Simon lay silently on the bed, the effects of the alcohol still slightly with him. He needed to rest, but rest would have to come with his eyes open. Only two candles remained burning, their glow casting flickering stripes across the shadows. After this, he was done. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore, he was past burnout. Having built a wall around himself all these years, he had never looked for friendship; he couldn’t afford friends. For a brief moment earlier this evening, he had seen that one day things could be different. He could find a life where he wouldn’t always be alone; he could find companions and maybe even a woman to share his life with instead of living the cloistered, celibate existence of a priest. All these years of pain, of avenging his mother—maybe that pain was finally dissipating. Maybe he could even redeem himself.
He shot up from the bed. Something startled him. He looked to the sleeping men—no movement. He spun out of the bed, grabbed his pistol from the night table, and covered the door. His blood raced, pounding in his ears. The silence was deafening. Had it been his imagination? Paranoia was creeping in and that would lead to failure, he knew he must never question himself and his judgment. He was a solo operator and yet here he was with two accomplices, two passed-out, inebriated accomplices.
He heard it again—subtle, someone was moving about. His body tensed. He raised the gun, aiming it head-high at the door he’d hung with crosses hours—it seemed a lifetime—ago. Those holy objects weren’t helping in the least.
Thal had both guns drawn now. It would only take three shots, of that he was confident. He didn’t expect much of a commotion; his guns were silencer-equipped, the halls were deserted. In less than a minute, he would be on his way. He would catch the six a.m. flight and be back in the States by nightfall. His employer agreed if he rid the world of the three on the other side of this door, he could retire with a fee that couldn’t be spent in ten lifetimes.
And with a blurring motion he drove his foot into and through the doorknob. The door exploded inward. Thal rolled, guns at the ready.
Chapter 26
Two days now. Not a word from Michael. Despite Jeannie’s assurances, Mary was scared. Deep down she knew that he was in dire trouble. If he were able to call, he would.
And she was dying. Quicker now. The tumors were spreading like wildfire. The pain came in fits and starts—as much as she hated to admit it, she was growing dependent on the morphine.
She had checked herself out of the hospital this morning, against everyone’s wishes and every doctor’s order. She wanted to be home among her things. She wanted to be home waiting for Michael when he returned. She’d picked up Hawk and CJ from Mrs. McGinty. The old lady brought Mary a pot of soup and a green salad and never once did she allude to Mary’s illness. She was a woman who had witnessed the pains of dying: she walked this road with experience.
As Mary stepped into the den she saw the papers covering Michael’s desk: newspaper articles on a German businessman, photos, magazines…Michael’s desk was a mess, so incongruous with his anal nature. He’d obviously left in a hurry. She had suspected he’d gone back on his word. Years ago, when she was confronted with the reality of Michael’s clandestine life, she’d felt betrayed and angry. And while she eventually found forgiveness, it was a long way back to trust. Now, seeing these papers before her, her suspicions increased that Michael may have broken his promise. Still, she knew he loved her and would never betray her. She was certain whatever he was doing, his intentions were honorable.
“Hello?” Jeannie called from the hallway.
“Be right there.” Mary scooped up Michael’s papers, shoving them into the bottom desk drawer. As she turned to leave the room, she saw something sitting on the desk chair. Not knowing what it was, she picked it up. Her heart stopped when she saw the imprint on the security bracelet. Property of the Byram Hills Police Dept. Michael was in far more trouble than she had ever imagined.
“Brought you some food,” Jeannie said as she approached.
Mary didn’t know what to do; she couldn’t let Jeannie know about Michael, not yet at least. It crossed her mind that maybe she did know and that was why Paul had gone after Michael. She shook off the thought and stuffed the security anklet in her pocket.
The kitchen was one of Mary’s favorite places. It wasn’t large but it was big enough for her. She loved its oak cabinets and its polished aluminum appliances. She loved to cook, viewed it as an art form: like painting or sculpting, it was something perfected with time and talent and patience. It possessed a bit of the sciences, chemistry in particular—a little too much of this or not enough of that could create a disaster. There was nothing she enjoyed more than having dinner ready for Michael when he arrived home from work. It may have been old-fashioned and out of sync with the whole women’s movement, but she didn’t care; it was what she took pleasure in.
“My God,” Jeannie gasped. “Where’d all the food come from?”
Mary had been cooking all afternoon, finding it one of the more relaxing things she had done in a month. So the fridge was near bursting. “I told you I cooked up a storm.”
“Who’s going to eat all this?” Jeannie asked.
Mary started to answer, Michael, but the name died on her lips.
Jeannie instinctly regretted her question. She took Mary’s arm. “Paul called.”
“Did he find Michael?”
“Yeah, I spoke to him early this afternoon; they’re at a hotel in Berlin.”
“Berlin? What did he say?”
“Not much. Paul was in a rush, said they were fine, back in a couple days, that’s about it.”
“Do you have the number?”
“He wouldn’t tell me,” Jeannie said with a sly smile.
“And?” Mary knew Jeannie well enough to know she had something up her sleeve.
“Well, let’s just say he’s not the only detective in the house.”
“You’re so sneaky.” Mary grinned. “Can we call them?”
