by Ranjini Iyer
Lars had asked her to wait by this Indian restaurant. The place was closed, but her mouth watered as she studied the menu on the door. She would love to have dinner here. Maybe she and Lars could discuss the papers over the fish hara masala or, ooh…that beef bhoona sounded good, too.
Half an hour passed.
Where was Lars?
Coming to London was starting to look more and more stupid. Could this be an elaborate trick like those Nigerian email scams? Lure a gullible person away to a foreign land with an irresistible story and take them for all they’ve got. Could the German attacker have been an actor? She tried not to panic.
She tapped her feet until they started to hurt. Lars, where the hell are you? He lived near Tower Bridge, didn’t he? He had said the Bengal Clipper was not far from home. Lars didn’t own a cell phone, but she had a number to his apartment. She pulled out her cell phone. But Lars had asked her not to use it. Letting out a groan of irritation, she looked around for a phone booth. There was none.
“I’m going to use my cell just this once,” she said aloud and dialed Lars’s apartment. Great. No answer.
Max was drained. She’d gotten less than an hour’s sleep on the flight. Seated next to a talkative young man on his first trip abroad hadn’t helped. Neither had her nerves about wandering around a strange city on what might be a wild goose chase. Her anxiety about flying was another matter altogether—something she solved with Xanax and a red wine chaser. The combination usually left her somewhere between calm and slightly overconfident for a day or so after. It was that feeling of confidence that was keeping her on her feet right now and her brain cells somewhat alert.
Poor Uncle Ernst, Max thought. She should call and tell him she had landed. He had tried so hard to tell her not to go. Why confront danger when she could avoid it? His eyes had teared up as he tried to tell her in a halting voice how important she was to him. Oddly enough, his dissuading had only served to convince her to make the trip. When she refused to budge, he finally relented. He even said he’d wrack his brain for anything important he may have forgotten. And before letting her go, he held her close and begged her to be careful.
She promised to keep Uncle Ernst informed about her movements so that he could call the police if needed. His face had drained of color. That was when she decided she had worried him enough.
Before she could change her mind, she told Kim she was going away for a bit and quickly bought a ticket to London.
It was done. Here she was. And there was no turning back.
*
* *
Aaron West, who had taken an earlier flight, watched Max from about a hundred yards away.
Geoff had pointed her out to him in Chicago, but she looked different, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail. It made her look like a lost schoolgirl.
Aaron glanced around to see if anyone else was watching her. Someone would come, he had been assured. The thought made his stomach turn. Was he supposed to attack this person if he got in the way? All he was armed with was his trusted penknife. He had refused to carry a gun.
He saw a man rush toward Max. It was his secondary mark, Lars Lindstrom.
*
* *
Lars reached for Max and gave her a hug. “Good flight, dear?”
She nodded. “How are you?” she asked.
“Not so good,” he said, not meeting her eye. Lars’s hair was uncombed, standing out in wild bunches. His shirt was untucked. The last time she had seen him, he had looked so calm, so dapper. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I’ve just not been myself these past few days. And to top it all off, early this morning, someone called and asked me to ‘back off.’ His exact words. He even said my daughter’s name. He spoke better English this time. Odd that.” Lars considered it. “Or maybe I just didn’t notice the German accent.” He shrugged helplessly. “He didn’t say ‘or else.’ Just ‘back off’ and my daughter’s name. In an almost friendly voice. It was altogether more frightening than if he had said ‘or else.'“
Poor Lars. Max squeezed his hand.
Fatigue began slamming down on her. Even intense dread would have to take a back seat until she was rested. It was an anesthetic, this intense sleep deprivation. All she wished for now was a nice long nap.
“Lets walk to the Little Tower Hotel,” Lars said. “It’s just around the corner. It’s close to my place and the area is lively at all hours.” He handed her a copy of a credit card receipt for the hotel. Two hundred and fifty pounds, it said. This was going to be an expensive adventure, Max thought wearily.
The Little Tower Hotel was a two-story bed and breakfast with large windows, facing the cobbled Shad Thames on one side and the river Thames on the other.
Lars helped Max check in. A bellhop opened the door to a charming little room furnished in sea blues and greens, with antique furniture and a view of the street below. From one of her windows, Max could see the London Bridge and from the other, a flower shop bursting with color.
Lars settled into a sofa.
“Shall we have dinner at the Bengal Clipper tonight?” Max said. “We can talk about the papers then.”
“It’s best if we go to the bank right away.”
Max shook her head. “I know we have to get to the locker, but I need a short nap or I’ll drop dead.”
“Very well. I have to see about a few things at my patisserie anyway.” Lars scratched his forehead, a frown pasted on his face.
“What time shall I see you?” Max asked.
Lars looked at his watch. “Come to my apartment at two. We’ll go to the bank and collect the papers. After, we can talk and you can decide what you want to do. We’ll eat at the Clipper. Excellent food.” There was a tone of finality in his voice.
Max felt like a child about to be abandoned.
Lars seemed to be steeling himself. “My apartment is a few doors down from the Butler’s Wharf Chop House. There’s a back door to the apartment compound. Not many know about it. Come in that way to be safe.” He drew her a little map, pointed out to his place from the window, and gave her the entry code.
