by Cameron West
“That will be one Earl Grey,” AB said to Mobright, shooing him away. “Two sugars.” Mobright left the room through a side door.
I regarded the settee I was lying on. Red and tufted, it matched the decor of the room, which could have been the lair of a count.
My captor gently patted his caramelized hair. I stood up, carefully. “I saidnow,Mr. B.”
The name caught him off-guard for a second, and he gave me a puzzled look. Then it dawned on him. “Ah, you noticed the handkerchief. Excellent. Identifies me as a thoroughbred, don’t you agree? Although my father would take exception, damn his rectilinear, blue-blooded soul. Oh, don’t fuss, she’s not going anywhere,” he said, nodding toward the door Mobright had exited through. “Although I do suspect she’ll be coming to before very long. The latest central-nervous-system depressant. Extraordinarily effective. Twelve syllables or so. Don’t ask me to pronounce it.”
I made my way over to the door and turned the round brass knob. Locked. I listened. Nothing. I turned back to Mr. B, leaning against the wall for support. “Who the hell are you?”
He flicked an undetectable piece of lint from his sharply creased slacks and ignored the question. “If I do say so myself, Reb, you handled yourself quite well out in the Adriatic. I regret that we were unable to be of any assistance. Failed to anticipate your boat ride. I can say with certainty,” he continued, “that Mr. Tecci will actively seek retribution for being bested. Deliciously nefarious fellow, that one. Would you like to know his history? I found it quite fascinating.”
“Whoareyou?” I repeated.
“Why, an unnamed Englishman, of course,” he laughed. “Oxford man. So,” he plowed ahead. “Nolo Tecci. Born 1955 in Brooklyn Heights, New York. His father was Bruno Tecci, an executioner for one Nicky Arno until they both met their early demise in a steak house in Queens in 1968. Young Nolo turned juvenile delinquent as soon as he turned juvenile, and at the tender age of twenty was invited to Attica State Prison for five years for assaulting a bartender with an ice pick.”
Mobright reentered the room carrying a silver tray with a small teapot, matching sugar bowl with tongs, and a china cup and saucer. He closed the door behind him and set the tray down on a small cherrywood table next to Mr. B, accidentally kicking one of the table legs. “Sorry sir,” he said. “Here you are.” He eyed me. “Is he giving you any trouble, sir?”
“None, Mobright. Be a good chap and leave us now, would you?”
“Yes,” I copied, “be a good chap, Mo-dim.”
He glowered at me, then faced his boss. “Yes, sir,” he said, turning on his heel.
Mr. B called to him, “Oh, Mobright . . . do check in with Pendelton about our other guest. That methoxy et cetera et cetera should be wearing off presently.”
“Yes, sir,” Mobright repeated, shooting me one more look before leaving the room.
Mr. B picked up the tongs. “I told him to sugar the tea, did I not? And no spoon, to boot. Ah, well,” he sighed, pouring the tea, “bunglers all.” He removed a pill organizer from his pocket, opened a compartment, and popped half a dozen multicolored capsules in his mouth. He gulped some tea, knocked them back, and grimaced as he swallowed. He snapped the organizer shut and returned it to his pocket. “There,” he said disdainfully. “They don’t help, but at least they’re expensive.”
I peered around the room impatiently, looking for my guns.
Mr. B cleared his throat. “Now, while Tecci was in prison, he was suspected of killing fellow inmates on several occasions. Each of them had his throat cut in the shape of an ‘N.’ Nolo’s signature, not unlike Zorro. Gruesome, but one must express oneself to the fullest, I suppose. The authorities knew he had committed the murders, but none of the inmates were willing to inform on him. Two months after Nolo’s release, the pub in which he’d committed the initial assault was set afire, along with the bartender.”
Fire.
AB continued. “The only witness met his untimely demise before he could testify. He was found stabbed, the initial ‘N’ carved in the nape of his neck with a tiny surgeon’s laser. Tecci surfaced in Las Vegas, an enforcer for the Carbone family, but his disregard for authority and inability to play by the rules—even mob rules—made him a poor fit. So he moved on.”
“Who the hell are you guys?” I interrupted.
