Karl-Heinz lowered the phone and momentarily shut his eyes tightly. The news should hardly have come as a shock, and yet it left him stunned.
He thought: I wonder. Are we ever prepared for the death of a loved one?
"Heinzie?" Zandra was asking. "Darling, what is it?"
"My father." His voice was choked. "He's dead."
"Oh, no!" She reached up and touched his face. "Oh, darling, I am sorry."
He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The Lord giveth, he thought, and the Lord taketh away. Truer words were never written ...
"Ironic, is it not," he said softly, "that our son should be born within minutes of my father's death? How is it that such joy and tragic loss can come so closely together?"
Dina gently took the telephone from his hand and moved a few steps away.
"Hello? Who is this? I see. The prince needs some moments to himself, Dr. Rantzau. Tell me, could you give me the exact time of his father's death?"
"It occurred precisely at thirteen minutes past two, Central European Time."
Dina's heart sank like a stone. The baby was born at seventeen past eight, Eastern Standard Time.
"You're certain?" she asked.
"Absolutely. Two attorneys were at his bedside to confirm the time of death."
"I see," Dina said dully. "No, there's nothing else. Thank you, Dr. Rantzau. His ... his Serene Highness will be in touch."
She jabbed off the phone, tempted to hurl it against the wall.
"Four minutes!" she said tightly. "The child was born four minutes too late!"
The consigliere, scratching away on the back of the canvas with his fountain pen, abruptly stopped writing. He turned to look at her. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Dina filled him in on the death of the old prince and the timing of the birth. "You see, sweeties?" she said bitterly. "He died before the birth. Four minutes before. Now Heinzie cannot possibly inherit."
The consigliere frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps he can," he told her. "Why don't you call up 976-6000 for the correct time?"
"But I don't see what—"
"Please. Just do it."
Dina shrugged, pressed seven buttons, and listened.
"It's eight twenty-three," she said.
"Could we?" The entertainment lawyer held out his hand for the telephone and raised it to his ear to verify. The two others put their heads close enough to listen in. Then all three of them glanced at their watches and smiled.
The entertainment lawyer handed the phone back to Dina.
"It's just as I suspected," the consigliere said.
Dina looked bewildered. "What is?"
It was the divorce lawyer who replied. "Look at your watch and tell us what time it says."
Dina lifted her wrist and consulted her diamond-studded timepiece. "It shows eight thirty-three," she said. "So?"
And then her mouth fell open as she suddenly understood.
"Thirty-three! Oh, my God!" she whispered, slapping the side of her head. "How could I have forgotten? I always set my clocks and watches ten minutes ahead!"
The consigliere smiled. "I must admit you had us a bit confused. All our watches were within a minute of each other's, but since you assured us that yours kept perfect time—"
"—you obviously thought yours were running too slow," Dina completed for him, with a sudden smile. "Well, sweeties? What are you all waiting for? Proceed with the document! And whatever you do, for God's sake, please. Do put down the correct time!"
Dina was consulted twice, each time to provide the father and mother's full names:
"... His Serene Highness, Prince Karl-Heinz Fernando de Carlos Jean Joachim Alejandor Ignacio Hieronymous Eustace von und zu Engelwiesen ..."
and "Her Serene Highness, Princess Anna Zandra Elisabeth Theresia Charlotte von und zu Engelwiesen."
Five minutes later, the lawyers were done. They brought Dina the painting, and she took it, her lips murmuring as she quickly read what they'd drafted:
"On this eleventh day of November in the Year of our Lord ... et cetera ... whereas we, the undersigned practicing attorneys ... et cetera ... inasmuch as having duly witnessed, at the eighth hour and seventh minute of this evening ..."
Dina was impressed. There was no doubt as to the document's validity.
Ceremoniously, she carried the fait accompli over to Zandra and Karl-Heinz. "Voila, sweeties!" she said brightly. "Proof of the birth."
"Goodness, Dina," Zandra said. "But, darling, it's written on canvas. On the back of a painting. Will it stand up legally, do you think?"
