The Colossus

by Ranjini Iyer

  Max turned toward the stairs. “Should I go see the manager?” she said.

  “One more minute,” David said to her in a pleading voice. “Sir, let me look please.”

  Julian grunted with displeasure.

  “You’re so nice,” Max said to David.

  David’s expression was one of pure delight. He turned to Julian and said in clipped tones, “Do you have your key?”

  “Yes,” Julian snapped. “And you better find my driver’s license.”

  David meekly led Julian towards the lockers, returned to his desk and resumed his search for Julian’s ID. Max persuaded him to go and fetch her some coffee. On her way out of the locker area, she saw David silently debating whether or not to add sugar and milk to a steaming cup.

  She stepped out of the bank. A few minutes later, Julian met her at the entrance. “I tiptoed past the poor kid. He’s still looking for my ID! “He handed her a backpack. “Got them,” he whispered.

  Max pulled the backpack over her shoulders and gave Julian a high five. She then took out her cell phone.

  “I thought you said it was tapped,” Julian said.

  “Lars was sure it was. I’ve tried not to use it. But sometimes it just seems like paranoia. Besides, looking for a payphone and change all the time can be very tedious!”

  “All right.” Julian pointed at her phone. “So what’s going on?”

  “I am going to call as many people as I can and tell them we have the papers,” Max said. “The more people I tell, the safer we are.”

  “Brilliant!”

  Max first told Uncle Ernst that she now had the papers and asked him to keep the Chicago police informed, for what it was worth. After, she called Kim.

  If anything happened to her, it was most definitely connected to her father’s work, she told them both. And therefore, to Berliner. Furthermore, they must look out for a bleached blond, heavy-set man, most likely Berliner’s henchman. Peter Schultz’s man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Concealed behind the dark windows of his sedan, Hans watched Max and Julian, who were standing across the street and a few doors down.

  He had followed Max to the Tube earlier. He had kept an eye out for the intruder from Lars’s patisserie, but there had been no sign of him.

  Max had approached a young man wearing a hat and false mustache at the ticket counter at the Tube. Hans had gathered that their destination was the Co-Operative Trust Bank.

  Now, they were standing outside the bank making phone calls. So Lars had kept the papers in a safe there, most likely.

  Neither Max nor her new friend had noticed Hans so far.

  Max probably had the papers with her now.

  Hans looked at his phone. He had several text messages informing him that Max was calling people from her mobile. She had seldom used her mobile until now.

  He dialed a number and listened back to the calls she had made. He heard one she made to Ernst Frank. She was telling him that she had the papers. And to call the police. She mentioned Berliner, Peter Schultz, and Hans himself. Bleached blond indeed!

  Hans put his phone away. Smart girl, he thought grudgingly. The good news, though, was that she now had what was probably the only remaining set of Hiram’s papers.

  He watched Max and her friend walk down the street. He started to follow them, wondering where he should confront her and relieve her of the papers, when he saw the thief from Lars’s bakery approach Max.

  The cheeky rat. So he was more than just a common thief.

  Hans realized the thief was much closer to Max than he was. And he was an artist. Hans could only watch—half-helplessly, half-admiringly—as the thief waited until a small crowd formed around Max. He slid in, approached Max, and managed to neatly slice the backpack off her back.

  The thief took a few slow strides away from Max then broke into a run. Max let out a scream. Her companion started to chase after the thief. Hans wondered if he should chase the thief on foot, but decided not to. He wasn’t much of a runner. He started his car and wove through traffic, making sure he kept the thief within sight.

  Hans managed to keep an eye on his target, who was now walking at a relaxed pace among the throngs of people on the busy Piccadilly Street. He had taken off his baseball cap and jacket and was barely recognizable. The backpack was hidden under the jacket. He looked like a student on his way to class.

  The thief stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. On the opposite side of the street, Hans parked his car and waited. The thief crossed the street. He was walking toward Hans.

  Hans stepped forward.

  “Excuse me,” the thief said politely, not noticing Hans. Hans pulled out his .357 Magnum and stuck it at his waist.

  “What the—”

  Hans nudged the gun harder. “Turn around and get into that car.”

  The thief turned around with one frantic movement. He looked at Hans, and his expression changed from fear to recognition and utter terror.

  “If it isn’t the kid that murdered the old man in the bakery,” Hans said calmly.

  “I didn’t kill him,” the thief managed to say.

  Hans shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  The thief was stammering now. “He was already dying by the time my bag hit him. I…I’m not even sure my bag struck him.”

  “But it did, my friend. There was a trickle of blood running down his head.” Hans indicated where by touching the boy’s head with a forefinger. He clucked his tongue. “Very sad. The good neighborhood baker killed by a passing tourist. I even gave the police your description. American-looking tourist type left the area right around the time of the murder, I told them. Young, with greasy hair. Very suspicious.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Aaron looked at the blond. He didn’t sound like the joking kind. Aaron had kept an eye on the patisserie after he had seen Max leave the place looking pale, accompanied by a policewoman.

