The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  Tom would probably have no choice but to try to enter Cloutard’s stronghold at night, via the side facing the sea. He would manage it somehow, he told himself. Noah had promised to find the plans to the castle, so at least Tom wouldn’t have to wander around the place in the middle of the night not knowing where he was.

  During the taxi ride, Tom had noticed a sign for a golf resort directly on the water. A forty-minute walk along the beach led him to the hotel. He checked in, then bought some new clothes in the hotel boutique: jeans, two T-shirts, a linen shirt and a pair of sneakers. He was still wearing the suit that Noah had left for him in Switzerland. Tom had everything charged to his room, then went upstairs and took a long shower and a short power nap. He decided to try to break into the fortress at 2 a.m.

  Refreshed, he went downstairs with his laptop, found a chair at the hotel’s beach bar and ordered a whiskey sour. Noah had sent the plans through while Tom was in the shower, and he turned his attention to where to start his search in Cloutard’s refuge—although he had to admit that he didn’t really know what it was he was searching for. Just strolling in and asking what the hell was going on probably wouldn’t work, he suspected.

  As tenuous as the lead was, it could easily turn out to be a dead end. On the other hand, maybe Cloutard was behind all the raids and Tom would find not only the stolen artifacts in the fortress, but Hellen as well.

  Noah had hacked into the system of the architecture firm that had rebuilt the fortress for Cloutard, and had dug up not only a map but detailed information about the alarm system. A few minutes’ research on the right kind of websites provided Tom with a straightforward way to disable it. The darknet was the perfect place for a crash course. Some time earlier, Noah had shown Tom how to navigate these regions of the Internet, and Tom quickly found what he needed to bypass the alarm.

  Cloutard’s fortress was divided into three levels. On the ground floor were the kitchen and a few utility rooms. The second floor contained two enormous rooms—probably the living and dining rooms—with a terrace overlooking the sea, as well as a third room, perhaps a study. The top floor consisted of five spacious rooms, apparently all bedrooms, with attached baths and dressing rooms.

  “Admit it, Dr. Pfeiffer. You missed me.”

  Tom nearly fell off his chair as a hand gently grazed his shoulder from behind. He turned his head, quickly closing the laptop as he did. His gaze wandered up a flawless ebony body in a skimpy bikini and stopped at the eyes of Ossana, Cloutard’s lover.

  She looked at him playfully. Then she circled him, keeping her hand on his shoulder, and pulled up another chair. She sat down, slowly crossed her slender legs, and waited for his reaction. Tom had already regained his composure and was back to his most charming.

  “Dr. Pfeiffer was my father. Call me Tom. And yes, of course, after all that fuss in Switzerland, I jumped on the first plane here just to see you again,” Tom answered with a wink, eyebrows raised to underline that he didn’t mean a word of it.

  The waiter came and Ossana ordered a white russian. Tom ordered another whiskey sour and decided to go on the offensive: “You got the shield at a very reasonable price. We were so rudely interrupted, and Dr. de Mey from UNESCO was denied the opportunity to assert her own claim to it, not to mention my client’s. So I thought I should speak to Monsieur Cloutard again, face to face, and make him an offer.”

  He knew he was talking utter nonsense, but nothing better occurred to him just then. Ossana peered into his eyes longer than necessary, and Tom didn’t know if it was the hot breeze blowing off the land or Ossana’s radiance that was driving his pulse up. Her gaze wandered calmly, almost shamelessly, over his body. She liked what she saw and made no secret of the fact that she found Tom attractive.

  “And you thought that Monsieur Cloutard would welcome you with open arms,” she said.

  There was something wicked in Ossana’s voice. She spoke slowly and carefully, seeming to weigh every word; the words themselves contained something strangely melodic, almost like a hypnotic chant. Against his better judgement, Tom found himself attracted to her. He had to keep it together: he wasn’t here for that. He wanted to know where Hellen was and what Cloutard was up to. Ossana was the enemy—he couldn’t let himself think of her as sexy. But at the same time, he was finding it very hard to resist. She went on without waiting for Tom to reply.