"Of course it will. All you have to do is buy the painting. I'll see to it that it's withdrawn from the auction, and arrange for a private sale."
"Well?" Karl-Heinz asked. "Do we get to see what's on the other side?"
"Who cares?" Dina said, turning it over.
Zandra stared at the portrait. "Dina! Darling, couldn't you possibly have found us something, well, something a little cheaper?"
"I chose it specifically because it's small," Dina sniffed.
"Small in size, perhaps. Dina! That's a bloody Rembrandt!"
"It is? Well then, it looks like you've bought yourselves a Rembrandt, doesn't it?"
Then Karl-Heinz and Zandra began to laugh. Dina would have joined in also, but at that moment, she caught a movement out of the corner of one eye.
She turned and watched, her heart leaping, as the first member of the SWAT team dropped soundlessly out of the vent, landed lithely on the carpeted concrete, and rolled a perfect somersault before leaping to his feet, the weapon he held never once scraping the floor.
In short order, three other men followed, none in the usual protective gear, which would have rendered them too bulky for the duct.
The leader of the four gestured toward the open double door. Two of them nodded and slipped behind the painting racks, using them for cover to reach the far side, where they melted silently against the wall, their weapons raised and ready.
The other two took up identically stealthy positions at the near side.
Dina watched them, impressed by their catlike agility. They were undeniably pros. For some strange reason, she no longer felt frightened, and was certain she and the others would come out of this alive. But a niggling thought bothered her, as if there was something she should tell the men.
She couldn't recall what it was, and then it was too late, anyway.
Simultaneously, and without warning, they sprang into action and leapt out onto the dais, semiautomatics stuttering.
"Jones," hit repeatedly, spun around under the impact of the bullets and then collapsed. One of the Colombians and the Lebanese raised their weapons, but too late. Bullets hit them squarely in the center of the chest, and the impact hurled them backward and off their feet. Before the terrified, screaming auction-goers could dive for cover, the ceiling seemed to spit bullets, and death rained selectively down out of the heating vents.
Within twenty seconds, the shooting stopped. There was an awed silence. All five of the remaining terrorists had either been killed or entirely disabled.
The gallery had been secured.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the leader of the SWAT team announced through a miniature microphone. "Everything is under control. Please remain in your seats while we remove the explosives from the doors. I repeat: do not try to leave until the explosives are removed."
The atmosphere in the gallery had changed. Now it was that of an airliner which had crash-landed safely, and whose passengers sat there, relieved, confused, stunned, dazed. Unable to comprehend that it was over. That they had gotten through this alive.
A pair of men sprinted to each of the three sets of doors, where they began the meticulous process of removing the magnetized Semtec, careful to keep the connecting wires intact.
Kenzie and Dina went out onto the dais, avoiding the bodies of Mildred Davies and "Mr. Jones." Standing side by side, they looked around in amazement.
"Can you believe it, sweetie?" Dina was saying. "The only casualties other than poor Mrs. Davies are the terrorists!"
But Kenzie wasn't listening. Hannes had hopped onto the dais and had taken her in his arms, saying, "Oh, Kenzie, my darling. Thank God nothing happened to you!"
She stared into his eyes and listened to his voice, soft and full of concern, and loved him for it. But she wasn't in love with him, she knew that now. It was Charley to whom she would yield her soul, with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. And she knew that Hannes could somehow read that in her eyes.
"You're shivering," he said, taking off his jacket and draping it around her shoulders.
She nodded. "I think they turned the heat down so the SWAT team wouldn't roast. I wish they'd turn it back up."
"I have to go see the SWAT team commander." He placed one hand on each of her shoulders and held her gaze. "You're sure you're okay, Kenzie?"
She nodded and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine."
He kissed her forehead chastely. "We'll talk later?"
"Yes," she said softly, "we'll talk later." She watched him hurry off. There's really nothing to talk about, she thought. I had my fling. I was in lust with Hannes, but that's all. It's Charley I love.