“It’s the middle of the night there.”
Mary looked at her, a bit disappointed, but relieved, too. “We’ll call first thing,” she decided. “At least we know they’re safe.”
Jeannie wasn’t so sure. Paul had said that everything was fine but that he and Michael had to take care of one quick thing and that didn’t sit well with her. Her husband had no business over there except bringing Michael back. There was nothing to take care of unless…
Mary set the dining room table for dinner and served up a garlic rib roast with new potatoes and the huge green salad that Mrs. McGinty had brought. Conversation was infrequent as the two women ate, mostly centered around the exploits of the Busch children and the recent heat wave that blew into town.
It was eight o’clock but it might as well have been midnight, the way Mary felt. Exhaustion came on quickly; she no longer had the stamina of even a week ago. The drugs had stolen even that.
Jeannie brought the conversation to the living room couch where they had their dessert. The words were coming hard now for Mary; she wanted so much to speak to Michael and while she took comfort in the fact that Jeannie said he was safe with Busch, her doubts would only be dispelled by the sound of his voice.
Her friend’s anxiety was obvious. Impulsively, Jeannie opened her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. She reached for the phone.
“It’s too late to call,” Mary protested.
“Yeah?” Jeannie said with a tilt of her head. “I don’t know about you, but my husband has woken me in the middle of the night for less important things. He’ll get over it.” She finished dialing and passed the phone to Mary. “It’s a direct line to their room.”
Mary got that tingling in her stomach from anticipation; once she knew her husband was safe, she knew she would finally get some sleep tonight. The phone rang with that flat dual European ring. It rang a second time. Mary felt like a kid again waiting to open the door to the living room on Christmas Day. Again it rang. She looked to Jeannie. Her smile became forced. Conce
rn was seeping in. How big a room was it? Two fifteen in the morning. Why wasn’t Michael answering?
Jeannie looked at the number in her hand, 100 percent sure she’d dialed right. “They’re probably out for a drink,” she lied.
The fear in Mary’s heart grew. She couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes. The two men weren’t out for a drink. Something was wrong, something was very wrong.
The phone rang, unanswered.
Die Hühle der Härte—the Den of Iniquity—dance club started pumping at midnight. It was one of Berlin’s older clubs but well-known and frequented by the European elite. An exclusive playground for the rich, it had everything to offer, from nice to nasty. The club—one of the few buildings to survive both world wars—was a converted opera house dating back to the days of King Wilhelm I. Its multiple tiers alternated between dance floors and lounges. Its heart was the grand stage whose motif was changed nightly like the set of a play. It could be a rolling countryside one night, a dark medieval village the next. Tonight it was ancient Rome: backdrops of a looming coliseum, gladiators squaring off against a pride of ferocious lions, toga-wrapped women swooning in the arms of triumphant warriors. Strobes, spots, and flashing lights danced over the tapestries and crowds, illuminating an almost surreal orgy of two clashing millennia. This was a decadence the caesars never dreamed of.
Photographers stalked the balconies, hoping to catch a private moment that could be sold and revealed to the world. Young beautiful couples, of all persuasions and orientations, were swallowed by the huge plush couches, locked in deep passion. Values were loose here and morals were looser.
The music, pumped through tractor-trailer-sized speakers strung from the ceiling, was an eclectic mix of disco, new wave, and techno-punk—all of which was lost on Finster as he danced with two stunning ladies, Audrey and Vaughn. They had met at the door and had been attached at the hip since. While Vaughn had no idea who the older man in the custom Armani blazer was, Audrey had pegged him on his approach to the club from half a mile away. August Finster: suave; enormously successful; and, her favorite part, fabulously rich. The two girls—best friends since their London childhood—were virtually identical: blue and black Prada dresses, Gino pumps, Cartier diamond teardrop chokers; identical in every respect, that is, except their long flowing curls. Audrey’s were black as night; Vaughn’s, blonde as English straw.
All the girls could think about was how much they could score with their sexual three-way routine. They never thought of themselves as hookers, they were entertainers plying a trade to the gentlemen prey of the week—or sometimes just the weak gentlemen prey. They loved the men who possessed the power and the money, the so-called masters of the universe, but they had power, too: a power more primal, more preternatural than any man they’d ever met could match. These two knew how to make even the most powerful man kneel and beg like a child.
But this man was different. Most thought they had power, flaunting it to hide their insecurities. This one possessed a quiet air, a confidence unlike any other; he knew he had power, but he would demonstrate it only in the worst of circumstances. And for a moment, Vaughn had thought maybe tonight she should walk away. A heavy pit sat in her stomach and it wasn’t the ’ludes she’d bought from Phillipe in the bathroom. This guy was different, somehow, seeing through her sexual manipulations to her heart, his eyes seeming to carve away her flesh to look into her soul.
But it was only a fleeting thought, what with the price of clothes and drugs these days. Besides, her gut was never right anyway.
