by Brian Drake
“Daudet and his family are still at the hospital.”
“How’s the boy?”
“You’ll have to ask his father.”
Nina, barefoot and leaning against a wall with her arms folded, smiled when Dane entered the waiting room. She went over to him. “Okay?”
“Yes. Gerard?”
“In surgery.”
“Prognosis?”
“Don’t know.”
Dane let out a breath. Nina moved behind him and kneaded his shoulders. “Where were you?”
“Police station.”
“Did they beat you with a rubber hose?”
“No. There’s an inspector named Ambard that I think we can trust,” he said. He looked around. “Interesting scene here.”
Nina said softly, “It’s a soap opera.”
Nicholas Daudet paced on one side of the room, hands kept in the pockets of his black trousers; head bowed, apparently tracing the cracks in the tiled floor.
Nina dug deeper into Dane’s neck and shoulders. She said, “He was near catatonic in the car. The kids tried to help Gerard while he just sat there and stared at the carpet. Then I had to half drag him in here. They took the kid into surgery, and he got on the phone, first to his lawyer, then to clients and partners.”
“He told his lawyer to spring me. Who did he call next?”
“Business associates, like I said. Not to tell them about Gerard. He hasn’t even mentioned it. He’s working out details of a deal. He’s doing business while we wait; can you believe that?”
“So when under stress he turns to work. Not terribly uncommon.”
“But look around, Steve. This is hardly the time for that.”
His older son, Alexis, sat alone on the far end of the row of chairs in the center of the waiting room. He was tapping the armrest and staring at a spot on the floor.
The daughter, Solange, leaning against boyfriend Fernand, sat across the room against the far wall.
“This family knows togetherness,” Dane said.
“Did you see who was on the roof?”
“See him? I trained the sucker.”
“Do tell.”
“He and I used to work together. Sean McFadden.”
“The IRA shooter.”
“Ex. He quit the cause after the Dayton agreements.”
“He must have been—”
“A kid then, yeah. I recruited him for 30-30 and taught him a few things.”
“But now he’s freelance.”
“And a good sniper. Too good for what happened tonight.”
“Working for the Duchess?” Nina said.
“Yes. I tangled with him in Istanbul, too.”
“He gets around.”
“Forget that for now. Ambard says Gerard visited him and said somebody was going to try and hurt his father,” Dane said. “I don’t see how taking him out would help.”
“There’s a reason,” she said. “Always is.”
“Of course.”
“What will you do next?”
Daudet came over. He stopped, threw back his shoulders and regarded Dane like a general inspecting troops.
“Mr. Dane.”
“I wasn’t much help—” Dane said.
“Your actions spared the life of my son.”
“The doctor—”
“I saw the wound before he went into surgery,” Daudet said. “It is not a serious one.”
“With all due respect—”
“I was in the war, Mr. Dane. I know gunshot wounds.”
“Which—”
“Does it matter? There is always a war somewhere.”
Dane nodded.
“What do you propose to do next?” the older man said.
“Well—”
“I want to go home as soon as I know Gerard will be okay.”
Nina jumped in. “Home is hardly the place to be—”
“I want to go home, Miss Talikova.”
Dane said to Nina, “Can you hold the fort for a few hours?”
“Not without help.”
“Won’t get here in time. A few hours, tops.”
“Fine. I’ll go back to the house while you prowl and growl, but don’t be long.”
“What does this ‘prowl and growl’ mean?” Daudet said.
“You’ll see when we get our claws on the man who shot your son,” she said.
Daudet nodded and stepped away to get his family together.
“Catatonic?” Dane said.
“I could swear he was on another planet,” she said.
The pair herded the Daudet family and Fernand back outside. Solange wanted Fernand to come back with them, but her father said no; Fernand said he would catch a cab back to his home, not far from the hospital.
“Call me tomorrow,” Solange told him. They kissed and hugged, and Daudet yelled at her to get in the car. She watched Fernand from the back window as the driver accelerated away.
Nina watched the girl settle into her seat. She had been that young once, but before her mind drifted too far she started scanning the areas outside the car for any other threats. The past wasn’t meant to be thought about. Not hers, anyway.
10
Following a Bouncing Ball
The limo’s insulation blocked out the road noise, so it was a quiet ride. The leather seats felt like Dane’s couch, though he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had visited his Vienna domicile. The tinted windows obscured the passing scenery, but one countryside was the same as another, in his experience.
Nobody spoke or looked at anyone else; only Dane and Nina exchanged occasional glances.
The driver steered the limo up the crescent driveway of the Daudet home. The three-story mansion, made of red brick with vines climbing the walls at various spots, occupied several acres, with trimmed grass and forest taking up the surrounding space. Nice place to hide, Dane decided, and a nice place for a battle nobody would hear and the cops couldn’t respond to until the bad guys were gone. He shook his head. As a hideout, it made a great death trap.
Once inside, Alexis and Solange retreated to their bedrooms; Dane conferred with Nicholas.
“I need—”
“My car. Of course.”
“If you have an alarm, turn it up to eleven.”
Daudet blinked. “What?”
“Never mind,” Nina jumped in. “We got it covered, Steve.”