“Tut tut, Reb, language,” Mr. B chided, waving his ringed hand at me. He pressed on with his lecture. “Nolo Tecci is a sociopath. Devious, remorseless, clever, and very dangerous, as I think you’d agree, although I have it on good authority that he can be quite a charmer when he wants to be. He’s been implicated in half a dozen international murders in the last five years, although there has never been enough evidence to convict him.”
He returned the teacup and saucer to the silver tray. “Tecci issuspected of being a paid assassin for Werner Krell, an interesting if irksome man of deep pocket and shallow soul of whom you may or may not have heard. Krell shared an interest in Leonardo da Vinci with his father—a striking resemblance to your family situation, albeit with opposing motivations. Art versus power, if you will. Uneven parallel bars. One black, one white.”
The effect of the drug had now waned, and was replaced by anger. “What do you know about my family?”
“Not much,” B said casually. “But to continue, Krell has spent a lifetime in the munitions business. Recently, however, he shifted his focus to satellite communications. That is, he’s building satellites. Through his old KGB connections, he’s arranged to have the Russian Space Agency deliver his satellites into orbit.”
“So?”
“It’s a suspicious move from someone we believe has for some time been designing a new weapons system to use against a few of the more powerful English-speaking countries.”
“Why would Krell do that?”
“Oh, certainly profit, but also individual and family history, personal associations, psychological profile, genetics. Mother had a frightful case of borderline personality disorder with paranoid schizophrenic tendencies. Werner was suckled too long at a tattered tit, I would say. Mother died in an Allied bomb raid, and Father, whose fanatic footsteps Werner followed into the munitions industry, died an early, angry death.” B paused for a moment, then added, “Effectively, young Werner was orphaned at an impressionable age. Ironic.”
I savored my growing anger, locked eyes with him.
B continued, “Werner was misshapen by both designandcircumstance.”
“So you’re suggesting Krell’s the new Hitler; he wants to rule the world?”
“No, Krell’s not Hitler, we don’t think he wants torule,although we believe he would certainly take satisfaction in exacting personalrevenge against certain of our friends. Krell has been secretly developing a prototype laser-guided smart bomb, a number of which could be hidden within and launched from a satellite. Targeted with impunity from the ground, the bombs would be impossible to detect due to their unprecedented small size and extraordinary velocity, making the system the perfect terrorist weapon. Free-falling from space, these bombs could whip past any defense, thereby placing the bombee in great peril. Krell’s bombs could rain terror from the sky whenever he wanted rain, and no one on earth could do anything about it except tip St. Peter at the gate.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Enlighten me as to how this involves me and my friend.”
“Krell’s primary munitions customer for the past few years has been Soon Ta Kee, premier of Taiwan, who has literally built his army with Krell’s products. Tacky—as we fondly call him—was apprised of Krell’s bomb design, became convinced Krell could actually deliver, and invested considerable assets to support its development.
“Tacky’s political conflicts have dramatically increased of late, to say the least. China wants control of Taiwan back, and because of China’s new PCL system . . . do you know what that is? The Passive Coherent Location system,” B said. “It’s an impenetrable air defense system. It cannot be jammed, unlike radar, and no missi
les can be launched at its beams to destroy its transmitters, because there aren’t any beams or transmitters. This takes away the United States’ military advantage over China. The F-117 and even the futuristic stealth F-22 fighter are no longer invisible to them. Bravo, China.
“You see,” he continued, “Tacky feels that, with this sudden disadvantage, he can no longer rely on the United States to intervene militarily in a crisis. Tacky has his back against the wall and he’s miffed. So much so that he has dramatically increased the pressure on Krell to ready the weapon. Krell—believing he was millimeters away from success—settled on an actual date on which he would provide Kee with the bombs. Chap made a promise which he cannot possibly keep.”
I was sick of this pretentious prick and his outrageous story—if even a shred of it was true. “That’s a terrible shame,” I said. “I repeat my question.”
“Ah, but why can’t Krell do it?” B said to the room. “Why can’t he possibly come through?” He paused for effect. “I’ll tell you why. Because he’s completely stymied by the final ingredient—a material in which to house the bombs that would be capable of withstanding the extraordinary heat of high-speed atmospheric friction.” B sat back in his chair, smacked his lips.
