Jean’s eyes widened in astonishment. “That’s amazing!”
“It might be total bollocks, remember. It’s just a thought,” Thomas reminded him.
Jean calculated how long it had been since Cooper wrote the letter. Assuming the twenty nights had begun the day after he wrote it, that meant they had . . . eight days left.
A week in which to save Jeff Stevens’s life. If he was still alive.
“Moving on then, line by line.” Thomas was clearly warming to the task. “ ‘Beneath the stars’ probably means what it says: outside. The meeting place is outside. But references to altars and such suggest a place of worship. So it may also be a church with stars painted on the ceiling, for example? Lots of possibilities.”
Jean scribbled feverishly on a notepad.
“ ‘Thirteen lambs slain’ has to be your thirteen murder victims. I imagine ‘fourteen’ is the hostage.”
Of course! It sounded so obvious when Thomas said it.
“If he’s ‘suffering daily pain, soon to end . . .’ ” Thomas paused. “That sounds like a death threat to me. Torture and death. Especially followed by references to a shroud. Shrouds go with bodies, don’t they? You need a corpse to make a shroud.”
Jean shivered.
“The next two verses are the most important,” said Thomas. “The ‘dance in black and white’ has to be a reference to chess, especially with all your knights and queens.”
“I thought so too,” said Jean.
“In which case ‘where masters meet’ is a place reference. Somewhere where chess masters play. Perhaps outside? I know in Russia they play in the parks, don’t they? Or a chess championship of some kind. ‘Six hills, one was lost’ is another place reference, his most specific. But don’t ask me what it means because I haven’t a clue. I suspect ‘on the stage of history’ is place specific too. All your geographical information is in that stanza. You just need to untangle it.”
“Okay,” said Jean. “Is that everything?”
“That’s it.”
Jean finished writing. And stood up to leave. “Thank you.”
“It’s not much, I’m afraid,” Thomas Barrow said, handing Jean his jacket. “But if I were you, I’d look into six hills, and chess games in outdoor venues. Or weirdos hanging around the same spot at nine o’clock at night for three weeks in a row.”
JEAN RACED INTO HIS office, made himself another coffee from the machine in the lobby and had just sat down at his desk to start following up on Thomas Barrow’s ideas when his colleague burst in.
“Progress. Tracy Whitney took the two fifteen P.M. Delta flight from Denver to London Heathrow. Someone at a fast-food restaurant in the airport recognized her picture!”
Antoine Cléry was young and ambitious, with a wiry frame, pale, pockmarked skin and a permanently eager expression. He delivered this news to his boss like an enthusiastic puppy dropping a ball at its master’s feet. If he had a tail, Jean thought, he’d be wagging it. On this occasion, however, Jean shared Cléry’s excitement.
“Did she take a connecting flight out of London?”
“No. Not that day. She cleared customs.”
“Under what name?”
Antoine looked at the paper in his hand. “Sarah Grainger. She used a British passport.”
“Terrific work,” said Jean. “I want the British police on high alert.”
“I’ve already spoken to our office in London.”
“Not just at Heathrow. I want her picture at all the airports, and the Eurostar and the ferry ports. Dover, Folkestone, all of them. I don’t believe Cooper’s in London. Chances are she’s already left England and I want to know where she went next and when.”
“Sir.”
Antoine Cléry left the room. Jean Rizzo felt elated. It was the first piece of good news he’d had in days.
I’m going to find you, Tracy.
I’m going to find you, and Jeff Stevens and Daniel Cooper.
And then I’m going to end this thing, once and for all.
THREE DAYS PASSED.
Nothing happened.
Elation gave way to anxiety and finally to despair. Tracy had come to London and evaporated. No trace of her had surfaced, as Sarah Grainger or any of her other alter egos.
The staff members at Interpol’s London office defended themselves to Jean Rizzo.