Slipping her arms into the sleeves of Hannes's jacket, she looked around and saw Arnold sitting there, looking dazed; Annalisa was pushing her chair back from the desk and getting to her feet. Both had come through the ordeal miraculously unharmed.
And then she saw Mr. Spotts coming forward from where he'd been sitting.
Kenzie's heart soared. Thank God he's okay! she thought warmly. This can't have been good for his heart. And then he was on the dais and she threw her arms around him. "Oh, Dietrich!" she cried. "I was so afraid something might have happened to you!"
He smiled. "Didn't you know I have nine lives?" he said.
And he pressed the barrel of a handgun against her forehead—
—while Annalisa thrust a revolver under Dina's chin.
"You see, my dear?" Mr. Spotts said. "It isn't over until it's over."
Chapter 67
In the painting storeroom, the first of the sharpshooters from up in the ducts dropped down through the open vent.
"First thing I want in here's EMS," Charley snapped into his walkie- talkie. "We got us a newborn preemie and its mother. Front of the gallery, storeroom behind the dais. This kid has priority. Got that?"
"Roger."
"Over and out."
Zandra, head still nestled on Karl-Heinz's lap, smiled up at Charley with misty-eyed pleasure. "Oh, Charley. That's frightfully sweet of you."
"You're talkin' about Kenzie's godchild," Charley said. "Anybody tries to mess with the little guy, they gotta answer to me."
Suddenly he cocked his head and frowned.
"The fuck—?" he whispered, reaching for his weapon.
"What's the matter?" Karl-Heinz asked.
"Can't you hear it?"
Karl-Heinz listened and shook his head. "I can't hear anything."
"That's what I mean. All of a sudden it's too damn quiet out there."
Charley gestured at the sharpshooter to stay back, then moved, seemingly like a liquid shadow, to the edge of the doorway. Pressing himself flat against the wall, he inched his head around the doorjamb—
—then just as quickly whipped it back out of sight.
He slumped against the wall, feeling nausea and a dry, aching scream well up inside him.
Aw, shit! he thought. That palsied, crazed old coot Kenzie used to work for's holding a gun to her head! And that bitch she hired's jamming a revolver up Dina Goldsmith's chin!
Now what?
"Now," Charley told himself soundlessly, "you do what you gotta do."
He signaled at the sharpshooter to gauge the situation from his side of the doorway, then watched the man flatten himself next to it, inch his head around, and just as swiftly duck back.
A look of understanding passed between them.
Charley raised the Wilkinson Linda, and with his left hand, mimed masturbation. Then he pointed at himself.
Man. Mine.
The sharpshooter nodded.
Next Charley mimed voluptuous, imaginary breasts. He pointed at the sharpshooter.
Woman. Yours.
The sharpshooter nodded again.
Then they took up position, each a mirror image of the other, each prepared to whirl around, aim, and fire.
But they had to wait for the right moment, for all they would get was one shot each.
Neither of us can afford to miss, Charley thought grimly. Dina's life is in his hands. And Kenzie's is in mine.
On the dais, Dina stood stock-still, not daring to move anything except her eyes. The muzzle of the revolver dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath her chin, forcing her to keep her head raised at an unnatural angle.
Then a thought flashed through her mind and she suddenly remembered what it was that she had forgotten, but had wanted to warn the SWAT team about.
The ninth man—the one in the audience with the gadget which activated "Mr. Jones's" beeper.
Only I was wrong, Dina thought. Dead wrong.
There wasn't just a ninth man.
There had also been a tenth person. This woman.
Standing beside Dina, Kenzie remained equally still, but her eyes snapped around in desperation, beseeching someone—anyone!—to please try to help them. She had already used her eyes and words to plead with Mr. Spotts, but he wasn't buying. Nor was he in the least concerned for her. He kept glancing at Velazquez's infanta, his eyes aflame with a maniacal kind of greed.
