Emerald

by Garner Scott Odell

  David’s “No offense taken….” was cut off by the arrival of Josef and the serving cart. After removing the mussel plates he began serving the second course.

  “Josef, before you serve us again, show our guests the special features of your cart which you built yourself.”

  He smiled and leaned over the serving cart. Suddenly he straightened up holding a small pistol in one hand and a wicked looking throwing knife in the other.

  “Where did those come from?” Miriam exclaimed.

  “Josef has maybe too much free time,” Servette answered, with a rueful smile. “He finds the most interesting places to hide his little play things. That, combined with an obsessive amount of curiosity, has made him a very unusual person. He has never had to use his fancy serving cart, but as you can see, it has its possibilities. Okay, Josef, you may proceed.”

  Josef handed the Inspector another small card, which he read to his guests, “Fish ragout with garlic croutons.”

  Max broke the silence of the moment. “I understand that you have been after this man you call, the Dagger for some time.”

  David responded. “Well, not us personally, and it’s been several years since his name surfaced in connection with a series of killings throughout Germany. Whoever was doing these acts of brutality was quite anonymous until someone in our research department detected a certain pattern. Each of these stabbing victims was also mutilated with slash marks somewhere on their bodies, hence the nickname, the Dagger. Then, as I said, someone going over the details of these killings remembered a number of killings that had happened years before in the same style. Over the years we thought we had isolated several persons who might be our killer. At the same time we were investigating a rather maniacal group that was a small German underground terrorist splinter organization. On paper and on the door of their office in Munich are the words Government Retirement System. However, we can’t uncover any business of theirs that has anything to do with government or retirement. We were able to infiltrate a local cell of that group in Berlin, but we found their orders were being given from someone in Munich, but we have never been able to crack that Munich cell. That group is suspected to be behind a number of these murders, because all of the victims were Jewish. Now we think that the person known as “the Dagger” was this killer, but since then he seems to have broken ties with that group and struck out on his own. We now believe he contacts various terrorist groups for special services and sometimes for safe houses, but usually he is on his own. We have no photographs of him outside of a computer-aged photo when he was in his early teens, some thirty years ago, that one Levi sent you that you used in your newspaper. We also have a couple of artist’s sketches done from surviving victims, but that’s not much to go on. We don’t even know that those near-victims have really seen the man we’re after or perhaps, a disguise. This is one of the reasons he is so hard to run him down.”

  The dining group was so intent on David’s words they hardly noticed that Josef had removed their fish plates and handed the Inspector a third card.

  “Ready for roast squab with sauterne sauce?” Servette asked.

  Miriam looked down at the plate placed before her, “It’s simply too elegant to disturb. Inspector, how can we ever repay you for this magnificent repast?”

  “Really, my dear, there is no need. I would much rather eat with guests than with one of Josef’s, how do you say, TV dinners.” Everyone laughed.

  “And while I have the floor, I must insist. Call me Piet, instead of Inspector Servette, at least in friendly company, comprenez-vous?”

  “Yes, Piet, I understand,” Miriam replied.

  He continued, “You can watch to see if your little bird will fly off your plate if you wish, but I’m going to make damn sure mine doesn’t.” With those remarks, he attacked the squab on his plate with great delight.

  While eating, Piet turned to David and said, “I know I said no business until after dinner, but this story is getting very interesting. He then asked, “The person you have been tracking has not been active for several years. Why do you think he has started killing again- - -this time in Switzerland?”

  “That is a mystery to us also, Piet. We learned a long time we cannot predict what he might do or be surprised at what he does. One of his patterns is he never seems to have a pattern, except, for those mutilating slash marks, of course. My suspicion is that some of our agents have been even face-to-face with him on at least one occasion.”

  Josef returned to the dining room. “Not more food!” Miriam exclaimed with pleasure.

  The tall Sudanese gave Piet the card: the next course was identified as curly endive salad with honey poppy-seed dressing.

  Max picked up the chilled fork from the frosted salad plate, telling Josef as he left the room, “Thank you, Josef.” To the guests at the table he said, “This is my favorite salad. Josef serves it every time I come here for dinner.”

  Piet replied, “I was going to save any professional talk for after dinner, but since we have already begun, let me say everything will be at your service here as you attempt to solve these cases. If you need any additional people to assist you, all you have to do is ask. However, I can assure you Max knows everyone worth knowing here in Geneva on both sides of the law. He has his pulse on everything special that goes on in this wonderful city, and Joseph will always be there somewhere in the shadows.”

  “Thank you Piet. You exaggerate only slightly,” replied Max. A ripple of laughter circled the table. “But seriously, I am at you beck and call. You have only to call me. I’ll give you my private cell phone number before you leave tonight. What I don’t know, Josef will be able to find out in short order.”

  Almost on the cue, Josef reappeared to remove the empty salad plates and handed Piet another card. “This time Josef has prepared apple cider sherbet.”

  The conversation slowed as they savored the tart-sweet dessert. “Mm … the perfect finale to the most wonderful meal I have ever been served,” responded Miriam who continued looking at Josef. “Josef, you are a jewel. You wouldn’t like to move to Israel, would you?”