Now seated on the bed, Max was consumed by its incredible softness. She managed a small nod before Lars left the room.
She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the cloud of pillows and down.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Aaron West was perched on a small, uncomfortable chair in the lobby of the Little Tower Hotel.
He saw Lars coming down the stairs.
“I hope your guest likes her room,” the receptionist said.
“Oh yes, thank you,” Lars said. “She’s quite jet lagged from her flight. She’s probably already fallen asleep!”
The receptionist smiled.
Aaron suppressed a grin. Lars had just saved him the trouble of finding out what Max was doing. Lars didn’t even glance at him, despite the matchbox size of the lobby. But then, few ever noticed Aaron. It was a gift in his profession. And for his trip to London, he made sure he looked like the average broke, affable American student tourist—from his ragged jeans and faded blue T-shirt to his nondescript gray backpack.
Lars left the hotel. Since Max was resting, Aaron could keep an eye on him. He gave Lars a minute’s lead. A surge of adrenaline ran through Aaron’s veins as he got up and followed.
*
* *
Lars walked with short, brisk steps. His breath was ragged, not wholly from exertion. He walked by a bustling café. It looked warm and inviting. He found a table in a quiet corner.
“A cup of Earl Grey, please,” he called to a passing waiter. Lars picked up a newspaper from the chair next to his, unfolded it, and distractedly folded it back up again.
He thought of Max sleeping a few doors down and her palpable disappointment that he was no longer interested in helping her with a problem he had dragged her into in the first place. If only he had spoken to a psychiatrist to deal with the remorse he felt about ignoring Hiram’s plea. Instead, he’d gotten impulsive
and rushed off to Chicago, only to be attacked. His home had been broken into, his fragile sense of peace violated. Now Max was here. And of course, there was the small matter of his disease. Could things get any worse?
He grabbed his tea before the waiter could place it on the table. It was excellent. He stared out into the street and was jerked out of his reverie by a flash of bleached blond hair disappearing into the crowd. Lars strained to get a better look. He stood up. Now there was no one. He looked around. Where did the beast go? Or had he imagined it?
Lars sat down with a frown. If that German attacked him a second time, his aim would be more precise, wasn’t that what he had said? He would tell the blond that he was done, that the whole thing was over. He no longer had any papers. Again he saw the flash of yellow hair.
Something snapped inside of Lars.
He jumped up. “You!” he shouted, “What do you want from me?”
*
* *
Aaron was seated a few tables away, his face buried inside the pages of a book. At Lars’s shout, Aaron jerked his head up. But Lars wasn’t looking in his direction.
Perhaps the “someone else” he had been warned about was here.
Aaron slunk out of the café. Even if he hadn’t been spotted, Lars was on the alert now.
Aaron walked briskly toward Lars’s home—he had studied the maps and memorized all relevant addresses and the areas around them. On the way, he knew, was the patisserie Lars owned.
He tried the door. It was locked, but the lock was an easy pick. He glanced around. The street was deserted. Things had gone well so far. Why not look around while he had the chance? He took out a small wallet filled with surgical-like instruments. Geoff had given him his best tools and several hours of instruction.
The lock clicked open. Aaron went in, found Lars’s office in the back, and began looking for anything resembling research papers.
*
* *
At the café, Lars’s exclamation had caused a small stir. A fork clattered out of the hand of an older woman sitting next to him.
“Sorry,” Lars said, not looking at her. She muttered something about chivalry being dead.
Lars felt his heartbeat quicken. He felt light-headed and wondered if he had his nitroglycerin pills with him.
Was it the German who had called this morning? He clutched his teacup so hard, the handle broke. The cup fell to the table with a clatter.
Lars threw some money on the table and walked away. In the distance he saw a butter-yellow head bobbing in the crowd. That same large, square, leather-covered back. The man was built like a bus. It was his assailant. One part of Lars wanted to chase after him and confront him, another wanted to turn back the clock and shrink into someplace safe. He stood still, torn by both desires, and watched the man stroll away.
Lars walked with brisk steps. He wondered if he was safer at the patisserie or at home. There were people around the patisserie. And he had intended to check on a few things there before meeting Max. He unlocked the door.
People were strolling outside. There was an air of gaiety. Lars’s breathing became easier. He didn’t want to go over boring business papers. He needed the calm satisfaction of baking. A quick American special. Lars opened a bag of flour and started a batch of thick, chewy chocolate chip cookies. He decided to add some pistachio paste to make them interesting. He began pulling out the ingredients.
*
* *
Aaron was in the back, in Lars’s tiny office. He surveyed the mess he had made. Nothing here. Lars was well organized. There was no safe—just a desk with a couple drawers and a filing cabinet. Most papers were bills, business documents, and letters, some recipe notes. Aaron continued to rummage through a drawer and found a flash drive. He put it in his pocket. He should probably leave. If he had missed something, he’d just grab it when Lars handed it to Max.
At the very least, ransacking this office would scare Lars into handing over the documents to Max. Aaron got the feeling that Lars wasn’t very brave. He started to leave when he heard a clatter of tins. He peered outside.