  “Let’s find out tonight. Join us in our humble abode for dinner. You can discuss the shield with Monsieur Cloutard at your leisure. And you’ll be very close to my bedroom.”

  She said the last sentence in an unchanged tone of voice, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Tom didn’t flinch. Self-control was one of his better attributes, and he saw that his lack of reaction left Ossana a little disappointed.

  “Just because I can beat him at billiards doesn’t mean we can’t do business together. And I have my own bed here at the hotel.”

  Tom managed to put something like Ossana’s indifference into own his last sentence. She smiled—she had truly found a worthy opponent in Tom. She tipped back her white russian and looked out to the helicopter just then approaching the fortress from the north, across the sea.

  “Perfect timing. François is just arriving.”

  Apparently the fortress had its own helipad. Tom wondered if it was possible to amass so much wealth purely by criminal means. Ossana rose and took a few steps toward the water. She turned her head halfway back to Tom.

  “I’m going to take a swim. I’ll see you for dinner tonight at the fortress. Eight o’clock. The men at the gate will be informed. Just give them your name and you’ll be granted entrance to the inner sanctum.”

  As he watched her step into the water, Tom wondered why her last words sounded so ambiguous. He was finding it very difficult to concentrate on his mission. Tom drained his drink as well, and went to his room to take a cold shower.

  30

  Fort Tabarka, Tunisia

  The road to the fort was lined with torches, and Tom wondered if it was like this every evening or if it was a special welcome just for him. He gave his name to the two guards at the entrance and, as promised, the massive gate swung open and he was allowed to pass through. The gate closed behind him and another security guard stopped Tom and searched him. Anticipating this, Tom had left his gun in the hotel room. The guard checked Tom from head to toe using a hand scanner like those used at airports. Then his money clip, keys and phone, which he had handed over before the scan, were returned to him.

  Tom was impressed. From outside, the castle looked neglected, drafty and not particularly inviting. Inside, however, was another story. Tom felt he had stepped into another world; the place looked like a French baroque castle. Cloutard apparently had a predilection for Louis XIV, the Sun King, because that’s exactly what the fortress looked like inside: opulent tapestries, oil paintings, stucco ceilings decorated with gold, chandeliers, an elaborate, sweeping marble staircase, wide balustrades and floral decorations. Tom, amazed, could only shake his head.

  François Cloutard stood in the center of the large reception hall, master of his domain, and greeted Tom as if they were old friends.

  “Bienvenue à Fort Tabarka. I am so glad you are joining us tonight; we so rarely entertain guests. When Ossana told me you were in town, I was overjoyed.”

  Cloutard seemed surprisingly hospitable toward Tom—and yet, at the same time, Tom sensed a cruelty and coldness in the man that he hadn’t noticed when they had first met in Switzerland. There, he was an intellectual art collector; here, he was clearly the dictatorial lord of the manor.

  “Quite an impressive house you have here. If you can still call it a house.”

  Tom kept looking around. One thing was clear to him: Cloutard’s business—probably mostly illegal—had to be incredibly lucrative.

  “I think a quick tour is in order,” Cloutard said, with a little pride. “You are standing in what was once the fortress of the Lomellini, a trading dynasty from Genoa who
settled here in Tunisia in the 16th century. I won’t bore you with too much history, but this fort has seen many battles, and also many deaths. Thank God those times are over. The only fighting these days is for the best seat on the terrace.”

  On their way outside, they passed a door with a guard posted in front of it. Tom decided to start his search there that night, but exactly how and when he would do that, and how he was going to get past the guard, he didn’t yet know. Cloutard led Tom to the terrace, where a table had already been set for dinner.

  “The sunset from here is most impressive,” Cloutard said, taking a seat on one of the thronelike chairs like the Sun King himself. Ossana was already waiting for them at the table, and stood up when they stepped onto the terrace. She was wearing almost nothing, a wisp of a beige dress that drifted around her body like a cloud. The darkness of her skin contrasted breathtakingly with the pale fabric.