“Do you know how many passengers pass through Heathrow every day? Almost two hundred thousand. And you expect people to remember one woman’s face? She could be flying under any number of identities. Eighty-two airlines use Heathrow, Jean, flying to a hundred and eighty destinations. And that’s assuming she flew out of Heathrow. Forget needle in a haystack. She’s a speck of dust in the Royal Albert Hall.”
While he waited, increasingly desperately, for a positive sighting of Tracy, Jean redoubled his efforts to solve Daniel Cooper’s riddle. Tracy had done it by herself, after all. Then again, maybe Tracy knew something he didn’t. Some secret that only she and Cooper, and possibly Jeff Stevens, shared?
The chess angle was taking him nowhere fast. He spoke to players and chess clubs and to the editor of New In Chess magazine, the most widely read and respected publication in the game.
“There are as many outdoor venues for chess matches as there are stars in the sky, or grains of sand on a beach,” the editor told him. “All you need is a board. As for official championships, those always take place in indoor venues. The WCC—World Chess Championship—is the most prestigious, of course. But ‘where masters meet’ could be a reference to any number of matches or competitions.”
Jean refocused his attention on the “six hills” clue. He contacted the local police in Hertfordshire, England, and had staff at the long barrows site shown Daniel Cooper’s picture as well as Tracy’s. No one had seen them, or reported anything suspicious. Nor had any significant chess matches been held in the area in the past ten years.
The police in Six Hills, Georgia, clearly considered the whole thing a joke. “A riddle? Sounds like somethin’ out of Batman. We don’t get too many hostage situations down here, but if we see your fella, we’ll be sure and let you now. You want us to look out for the Penguin too?”
Jean was irritated, but didn’t dwell on it. Cooper was almost certainly still in Europe. Although it was technically possible to enter the United States with a hostage in tow, there was no need for him to make his life that difficult.
Sylvie called him. “It’s Clémence’s birthday tomorrow. She’ll be seven.”
Jean winced. “I’m sorry. I totally forgot.”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling you. I bought a present from you and wrapped it. It’s a camera.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry.”
“You’re taking her and Luc to the movies tomorrow afternoon at four.”
Jean balked. He had less than four days to find Daniel Cooper and the trail was almost cold. “Sylvie, I can’t. I have to work. I—”
“I booked the tickets already. It’s her birthday, Jean. She wants to see you. Be there.”
CLÉMENCE AND LUC WERE in a state of high excitement.
“Can we have ICEEs?”
“Can we have Pick ’n’ Mix?”
“As it’s Clem’s birthday, can we have popcorn and Pick ’n’ Mix?”
“Can we see it in 3-D?”
Jean experienced a familiar feeling of happiness combined with the guilt that he always felt in his children’s company. They’re so sweet. I should see them more.
Against their mother’s express wishes, he bought both of them an enormous bag of candy and settled down between them in the dark theater. The movie was formulaic, a lazily written cartoon complete with a wisecracking sidekick and an improbably proportioned if feisty heroine.
Tracy would make a great heroine, he thought. Bullheaded and brave. Intelligent bu
t impulsive.
His mind drifted back to the case. He’d spent the morning watching CCTV footage provided by London’s Transport Police, showing Tracy clearing customs and emerging into the arrivals terminal at Heathrow four days ago. She was wearing a head scarf and glasses, which did a good job of concealing most of her face. Her demeanor was casual and relaxed. She neither hurried nor dawdled and she never looked over her shoulder or behind her as she walked toward the tube.
Jean had played and replayed the clip for hours, searching for a clue, for anything that might jog his memory or stir up a new lead.
Was Cooper in London? In England, at any rate?
Some instinct told Jean he wasn’t, but he told himself that perhaps his instincts were wrong. Just before he drove to pick up the kids, he’d learned that there was a painting in the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square entitled Six Hills. He’d dropped a quick e-mail to Interpol’s London field office to contact the authorities at the gallery, but he was itching to get on the phone to them himself.
Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, he switched it on, ignoring the disapproving glances of the other parents. He set it to vibrate. Immediately it began to jump and buzz in his lap, like an angry bee.
