Pirate: A Thriller

by Ted Bell

  “What did you just say?” Mariucci said, looking up at him, and then the ladder, through squinty eyes.

  “When you swing that ladder into position, be careful.”

  “Yeah. I see what you mean about the ladder. Naturally, we got to be very, very careful when we move it. We wouldn’t want to hit the tower or nothing.”

  “Definitely not. The Chinaman might fall off if you did that.”

  “Accidentally.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He could get badly hurt. Even die.”

  “Surely the latter.”

  “Would you excuse me for a moment, Inspector Congreve? I would like to go over and have a quiet word with the fire chief of Ladder Company 103 over there. Name’s Bellew. Old friend of mine. No one in this very unfortunate turf battle has seen fit to inform him of the risks the man on the tower poses to our national security. I think I should do that, don’t you?”

  “I certainly do.”

  Ten minutes later, he was back.

  “He’s going to do it.”

  “Good for him.”

  “What do you mean? Of course he’s going to do it. I told him the whole story. He’s a great American. Okay, here we go. Watch this.”

  The turntable atop the fire engine began to rotate. The ladder, fully extended, began to move toward the tower in a great sweeping arc.

  “You think this will work?” Mariucci whispered.

  “I do. I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.”

  “How come you look so worried?”

  “I must say I hadn’t considered the fact that you would have to involve your friend Chief Bellew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Repercussions. The law of unintended consequences. There will in all probability be an investigation into the ‘accident’ that is about to occur. Chief Bellew may face serious questions about his role.”

  “Serious questions? He’s faced a whole shitload worse than that, Inspector. That’s a terrorist up on that tower. The tower’s going down, and he’s going with it. Poetic justice, right?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Inspector Congreve, listen to me. The New York Fire Department alone lost 343 of the bravest men in the world one very shitty day in September. It’s a day we’d all like to forget. But we won’t. We’re all in the antiterrorist business now. Every last one of us.”

  “He’s doing the right thing. So are you. I’d like you to keep your job, though.”

  “If I lose my job over this—look, it’s getting close—if I lose my job over this one, Inspector, I—”

  “Yes?”

  “I guarantee you I will leave the NYPD just like I arrived.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Fired with enthusiasm.”

  “Oh, my God, look!” someone shouted. In the confusion, a few civilians had managed to evade the posted police and duck under the police tape strung up to cordon off the midway. It was mostly teenagers and younger children, but there were a few adults as well.

  A cry went up from the small crowd when it became obvious what was going to happen. The heavy steel-reinforced aluminum ladder was moving fairly rapidly. Congreve thought it might just lop the top of the rotted tower clean off. But what happened was, it didn’t. The ladder slammed into the tower with a resounding clang that shuddered down the rungs from above. But the ladder had stopped dead upon impact with the iron structure. And when it had stopped, the Chinaman was still there.

  The crowd below, in its ignorance, cheered.

  When the ladder reversed direction away from the tower, the crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief. Only to cry out again when they saw that the ladder was swinging once more toward the tower. And this time, it was moving very, very quickly indeed.

  “See what I mean about my guys?” Mariucci said. “New York City doesn’t forgive and it doesn’t forget.”

  Ambrose couldn’t muster a reply. He was simply transfixed by the sight of the Chinaman’s death struggle at the top of the tower. He couldn’t go any higher. And he knew what was waiting for him at the bottom.

  Chapter Forty

  Bavaria

  “I FORGOT SOMETHING,” STOKE SAID, TRYING TO CATCH HIS breath. They’d been climbing in deep snow for nearly an hour. The sun was barely up. The boughs of the high-altitude pines were heavy with new snow already starting to melt. Last night’s freakish storm had eased up to flurries, and you could see bright blue sky behind the clouds. It was going to be a beautiful day. But that didn’t help Stoke’s mood much. It was still bitingly cold and heavy slogging. He looked at Jet and tried to fake a smile.

  “I’m sorry, Jet, we got to go back down to the damn hotel.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “We have to go back down.”

