought.
“Okay, next stop’s Tunisia,” Noah said. “Cloutard has a medieval fortress there that he’s converted into a luxury villa. It’s in a town called Tabarka. It’s his official place of residence, as far as I can find out. But here’s the best part: I found the name Ossana Ibori on the passenger list of a flight to Tunisia. If Cloutard is travelling with her, it’s under a false name. The guys in the white-collar division of the FBI suspect he keeps all kinds of artwork stashed there. No cop from any jurisdiction has ever set foot inside his fortress, but maybe you can turn on your proverbial charm. Ossana seems like just your type.”
Tom could picture Noah’s smirk.
“Fantastic plan, Noah. How am I supposed to get to Tunisia from here? Interpol is after me, for Christ’s sake. I can’t just jump on a TUI flight from Zurich to Tunisia.”
“I know. It’s a problem, but I’m working on it.”
Noah hung up. Tom was feeling the chill in the air: the nights here were never very warm, even in the summer. His phone vibrated. Noah had just sent him the number for Hellen’s boss. He was a little nervous and wondered how to explain to the boss of Blue Shield that his protégée had just been kidnapped, probably by the same guys who’d been stealing the artifacts. Finally, he took a deep breath and pressed the green button. When the Count picked up, he briefly outlined all that had happened.
“I know François Cloutard. Everyone in the art world does,” said Palffy. “We have been trying to pin something on him for years, but he has always proved too slippery. He’s one of the true masters, and unfortunately very dangerous. If he has Hellen in his hands, we must be exceptionally careful. It looks as if he is behind the theft of all the artifacts. Of course, Hellen’s safety is our absolute priority, but in my capacity as president of Blue Shield, I am also required to keep my mandate from UNESCO in mind. Personally, I would like to think that we can kill two birds with one stone. If only we knew where to start.”
“We have one small clue,” Tom said. “Cloutard’s probably headed for his fortress in Tunisia. In any case, his girlfriend has booked a flight there. But I’m in a fix and don’t know how to get to Tunisia myself.”
It was quiet on the other end of the line, so quiet that Tom thought the connection had been interrupted. “Count Palffy? Are you there?” he said.
“Yes. Something just occurred to me. Maybe Lady Luck is on our side after all. Not far from you is a town called Grenchen. There’s a private airport there. I have an old friend, a retired Air Force pilot, who now flies Swiss bankers around for a lot of money. His name is Walter T. Skinner. I myself have frequently used his private charter planes when I have business in Geneva. I’ll make some calls right away and see that he gets you to Tabarka. My diplomatic contacts will ensure that you enter the country without any problems, and your luggage and equipment will also fly under diplomatic seal. Maybe we can finally put a stop to Cloutard’s game. I will have my secretary send the necessary information to your phone.”
Palffy ended the call, and Tom hoped that he really would be able to enter the country “without any problems.” Ending up in a Tunisian jail in his situation wasn’t on his bucket list. Tom jumped into the car and tapped “Grenchen Airport” into the GPS system. A few minutes later, the confirmation from Palffy’s secretary arrived. Tom hit the gas.
Tom Wagner was on an almost-official rescue mission for Blue Shield.
28
Brindisi, Italy
Just before the ferry docked in Brindisi, the leader’s mobile phone beeped. The brief message confirmed that they would be spared any major customs searches when they entered the EU at Brindisi. A distraction had been arranged. The weather was already on their side. It was raining hard, strong winds whipped across the harbor, and no one wanted to be outside longer than absolutely necessary, including the customs officers.
And that was only the beginning. As they sailed into Brindisi, the rest became clear. From the ferry, they could make out dozens of police cars and fire engines. The port area was in an uproar. Over the ferry PA system, they heard that there had been two bomb threats at the port, and that the Italian authorities had defused one device. The second bomb had actually exploded, destroying several port buildings and also claiming human lives. But there was no need to worry. The authorities had the situation in hand, and entry into the EU would be dealt with expeditiously.
The three men shared a smile, and the entry formalities went smoothly. Their rickety old truck barely merited a glance and the officials gave their papers no more than a once-over, even less thorough given the chaos at the port and the terrible weather. Thirty minutes later they were on Strada Statale 379, heading north. The single windshield wiper did its best, and the leader studied the map.
“We’re ahead of schedule. This filthy w
eather will slow us down, but if we drive straight through we’ll be in San Marino in less than seven hours. We could even fit in a little detour to Pescara. I know a bar in the harbor there, girls you could only dream about. With the money we’re getting, we could have a good time there.”
The other two men grinned.
“Then step on it,” one of them said with a laugh. “Don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.”
29
Tabarka harbor, Tunisia
A twenty-minute taxi ride from the airport brought Tom to Tabarka. He saw the medieval fortress immediately, situated on a hill on a headland that formed one side of the harbor. Cloutard must have spent a fortune turning it into a luxury villa, and it probably wasn’t the kind of place Tom could just walk into. Even Noah wouldn’t be able to help him much with this one. The place was a fortress in the truest sense of the word.
Getting in from the ocean side would be difficult. Steep cliffs rose from the water’s edge to the fortress walls. The only vehicle access was by a road that wound its way up the hill from the harbor. Even from a few hundred yards away, Tom could see the sentries. He suspected they would not take kindly to him stopping by.
Tom went to a café near the harbor to observe the comings and goings at Cloutard’s fortress for a little while, but for an hour nothing happened.
Tabarka had become somewhat run-down in recent years after its peak as a tourist destination in the 1990s. Now there were hardly any tourists, and not even many of the locals frequented the harbor. Only a few fishing boats, surrounded by screeching seagulls, were chugging in or out.
The Sacred Weapon (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 1) Page 9