  “So nice you were able to make it,” she said, and looked at Tom once again with that hunger in her eyes.

  Tom remained unmoved, if only on the outside. Ossana slid a chair out for Tom.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, accepting the proffered seat.

  Ossana sat down too, and the appetizer was promptly served. Apparently fine dining, along with art and expensive cognac, was among François Cloutard’s passions.

  “I hope you like figs, Monsieur Pfeiffer. The chef has prepared fresh figs with Roquefort and a confit de figue, a kind of fig conserve spiced with salt, pepper and a little raspberry vinegar. As a side dish, he has baked for us some little parmesan tuiles, refined with poppy seed and chili, and served with a glass of Beaujolais in which the figs have been soaked for a day.”

  Tom’s own taste in food was more down-to-earth, but he had to admit the appetizer was delicious. He took a sip of wine, gazed out to sea and forgot for a moment why he was there in the first place.

  Cloutard brought him back to reality, asking, “So what brings you to Tabarka, Dr. Pfeiffer?”

  “To be honest, Monsieur Cloutard: you. The auction was not concluded as it should have been. You didn’t have the winning bid, but I believe the shield has come into your possession by other means. In any case, my client is still very interested.”

  “Excuse me, but I did not realize that you were actually serious about the shield. Truly, I thought you were more interested in beating me in a game of carom,” Cloutard said, a bit cynically.

  “The auction was interrupted, and I was reduced to watching”—Tom paused for a heartbeat and looked at Ossana—“as the shield came into your possession without the hammer falling. And, in fact, without payment.”

  “My only objective was to ensure the safety of the shield,” Ossana said. “It was not clear what the assassins were after, much less who was on whose side. All that mattered to us was the shield’s well-being.”

  Ossana smiled innocently at Tom—or as innocently as she could.

  “What actually happened to Dr. de Mey?” Cloutard asked. “She seemed to have inadvertently placed a bid on the shield, although I am certain UNESCO has no budget for such extravagant purchases. You were sitting beside her, and one might be forgiven for thinking that you already knew each other.”

  Cloutard’s tone was casual, but Tom was seething with rage inside. Did Cloutard really have the nerve to ask after Hellen, when he was obviously behind the whole thing? Tom decided not to let the son-of-a-bitch off the hook. He pulled himself together.

  “She’s . . . indisposed just now, I believe. But back to the reason I’m here. Allow me to say it again: I have a great interest in purchasing the shield from you,” Tom said, turning his attention back to Cloutard.

  “Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. You see, the shield is no longer in my possession,” Cloutard said with finality.

  Now Tom’s interest was aroused. Cloutard had already sold the shield? Maybe this was his next clue. “So you’ve resold an artifact that was not legally yours?”

  Tom managed to stop himself from adding, “Is that how you normally operate?” He did not want to convict this man of a crime. He wanted to get as much as possible out of him, in order to find out where Hellen was.

  “That was my intention from the outset. My role was that of a middleman, the same as yours.”

  “If you had won the auction properly, I would have no cause to complain. But . . .” Tom paused. “And who, may I ask, was your buyer? Perhaps I can make them an offer,” Tom said.

  “The shield is most definitely not for sale.”

  “I represent a very, very wealthy family. I would say it’s more a question of the amount of my offer.” Tom narrowed his eyes at Cloutard and put on his usual impish smile.

  “No. Believe me, the amount does not matter in the slightest,” Cloutard said.

  The main course appeared, and Cloutard changed the topic. He raised his index finger like a professor and began to speak.

  “I’m sure you are familiar with a typical coq au vin, a national dish in France. But our coq is a very special one, prepared by our chef from a Bresse chicken, a breed of chicken from the Bresse region near Lyon. Henry IV granted an ‘appellation d’origine’ for these birds as early as 1601. The Bresse chicken thus has the same status as champagne, cognac or Bordeaux: it is only a real Bresse chicken if it comes from the Bresse region.”

  Cloutard sounded inordinately proud, as if he himself had granted the chicken its certificate of authenticity. Tom smiled. Cloutard was clearly an eccentric. If he weren’t a crook, Tom would almost find him likeable.

