High Stakes

by John F. Dobbyn

  For what might have been ten minutes, I stood in that room, trying to connect the scene in front of me with the morning I had spent with that gentle soul. I recalled the word he had forced out on the floor—something like “Centru.” It suddenly became obvious that, even under the circumstances, his thought would be for the Stradivarius violin, probably the first one he had ever seen. It had been under the floorboard in the center of the workbench—probably what he meant by “Centru.”

  The workbench had been overturned, but the floorboard was still in place. The thought occurred that if the violin was still there, whoever turned the place inside out to find it might be back for another go at it.

  I pried up the floorboard, and with mixed feelings, found the violin, the center of this vortex, in its place. There was an old burlap bag in the corner of the shop. I lifted the violin in its case carefully and put it into the bag. My wits had returned enough to add one more precaution.

  There was a window in the back of the workroom large enough to let me avoid walking out the front door in plain view. I went through it and began making my way down the alley behind the shop. The idea was to pass behind several buildings before coming out on the main street.

  My plan was apparently one step behind. I had barely started walking, when I found two men blocking the path ahead of me. They each had a hundred or so pounds on me, an athletic build, and more to the point, handguns.

  There was no point in running. I froze on the spot. When all else fails, a lawyer resorts to his primary weapon—his mouth. I could only hope we shared a language.

  “What do you want?”

  “I think you know what we want. Just place it on the ground in front of you. Gently.”

  The heavy accent sounded more Russian than Romanian, but this was no moment for linguistic analysis. Both guns were now pointing in my direction.

  Not to tip any delicate balance, with both hands showing, I slowly and deliberately opened the burlap bag. I lifted the violin case out of the bag, set the case on the ground, and stepped back. The one who did the talking waved the gun in a motion that I anticipated. I bent down and opened the violin case to show that it wasn’t an empty case.

  I responded to the next wave of the gun by closing the case and fastening the snaps. When I stepped back this time, I had a clear understanding that my usefulness to these thugs had expired. My mind was groping for any move that could evade what was clearly their next intent.

  I could see the thug who did the talking raise the gun to eye level and take aim. Again, when your mouth is your only resource, use it.

  “Before you do something we’ll both regret, you’d better take a look behind you.”

  The talker grinned. He assumed, as would I, that it was a desperate trick. To my astonishment, it wasn’t. As I was straightening up, I saw a third giant move into the alley about thirty feet behind the two in front of me. The third giant also had a gun. Thank God, he chose that moment to use it.

  Within less than a second, he fired a shot that dropped the vocal Russian on the spot. The second Russian spun around. He got off a shot that twisted my rescuer backwards. The second Russian seized the moment to grab the violin case and sprint down the alley.

  My rescuer pulled himself to his feet, holding his oozing side. He ran limping toward me. He would have pressed on for whatever slim chance he had of catching the escaping Russian, but I grabbed him by the arm. The wound in his side weakened him enough to allow me to stop him.

  He was close enough now, even in the shadows of that alley, for me to recognize the Chinese, steel-cast face of the silent man who had been at the dinner in the China Pearl Restaurant.

  He pulled away and started to limp in the direction of the Russian. I called to him, “Let him go. He doesn’t have it.”

  He looked back at me with an angry, questioning expression, and started off again. I said it louder, “He didn’t get it. Look.”

  He turned back. I picked up the burlap bag and took out a second violin case. As a precaution against whatever might happen, when I put the Stradivarius in the burlap bag, I also put one of Mr. Oresciu’s violins that was lying unbroken on the floor into a violin case and put it into the bag with the Stradivarius. The one the Russian escaped with was not the Stradivarius. That would become obvious when someone opened the case and found only a slightly damaged violin made by Mr. Oresciu. But for the moment, it gained us a respite.

  My rescuer abandoned the chase and walked back. I remembered asking Mr. Liu the name before we left the China Pearl that night.

  “You’re Mr. Chan, right?”

  Still stone silent, but a slight nod.

  “Come on. My car’s out front. I’ll get you to a hospital.”

  I almost jumped when a voice came out of him. “See to yourself. And your wife. When they come back, you’ll need more than a bag of tricks.”

  He was right. The slight sense of victory dissolved. That was just round one. I needed to be ready for round two. My first move was to search the pockets of the dead man. I found and kept his Russian passport.

  My second immediate move was to call Terry at the hotel. Fortunately, I caught her in the room. There was too much to explain on the phone. I just told her that it was extremely important that she leave the hotel right away. I remembered seeing a hotel a few blocks away from the Hotel Regal. I told her to catch a cab to the Hotel Cota and check in. I’d make a reservation by phone.

  I suggested that she take just what was necessary for the moment. We could pick up the rest of our clothes later. I promised to meet her in the room at the Hotel Cota within an hour.

  Terry most certainly had questions, but she was also familiar with the types of hair-raising situations that have tended to catch up with me in the course of my law practice with an alarming frequency. I knew I could count on her to move at full speed. Hopefully, there would be time for questions later.