Suddenly I was transfixed. My captor knew it, winked at me. “Your eyes just said, ‘Aha, the Dagger.’ Excellent. Listen to me now. There can be no doubt that Werner’s father told him wondrous bedtime stories about the Medici Dagger, as your own father did you. The indestructible alloy, stronger that any other, lighter than air. When Werner attained great wealth, he sought the Dagger as the ultimate trophy, not only his, but his dead papa’s as well—the Excalibur for the Knights of Krell’s Round Table. Here’s where the plot thickens. Intelligence informs us that Kee has vowed to destroy Krell should he not keep his word, and Kee has not one Nolo Tecci, but an army of them—each one caked with zeal—glad to carry out his wishes.”
“So what?”
“You casually say ‘so what’ but your words belie your interest. Here’s what,” B said, rubbing his palms together. “Werner Krell placed himself in a situation where if he doesn’t deliver his bombs he will be assassinated. And he cannot possibly deliver functional bombs. So what happens in his precarious mind? He leaps off the quivering lip of logic into total lunacy and begins to believe that Papa Krell’s bedtime stories were not fable, but irrefutable fact. And then presto! Out of a dusty old architectural anthology pops a page of Leonardo’s notes—possibly containing the Circles of Truth. Krell was foiled twenty years earlier when the first page of notes went down with the courier. Now he has a second chance and believes not only that the Dagger is out there, but that its alloy will provide hisbomb with the necessary indestructible housing that will save his miserable skin.”
B clapped his hands together. “If that’s not drama,” he said, “well then I just don’t know what is. Raise a glass for Werner bloody Krell and every last one of us for whom the bookseller’s bell tolled.”
I felt a bitter chill. “But no one really knows if the Dagger even exists,” I said. “Or if the alloy has the qualities Leonardo claimed it had. Maybe the man just discovered aluminum before Reynolds.”
“Perhaps,” B conceded. “But if it is as Leonardo stated and Werner Krell is able to obtain it, analyze its components, and duplicate it, he’ll complete his weapon system and the world will be at his mercy—and of course, that of Soon Ta Kee.”
“You think I give a shit about Soon Ta Kee? Or bombs free-falling on this or any other world in the stinking solar system?”
“Apparently not.”
“You’re damn right.”
“How about individual liberty?”
“That’s what I’m interested in,” I said. “Individual liberty. Mine.”
“You do have a rather myopic view considering your genealogy. Your father was a bit more a man of the people.”
“What do you know of my father?” I bristled.
“Oh, that he was the curator of one of the world’s greatest museums, while you take risks for money. Let me rephrase that. I can certainly appreciate taking risks for money, so I appeal to you on another level. You wouldn’t want your films to say ‘Made in Taiwan,’ would you? No need to reply, but tell me this: Have I not woven a spellbinder? Your baby blues tell me nothing, but inside I believe you’re having a little chat.” He sat back in his chair, drummed his fingernails on the gold-painted arms.
I wasn’t chatting; I was screaming like the signs in Las Vegas. The slot machine in my mind spun helter-skelter, finally stopping on the three familiar words it landed on so very often:Trust. No. One.
I stood and stretched. “So . . .” I said, feigning unconcern, “you’re quite a perceptive person.”
“Oh, I do enjoy praise.”
“You want to find the Dagger first, whoever the hell you happen to be.”
B pulled out his hanky and polished his ring. “It’s my turn for a compliment. You’re as perspicacious as you are handsome.”
“You want our help,” I said.
“Certainly.”
“You think we know something?”
“Let’s not be coy.”
“How much is it worth?” I asked.
“You wish to be compensated?”
“The Medici Dagger. What’s it worth?”
