by E. J. Simon
Still, although the civilized world had nearly come to an end, the public didn’t know about it. The press and the media had described the general attack warning in the United States as a malfunction of their emergency warning systems, a simple false alarm. The Russians had never even sounded an alarm publicly. Nevertheless, Dietrich knew he was a marked man, hunted by at least two countries. His eyes continued to rove around the room.
It was a risk to be here in public, but he’d deemed it safer than meeting the Russian in private. He knew the man seated across from him only as Dostoyevsky. Despite his short beard, the man was clearly no relation to the literary one. But his conversation-making indicated a certain intellect, perhaps of a technical, scientific nature. Except for his rimless eyeglasses, his physique, short, burly, husky, betrayed the Russian as a thug. Maybe, Dietrich thought, an assassin. His assassin.
Dietrich had considered suicide. After all, it ran in the family. Goebbels and his wife had fed their six crying children cyanide before taking lethal doses themselves in order to avoid capture, just before their Führer did the same. But this was different. Hope still remained, and Dietrich wanted to live, even if it meant existing in diminished circumstances with only the smallest flicker of hope for another run.
“You have something we want,” Dostoyevsky said.
Using his feet, Dietrich moved his briefcase closer. It was no surprise, except it came so early in the conversation. But there was one problem: Dietrich had nothing anymore. Not even a trace of Schlegelberger remained on his laptop. It had all been deleted when the Americans got hold of Alex’s codes.
Dietrich had nothing—but Dostoyevsky didn’t know that, at least not yet.
“Yes, I’m sure I do,” Dietrich said, smiling with the air of a confident liar.
“Very good, my friend,” Dostoyevsky said, “then it appears you have something to live for.”
Chapter 82
Dietrich had never liked the Russians. They were the animals who had stopped Hitler, who had stood and gloated over the remains of the bunker and of his uncle, who’d raped countless German women at the end of the war.
Dostoyevsky might have just given him a lifeline, but he had also threatened him.
He looked around the dining room, past Dostoyevsky, turning to see who else was in the restaurant. He noticed the good-looking woman with long dark hair, sitting alone. He’d seen her picture before, online, perhaps; he tried to place her but couldn’t. It wasn’t good news, that was certain. And there, on the other side of the room, he saw Michael Nicholas.
Thinking quickly, he decided he’d use their presence to his advantage, to prove his value while getting out safely. “There are others here now who are interested in me, who want what I have.”
Dostoyevsky looked unfazed. “I know.”
As the waiter arrived with their main courses, Dietrich pulled the briefcase even closer, gripping it between his feet. With Michael Nicholas at one end of the room and the dark-haired woman at the other end, both behind him, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he had never felt before. Surely, they had traced him here unless they were somehow trailing or connected with Dostoyevsky. And who was that woman?
“So,” Dostoyevsky spoke again, “do you care to tell me who the others are?”
“Yes, there is a gentleman here, his name is Michael Nicholas. He is desperate—and dangerous.”
“And what is it exactly that you believe he wants with you?”
Buying time to think, Dietrich grinned with false nonchalance and cut into his roast beef, which he’d ordered well done despite the raised eyebrows of the server.
“He wants access to the source code that was used to create a virtual, artificial intelligence duplicate of his brother. He believes he can get what he wants from my computer by accessing another virtual person with whom I communicate.”
“You are referring to Monsignor Kurt Schlegelberger?”
He knows, thought Dietrich. But he obviously doesn’t know that Schlegelberger is gone.
He gave the Russian a curt nod. “Schlegelberger appears to be the only virtual persona remaining after the missile incident.”
“I see,” Dostoyevsky said.
His stare unnerved Dietrich. It was as though he was searching for something, the way parents looked for signs of alcohol or drug use in their teenagers.
“How is your dinner?” asked the Russian.
Dietrich was relieved for the change of topic. “Excellent, the beef is very tender.” In fact, he was too nervous to taste anything.
“The owner here was actually Putin’s personal chef,” Dostoyevsky said, continuing to stare, seemingly anxious for Dietrich’s reaction.
“Putin’s?”
“Yes, Yevgeny Sokolov. He was known as ‘Putin’s Cook.’”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, of course. On occasion he does favors for me, for the mother country. He served time in prison back home. Putin rescued him, eventually helping him get started in the restaurant business.”
“I see,” said Dietrich, now even more uncertain what was transpiring between them.
“And what about the woman?” Dostoyevsky asked, nodding at her as she headed for the ladies’ room.
“I recognize her but I can’t quite place her.”
“You should. She’s here to put a knife into your chest.”
Chapter 83
Watching Dietrich, she reached inside her purse for the stiletto.
She felt the handle and, while keeping her hand hidden inside her bag, she tested the spring release. Pressing the button, she felt the blade instantly spring out of its case. She methodically let her index finger run across the blade until it reached the needle-like point. Other than poison, it was her weapon of choice, a marvelous tool for murder, the sharp, narrow point gently broadening to a widening blade, allowing an almost painless entry as the rest of blade was quickly inserted into an unsuspecting victim’s side. She loved the look of puzzlement and surprise on his face—it was always a man—right after she plunged it in to the hilt, then savored the strange pleasure of pulling it out.