  Josef’s scared mahogany face broke into a lopsided grin. He looked at Piet, shrugged his shoulders and left the room.

  A few minutes later, David noticed that Josef was standing with his back to the wall near the kitchen door. David had been completely unaware of his presence at first, as the dark man moved so stealthily as to appear to simply materialize.

  “Inspector… Piet, I mean. I swear I never hear Josef approaching. I almost didn’t see him either.”

  “That’s just one of his gifts, David. When he is working with you out in the field, you will never see or hear him, but he will always be there. He has saved my skin on numerous occasions.”

  As they rose and left the dining room, Miriam went over to Josef and said to him, “Thank you for your superb dinner, Josef. You are truly a gift.” She stretched on her toes and kissed him lightly on his scared cheek as he bent over. Josef, obviously embarrassed, bowed deeply from the waist and quickly left the room. Miriam then noticed that one of the reasons for Josef’s silent movements was that he was barefoot.

  Over coffee and brandy, they discussed details of the two recent murders of the Jewish couple.

  David said, “Of course, at this point, we really don’t even know if these murders were committed by the man we’re looking for, but the cuts on their arms makes it seem likely, but why this old couple?”

  Miriam asked, “Was this a burglary?”

  “Not as far as the authorities could determine. In fact no motive has been uncovered at all, and seems to be just senseless killings. There was one interesting detail of the investigation that I wonder about. One of the investigators picked up a letter addressed to the Klein’s from Christies International, here in Geneva. It was all wadded up near the front door of the house. The letter mentioned that an emerald belonging to the Klein’s would be going to auction soon and they would be notified of the specific da
te by Christies. The investigator thought it strange that letter was wadded up that way, almost as though it was crushed in anger and thrown away. Don’t know it that has anything to do with anything, but it seems strange.”

  David said, “I don’t know either, but the most interesting thing is that the investigator thought it important enough to put it in his report.”

  At ten minutes past midnight, Max excused himself and David asked Piet if his driver could return them to their hotel.

  The appropriate goodbyes were exchanged, and they were driven off into the star-filled Geneva night.

  CHAPTER 11

  Geneva

  “Inspector Servette, do you have a minute?”

  “Yes, Boris, come in. What is it?”

  “One of our officers spotted a man at the border that made his alarms go off, but he’s not sure. He’s on the phone.”

  “You talk with him and get the information for me.”

  A young female uniformed officer entered the office, “Inspector Servette?”

  “Yes, Ruth?”

  “We have a rented vehicle crossing the border. Shall I follow up on it?”

  “Yes, please, Ruth, and make sure every border post has a copy of that photo”

  “Right away, sir.”

  The phone rang and he grabbed it quickly, “Servette here.” He listened for several minutes, waving at a man who appeared at his opened office door to hold off.

  Back in their hotel room Miriam turned on her computer, waited for it to power up and saw displayed rows and rows of jumbled letters. She pressed the encryption program’s key and a plain text message scrolled across the monitor from Malcolm. After reading it she erased the message and waited for David to return from the front desk to see if he could get connecting rooms. Being Mr. and Mrs. David Cohen was bad enough, but having to share a room with that egotistical chauvinist was more than she could stand, at least at the moment. He was quite handsome, in a rugged sort of way. Hope the excuse of his loud snoring and my request of a separate room would do the trick, after all a woman does need her freedom and space.

  There was two knocks on the room door, followed by two more and David came in carrying a large Fed X box.

  “It’s all set, Mrs. Cohen. Just happens the room next door will be vacated soon and after they have time to clean it, you’ll be free of my “loud snoring.”

  “Brought presents,” David laughed, “There from Levi.”

  “Oh good, our capability kit.”

  He opened the package and began to lay the contents on the bed. “Looks like he sent you one of the brand new Jericho B semi-automatics, and me my old Polymer 941, hello, old friend.”

  Digging around in the bubble wrap, he added, “Guess what? He’s sent a couple of Colt Mustang PocketLite’s for backup. No, wait there’s more. A shoulder holster and I guess a fanny pack holster for you, and two ankle holsters, must be for the PocketLites.

  “Let see what else I can find in here. Ah, yes, we’ve now got some Swiss currency, a couple of sterile SIM cards, new cell phones, my lock-picking tools, and a small night vision monocular. It’s almost like Hanukkah. Wait, there’s a note from Levi. He says that Inspector Servette will be able to get the ammunition we want. That’s all he says, no best wishes, or I miss you, or anything.”

  “David, wait with the gifts, please, Malcolm sent us an email with some more background on this Hans character that we may be after. Evidently Malcolm contacted one of our Sayanims in Buenos Aires who told him that the person who is our possible target is a very wealthy man. He is known as Huber Heinrich, using his great grandfather’s name by just switching the first and last names. In the thirty or so years since we captured Eichmann and killed his father, he has become a multi-millionaire in chemicals, construction and commercial properties. He’s a champion of the arts, even done quite a bit of amateur acting in Buenos Aires, on the board of a number of charities and has even been awarded a honorary Doctorate by the University of Buenos Aires, the largest university in Argentina. And believe it or not, no one down there seems to have any knowledge of his seemingly double life.”

