Tom walked confidently toward the room, pushed open the door and breezed inside. He scanned the room first, then the people inside. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Only a fireplace and the painting hanging above it interrupted the ranks of books. In the center of the room stood an antique billiard table. Almost everyone in the room was staring at Tom. Hellen’s eyes met his. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, but quickly regained her composure.
François Cloutard had started a round of carom billiards, a form of the game that dated back to the French Revolution. The game was played with one red ball and two cue balls, white and yellow. The table had no holes at all; the aim was to hit the red ball and the other cue ball with one’s own cue ball—it sounded relatively simple, but it wasn’t. Cloutard was playing the more difficult three-cushion billiards, in which the player’s own cue ball had to strike at least three rails before striking another ball in order to score a point.
When Tom entered the room, Cloutard’s white ball was rolling to a stop. It missed the yellow ball by a hair. Cloutard pulled a face, but remained composed. Only now did he look up and notice Tom.
“No way that was going to work,” Tom said, unable to restrain himself. “The white ball had far too much spin.”
Cloutard leaned his cue against the wall and went to the fireplace, where a bottle of Hennessy Louis XIII stood. He filled his cognac glass a quarter full, then swirled the glass slowly and warmed the amber liquid with his hands before lifting it slowly to his mouth. He briefly inhaled the intense aroma, took a mouthful of the $2,500-a-bottle cognac and began literally to chew on it. Anyone else would have probably made the whole process look affected and arrogant, but it suited Cloutard. The Frenchman was wearing a gray, three-piece, chalk-stripe suit by Christian Dior; his graying hair was slicked back, but did not look oily. When not holding a brandy glass, he carried a walking stick with an ivory handle. Whether ivory was politically correct or not was irrelevant to him; he also owned a few fur coats. Cloutard looked at Tom and took his time answering. Apparently, he wanted no banalities to interfere with the pleasure of the Louis XIII.
“The virtuous man is restrained in word but peerless in deed,” Cloutard said coolly, and gestured invitingly to Tom. Hellen mentally rolled her eyes, but let nothing show.
Tom was already choosing a cue and taking a closer look at the table. He swept his hand over the green felt surface and tested the cushions. He studied the positions of the balls, then leaned over the table and played the yellow ball. It grazed the red, then bounced off the end cushion once and the long side cushions twice before just touching the yellow and coming to a stop in an ideal position for the next shot. Tom moved around to the end of the table. He did not think for long. His favorite shot was a backspin: he struck the white ball well below center, giving it a reverse spin. As soon as it touched one of the other balls, it spun in the reverse direction, bumped two cushions in the corner and the other long side, and finally rolled directly toward the yellow ball.
“What is a man with such talent doing at an art auction? Shouldn’t you be off winning money in smoky cafés?” said Cloutard sarcastically. “With whom do I have the pleasure of playing?”
“Dr. Thomas Pfeiffer’s the name. I’m a sensal from Vienna.”
“A sensal?” Cloutard asked rhetorically. He knew perfectly well what a sensal was.
“Yes. It’s an old Austrian expression for a proxy; I bid at auctions on behalf of anonymous buyers, and act as a broker between the buyer and the auction house. I’ve been commissioned by a collector to buy Joan of Arc’s shield,” said Tom, and he grinned broadly. “And I have a considerable budget to do it with.”
Hellen’s eyes widened and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Once again, it became clear to her why a relationship with Tom could never work. Not only was he unpredictable, he was reckless. What was he doing here? Didn’t he have enough problems to deal with in Vienna? Of all the places he might show up, why here? Was he following her? Or following a lead? She had to find out as quickly as she could.
“Then we are in the same field. I, too, deal in beautiful objects, on occasion also on behalf of a third party.” Cloutard paused and glanced at his two companions. “And I assure you that you will not win the shield.” He downed the last mouthful of his cognac before introducing himself: “François Cloutard, art collector.” He paused momentarily and then indicated his companions one by one. “Allow me to introduce Karim Shaham, my right-hand man, Dr. Hellen de Mey, a scientific expert with UNESCO who is here to authenticate the shield, and Ossana, the love of my life.” Cloutard pressed Ossana to his side and kissed her on the cheek. She giggled.