  “I cannot believe this,” Jet said, ripping her goggles off and flinging them into the snow.

  “I can’t believe you!” Stoke said. “Here I save your ass and—”

  “You saved me? I’m the one who took out Viktor when—”

  “No, I meant the other time when—you know—back on Schatzi’s yacht. That cage thing.”

  “Jesus, Stoke.”

  Jet was not a happy camper. Slogging through heavy snow up a steep mountainside in the dark and cold didn’t appeal to some women. But it had to be done. They’d left in a hurry. Stoke had pointed out that before their deaths either Viktor or Irma could have put in a call to von Draxis. It could have easily happened while Jet was giving Stoke the tour of Schloss Reichenbach. There was obviously no way to know. But you had to assume it was a possibility. So it had made sense for them to vacate immediately before they were trapped in the gasthaus by the snowstorm.

  Jet agreed. The good news was the storm was probably keeping all aircraft grounded. Von Draxis wouldn’t be able to put a chopper in the air. But, Jet told Stokely, there was a strong likelihood von Draxis would already have men with their descriptions posted at the local train and bus stations. Yeah, Stoke said, they would have to go back the way they came. On foot. Over the mountains to Salzburg. There, they could rest and then catch the first Schnellzug smoking to Berlin.

  Snow was rare this time of year. But, at this elevation, it was not at all unheard of. So, before bidding fond adieu to the late Viktor and Irma, he and Jet had turned the house upside-down. They’d rummaged through all the drawers and closets and found enough snow gear and parkas to get them back to Salzburg. But, at the last minute, Jet had handed Stoke two long skinny sticks with leather straps on them and told him to put them on. Stoke looked at her like she was crazy.

  In that way, Jet had learned that Stokely didn’t know how to ski cross-country. So, now, they were making the trek using snowshoes. It wasn’t his fault, she’d told him, that it had snowed. Or that he didn’t know how to ski, or any of that. No, no, none of it was his fault, but she sure as hell acted like it was. All of it. All the way.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jet now said, calmer, brushing wet snow from her eyes and stamping her feet. “You forgot something?”

  “I wish I was kidding. I hate these damn shoes. How’s anybody supposed to walk around with tennis racquets strapped to his feet? It’s not natural.”

  “All right, Stokely. What did you forget?”

  “Oh, the damn guest register, that’s all.”

  “The guest register! Shit! I can’t believe it!”

  “I know, I know. Like leaving a signed confession at a murder scene. Really stupid.”

  “Not you, me! How could I have forgotten that?”

  “You don’t blame me?”

  “Hell no. It’s on me. Serious lapse of professional concentration on my part. I was so worried about the storm closing in that—you’re right. We have to go back. Let’s get going. I apologize.”

  “All right, then,” Stoke said. Smiling, he began following the fresh path she’d made in the snow, happier than hell to be out of the doghouse. Also, he had to admit her being the lead dog made the v
iew much better and the going much easier. He was beginning to understand why Alex Hawke, despite his misgivings about the woman, had told Stoke to take good care of her.

  After half an hour of picking their way carefully back down the mountain, they came through the pines to a rocky ridge. The site overlooked a bowl-shaped valley, dazzling white with snow. To the left lay a jewel of a lake, a deep, sparkling blue. Beyond the valley was the treeline where the serious trees grew. Great big towering conifers, draped in snow, soaring sixty or seventy feet into the sky. The blue sky and water, the green trees, the white snow. It was so pretty, like a fairy tale, Stoke could hardly stand it.

  “Let’s hold up a sec, catch our breath,” Stoke said, looking around at the view. A minute ago, he thought he’d heard something. Like a faint buzz. He held his breath and listened. Now, it was gone.

  “Good idea,” Jet said.

  “Hey, what’s that?”

  “What?”

  “Back there behind us. Just coming over the mountains. Little black dot in the sky. See it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I do. Let’s get across this valley as fast as we can. Once we reach the treeline we’ll be all right. C’mon. Hurry!”

  Stoke took off, running as fast as he was able in the damn snowshoes. Stoke was fast—in another life he’d been professionally employed as a running back—but Jet kept up with him.