  “Well, that certainly makes me wonder whether we’re looking for the right man. Why don’t you email Malcolm and ask our contact to see if he can find out about what might motivate these killings. That might help us determine if we are after the right guy.”

  Hans, disguised again as Klaus, headed up the street on his way to Christies to see if there was any news about the auction where he could finally get his inheritance. Pausing at the corner, waiting for the light to change, he glanced at newspapers displayed on the news stand. He was startled by the headline in the Swiss News that said there was a serial killer on the loose. He picked up one of the papers, paid the news man, tucked it under his arm and walked quickly back to where he had parked his car. Inside, it was not the article that panicked him it was the photo that he knew was him. The photo was grainy and looked like an enhancement of an old photo, but the image made him shudder with anger. Evidently, because of the jagged slashes on the murder victims coupled with his own mysterious disappearance from Argentina he was a person of interest. The article went on and connected him with his father, a former SS trooper who had killed in a similar manner many years ago, during the Second World War. Now, he was wanted for questioning. Evidently Interpol had made the father/son connection.

  He looked again at the somewhat accurate photo. How did they get that picture, he wondered, staring at it, transfixed. It did not look like a recent photograph, but the close likeness sent a shiver down his back. He could never go out without disguises now. He sat in his car transfixed. What to do now? It was definitely time to leave town. He started the car and drove to his chalet to begin packing to return to Munich. There were many friends and better places there to hide as he plotted for his emerald.

  Hans stared at his reflection in the mirror. Was his nose too large? He moved the putty around to change the shape a little. That’s better. He put on the brown tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches he’d stolen from an American at the last hotel he’d stayed in. Then he fitted the auburn wig over his short, sandy hair. Putting on a tan, baseball cap, he looked at himself again, studying the effect. Did he really look like a university professor? Something was missing, but he couldn’t decide what. He switched the baseball cap for a corduroy newsboy flat-cap, finally a pair of black rimmed glasses. Now he was satisfied.

  He went down with the suitcase to his rented, black Volvo and put his theatre case in the trunk beside the larger one that held his clothes then returned, got his briefcase and checked the passport he would be using to cross the border into Germany, as Ralph Stoner, a teacher in an American High School in Munich. He was ready to leave. He locked up the isolated chalet. He could return here as he had paid a year’s rent. He could afford it and being gone would not be noticed. He’d keep it for use when he returned for the auction of his emerald.

  The car started quickly and he rolled slowly out onto the road toward the highway that led to the border. He always kept to the speed limit wherever he went, cautiously obeying all regulations so not to bring attention to himself. After all his early years in Argentina, he had grown to be a much disciplined man with a keen intellect and sharp eyes. The environment was in his mind at all times. The border would be challenging now that they were looking for a serial killer. The Swiss police would be on the scene, but maybe that newspaper photo wouldn’t have reached the border crossing yet.

  He had studied the techniques Interpol used, reading everything he could find and had come to the conclusion that Interpol was really not that threatening. They were after all, just police that kept in contact across national borders, sharing their information. If the Swiss don’t actually have any information to share, why get alarmed? He most certainly did not look like that photo they had in the newspaper, and that’s all they’ve had to go on, he assured himself, as he drove along the winding mountain road.

  Several hours later, nearing
the border, Hans pulled over at a small café and gas station. He filled his tank and entered the restaurant, selecting the table with a newspaper lying on it. The waitress was going to take it, but he said he wanted something to read. After she took his order, he scanned the front page. There was a small article at the bottom about him. He was not so popular outside of Geneva, and that was good, but he also felt a sting at the snub. Vanity kept his senses sharpened and his pride intact. People are such fools. All they go on are looks, and if you look different, you are different. He could go wherever he wished because of his ability to masquerade himself. When the waitress placed the steak before him, he relaxed, laid the paper down and proceeded to eat.

  Hans finished the steak dinner and went to the men’s room to check his disguise before leaving the small café, then returned to his car. From a box in the back seat he pulled out three philosophy textbooks and laid them on the passenger seat. He pulled out onto the highway and proceeded to the border six miles away.

  CHAPTER 12

  Geneva - - - Berlin

  Inspector Servette uncovered his telephone from under a pile of file folders on his desk, and mumbled, “Found! You can’t hide from me.” He dialed and waited.

  “Max I have a little job for you. Would you please find out what you can about this Wittlesbach Emerald and when it is to be auctioned by Christies? When the Klein killing in Rorshach was investigated a couple of weeks ago, a letter was found wadded up in their living room that seemed to indicate that there was a connection between the Klein’s, this stone and Christies. The investigators, at first, thought the killing was just a burglary gone bad, but those slash marks on the Klein’s may indicate something else. Yeah, check with Dr. Franz at Christies or Mr. Brunstein at the Bank du Mont Blanc and see if there has been any unusual interest in that gem that we should know about. Oh, and your sources on the street might have something interesting to say also. Thanks Max.”