Tom nodded to each of them in turn. Hellen smiled painfully when Cloutard introduced her, then quickly turned away. Inscrutability was not her strong suit. Tom, on the other hand, was a natural.
“UNESCO? Wow. We are in very good company indeed.”
Tom realized that Ossana was staring at him fixedly. Her gaze surprised him. He didn’t know how to read it, although it seemed to contain a trace of lechery. Her eyes never leaving Tom, she whispered something in Cloutard’s ear and tapped her Breguet watch.
“You will have to excuse me,” Cloutard said. “One of the lots I am interested in will soon be going under the hammer. Alas, we don’t have time for a proper game. I would gladly have challenged you, perhaps with a little wager to spice things up. It looks as if we will have to settle things in the auction room instead.” Cloutard’s right eyebrow twitched twice and he looked at Tom with a mischievous smile. “We’re not here for our own enjoyment, after all.”
Cloutard kissed Hellen’s hand, nodded a farewell to Tom, took his walking stick and left the library, with Ossana at his side and Shaham trailing behind.
Hellen waited a few seconds until she was sure the others were out of earshot. Then she turned and snapped at Tom, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same. Cloutard’s my target. What’s your interest in the guy?”
“I’m here with Blue Shield. But what does that mean, your ‘target’? You’re a Cobra officer. You have no business being in Switzerland,” she hissed. “Why don’t you just admit this is more of your unauthorized bullshit?”
“What if it is? Either way, it’s nothing to do with you. But if you must know, Cloutard’s name was mentioned by one of the airplane hijackers, and it’s the only lead I have to clear myself of murder.”
“Murder?” said Hellen, shocked.
Tom hesitated for a moment. “A woman was found dead in my bed.” He considered whether that information in itself would be enough, but then went on, “A flight attendant from the plane. You know how it is.”
Reluctantly, bit by bit, he told her the grim details. “She was stabbed.” Hellen’s eyes widened. “With the Holy Lance. I don’t have the slightest idea who was behind it or what any of it has to do with me.”
“What was a flight attendant doing in your bed?” But Hellen raised her hands to stop Tom before he could reply. “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Hellen was the only woman Tom had ever really been in love with. Unfortunately, conflict and passion had tipped more and more out of balance, and drama had soon gained the upper hand. They were two fundamentally different people, and there were too many ways that they simply didn’t fit together. After the separation, he had sworn never again to let anyone else get as close to him as Hellen had. All this love stuff was too confusing. And now that Hellen had discovered that he had had a one-night stand with a flight attendant, the fact embarrassed him. He cursed himself for the feelings that Hellen wakened in him, time and again. From outside, they heard the voice of the auctioneer announcing the last item to go on the block.
“Where did you get the insane idea to pose as a sensal and say you wanted to buy the shield?”
Tom only smiled and shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to bid at an auction. You know, wave a paddle around and look cool
while you throw a fortune out the window on useless junk.” Tom gestured as if placing a bid.
Hellen looked at Tom and shook her head. She was about to say something, then thought better of it. “I have neither the time nor the nerves to continue this discussion right now,” she finally said. She left Tom standing in the library and exited in the direction of the auction room.
23
A farm, about five hundred yards from Waldegg Castle
Guerra kicked in the door of the old farmhouse and three men followed him inside. He looked around. An old man came down the stairs from the second floor and looked at Guerra in fright. It was as far as he got. A bullet from Guerra’s Heckler & Koch killed him instantly.
“Check the rest of the house. Make sure it’s clean.”
One of the other three mercenaries, Scarface, ran upstairs. Another checked the ground floor. Moments later, both called back, “Clear.”
“Good. You, outside,” Guerra commanded the third man. “I don’t want any unpleasant surprises or anyone disturbing us. If someone shows up, liquidate them.”