Shit. Lars was here. Now what? The only way out was through the front door. He’d have to walk by Lars to get there. Aaron began picking at a pimple on his chin as he watched Lars.
*
* *
Lars put the tray of unbaked cookie dough balls in the oven and turned the timer on. He then collected his mail from the box outside his shop and began looking through it.
An uneasy feeling gripped at him followed by a wave of nausea. Those damn drugs. They would kill him before the cancer did! He took a sip of water and tried to steady himself.
There was a small noise close by, and Lars turned to find a young man trying to sneak out of the store. “Hey, hey, who are you!” he called angrily.
The young man was empty handed. Did that mean he was here not to steal but for the sole purpose of harming him? Lars reached for a serrated bread knife sitting on the counter.
At that moment, the blond stepped into the store. So he had been followed. Lars felt his heartbeat quicken. His nausea returned.
The blond was smiling at the young man. But the young man was looking at him with a befuddled expression. What did that mean?
Lars start ed shaking. Acid flooded his already weak stomach. His dizziness worsened. He clutched at his chest, and a shooting pain went up his arm. Whom should he attack? The blond hadn’t drawn his gun yet.
The young man stood closer. Without another thought, Lars rushed toward him with the knife.
*
* *
If Aaron waited a second longer, the knife would rip through his stomach. Here was a situation where he had to inflict violence on someone, and it was abhorrent to him. Lars had clearly become unhinged, but that short, heavy-set blond with the icy expression at the door was frightening Aaron even more. For some reason though, Blondie wasn’t making any move. He seemed content to just watch.
Lars’s knife was an inch away. He was clutching at his chest and letting out a loud cry like a deranged warrior. Aaron raised his backpack and brought it down hard on Lars’s head. The clank of skull against the bag’s steel buckles was sickening. Lars staggered back in shock. His knife clattered to the floor, and he sank down in a heap. Aaron felt his heart hammer inside him. Had he killed him? He looked up, expecting the blond to attack him now, but the man didn’t move. Was he a cop? A customer? Why was he just standing there looking so damn pleased?
Aaron made a quick dash for the door past the blond who stretched an arm to stop him. He managed to push aside Blondie’s beefy arm with strength he didn’t know he possessed and ran out.
“Schiese, schiese!” He heard Blondie curse.
Aaron hesitated for a few seconds outside the patisserie before breaking into a run.
The blond was quick. He dashed outside and was able to keep Aaron in sight. Aaron started running helter-skelter, disappearing into side lanes and re-appearing again. He found himself in a narrow alleyway filled with trash cans. While the blond searched a nearby alley, Aaron managed to squeeze himself between two large trash containers and under a black tarp. A giant rodent began gnawing on his foot. He tried to ignore it. He could hear the blond closing in now, kicking trash cans, letting out a stream of curses in German. Aaron held his breath.
A second later, a foot came within an inch of Aaron’s own. He could see the polished tip of a shoe, hear the man’s heavy breathing. Blondie’s foot was about to touch Aaron’s when the rodent that had been gnawing on his foot grabbed the blond’s. Blondie let out an angry roar and turned away.
Aaron stayed in his hiding place for several minutes more. Everything became quiet. Aaron waited until his heart rate had returned to normal and only then crept out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Having lost his quarry, Hans returned to the patisserie, pulled down the blinds on the doors and windows, and hung out the closed sign.
He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and checked
Lars’s pulse. It was slowing. He was near death. There was a trickle of blood running down Lars’s head, and his eyes were starting to glaze over.
Hans had followed Lars from the café, hoping he would lead him to the papers now that the Rosen girl was in town. Instead, the idiot had decided to bake and now lay here dying.
Besides, there was this new fly in the ointment, the young intruder. Hans was livid at himself for having lost him. No matter. He knew what he looked like. If he was an adversary, he would return. If he was just a common thief, good riddance.
Hans watched Lars take his last breaths. Had this been a result of the blow, or had the man just suffered a heart attack? Hopefully, the question would baffle the police, too. He checked Lars’s pulse once more. It was almost gone. A few seconds later, Lars’s body was absolutely still. Hans wondered if he should move the body behind the pastry counter. Moving it would point to foul play.
He thought for a moment or two more, dragged the body around the corner, and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Max awoke with a start. Her temples were throbbing. She glanced at the clock by her bedside. It was past 1:00 p.m. Lars had said to meet him at 2:00 at his apartment.
Despite the gravity of her circumstances and the thick veneer of unease that had enveloped her entire being since this whole business had begun, the prospect of a delicious meal at the end of the day gave her goosebumps of pleasure. She put on a simple day-to-night sleeveless indigo dress that stopped at her knees, smeared on pink lipstick, and grabbed a pink and gold stole and her handbag.
She arrived at Lars’s apartment and tried his doorbell a few times. No answer. Perhaps he had gone to the patisserie. Max walked that direction.
She peered in through the glass door of Lars’s patisserie and tried it. It was open. “Hello?” she called.
No answer.
She really needed to eat. She should have raided the mini bar and eaten the minuscule bags of peanuts and cashews while she had the chance.