  “What is it?” she said, crunching the snow right behind him.

  “A helicopter,” Stoke said. “Maybe just a coincidence, but we can’t afford to take that chance.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, am I holding you up?” He’d heard her coming up fast behind him.

  “A little.”

  “Go on ahead then, girl. I’ll catch up with you at the guest-house. If that’s who I think it is up there behind us, we can’t afford to have them find the bodies and our names in the guestbook. They’ll get on the chopper radio and we can forget about ever making it to Berlin. Go!”

  She raced ahead. Stoke couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder at the little black dot that kept getting bigger and bigger in the sky. He could hear it clearly now, too. Kind of a high droning noise. He’d been trying to convince himself that maybe he was lucky. Maybe it was just a Bavarian Mountain Rescue helo, out for a spin. Looking for lost campers. But Stoke had a saying about these kinds of feelings: “Luck is for losers.”

  He took the snowshoes off, Velcroed them to his backpack, and started plowing through the snow in just his boots. He thought it seemed a little faster. But he was still way behind Jet. She was already into the woods. Girl ran like a deer, even in snowshoes. Anyway, he could still make it to the treeline before the chopper got close enough to see him. Leastways, he thought he could. He ran even harder.

  Out of breath, he dove headlong into the woods and lay panting on the ground. The buzz got louder. He got to his knees, remaining crouched between two evergreens in the scrub to watch the oncoming helicopter. It had clearly descended to a lower altitude. He kept hoping for a course change. That would make their lives a whole lot simpler. But it wasn’t happening. The chopper was on a direct heading for the gasthaus.

  The damn thing flew on, dropping below the far rim of the big white bowl he’d just crossed, flying right down on the deck and headed straight for him. The thing was flying in out of the sun, juking this way and that, hotshot stuff. A pilot with attitude.

  Suddenly the pilot banked hard left, swung around, and flew even lower. They were examining the fresh tracks in the snow. Satisfied, the pilot pivoted and got the big bird back on course. His heading would take him right over Stoke’s head to the helipad at Zum Wilden Hund.

  Stoke looked up at the chopper as its skids barely cleared the trees, roaring over his head. It was black, all right, just like the one he’d seen in the South of France. Had the same letters, VDI, painted in bright scarlet red on the sleek flanks and the belly below the cockpit. Only now Stoke knew what those letters stood for. Von Draxis Industries. Stoke scrambled to his feet and started running through the dark woods as fast as he could. He wanted to get to Jet first.

  He didn’t.

  When he got to the gasthaus and the clearing in the woods, the chopper was on the pad, the sagging rotor still whirling listlessly. Nobody remained inside the helicopter that he could see from this distance. There were fresh tracks in the snow all around the bird. Stoke, guessing by the deep depressions in the snow, made it to be two crew, the pilot and one passenger. There were some other tracks around the skids, too, as if an animal had been there earlier. A fox maybe. Or, judging by the tracks, maybe a big wolf.

  The house was quiet. There were long carrot-shaped icicles hanging down off the roof, dripping in the warm sunshine. Jet was nowhere in sight. Keeping the helicopter between him and the gasthaus, he moved quickly to the nearside of the chopper. Leaning against the fuselage, he spent one minute trying to get some more frigid air into his lungs. When this thing was over, he was going to go someplace warm and get his ass in serious shape. This heavy-breathing shit was for beginners. Yeah. He’d go to Miami, Key Biscayne, see his true love by the sea. The beautiful Fancha. Hell, yeah, he would.

  His fingers were numb with cold. He banged his arms to his sides to get the blood flowing. He slipped out of the backpack, let it drop softly to the snow. He fumbled with the flap but finally got it open. No sounds coming from inside the house. He pulled Viktor’s Schmeisser out of the bag and slung it on his shoulder. He had the feeling that this was the gun the old boy had carried during the war. Back in the day when he was a handsome young Alpenkorps officer. And Irma was a semibeautiful Fräulein just busting out of her dirndl. Damn, he thought, looking at the Schmeisser machine pistol in his hand, should have given the gun to Jet.