Nine missed calls.
Nine! Something must have happened.
He opened his text messages and began to read.
SYLVIE RIZZO WAS CURLED up on the couch at home, reading a novel and enjoying some well-earned peace, when the front door opened and two crying children burst in. Their father trailed behind them, looking stressed.
“I’m sorry,” Jean mumbled. “I have to go. I have to catch a plane.”
“What, right now?”
“The film wasn’t even halfway through!” Clémence moaned.
“Dad wouldn’t let us stay. I didn’t even get to finish my ICEE!” Luc sobbed.
“You bought them ICEEs?” Sylvie’s frown deepened. “I told you they make Luc sick.”
“I have to go.”
“For God’s sake, Jean!” Sylvie snapped. “I’ll have to go to court if this goes on. You can’t keep letting them down like this. It’s Clémence’s birthday!”
At that moment Luc vomited violently, spraying blue sugary puke all over the living room carpet.
Jean ran to his car and didn’t look back.
Tracy had been spotted at Heathrow. The footage was two days old, but it was clear. With a new alias, and dark brown hair extensions, she had boarded a Britannia flight to Sofia, Bulgaria.
This year’s World Chess Championships were being held in Bulgaria.
Jean had Antoine Cléry look up the date and venue.
“The competition began yesterday. It’s in Plovdiv, a provincial city, in a conference center attached to a hotel.”
Jean Googled “Plovdiv” as he left Sylvie’s house.
“Plovdiv is often referred to in Bulgaria as ‘the City of the Seven Hills . . . Inside the city proper are six syenite hills, called tepeta . . .”
Jean Rizzo slammed his foot on the accelerator.
CHAPTER 26
PLOVDIV, BULGARIA’S SECOND LARGEST city and the venue for the latest World Chess Championships, is set on the banks of the Maritsa River, about a hundred miles southeast of the capital, Sofia. With over six thousand years of history, the city is a treasure trove of archaeological wonders, with sites from antiquity, including two ancient amphitheaters, set beside Ottoman baths and mosques and the remainders of medieval towers.
Tracy booked a hotel in the old quarter, a pretty maze of narrow, paved streets lined with old churches and homes from what was known as the National Revival period. The Britannia Hotel was really little more than a guesthouse, with a few rooms, a grubby reception area and a salon that served fruit, bread and coffee for breakfast but nothing else. It suited Tracy perfectly. From her bedroom window she could see the heights of Sredna Gora rise to the northwest, above the alluvial plain on which Plovdiv had proudly stood since four thousand years before Christ was born. It had been a decade since she’d set foot in Europe. In other circumstances she would have drunk in the culture and beauty of her surroundings like a wanderer stumbling upon a water hole after years in the desert. As it was, the pealing church bells and sights and smells of the Old World barely registered.
Tracy wasn’t here to sightsee. It had taken her a long time, too long, to figure out the first line of Daniel Cooper’s riddle. By the time she arrived at the Britannia Hotel, she was hot, exhausted and nauseous with stress . . . What if this was all a sick joke? What if Jeff wasn’t here after all, but already dead, and Cooper had lured her here so he could kill her too? What if Blake Carter was right and she was making a terrible, deadly mistake? . . . Her “twenty nights” were almost up.
She had to meet Cooper tonight. Tracy knew from bitter experience that Daniel Cooper would not tolerate lateness, or extend a deadline once set, not even for her. The problem was she still wasn’t certain which open-air theater he was referring to in his “beneath the stars” line. The Antichen Teatar, built by the Emperor Trajan in the second century was the most famous. It was also situated between two of Plovdiv’s six hills, making it an obvious choice. But the Ancient Stadium, built a hundred years later by the Emperor Hadrian had as much claim to be a “stage of history,” as well as the advantage of being closed to the public for restoration work.
With nothing else to go on, Tracy decided that Cooper would choose the abandoned theater for their rendezvous. He’ll want to meet me alone. Dropping her suitcase on the bed, she showered, changed and walked across the street to a tiny café where she forced herself to eat a Pritnsessi sandwich, a traditional Bulgarian snack of feta cheese and egg, and drink a cup of strong coffee. Felling slightly better, physically at least, she checked her watch.