“I have some clothes,” Daudet said to Nina, “that might fit you. My late wife’s things.”
She said okay and accompanied Dane to the garage, where the Porsche waited. Dane whistled. The bright blue paint job glistened under the garage lights.
“Where are you going to start?” she said.
“A couple of friends might have something,” he said.
“Who?”
“One of them is from the old outfit. He runs a bar.”
“You said two. A couple is two.”
Dane cleared his throat. “There’s our old pal Anna Dalen,” he said.
“Gun dealer. Runs around with that ex-Army guy.”
“You remember.”
Nina folded her arms and frowned. “I also remember that she’s tall and skinny and has really big boobs.”
Dane winked. “I know.”
He jumped behind the wheel and waved as he backed the car out. Nina, her arms still folded, fumed.
He followed the winding roads with deftness, the boosted motor of the Porsche Turbo growling with each press of the accelerator. Dane couldn’t fight the grin that spread across his face. It may have been the dreaded 996 variant, with its water-cooled engine and funky headlamps, but it had the magic that counted. Dane decided he’d have to revise his opinion of this particular version of the iconic Porsche 911.
He crossed city limits. First stop: the building where he’d ditched his gun. He retrieved his pistol and returned to the car. Driving deeper into the city, he found another parking garage, slid the Porsche into an empty slot and hit the sidewalk.
He checked out the boutique restaurants and shops that lined the streets. Many of the restaurants offered outdoor seating, which narrowed walking space, and once or twice he had to step off into the street because of other pedestrians coming his way. He frowned at the sights, many of which had not existed when he last visited. The streets had been repaved, the sidewalks widened because of the outdoor dining spots, and a roundabout intersection sported a tall fountain in the center. When he arrived at the bar he wanted, the address was right but the name was completely different.
The place had always been called A Voie de Pirate, the Pirate’s Way. The neighborhood had not always been so posh, and the rough-and-tumble watering hole had fit right in. Now the sign read Boisson Pour!, or Drink Here! Odd name, Dane thought, but to the point, and the neon sign with its low glow flashed off and on. Piano music drifted out as a couple exited; Dane frowned and went inside.
The piano player sat on a raised stage in front of full tables and a full bar. Older clientele. Low light, dark-paneled walls and black-and-white checkered tile floor. Dane let out a breath. This was not the same place his pal Monty had owned; who knew where Monty had gone off to? He and Monty went back to Dane’s days as commander of the 30-30 Battalion. Monty had opened the bar with the considerable savings he’d accumulated during their years of adventures, but he could not stay out of the action. He kept up his contacts in the intelligence world, and in the underworld, and came in handy when fellow outlaws like Dane needed info.
Dane turned to leave, but as he did his eyes landed on a one-eyed parrot dangling above the piano. The parrot had a broken wing. He smiled. The parrot was the only indication of what had been there before; Monty still ruled the roost.
He found an empty table in a back corner. A blonde waitress kept passing him by as she busied about more visible tables. He finally leaned out and waved, and she came over.
He didn’t need a menu. He ordered a sidecar. “Is Monty working tonight?”
She said yes.
“Tell him Steve is here.”
The waitress went away and returned a few moments later with his drink, a yellowish mixture of Cointreau, cognac, lemon juice and a cherry, in a martini glass. The waitress said it was on the house and went away before Dane said anything more. He sipped the chilled concoction and let the sour warmth run into his belly.
A dark-haired woman in a long yellow dress joined the piano man, and the bar hushed. She began singing a slow, mournful tune about heartbreak. Dane felt it. He started turning the glass in circles as his reflection carried him back to some fifteen years earlier, but before his vision of a particular summer solidified, a hulking figure in an ugly pea-green coat sauntered over. Dane jumped up with an extended hand.
“Steve!” They shook.
“Been a long time, Monty.”
They sat.
“Like what I’ve done with the place?”
“I thought you were long gone. The parrot said otherwise.”
“I insisted on keeping that. My investors disagreed, said it would ruin the image, but they knew if I pulled out they would lose the place, so they let me keep him there. Nobody complains.”
“Investors?”
“The city wanted to improve the neighborhood, so I had to update. These other fellows wanted to buy into a club, so we worked out a deal. Everybody’s happy.”
“You’re boring me.”
Monty let out a hearty laugh.
“What brings you back here?” Monty said.
“Little bit of action tonight,” Dane said, and told him about the Daudet adventure so far. “What’s the word on the street?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Sean isn’t the only player here.”
“Anybody else I might know?”
“Dumb muscle, mostly. And the Duchess has something major going on either in Paris or nearby, but I don’t know what that is.”
“Or where?”
“Exactly. But one of our favorite people is tied up in it.”
“Which one?”
“Leo Gordov.”
“How about that. He’s been quiet for ten years,” Dane said, “and now he shows up? I bet he ran out of money.”
“Your guess is as good as anything else. He’s guilty of many crimes. There is still a large bounty on his head.”
“How much?”
“One million from the Americans and two million pounds from the British. Dead or alive.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’re not much help, Monty.”
“There is another friend of ours who may know.”
“Anna Dalen, I know. I was going to look her up next.”