  I have no idea of the speed limits on Romanian highways, but whatever they are, they were fractured on the drive back to the Hotel Regal in Sinaia. I walked directly to the smiling and professionally composed clerk at the registration desk.

  “Good day, Mr. Knight. I’m sorry you’re leaving us.”

  “Then I assume my wife checked out.”

  “She did.”

  That was a relief.

  “We’re under a bit of pressure at the moment. Could we leave our suitcases here and pick them up in the morning?”

  “You certainly could, but that won’t be necessary. Mrs. Knight took your luggage with her.”

  That was a stopper. “How could she handle the suitcases and small bags herself?”

  “Oh, she had help. The two gentlemen with her were happy to carry the luggage. In fact, they insisted.”

  I could feel that one in my stomach. “Did you see where they went?”

  “I saw them as far as their automobile at the front entrance. A black Mercedes, I believe.”

  My temperature, pulse, and blood pressure were beginning to rise off the charts. “What did these men look like?”

  “Well, they look much like the young Russian tourists we have here in ski season. Strong, athletic, mid-thirties.”

  “Why do you say ‘Russian’?”

  “We conversed in Russian.”

  “Did they give any idea where they were going?”

  He thought. “None that I can recall. Is anything wrong? Would you like me to call the authorities?”

  It was tempting, but I needed more time to get a grip on the situation. My first priority was to make no move that would endanger Terry. At least more than I already had.

  “No. I’ll check back with you in case they leave a message.”

  “Oh, dear, how could I forget? They left this for you.”

  He handed me an envelope with the crest of the Hotel Regal. I wondered for an instant if they had taken it from our room. That led to imagining a scene between them and Terry that would not have helped me to think clearly about the next move.


  I walked into the bar and sat in a booth. The letter shook in my hand. I’d opened letters like this under similar situations, but the life at stake had always been mine—not Terry’s.

  I took thirty seconds to will all of my mental functions to a state approaching control and tore open the envelope. The scratchy handwriting got right to the point.

  No more games. We have her. You know what we want. You will bring the real item this time. You will meet us at the top of the ski gondola on Mount Sinaia at four o’clock this afternoon. If you wish your wife alive, unharmed, you will follow directions precisely.

  My mind was racing to glean everything I could about these people to formulate at least a vague plan. They were undoubtedly Russian mafia connected. Given the object they were after, they were probably at a level of intelligence, even at the street-soldier rank, that was above that of the drug and human trafficking thugs who wouldn’t know a Stradivarius from a refrigerator. The use of the English word “precisely” in the note was both confirming and troubling in terms of the level of sophistication it suggested.

  I spent the next hour putting together an approach that might level the playing field. One thing was certain. If I underestimated this crowd, Terry and I would never see the reunion that was at the top of my wish list.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I WAS THE only rider aboard the Sinaia ski-lift gondola at 3:45 that afternoon. The mice gnawing holes in my stomach on the climb were actually a relief from the ones I’d been living with just waiting.

  The man at the bottom who operated the lift for summer tourists gave me the discomforting word that two Russian-speaking gentlemen and a “pretty young lady” were his only customers. They were all still at the top.

  The gondola bumped its way slowly over support wheels up a nearly vertical face of the mountain. I learned from the operator who controlled the starts and stops that the cable passed over the crest and slowed briefly at the top to allow skiers to step off. The cable made a U-turn and descended by a parallel path.

  Between every rattling bump of the cable, I went over my “plan” with less confidence in every replay. I knew two things. Once I handed the burlap bag with the violin over to the Russians, Terry and I would both become liabilities as witnesses. The only question was how we’d be terminated. The solitary location could not have favored their side more.

  The second thing, the only straw I could find to grasp, was my gamble that these particular mafiosi were on a different plane from the average low-level Russian thugs. The drug dealers and human traffickers I’ve had the displeasure of knowing had no attachment to the product they peddle. It’s all money. My wishful thinking was that either these particular thugs or the ones who pulled their strings actually cared about the survival of the violin, for whatever reason.

  It took twenty grinding minutes to reach a point fifty feet from the top. I scanned the ledge at the top for a glimpse of a human head. Still nothing.

  At forty feet, I made cell phone contact with the man who controlled the gondola at the bottom. A large enough wad of American dollars had passed to his welcoming hands to keep his attention focused on my every wish.

  By thirty feet from the top, I was in near panic mode. The only slim advantage I could muster would run out if the gondola crossed the ledge.

  Ten more agonizing feet and my sun finally broke through the clouds. I saw the head and shoulders of a man who could be sent by central casting to play a Russian mobster. The gun in his hand was pointed dead-on in my direction.

  He was cautiously edging up to the rim to look down at the rising gondola. I could have been just seeing what I wanted, but he looked as relieved to see me in the gondola as I was to see him. Enemies have never looked so good to each other.

  I gave the word by cell phone to my well-paid controller at the bottom. The gondola broke to a sudden, swaying stop. I was fifteen feet from the edge, hanging over a dead drop of at least a thousand feet above jagged rocks.