“Oh. That depends on to whom it is sold. An art collector would pay a substantial sum. Recall what the Japanese paid for a single Van Gogh? But Kee? What would he pay for a laser-targeted, nondetectable, satellite-launched smart bomb? Think of a large number. So . . . let us have a go at the Circles. We know you’ve got two pages of notes, two sets of Circles—”
“How’d you know—”
“Bugs. Electronic insects. A tiny microphone on your dinner cart. ‘Our fruitful earth will unavoidably become dry and sterile at the hands of men who it seems cannot help but wantonly destroy the very thing which gives them succor.’ Leonardo was quite a poet, wasn’t he? I’d like to have a look at those pages. Perhaps your lovely friend would be kind enough to translate the rest for us, although she is by no means critical to the translation. Coded Circles, hoisting system? Fascinating.”
“I want to see my friend right now,” I insisted. “I want to know she’s all right.”
“Your Ginny?” B said with a wry smile. I glared at him. He shrugged. “We bugged your phone at the Four Seasons as well.”
“So,” I said to the pompous bastard, “you’re the FBI or the NSA or no, MI-5, right? You’re a Tea Bag. MI-5.”
“Tea Bag, how homespun,” B said, remaining unruffled. “A Southernism you picked up from your mother? She was from Tennessee, was she not?”
I gnawed the inside of my lower lip.
“Reb,” he said, “I’m simply the best man to tidy up Dodge, now that John Wayne is deceased and you’ve been relieved of your six-shooter. Very interesting, that. Never saw the likes of it before. We should discuss its origin.”
I heard the sound of muffled voices emanating from the next room.
“I’m keenly interested in the Medici Dagger,” B went on. “I know you are, too. Cooperate with me now, won’t you? The key to your deposit box in the hotel vault would be appreciated, if something of interest lies within it. Rummaging through a room is one thing, including popping the odd wall safe. But opening safety deposit boxes, well, keys make the job so much more civilized. Be my buddy. Your father would most certainly have considered his Uncle Sam.”
“Why did you drug us? Why didn’t you just ask nicely? I’m a reasonable guy.”
B thought for a moment. “I admit Mobright got a bit overenthusiastic in bringing you in. The opportunity to have a look at the notes outweighed his more humane sensibilities. However, I pose to you this question: Would we have had your full attention otherwise?”
I paused and then gave him three looks: contemplation, conviction, concession. “I could be Doc Holliday,” I said, showing some team spirit.
B stood, looking self-satisf
ied, and walked confidently over to me, all five feet seven inches of him. Offering me his small, manicured hand, he said, “In answer to most of your questions, my high-flying friend, I am Inspector Arlen Beckett, chief of Global Affairs, Gibraltar.”
“And just what is Gibraltar?”
“Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, a specialized task force made up of senior agents from several Western members of the NATO alliance was formed for the purpose of preventing the proliferation ofweapons of mass destruction. Catchy name, Gibraltar. Come now, my boy, you’re bordering on being tardy for the inevitable handshake.”
I grinned and stuck my hand out. Then I balled a fist and gave him a quick stiff uppercut to the jaw that knocked him up, back, and out. He hit the thickly carpeted floor, feet flat, knees sticking up. His hair didn’t budge a centimeter.
“I’m not your boy,” I said.
There were more sounds from the next room. I checked Beckett for a gun. Nothing. I dropped his seat cushion on top of the teacup and stomped on it as quietly as I could, then picked up a piece with a nice sharp edge to it. I walked to the door, cinched my face like a proper Englishman, and, trying to sound like Beckett, called out,“Oh, Mobright?”
The door opened and Mobright stuck his face in. “Yes, sir?” he inquired. I grabbed him under the knot in his tie, hoping it wasn’t a clip-on, and jammed the shard against his throat. “Sir’s not necessary,” I said. “You can call me Reb.”
“Reb. Please, I—”
“Another fucking word and you bleed. You know I’ll do it.”
His pinched mouth opened as if he were about to speak and then shut again. I spun him around, and, with his body as a shield, stepped into the room where they had stashed Ginny.
She was sitting upright on a puffy satin couch, looking much as she had when I woke her up in the Fiat, only groggier. A wide-shouldered man I presumed to be Pendelton towered over Ginny with his back to me.
She spotted me through glassy eyes.“Reb,” she mouthed. Mobright kicked the door, either on purpose or because he was a klutz. Pendelton turned at the sound. He didn’t pull a gun, for which I was grateful. I patted down Mobright for his and maybe mine. Nothing but a small spray bottle.