“She and Dan Hunter have been poking around a lot. She doesn’t want the Duchess moving in on her clientele.”
“She still thinks of others first, how nice,” Dane said. “I’d ask where they’re staying, but you probably don’t know.”
Monty grinned. “That I do know, my friend.”
“Forget it. Anna always had this odd habit of finding me before I could find her.”
Steve Dane turned right as he exited the bar, Monty’s words bouncing to and fro through his mind. No answers, but more pieces of the puzzle. Heavy footsteps behind him. Dane glanced back. Two men in dark clothes, seemingly caught up in a chat, but Dane saw their eyes shift his way. He walked a block, sidestepping open eating areas; he looked back while covered by a lamppost and saw one of the shadows talking into a phone. On the surface it was nothing. Dane wasn’t going to bet on that.
Traffic, momentarily stopped by a red light, started to move. Dane bolted into the street, forcing cars to stop. As horns assailed him he reached the other side, cut around a corner and looked back. The man with the phone was still talking, but they were heading his way. Dane started moving again, passing shops and bars. Another man, this one alone, dressed like the other two shadows, moved with the crowd ahead and before Dane collided, he slipped into a sandwich shop.
The line of customers at the counter didn’t notice him at first; the five sandwich makers, taking orders, didn’t notice him, either. Soup simmered on a stove somewhere; the appetizing French onion tickled his nose. He aimed for the employee door at the end of the counter and shoved through. Then somebody did notice him. The owner, grabbing wrapped loaves of bread from a rack, turned, gaped. He charged at Dane, a loaf in each hand, waving the bread like weapons. “Get out of here!”
Dane ducked under the owner’s swinging arm, jabbed him in the solar plexus. The owner let out a rush of air and staggered aside. Dane kept going, winding through the back stockroom, stepping over a small pile of produce that had apparently fallen, the owner yelling at his back with a strained voice. He pushed through the alley door and let it slam shut.
A silenced gunshot blasted a chunk of brick, and the shards pelted Dane’s face; Dane dropped and rolled across the alley floor, over a patch of wet garbage, to the cover of a Dumpster. Running footsteps echoed; he rolled from cover with the compact .45 in hand and fired twice. The third shadow jerked with each hit. His momentum carried him forward, and he fell inches from Dane’s face.
More scraping footsteps at six o’clock. Dane rolled onto his back. The first two tails converged. Dane fired high, his shot ricocheting off a wall. The two men flattened out; Dane leapt up and ran with silenced shots popping at his heels. He fired one shot over his shoulder. The crack of the unsilenced pistol bounced off the alley walls. As he neared the mouth of the alley, a convertible screeched to a stop, blocking the way. A man with sandy hair and a long leather jacket whipped up an Uzi machine pistol. Dane dropped and rolled as the Uzi chattered, but the 9-millimeter stingers landed nowhere near him.
The driver, a dark-haired woman with her long hair tied back, the outline of her jaw prominent on her thin face, shouted, “Jump in, Steve!” Dane sprang for the car and vaulted into the passenger seat. The woman accelerated into traffic.
Dane looked at the sandy-haired man with the smokin
g Uzi pistol. The man dropped the weapon and slapped Dane on the shoulder. “You owe me one.”
Dane grinned at Dan Hunter, turning an eye to the driver, Anna Dalen. He said, “Nick of time, Anna.”
“I’m here to help.”
Hunter chimed in. “Chasing you was like following a bouncing ball.”
“You mean my stealth tactics were for nothing?”
“We need to have a long talk,” Anna said.
“I hear we’re in town for the same thing. Where to?”
Anna made a sharp right turn. “Our hotel,” she said.
The countryside is nice only during the day, Nina decided. At night it was spooky. Nina patrolled the outer area of the Daudet home with a flashlight in one hand and her Smith & Wesson M&P Shield in the other.
No fence surrounded the property, which sat in the center of several acres. At the edge of the acreage was a line of trees. She shined the light on the bushes, around the stone sculpture in front of the home, and crossed the damp grass to the tree line. She lit the darkness with the bright beam. A twig snapped to her left. She turned that way, dropping low and scooting for cover. She aimed her light at an outline of motion and caught the back side of a figure running away. Killing the light, Nina stretched out on her belly, slowed her breathing. Were there more? Only the wind and the rustle of leaves and branches filled the otherwise silent night. Whoever the figure was, he’d come alone. A scout, maybe. For how many?
She stood up and brushed off her shirt. The jeans and T-shirt she had changed into upon arrival beat the heck out of her gown.
Nina re-entered the house. Most of the lights were out. A door shut somewhere; she turned left down a hall, shining the light. A line of light glowed under a doorway. Nina turned off the flashlight and stood there. A toilet flushed, water ran in a sink, and presently the door opened. Nina flashed the light. Alexis Daudet, in his bathrobe, blocked the flash with an arm.
“Is that necessary?” he said.
Nina lowered the light. “I saw somebody outside. I thought he might have broken in.”
“Nobody has broken in.”
“Why are you down here?”
“Because my bedroom,” Alexis said, “is right there,” and he pointed further along the hall to an open door.