  The grin on the Russian’s face froze. An unhealthy redness climbed from his neck to his hairline when the gondola stopped fifteen feet from his grasp. He still had the one trump card that counted above everything—Terry. I knew I had to seize that brief moment while he was still flummoxed by the sudden interruption of his plan.

  I threw open the side door of the gondola and threw out a ten-foot length of rope. I gripped the top end like a lifeline. I could see his eyes shoot down to the other end of the rope. As soon as he realized that a violin case was suspended there, a thousand feet above disaster, his eyes were burning into mine.

  He yelled something in Russian to someone behind him. I could see him reach back to grab something. My heart nearly seized when I saw him grasp Terry by the arm and hold her close to the edge of the cliff.

  Terry looked down and caught my eyes. She must have been terrified, but the only sign of it was a pleading, questioning look. I nodded a “yes” signal to give her some hope. She must have caught it. She gave me a faint smile that fortified my waning courage.

  The guttural Russian turned to English. “You have ten seconds to pull up that rope. And do it carefully. If that violin is harmed in the slightest, she goes over the cliff. I’m counting. One … two …”

  I summoned enough grit to steady my voice. “And you have five seconds to back up and let her go. At the count of five, I drop the rope, and there’s one less Stradivarius in the world. One … two …”

  I prayed intensely that I was right that he had personal reasons to care for the survival of the violin. It was my only hope of leverage.

  I grabbed the gondola rail with my free hand and leaned further out over the abyss than I actually dared. He could see that a bullet that hit me would send the violin case into free-fall. My eyes were fixed on his to see who would blink first.

  I saw a flicker of panic cross his face. At least he’d stopped counting. I had one major advantage. I’d been analyzing this moment since early afternoon. He’d been thrust into the dilemma in the last instant. I counted on his being quick enough to realize that if he carried out his threat of killing Terry, his leverage to get the suspended violin would die with her. He had no other card to play. I had the violin, and the chances were at least fair that his life depended on his bringing it intact to those who sent him.

  I needed to move him off of dead center while he still felt stymied. I gave the rope a quick jerk. The violin jumped at the end of it. He almost leaped for it. His expression spelled instant panic. It was time to press the moment.

  “Understand this. I tied a loose knot in the rope. The next jerk could pull it free. You want to play another round of Russian roulette?”

  His mouth was open, but no words came out. The drops of sweat were not from the summer sun.

  “You have one chance to get this violin. Do you hear me?”

  There was no answer, but the desperation in his face said he was contemplating the price of failure.

  “Leave the girl there. Take your hands off of her and back up. I promise you. It’s your only chance to get the violin.”

  I snapped the rope. The violin case danced at the end of it. It brought his voice back. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. It’s your only choice. Or you can stand there while I give this rope a few more jerks. That’s about all it will take.” I gave the rope a bounce for emphasis.

  “Here’s the deal. You back off. You leave the girl there. She gets into this gondola. When we reach the bottom, I leave the case, rope and all, with the man who runs it. You understand?”

  He tried one last move. He thrust Terry’s arm over the edge until he was all that was holding her balance. I was more terrorized for Terry than I’d ever been for my own life. I clung to one thought. I’d dealt with the Russians before. I had some idea of the kind of death he’d face for failure, and he knew it better than I. I responded with one more solid jerk of the rope that bounced the violin case halfway up to the gondola. We could both see the knot slip down to the last
inch of frayed end.

  He gave an involuntary scream of panic and pulled Terry back. He let go of her arm as if he’d been holding a time bomb. He took two small steps back.

  That put confidence back in my quiet, steady voice. It was more powerful than if I were shouting. “Move back. Twenty feet.”

  He took two more steps and stopped. He was forcing control of his voice. “If that violin is not there when I get to the bottom, there is no place in the world you can hide from us. Both of you.”

  “I understand that. That’s why I want this over with. Completely.”

  That seemed to have a settling effect. He took ten more deliberate steps backward and stopped. I used my cell phone to have the controller below start the gondola slowly forward. When I barely cleared the ledge, I had him stop it.

  Terry ran to the open door and jumped in while I kept the rope dangling over the side of the cliff. I gave the word to the man below. The gondola started in reverse toward the bottom.

  I yelled over the side, “One more condition. You and your buddy stay at the top until this gondola stops moving at the bottom. One move before that, and all bets are off.”

  As soon as I pulled up the rope and retrieved the case into the gondola, Terry and I were clinging to each other like life itself.

  I watched the Russian stare at us until we finally dropped out of sight. I had no idea if he’d wait the full time before getting into another gondola, but we had enough of a head start to make a run.

  Fifteen minutes later, we reached the bottom. I handed the case, rope and all, to the attendant with directions to give it to the man behind us. Terry and I ran to where I’d parked.

  I hit nearly triple-digit speeds on the road through Sinaia. When Terry came unfrozen enough to let go of my arm, she glanced at a violin case on the back seat. “Michael. What’s that?”

  “It’s our insurance. If I gave them the violin they wanted, they’d never let us live to tell about it. I promised him the violin case and the rope. I didn’t say the violin. I picked up a spare case in Sinaia this afternoon.”