Guerra reached into his jacket pocket and took out his Bluetooth speaker. Seconds later, Telemann’s “Admiralty Music” filled the room. Guerra closed his eyes and let the music work on him. His eyes still closed, he pointed at the sniper just then opening a case and assembling the rifle parts it contained.
“You know what to do.”
The other man dutifully nodded, aware that Guerra couldn’t see him doing so. Guerra opened his eyes and briefly peered through the sniper’s scope to see for himself the situation inside the castle for himself. And there they were: Cloutard, Ossana, Dr. de Mey and . . . the Cobra guy who’d already rained on his parade several times. How the hell did Wagner get out of Vienna?
“Our informant was right. She’s really there. Still, there’s one more slight change of plan.” Guerra’s sonorous voice sent shudders through his companions.
The overture of the “Admiralty Music” concluded, and Guerra left the house and calmly set off in the direction of the castle. Scarface and the other man accompanied him, staying a few paces behind. Telemann’s music readied him for the events ahead, gave him the composure he needed. Detailed planning was important. Mistakes and inefficiency would not be tolerated.
Still, he loved it when opportunities presented themselves. The two unexpected guests made things more exciting. Adrenalin coursed through his veins as he mentally ran through the steps of the operation yet again. He had not planned on Wagner and his little girlfriend being at the auction, but it suited him perfectly, and he would reach his goal even faster than planned. His two companions were prepared, and Guerra was always ready.
24
Auction room, Waldegg Castle, Solothurn
Tom followed Hellen into the auction room, a spacious room off the banquet hall.
“Do you actually know who you’re dealing with?”
“Of course I do,” Hellen replied, cool.
“Cloutard is not just some affected Frenchman who can’t play billiards. He runs probably the biggest smuggling and fencing ring for art and artifacts in the world. Officially, he’s an art dealer, and he’s been in business for years. But there’s hardly an illicit deal in the arts and antiquities field anywhere in the world that he’s not involved in. His network is huge. He’s got grave robbers, professional burglars, smugglers, middlemen, and probably hundreds of museum and auction-house employees on his books. He keeps a small fleet of vehicles on land, sea and air. All kinds of organizations have been trying to put a stop to him for years, because he robs the art market of hundreds of millions of dollars every year. The guy is seriously dangerous.”
Hellen stopped and glared at Tom. “Now you listen to me, Mr. Thomas Maria Wagner. I happen to be the lead archaeologist at Blue Shield. I know all that. Who the hell are you? My guardian?”
Tom hated it when she used his middle name, even more when she deliberately mispronounced “Wagner.” It drove him up the wall, and she knew it.
Hellen gave up trying to have a reasonable conversation with him. “Just keep your head down for the rest of the evening. We don’t need Cloutard’s attention at all.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Tom clicked his heels together and saluted Hellen. “Okay, I’ll get a grip on myself. Maybe it’s good that we’ve ruffled Cloutard’s feathers, whatever he has to do with all this.”
She hated it when he maneuvered himself and others into a perilous situation, but he was like a cat; he had nine lives. And she had to admit one thing: most of the time, his plans worked out. Most of the time, but not always.
“Let’s find a seat at the back.” Tom pointed to some free chairs in the second-to-last row. “The shield is up next.”
Tom grabbed a glass of champagne from a waitress by the door, and they edged along the row. The room had now filled considerably, and the atmosphere was tense. Tom could literally feel the energy in the hall when the auctioneer finally called for the last exhibit to be brought out. The man peered over his reading glasses, surveying the room. Probably checking out who’s present and figuring out the commission he’ll make on the sale, Tom thought. The auctioneer smiled and straightened up a little, clearly enjoying himself.
“We now come to the highlight of the evening, a unique piece of history: the shield used by Saint Joan of Arc herself in her battles.” The auctioneer let out a respectful cough. “According to legend, the shield has magical powers. It is said to have saved Joan countless times from certain death, including in the legendary Battle of Orleans against the English in the Hundred Years’ War. Despite the battles it has seen, the shield is in excellent condition, and its authenticity has been confirmed by a number of scientific experts, one of whom is with us this evening: Dr. Hellen de Mey of UNESCO.”