  Running for the house in a low crouch, he heard Jet cry out. A warning? No. Worse. Pain. Have to be some scary shit going on inside to make that girl cry out in pain. Been there, felt that.

  He ran up the six steps leading to the front door, not worrying now about how much noise he was making busting icicles. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open with his left hand, stepped inside, entering the room sideways to present less of a target, and low, with the lethal-looking Schmeisser out in front of him. I’m home!

  He swept the room left to right. Empty, except for poor old Viktor, who was still slumped over at his silent piano with his hands on the keyboard. Viktor, his head smashed sideways under the piano lid, had a little icicle of blood hanging from the tip of his nose. It was cold as an igloo inside.

  He and Jet had shut the furnace down in the hope of preserving the proprietor and his daughter until somebody found them up here. Now he could see his breath as he moved quietly through the living room. The little red leather guestbook was on the reception counter right where he’d last seen it. Thinking that he was just crazy enough to forget it again, he picked it up and jammed it into one of the side pockets of his parka.

  He heard noises coming from the very rear of the house. That would be the kitchen. That would account for why nobody had seen or heard him coming.

  He moved as quietly as he could along the empty hallway leading to the rear of the gasthaus. At the end, sunshine poured into the hall. The kitchen door was open. Two male voices shouting angrily in German. And a low menacing growl. What the hell could make that kind of noise? He kept going until he got to the door and peeked inside.

  The kitchen was large and sunny with pretty red-and-white checked curtains on all the windows. He couldn’t see anybody at first, had to step softly around the big wood-burning stove that was blocking his—

  Christ. It was the two Arnolds. They were wearing black VDI Security uniforms that bore a frightening resemblance to the old SS outfits Stoke had seen Nazis wearing in the movies.

  They hadn’t heard him. Their backs were to him and they were both talking at once, shouting in German, stepping on each other’s lines.

  Stoke knew just enough vocabulary to know they’d found
the two bodies and they were really pissed off about it. “Tod! Tod!” Dead! Dead! The Arnold on the left had a stubby little automatic. The Arnold on the right had one end of a steel chain leash in his hand. The fabric of his uniform, stretched tight across his big shoulders, was about to rip wide open. He was struggling to control a vicious, snarling animal that looked like it could rip his arm right out of his shoulder socket.

  At the other end of Arnold’s shiny leash was a huge black Doberman pinscher, just dying to sink his teeth into Jet, who was on the floor in the corner. Blood was trickling out of her mouth and running down her chin. Otherwise, she looked okay. The Doberman was rearing on his hind legs, straining at the chain, his paws scratching at the air, his head whipping back and forth, loopy white saliva flying from his snapping jaws in all directions. Stoke figured it was high time to put an end to all this melodrama.

  “Ah-nold’s in the kitchen with Dinah…”

  He sang just that much of his old favorite and the Arnold on the left swung on him, bringing the muzzle of his gun up as he spun.

  “Was ist los?” the blond guy said, and Stoke put one in his forehead. He crumpled to the floor, spraying bullets that luckily didn’t hit anyone except some little gnomes up on a shelf.

  “Remember me?” he said to the remaining Arnold, who was staring at him with his mouth wide open. “The Valkyrie party?” Stoke added, helpfully. “The big black guy, remember?”

  “Was gibt hier?” That was the best the poor guy could do under the circumstances. Stoke raised the Schmeisser. The guy’s eyes went wide. He had no desire to join his fraternal twin pumping blood for a living on the floor. Not to mention his own sidearm was securely snapped inside a leather holster that didn’t allow for the quick-draw approach.

  “Here’s the problem, Arnold,” Stoke said. “I shoot you, the dog eats her. See what I’m saying? So maybe I’ll shoot your dog and then shoot you, okay? Sound good?”

  Arnold said something that was probably unprintable in German. Stoke ground the Schmeisser’s v-and-blade gunsight into his right ear and said, “Call him off now or you and your dog die.”