The act—from insertion to withdrawal—was sexual. It was sex except she was the one in control, doing both, entering and, finally, pulling out, always on top. But she would be the one to move on, light up a cigarette, leaving behind a spent body, eyes looking upward, mouth slightly open, wondering, as he drifted away, what had happened.
Lovers, like victims, always leave.
She’d planned on stabbing him and taking the briefcase but had been surprised by the presence of the other man. She had hoped to catch Dietrich outside on his way to his hotel, but what if he handed over the briefcase at dinner? The other man looked like a professional, not a civilian, and she had no idea who he might be connected with, or who else might be waiting for Dietrich when he left the restaurant. No, this meant she had to act now: use the element of surprise, stab Dietrich, grab the briefcase, and run. She saw Michael in the corner, also watching. He’d help if she needed it, even if he hadn’t expected her here. The thought energized her. He would help her as she would help him, each indispensable in the other’s life.
Dietrich’s table lay in the path to restroom. With one hand holding her small purse, she got up from her table and proceeded toward the back. As though she’d just recognized him, she stopped at Dietrich’s table.
Dietrich’s disguise did little to conceal his identity, at least not to anyone looking for him. She would first feign recognition and then, as she reached out to embrace him, discreetly place the blade into his side, piercing his kidney, producing little blood, lots of pain, and certain death. At the same time, she would take the briefcase and swiftly leave the restaurant. It wasn’t a great plan but the best she could improvise, given the circumstances.
But just as she reached out to him, she knew something was wrong. D
ietrich’s body went rigid, unmoving, his hands in a seeming death grip around the sides of his chair; he appeared to be dead.
Yet he wasn’t.
His eyes were open and moving, darting from left to right, up and down, trying to take in everything around him without the benefit of movement. He was alive but paralyzed, a block of cold stone with two dancing eyes and a mouth stuck in a half-open position, dribbling slightly.
She looked at the burly man across the table, who appeared unperturbed by her intrusion and discovery. They locked eyes and then, without warning, he rose, partially lifting the table with him and swiftly walked to the door and out of the restaurant. She noticed a bulge under his broad sport coat as he left. She checked under the table. Dietrich’s briefcase was gone. His dining partner had taken it while she approached Dietrich. Instinctively, she wanted the briefcase, though she barely knew why. It was Dietrich’s death she’d really craved.
She needed to be the one to kill him.
She turned back to Dietrich, leaning over him closely, touching his arm. His eyes blinked rapidly; she detected a twitch in his hand as he tried unsuccessfully to release his grip on the arm of the chair. He seemed aware of what was happening. She looked around the busy restaurant. No one appeared to be paying any attention or to have noticed what had occurred…except Michael, who was staring at her. She raised her hand slightly, warning him to stay where he was. The server appeared to be casually heading their way, perhaps a routine check to ask about dessert. She caught his eye and waved him off, sitting in the chair the other man had vacated.
“Mr. Dietrich, I’m Sindy Steele. I’m a close friend of Michael Nicholas.”
His eyes widened. If it was possible, he appeared even more terrified than before.
“Claus, blink a few times if you understand what I’m saying.”
He did, his eyes blinking rapidly.
“Good, thanks. Listen, I know something about poisons and drugs. It looks like your friend gave you something that’s paralyzed you. That’s too bad. It’ll likely kill you soon, too. You’re drooling a bit already, not a good sign. But we can’t be sure about that, now, can we? You might recover when it wears off, although that guy didn’t seem like the type to let that happen. Or, you might end up a vegetable, the way you are now. You know, happy eyes and all. But I want to take all that uncertainty away so I’m going to get up and leave. But before I do, I’m going to put my nine-inch stiletto deep into your side. And, I’m afraid that even with the drug, you’re gonna feel it.”
Chapter 84
Out on the street, she looked back and saw no one was rushing out of the restaurant after her. She needed to hide, soon, before the local police had her description from the patrons in the restaurant. Sindy Steele would be easy to find, after all, at five-ten, long black hair, thigh-high black leather stiletto boots—not to mention the other stiletto hidden in her Gucci bag. Men always noticed her. Almost as often as women did.
Yet even at its worst, if she were caught, an autopsy would likely find that Dietrich was already well on his way to hell before she’d graced his table. In view of what would be obvious signs of poison, it was even conceivable that a sloppy autopsy might miss the near-surgical incision. Or, it was possible that Dietrich’s body would be removed from the table, dissected in the kitchen after closing time, and never be seen again. Those things happened in Prague, particularly when Russians were involved.
She thought about Michael, their eyes meeting as she inserted the stiletto into Dietrich. It had been a double orgasmic moment, feeling the final breath of life leaving Dietrich while watching Michael as he grasped what she was doing. He knew her too well. Well, she’d always suspected that he liked to watch.
She turned down a narrow, isolated street and there, half a block ahead, she saw a solitary figure, walking alone. It was the man from Dietrich’s table, briefcase under his arm. He appeared to be unaware of her as she gradually closed the gap between them.