  “One last thing. Apart from the chicken itself, this is not a ‘normal’ coq au vin. It is actually coq au riesling, prepared with a 2008 Brand Sélection de Grains Nobles from the Alsace region, which is what we are also about to enjoy in the glass.”

  Cloutard checked the label of the bottle the waiter had just opened. He tasted the wine and nodded, satisfied. A moment later he turned the conversation back to the shield.

  “It is very important to my buyer to know that the shield will remain in his possession forever.” Cloutard lowered his voice considerably and added, “It is said that the shield has a special power.”

  “A special power? Are we talking about ‘Tomb Raider’ here? Do you mean your buyer is interested in the shield because it bestows some sort of special power on him?”

  Tom hesitated briefly. As he spoke, he felt Ossana’s foot under the table. She had taken off one shoe and was moving her bare foot up the inside of Tom’s leg. Tom got a grip on himself and went on, “What does your buyer want, to start a new crusade? With a shield-bearer taking the lead? It sounds to me as if someone’s been watching too many Indiana Jones movies.”

  “All I know is this: the shield is not for sale,” Cloutard repeated. “You’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  “Oh, not at all. If I had not come, I would not have had the pleasure of your hospitality and would not have had the opportunity to visit your magnificent home. The trip has definitely not been wasted.”

  Against his will, Tom turned his eyes to Ossana, who smiled knowingly at him as she continued to tease him with her bare foot beneath the table.

  Cloutard’s right hand, Karim Shaham, came onto the terrace. François stood up. “This seems important,” he said. “Please excuse me a moment.”

  The diminutive Arab whispered a few words to Cloutard, and Cloutard nodded and thought for a moment. “Yes. A good idea, Karim. Let’s do it that way.” Shaham bowed and left the terrace again.

  “I would be lost without Karim. He has more talent for numbers in his little finger than I do in my whole head. We have known each other for decades. One rarely finds a person like him, unfortunately, someone you can really trust. How did you find me so quickly, by the way? My address is not exactly in the phone book.”

  Cloutard leaned back and took a sip of his favorite cognac.

  “I have good connections,” said Tom. “When I want something, I usually get it. And your house is not the most inconspicu
ous place to live.”

  “It is strange, though . . . I was unable to find out anything about a ‘Dr. Thomas Pfeiffer’ anywhere in the art scene. And I myself have never heard your name before.”

  Cloutard did not sound suspicious but rather amused, as he addressed himself to the dessert. He closed his eyes for a moment as he sampled the first spoonful.

  “Crème brûlée ménage à trois. Three different crème brûlées: one with coffee, one with cocoa, and one with finely chopped pistachios. They are accompanied by a rather special dessert wine, a Château d’Yquem Premier Cru Supérieur Sauternes, with notes of apricot, exotic fruits, honey and flowers.”

  Tom sipped the wine and had to make an effort not to grimace. Calling this a “sweet wine” was a colossal understatement. He didn’t care how much this swill cost, it wasn’t for him. Diplomatically, he asked the waiter for a double espresso.

  “But you’re from Vienna, Monsieur Wagner. Wouldn’t you prefer a Verlängerter or an Einspänner, or perhaps a Kaisermelange?” Cloutard said, smiling broadly.

  “Thank you. I prefer espresso,” Tom replied. “I like things simple, and not just when it comes to coffee. And I also like discretion. You know yourself that to succeed in the antiques scene, one doesn’t exactly advertise on Facebook. There are less conspicuous alternatives.” Tom was hoping he could bluff his way through with chatter.

  “You are right to say that discretion is very important in our business. I certainly admire your enthusiasm, Dr. Pfeiffer. And your fighting spirit. Perhaps we can do business some other time.”

  What was this now? Tom was confused. Had Cloutard actually bought that flimsy line, or was he just trying to lure him into a trap? Tom had to watch his step. Apparently, there were forces at play here that were not to be trifled with. Finally, a little excitement. Ossana rescued Tom from his delicate situation, at least for the time being.