Six P.M.
Three hours to go, assuming she was right about “three times three” meaning nine P.M. From the tourist map she’d picked up at the reception desk, Tracy knew that the stadium was situated in the north of the city, no more than a twenty-minute cab ride away. She decided to get there early. When going into battle, it always made sense to check out the terrain first. Especially when the battlefield had been handpicked by the enemy. Daniel Cooper had chosen this spot for a reason.
I should find out what it is.
Reaching into her purse for her wallet, Tracy fingered first her cell phone and then the gun she’d brought with her, a tiny, custom-made Kahr PM9 micro 9mm that could be disassembled into pieces that looked like lipstick tubes and other “permissible items” when passing through airport scanners. Jeff would have laughed and called it a “woman’s gun.” But its bullets could kill, just like any others.
In all her years as a con artist, Tracy had never gone armed to a job. Not since that fateful night at Joe Romano’s house in New Orleans, the night that had seen her wind up in jail and that had changed her life utterly and forever. Tracy didn’t like guns. She wasn’t in the business of hurting people. But this was different.
Daniel Cooper was a psychotic killer.
And he had Jeff.
Tracy paid her bill and walked out into the street.
THE MAIN BUS STATION in Sofia is right next to the railway station. Jean Rizzo arrived just as the bus to Plovdiv was leaving and was told he would have to wait another half an hour for the next one.
“Goddamn it!” Jean shouted aloud.
It was already five o’clock. As ridiculous as it sounded, numerous people had told Jean that the fastest and most reliable way to get to Plovdiv from Sofia was by bus. Taxi drivers invariably took unnecessary detours to jack up their prices, the trains were frequently canceled, and renting a car was complicated and involved navigation, never Jean’s strong suit. In other circumstances he’d have asked the local police to drive him the ninety miles, but by the time he’d explained about Daniel Cooper and Tracy Whitney and the Bible killi
ngs and deciphering riddles, more valuable hours would have been lost.
At last, another bus arrived and Jean climbed onboard, paying the eleven levs fare. It was crowded and almost unbearably humid, and the suspension of the vehicle was atrocious, as was the cell-phone reception. Not that it mattered much. After three barely audible, then dropped calls to his office, Jean learned that they still knew precisely nothing about where Tracy might be staying. Nor had there been any sightings or leads on either Cooper or Jeff Stevens. Local police had been dispatched to the chess championships—“where masters meet”—as well as to a variety of possible open-air meeting places. Tonight’s tense match between the Russian Alexandr Makarov and his Ukranian rival Leonid Savchuk at the Plovdiv Royal Hotel was a highlight of the competition. There was at least a chance that Cooper might choose to meet Tracy there, or leave some further clue to his whereabouts, thinking himself safe in the anonymity of the crowd.
As for Jeff Stevens, Jean Rizzo privately believed that he was probably already dead. Holding a hostage for long periods is a complicated business, fraught with risk. Transporting one across international borders is even more dangerous. In Jean’s experience, killers like Daniel Cooper tended to stick to what they knew. Thirteen murdered women bore witness to the success of the Bible Killer’s MO. Although if anyone could push Cooper to step outside his comfort zone, it would be Tracy Whitney.
Jeff Stevens was right about Daniel Cooper. He’s in love with Tracy. In his own, sick mind, he always has been.
The bus rattled on.
JEFF STEVENS WAS CALLING for his mother again.
Daniel Cooper had heard many others do the same. It was a very common thing to do at the point of death. That primitive bond to the womb that bore us existed in all cultures. It was the love that endured to the end.
I loved my mother too. But she betrayed me.
Blood. That was what Daniel remembered from his mother’s death. Blood pouring from her wrists and neck, blood filling the bathtub and spilling onto the floor, staining the linoleum livid red.
Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) Page 30