She waited to hear or see some evidence of the police, but so far there were no sirens or flashing red lights passing through the streets. Perhaps the murder would, indeed, never be reported, or perhaps the server hadn’t tried to offer Dietrich dessert yet. The only sound was the soft but steady putt-putt from a motorcycle in the distance, a familiar sound throughout the cities of Europe.
In the restaurant, she had assessed the mystery man as being Russian, or at least Eastern European. She would need to catch up with him before he reached his destination, grab the bag, and run. He was too heavy to catch her, even in her boots.
She would have her stiletto ready to plunge into his neck if necessary, but she preferred not to, as a pierced jugular would gush blood everywhere, including onto her new black suede coat.
Whatever was in the briefcase was of interest to this man.
She edged closer to the storefronts on her right, sticking to the shadows. Still no sirens, only the sound of the motorcycle, louder now, clearly coming closer. She stepped into an unlit doorway and looked down the street behind her. A block away, she saw the motorcycle approaching. As she watched, its headlight went off.
Her heart raced as she crouched in the darkened doorway, watching the motorcycle race quickly down the street on her left, rapidly approaching the stranger farther up the street on her right.
The man turned around and, seeing the cycle approaching, started to run. But it was too late: the motorcycle revved up, drove straight for him, jumping the sidewalk until it was inches from the man, who, in a clumsy effort to save himself, threw the briefcase at the cyclist.
The driver, who wore a black helmet and darkened eye visor, making him—or her—impossible to identify, adeptly caught the case, stopped the bike and, as the assassin raised his hands in a plea for mercy, produced a handgun and fired several bullets in quick succession into the man’s chest. The driver pocketed the gun, secured the briefcase in a messenger box behind him, and drove off.
Sindy Steele stayed in the doorway as the man she had followed lay spread-eagled on the sidewalk. Once the bike was out of sight, she approached the body. His eyes were wide open and blood was oozing out of his mouth. She bent over him and moved in close to his face. He was still breathing, although erratically. She could see from the number of bullet holes in his coat that he had little time left.
“What was in the briefcase?” she said softly into his ear.
His eyes opened wider. He was choking but managed to whisper, “Putin.” And then he was gone.
It was time to go, get away from the scene before she was seen and linked to a second murder. Tomorrow morning, she’d be on her flight to Athens.
Listening to the sound of the motorbike fade in the distance, Sindy wondered what was in the briefcase.
Chapter 85
Saint Michael’s Cemetery,
Astoria, Queens, New York
Looking down at the casket, Father Papageorge said, “The custom for dead bodies in Thebes and all of Greece, according to Sophocles, was that they should be buried in the earth.” With the Bible in his right hand, he spread his arms wide. “And so, my dear Alex, here we are, once again to commit you to the earth.”
Saint Michael’s Cemetery was all too familiar. Michael’s parents, grandparents, his beloved Uncle Tom, who’d died in front of him when he was five, and so many others, were all there, buried. Michael looked around him at the neat lines of white grave markers that ranged for acres, as far as he could see, broken only by small clusters of old trees. Acres of pain. The last stop for those without faith. Michael feared he had become one of them.
“It seems like we just keep burying him” he said, softly to Samantha.
“Well, between his original burial, and then the exhumation and now this, he’s had three of them,” she said. “If he were alive, he’d be exhausted.”
“Even if the first two weren’t Alex,” Michael said, shaking his head and laug
hing despite himself.
Once again, the cast of characters Alex had surrounded himself in life surrounded him in death. Fat and Skinny Lester, his two ex-wives Pam and Donna, his son George, various other bookies and gamblers, old jocks, bartenders, a loyal seat attendant from Yankee Stadium, a few others Michael didn’t recognize and, of course, Father Papageorge in his black robes.
They had all gathered, once again, at the same gravesite but around an open grave, one much smaller than the one originally dug for Alex’s casket. This time, instead of a normal casket, they’d used a small steel box, inside of which lay an urn. It had a New York Yankees logo emblazoned on its side. Michael felt nearly one hundred percent sure that Alex’s remains were inside that urn.
Fat Lester walked over to Michael, a tear glistening in his eye as he pulled Michael aside. “I don’t think Alex would like this, being in an urn, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know,” Michael said, “but what else could we put his ashes in? This is what they use.”
“What else? Jeez, even a cigar box would have been better.”
“But Alex didn’t smoke cigars.”
“No, but he smoked cigarettes. It just would’ve been better, that’s all I’m saying.”
The small group of mostly well-dressed, tough-looking men and mostly leggy, shapely women gathered around the hole in the ground as Father Papageorge began the gravesite ceremony.
“As you may know, the Greek Orthodox Church has forbidden cremation, seeing the body as the temple of the spirit and, therefore necessary to be preserved after death in order to attain resurrection.”
That’s a great start. What the hell is he talking about? Michael watched the faces in the group; those listening appeared equally nonplussed. I mean, it’s a little late now to worry about that. He listened as Papageorge, now commanding everyone’s full attention, continued.