Finster moved with a grace that belied his age, in time and motion with his female companions. He was dancing a victory dance; the adrenaline rush of success flowed richly through his veins. He danced without a care, for his goal was in sight; soon, he would be free of any impediments. He had given the order to kill—he’d been reluctant to do so, but he could no longer take the chance. He despised Simon and if he could have—if he was permitted, if he was capable—he would have rejoiced at pulling the trigger himself. Finster and this priest had crossed paths on more than one occasion and this particular man of the cloth had seemed to make it his quest to eradicate Finster from the world. Well, no more.
Michael was another matter; he had actually grown fond of the man. Most men cower away when faced with supreme obstacles. Michael was different, he possessed a drive that was on a par with Finster’s. Unfortunately, Michael had become an adversary, the worst kind; one motivated by something beyond greed or lust. Michael St. Pierre was motivated by love. And for that, Finster ordered his death.
Finster had no grievance against the big cop, but Thal was so vehement about including him in the mayhem, he’d acceded. Thal was one of the most perfect machines of evil that he had ever found in a man. Absolutely no regard for others or for life. His pleasure was derived only from human suffering. To date, he’d been every bit the ideal employee: timely, efficient, thorough, and merciless. He wondered at Thal’s reaction if he were to find out his employer’s true identity.
He wasn’t troubled in the least at the order he had given. After all, death was just a step in life that everyone experienced eventually. These three men were more like flies to be squashed than human beings; in the end, the only consequence of their deaths would be the removal of Finster’s last obstacle to going home.
The music continued to pound as Audrey brought a round of drinks. Never once did they stop moving as they each downed their fourth Zima of the night.
“You girls are dangerous.” Finster smiled as he watched them grind against one another.
“Practice makes perfect,” Vaughn shouted over the music.
“How much practice have you had?”
The girls smiled in unison.
“I guess we’ll just have to see how perfect you really are,” Finster shouted.
And they danced on.
Chapter 27
The door exploded open, splintering as it slammed full-force into the wall. Thal spun into the darkly shadowed room, his trigger finger hardwired to his brain. His eyes darted left to right, scanning for targets as he went.
But no one was there. Not a soul. The suite couldn’t have been emptier. Thal methodically checked the room, the closets, the bathroom, under the bed, every nook and cranny, keeping his guard up. But there was no one there. It was as if no one had ever been there. How did they vanish? How did they know? He ran the last ten minutes through his head. The concierge: dead before he could alert anyone. The lobby: empty. He hadn’t seen a soul but the concierge. This was unacceptable. To his employer, it would be a problem. To him, it was his worst nightmare. He knew only too well the price of failure and it was a payment he wasn’t prepared to make. He had tracked the three here. He could track them again.
The silence of the darkened room was shattered by a ring. A phone ringing at two fifteen in the morning somewhere else in the hotel but…not far.
When the door smashed in, Simon rolled right and drew a bead, his gun hand never wavering. He would empty the entire clip into whatever intruded into their room. Simon wouldn’t wait to discern friend or foe; no friend crashed the place at two fifteen in the morning.
But he never got the chance. There was nobody there; in fact, the door hadn’t even opened….The sound came from the floor above.
Simon had booked three rooms in the hotel under three different names. A prudent idea, it turned out. A one-in-three chance. Whoever was stalking them went for the obvious religious cover name. Jude Iscariot. It was an old trick. Book at least two rooms, one under a subtly obvious name and the other surnames as common as a leaf in a forest.
Simon lowered his gun. They wouldn’t have much time. The ruse would only provide a couple minutes at best.
Simon’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest when the phone rang. Michael and Busch—out cold—bolted upright from their sleep. Michael dived for the phone. But Simon intercepted him before he had a chance to answer it. His hand held down the receiver as he shook his head no. The phone ran
g again.
Busch and Michael finally noticed the gun in Simon’s hands.
“What’s up with that?” Busch whispered, pointing to the guns.
Simon put his forefinger to his lips, shaking his head. The phone rang a third time. Busch held his hands out, palms up, still looking for an answer. Simon pointed at the ceiling and whispered, “We have to go.”
As confused and groggy as they were, Busch and Michael didn’t need another word. They grabbed their stuff and helped Simon pack up the duffel bags of weapons.
Simon raced down the autobahn, redlining the car on one of the few legal public raceways of the world. Only a BMW 8 series had passed them in the last hour, otherwise he and the Audi Turbo left the world behind.
“Where to?” Busch asked from the backseat, his nerves a little frazzled as he watched Germany speed by.
“We’ll grab a motel outside of the city.” Simon’s eyes were glued to the road.
“And how do we know they won’t track us down there?”
“We don’t.”
Busch had never seen the law from this point of view. And he didn’t like it. Not that he didn’t feel a certain adrenaline rush in response to all the subterfuge. He would just rather be the hunter than the prey; the adverse consequences of a hunter’s actions were always minimized.
“So this is how you lived your life?” Busch said to Michael, who was hunkered down on the backseat next to him, eyes closed.
“That was Mary calling, guarantee it,” Michael said more to himself than anyone else.
“You’ll see her soon enough. ‘Forty-eight more hours, we’ll be back home.’ Those were your words.”
Michael opened his eyes and turned to Busch. A smile crept across his lips. “Never thought we’d be running together like this, did you?”
The Thieves of Heaven Page 29