The auctioneer pointed to Hellen, who smiled mildly and half-heartedly raised her hand. There was restrained applause when two security men wearing white cloth gloves carried the shield onto the stage and placed it onto a specially prepared stand. They positioned themselves to the left and right of the shield, and the hall fell quiet. All eyes were on the auctioneer.
“We are opening the bidding at one million euros.”
Cloutard was the first to raise his hand.
“We have our first bid. Thank you, Monsieur,” the auctioneer said, indicating Cloutard. “Do I hear 1.2?”
“That was fast,” Tom whispered.
“Yes. Strange. Cloutard is rarely at an auction to buy. He prefers to sell. First steal, then sell.”
She had not yet finished the sentence when she saw Tom raise his hand.
“Thank you, we are at 1.2 million euros!”
Hellen was stunned. “Are you out of your mind?”
Tom lowered his hand and looked at Hellen placidly.
“Let’s find out just how interested Monsieur Cloutard is in this shield.”
Tom and Hellen saw hands go up in various rows, and the price rose quickly to two million euros. The last bid was Cloutard’s. Tom’s hand went up again while he looked at Hellen with a broad grin.
“There’s more coming. Cloutard has to buy it. I don’t know why, but he does. He hasn’t shown any interest in any of the other items, but when he saw the shield, he instantly bid over everyone else.”
“You’re mad.” Hellen turned demonstratively away from Tom. “There is simply no other way to describe it. You are insane. Completely mental. Bonkers. Out of your gourd.”
Hellen was clearly struggling to keep her composure, but her words had drawn looks—two or three of the other guests had already turned around and glared at her reprovingly. Tom glanced ahead at Cloutard, who was looking back just then to see who had outbid him. He smiled graciously, then leaned over to Ossana, pointed in Tom’s direction and whispered something in her ear. She smiled. Tom’s confident grin didn’t budge.
“The bidding stands at 2.5 million euros.” The auctioneer paused. “Do I hear more?”
The auctioneer’s gaze wandered slowly
across the gathered guests. Everyone sensed that the last word had not yet been spoken. It was so quiet that the ticking of the large grandfather clock out in the foyer could be heard, even in the auction room. It sounded like a countdown, ratcheting up the tension even more. Tom was positive: Cloutard had to buy, either for himself or for a client, and Tom meant to find out one way or another. Hellen turned back to Tom and looked at him combatively. She took a deep breath. Tom knew what was coming. He knew from their past only too well where these situations went. A tirade of reproaches and accusations was building up inside Hellen, and the volcano would soon erupt. To his shame, he had to confess that most of Hellen’s accusations were true and fully justified. Like today.
“You’re the most irresponsible person I know,” she hissed. “You’re impulsive and you never think even a single step ahead. You charge in like an angry bull. You always listen to your gut, and never to your brain!”
Her words stung him. She was whispering, but her voice had an intensity and power that amazed Tom. He had never seen Hellen in such a rage.
“You know, I used to hope that one day I’d see one of your impetuous, naïve, stupid decisions backfires.”
Tom sipped at his champagne and watched Hellen as she struggled for composure. Her face had flushed red and she fidgeted nervously in her seat. She couldn’t help herself. She had to express her agitation with her hands and feet.
“And I guess today’s the day,” she seethed. “Congratulations, Tom. Great job!”
“Thank you. We are at three million euros,” the auctioneer said and pointed in their direction. “Even UNESCO is interested in this exhibit, which naturally honors us very much,” said the auctioneer, looking at Hellen.
Tom’s heart skipped a beat. His mouth hung open. He was speechless. He stared wide-eyed at Hellen. But what he was feeling was probably nothing compared to the turmoil that must have been raging inside Hellen just then. While berating Tom, Hellen had gesticulated a little too wildly, and the auctioneer had interpreted it as a bid.
The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure Page 8