"Can you imagine what it was like, my dear," he was saying, "devoting my entire life to providing rich collectors with the paintings I loved, which I cherished, and which I needed to possess? No, of course you can't. You are far too young and still an idealist. But wait a few decades, and maybe then you'll understand. Oh, yes! You'll come to loathe those nouveau-riche culture vultures who can't tell a Rembrandt from a Rubens!"
Kenzie shut her ears to the warbly diatribe. She kept thinking, This can't be happening. If I pinch myself, I'll wake up and discover it's only a nightmare.
For this was not the kindly A. Dietrich Spotts she'd once worked with, that gallant, polite gentleman of the old school.
This A. Dietrich Spotts was clearly unbalanced, and had to have been one of the masterminds behind this terror-ridden night.
"You played your part well, Kenzie," he told her. "If you hadn't hired Annalisa, we would never have managed to smuggle the weapons in."
Kenzie said sharply, "No! You are not going to hang any of this on me."
And the SWAT commander called out, "Drop your weapons and let the ladies go. It's over. You're surrounded."
Mr. Spotts cackled. "Oh, no. It isn't over. Not by a long shot."
Charley and the sharpshooter peered around the corner, then swiftly slammed back out of sight.
Goddammit! Charley growled to himself. Why can't they move? We need to get clear shots!
Mr. Spotts raised his quavery, thin voice. "We want our choice of ten paintings. Also, twenty million dollars in cash, transportation to the airport, and a waiting jet. You have one hour to arrange it, or ..." His voice trailed off.
Kenzie stared at him. "You're crazy! You'll never get away with this!"
"But we are getting away with it, my dear, we are!" he crowed, leaning his face right into hers and spraying spittle.
Kenzie's reflex was automatic—she winced and jerked her head aside.
Charley and the sharpshooter, sneaking another quick glance, mouthed, "Now!" And raising their weapons, they simultaneously pulled the triggers.
The bullets hit Mr. Spotts and Annalisa squarely in the forehead, killing them instantly. They both let their weapons drop and then fell, their heads striking the wooden dais with sickening thuds.
"Charley!" Kenzie screamed. "Charley!"
But he was already rushing forward, sweeping her up in his arm
s and twirling her around in midair.
"It's over, babe," he murmured softly when he set her back down. "God, but I love you!" He cupped her face in his hands. "I didn't even realize how much until I thought I might lose you!" He kissed her passionately, then enveloped her in his strong arms and held her close.
The three doors of the gallery were suddenly thrown open and EMS personnel trotted in with collapsible gurneys. The ones in the lead headed straight for the painting storeroom.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the SWAT commander announced, "you can leave now. If you'll take it slowly—"
He could have saved his breath. There was a mad rush for the doors.
Only Charley, Kenzie, and Dina remained where they were.
Dina, weak-kneed and wobbly, sat down on the edge of the dais.
Robert lumbered forward. "You aw right?" he asked, showing uncharacteristic concern.
"I-I think so, sweetie. But I could use some Xanax. It's in my purse."
He lumbered back to their seats to fetch it.
"Well?" Charley was asking Kenzie. "Does the hero still get the girl?"
She sighed with exasperation. "Charley, how many times do I have to tell you? The hero always gets the girl. Hasn't tonight taught you anything?"
"Like what?"
"Like, the only thing that matters are happily ever afters?"
She took off Hannes's jacket, and a thin, square plastic object with push buttons fell out of a pocket. The moment it hit the dais, the beeper in "Jones's" belt emitted a bleat.
Dina jumped to her feet. "What the—?" She stared around in terror.
Kenzie slowly bent down to retrieve the object. She pressed one of the buttons.
"Jones's" beeper sounded again.
"My God," she exclaimed softly. "This is Hannes's jacket! He lent it to me. Charley?"
"I have to go find him." He turned to go.
She took hold of his arm. "I don't think you need to hurry."
"Why?"
"Because something tells me you'll never catch him. I bet you anything he slipped the gadget into this pocket on purpose."
"But why would he—"
Too Damn Rich Page 66