  A stretcher bearing a covered body had pulled out of the store. This maniac had then appeared out of nowhere and started talking to the police. That meant Lars had died as a result of Aaron’s unfortunate encounter with him. It was possible, Aaron thought now, that Blondie had killed the old man and had taken steps to pin the death on him! He tried to swallow, but his throat swelled. His breath came out in gasps.

  Blondie went on. “I told them I didn’t remember you too well. Just a vague idea. It all happened so quickly, I said. But a lineup might refresh my memory.”

  “What do you want?” Aaron said weakly.

  “Get into the car.”

  “Not on your life,” Aaron said.

  “My life isn’t the one in danger,” Blondie said. “Get in!” Aaron got into the passenger seat. Blondie bound his hands with duct tape.

  They drove for a while. His captor finally stopped on the side of a quiet street and killed the engine. “Hand me your bag, please.”

  “Not that,” Aaron begged. “Please. It’s for a job. It has nothing to do with the old man.”

  Blondie made a face and held the .357 up so Aaron was looking down its muzzle. Aaron promptly handed him Max’s backpack. Blondie asked him to open it. Inside were the research papers. He looked through them and put them in a nondescript black briefcase. Aaron glanced out the window. He watched longingly at a rattling truck laden with vegetables driving by. Other than that, there was no one, it seemed, for miles around. The sound of the wind broke the silence, slipping in through a small opening in the rear window with a low, ghostly whistle.

  “What’s your name?” Blondie said in a conversational tone.

  Aaron hesitated. “Geoff.”

  Blondie tilted his head. “Nein, nein.”

  He sucked at this stuff. “Aaron.”

  “Aah-run, who are you working for?” The blond looked straight ahead, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

  “No one,” Aaron said.

  “Ach!” The blond held the gun against Aaron’s head. “I ha
ve very little time for your nonsense. You have two choices. I can shoot you and toss you out there.” He pointed outside. “And once the police find you, they will conclude that your accomplice killed you. They assume you had one. And besides, you are a killer—the unknown American tourist. Who cares if you were murdered?”

  “My other choice?” Aaron was trying hard to keep his voice from sounding like a tinny squeak. For one horrible moment Aaron thought he might soil his pants. Thankfully, the moment passed.

  “A flight back to USA. Now, who are you working for?”

  Truth was, Aaron didn’t know. Geoff had said he didn’t, either. But this man wouldn’t believe him. What should he say? He looked askance at the frightening, stocky man. A lie would buy him a bullet in his head. Better to stick to the truth. He tried to look sincere. “I really don’t know,” he said.

  The blond struck Aaron’s head with the butt of his gun.

  Aaron touched his temple. It felt sticky. His fingertips were moist and bright red. “Listen—I’m so regretting taking this job, mister; you can consider me officially frightened shitless. I don’t want to die. This was supposed to be easy money. All I want is to get away from London before you…they…pin the murder of the old fart on me.”

  “I’m getting tired of you.” Blondie’s voice was ice. The gun was at Aaron’s temple once more.

  It was the most terrifying object Aaron had ever felt against his skin. He closed his eyes, expecting his brains to splatter across the seat. He even started to pray.

  “Last chance,” Blondie said softly, “who hired you to steal the papers?”

  Aaron threw up his hands. He was thoroughly ashamed, but he could do nothing to stop the wracking gasps of fear he was producing. “A contact brought me the job—I don’t think even he knows who I’m working for. He couldn’t do it, so here I am.” He closed his eyes. Magically, his sobbing slowed. He felt calmer.

  “Okay,” Blondie said. “I believe you.”

  Aaron sensed the absence of cold pressure against his temple. He opened his eyes.

  Blondie started the car. “Now I will escort you home.” He sounded almost kind.

  Aaron nodded. Visions of his big payday had disappeared into smoke, but at least it wasn’t his life that had gone poof.

  The blond took Aaron to his hostel, where Aaron packed in record time, then dropped him off at the airport. “Hope we never meet again,” Blondie said. “Be smart and leave now.”

  Aaron wondered what he was going to tell his client. This might be a good time to call the emergency number. Between a paper cut and a knife wound, Geoff had said. Fuck it. This was now Geoff’s problem.

  He made his way to the check-in desk.

  As he waited in line, he realized the finality of his situation. He was going home—alive—but he was also going to have to forget the big payoff, his ticket to a new life.

  The brass ring that had dangled so close had been yanked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Julian and Max sat outside the bank. Not speaking. They were both staring at the street. Max grunted and stomped her foot a few times, never as ashamed of herself as she was now.

  Sure, the thief had taken her by surprise. He had cut her backpack and made off with it, sprinting like a pro. But they ought to have caught up with him. Julian had given chase for a while, but eventually his pace had slowed. Max had valiantly followed, but she could only run so fast.

  “Why have you slowed down?” She had gasped, pointing in the direction the thief was going. In seconds, he had disappeared.

  Julian had pointed to his new shoes. “I can’t run any faster…I just can’t,” he cried. “These damn shoes have clasped my ankles and toes in a vise-like grip.”

  “Well, neither can I!” she had screamed, pointing at her quivering legs. “Oh damn, damn! He’s gone, the thief is gone!”

  She was too slow, too fat, and too foolish to even give decent chase to a stupid thief. What hope in hell did she have of finding her father’s killer?

  “That’s it.” She jumped up. “I need a donut or something.”

  “A donut?” Julian asked incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

  Max started walking briskly towards a coffee shop.

  Julian walked by her side, wincing with every step. “I’m trying to appreciate this urgency for the donut, but can we please slow down?”

  “I cannot believe you wore new shoes for this trip.” Max snarled. She tried not to think about how much she had admired them when he had first arrived.

  “I wasn’t aware I’d be expected to chase after goons on the streets of London,” Julian murmured angrily. “Goddamn it, Max! Slow down.”

  “What did you expect when I told you about Lars?”

  “I thought you were overreacting.” He threw up his hands. “You are a bit emotional. Overwrought.”

  “Overreacting!” Max exclaimed. “Overwrought! Really?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” His voice rose, his face turning red. “You have said so yourself. You’re not exactly the bravest person. You didn’t even want to do any of this. Forget it. I thought—” He clenched his fists and walked away.

  They were at the coffee shop now. Max walked in, leaving Julian fuming outside. She stepped out with two glazed donuts and began eating one. The sugar calmed her nerves.

  Minutes later, Julian said, “Look, I’m sorry I lost my temper.” He didn’t look at all sorry. “But I thought when you said Lars had died…well, I thought it was possible that maybe he just died naturally. You must admit you’re very stressed.”

  Max let out a low groan. Her eyes bored into the ground. She sat down on the pavement.

  Julian sat beside her. “I have no experience with people getting killed, so I put that bit out of my mind,” he said. “I mean, who imagines murder and spy games when someone asks for help? I’m only an associate professor of history, not Indiana Jones, sweetheart!”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m exposed to murder everyday? I’m a cook. Sweetheart! Did you forget everything I told you about my father? And that German who attacked us? Or did you think I was making it all up in my hysteria?”

  Julian grabbed the other donut from her just as she was about to eat it.

  “Hey!” she cried, but let him have it. She stared down the street for a while. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at Julian. He was munching on the donut with ferocious glee. His cheeks were flushed an angry pink and his eyebrows were furrowed.

  Max began dusting donut crumbs off her lap. It occurred to her that just by being here, Julian was doing her an enormous, totally unnecessary favor.

  She touched his arm lightly. He turned to her, surprised. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You have taken the time to be here for me, and look at how awful I’m being to you.” What was wrong with her? She had no right to be mean to this man.

  Julian’s frown melted into a smile. He let out a laugh.

  “What?” Max said.

  He took out a handkerchief and wiped around her mouth.

  “Stop taking so many liberties, friend,” she said, not meaning it.

  Making a peace sign with one hand, Julian took a big bite of his donut. Half his false mustache came unglued and hung along his cheek.

  Max let out a giggle.

  “What?”

  She yanked the mustache off his face and threw it away.

  “Ouch!” he cried. “I apologize too. Friends?”

  Max nodded. “Did you get a good look at this guy?” she said. “We could give the police a description.”

  Julian shook his head and sighed. “He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Very ordinary. Slim. Other than that, I have no memory.”

  “Do you think it may have been the blond?”

  Julian shrugged. “He didn’t look very distinctive. I’d say he was thin. You said the blond stood out—heavy-set, short, right? Maybe this was his associate.”

  Max shivered. How was she ever going to sleep at night again? Maybe
not until this was over, whenever that might be. Over. How comforting that sounded. Finished, wrapped up. That’s where she wanted to be. At the end of the line.

  “Isn’t it strange how adventures are wonderful when they are over?” Max said wistfully.

  Julian stood up and held out his hand. “Come.” Max started to protest, but he put a finger to his lips. She took his hand.

  They walked for a long time, eventually crossing the Thames over the Millennium Bridge. At the end of the bridge, just below them, an accordion player was surrounded by a group of people. He was playing an upbeat tune. Some people clapped, a couple even danced.

  Max and Julian continued to walk by the river towards the Tower of London.

  “Do you want to tour it?” Julian pointed to the tower.

  Max thought about Anne Boleyn. “Not today,” she said.

  A few dancers were breakdancing to eighties music on one side of the street. On the other were throngs of tourists posing for pictures or just hanging out. Beyond, not a hundred feet away, were the locals, seemingly unaware of the spectacular—if somewhat gruesome—symbol of history, the great Tower of London, that stood not far from them.

  Julian checked his watch. “It’s almost dinner time,” he said. He led her to a French bistro on a narrow street.

  The maître d’ seated them at a table with a view of the river. Max studied her menu. Julian didn’t open his. She closed the menu and smiled. “Ok what are we having?”

  A waiter came by. Julian asked for a bottle of the house red and two orders of the beef bourguignon.

  The wine arrived. Max picked up her glass and took a sip. She watched the sky turn from cerulean blue to a brilliant pink. Voices rose and fell around them. Julian drank the wine as if it were water. “I hope you don’t mind.” He slipped his feet out of his shoes and let out a soft cry. He took off his socks, too. His feet were covered with blisters.