by Kim Baldwin
“How about you stay clear of thinking tonight and let me take the lead?” she said when Kris’s eyes met hers. Then she leaned in close, her breath a soft caress against her ear. “I promise to be good. Very good,” she whispered.
Kris’s body reacted instantly to the provocative tone and words. A warm rush of desire and anticipation poured through her, settling low in her abdomen. Unnerved, she ducked under Angie’s arm to escape before Angie could see the effect she was having. Heat rose to her cheeks as she scooped up her purse and coat and fled through the door, not looking back.
She fumbled for her keys, cursing the delay, and cursed again when she had trouble finding first gear in her father’s Renault Clio. Thoroughly exasperated, she squealed the tires as she shot out of the driveway and headed away from the estate. She immediately turned on the car radio, desperate for a distraction to her jangled nerves. The top news story concerned a local murder the night before. A street-cleaning crew had discovered a man shot to death in his car. A swastika was painted on the side of the vehicle. He’d been identified as a German citizen, but authorities were withholding his name pending notification of next of kin.
The reporter mentioned an Anne Frank Foundation study that chronicled a seventy-five percent increase in the amount of extreme right-wing violence in the Netherlands the previous year. Apparently the police thought the man’s murder could be in retaliation for recent neo-Nazi hate crimes. So far the rise in neo-Nazism in her country had been confined to centers like Amsterdam and Oss, so Kris was dismayed to hear that the cycle of violence was extending to quiet towns like Haarlem. She hoped it was an isolated incident, and not a foreboding of more trouble so close to home. Her life already had more than enough turmoil in it. Any more, and she feared she might come completely unglued.
*
The Audi TTS coupe waiting at the car rental depot was silver and capable of more speed than anyone would ever need on the open road. Over 250 kilometers, or 150 miles per hour. Allegro threw the duffel bag into the passenger seat, slipped into the two-seater, and started up the engine. She put on a ball cap and sunglasses and checked the signal from the tracking device she’d planted in Kris’s coat when she returned downstairs after calling Domino. She needed to get rid of the bloody clothing and the German’s gun, but she could leave the evidence in her duffel for now. Kris was fifteen minutes ahead and she could easily make up the time if she followed immediately. The Renault Clio was a lackluster ride with a 1.2 liter engine, and not the latest model. Kris would be plodding along the highway in the slow lane with countless European hatchbacks of the same ilk. With any luck the Clio would stall suddenly, for no apparent reason, something they were renowned for, and Kris wouldn’t get it started again for a few minutes. Or maybe she would get stuck behind a van and not have the power to zip into the next lane easily.
As Allegro sped out of Haarlem, overtaking cars like they were going backward, she reflected, as she often did, that vehicles with low horsepower were more dangerous than the high-powered cars she usually drove. The Audi handled like a dream and had so much acceleration she could take a few risks. Now we’re talking.
She spotted Kris’s Clio a few miles from Amsterdam. Sure enough, she was driving under the speed limit, sandwiched in a line of fuel-efficient cars. Following at a discreet distance, Allegro realized immediately that she wasn’t the only driver pacing the Clio. Ahead of her a dark Peugeot wove in and out of traffic, keeping three or four cars behind Kris. Allegro got close enough to get the license plate number, then dropped well back again and adjusted the scrambler on her cell.
It was nearly one in the morning in Colorado, so she wasn’t too surprised when the EOO operator told her that Montgomery Pierce was not in his office and had left instructions not to be disturbed except in an emergency. That usually meant he was away, occupied with a high-priority case, so Allegro asked to be patched through to Joanne Grant’s home instead. When the EOO Director of Academics came on the line, her voice was groggy from sleep.
“It’s Allegro. I need an ID, ASAP. Do you have a pen and paper?”
She paused when she heard a male voice in the background say, “What’s up, honey?”
It took a scant few seconds for realization to sink in. “What’s Monty doing there and why is he calling you ‘honey’?” she asked.
Joanne Grant sounded wide awake now. “That was the TV.”
“Unless he got his own reality show, that was definitely Monty.”
There was a long silence, then, “What can I do for you, Allegro?”
“Oh, my God. Are the two of you doing it? I knew it.”
“That wasn’t Monty.”
“Yeah, and those weren’t my speeding tickets on your desk. Anyway, why don’t you put me on speaker. It’ll save us all time.”
Allegro heard muted whispering.
“She knows.” Grant’s anxious hiss was followed by a few terse words that could only have come from Pierce.
“Mom, Dad, stop arguing,” Allegro yelled. “You’re going to traumatize me. And there’s something very wrong about you getting more action than me.”
The phone went to speaker. “What can I do for you?” Monty Pierce was definitely not amused.
Allegro laughed, loud and long. “I hope you’re decent. I’d hate to think you’re naked on the other end of the line.”
“Allegro, you’d better have a good reason for this call.” Her boss’s tone had escalated from peeved to furious.
“I need a name. Driver of a two-year-old rental Peugeot I’m following.” She gave him the make and license plate number and briefed him on the incidents the night before involving the German and the shooter who got away. “I’m pretty sure the ID will tell us the Afghans have arrived.”
The next thing she heard was Pierce on his cell phone calling into the Organization with her information, then Joanne Grant came back on the line. “I’m going to ask you to keep this situation between Monty and me to yourself. It’s a very new and delicate matter.”
“Sure, Joanne,” Allegro replied. “But I gotta tell you, no one would be surprised. I, for one, am happy for you guys. Monty could sure use some—”
“Stop right there, young lady,” Grant cut her off.
“I was going to say some good company. Any luck with the ID?”
Pierce joined in again. “Azizi. Just the one name. He’s a fanatic. Madras educated. Ties to one of the more radical mosques. Afghan National Army. This guy is dangerous.”
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll let you two get back to having wild sex.”
“Is there anything else?” Pierce didn’t sound amused. He also didn’t bother with a denial.
“No, that’s it.” Allegro could hear Grant’s laughter.
“Then when can you expect to conclude this?”
“Rocky moved the diamond from the vault last night. It has to be somewhere on her or in the house, so I’m going to tail her everywhere today and search the mansion when we get back. With the Afghans in the picture now, I need to stick with her.”
“Don’t let her deposit it in a bank,” Pierce said. “We don’t have time to stage a major extraction op. We’ve just had additional intel and the timetable has tightened up.”
Allegro’s mind raced. It had been no surprise to learn that the shooter was an Afghan. She wondered how much this Azizi knew and where the tip-off had come from. How was it possible that both the Afghans and Manfred Wolff knew where the stone was? Was the same source selling information to everyone? And now it sounded like Pierce had new actionable intelligence. “Are you saying we have a date for the terrorist attack?”
Pierce was cagey. “I’m saying you need to get the diamond as soon as possible, by any means necessary. Countless lives are at stake.”
“I’ll keep you advised.”
Allegro was thankful that she’d called Domino in for backup. The situation was already too complicated for a lone operative. The Military Intelligence Service was no doubt positioning re
sources at this time, and EOO personnel were in place in the Middle East, ready to move on the intel they would get in exchange for the diamond. She had to neutralize the Afghan fanatic, Azizi, and get Kris and the diamond out of harm’s way before the Germans tried again. Once Wolff found out his friend was dead, he would be even more determined to avenge himself and get the diamond. And he would probably have a hard time convincing another Aryan Brotherhood thug to risk his life, so maybe he would come after the stone himself.
Allegro smiled. She couldn’t wait to get acquainted with this guy, to give him something no amount of precious stones and money could. Something people like him experienced only after death. She wanted to give him a taste of what hell felt like.
Chapter Sixteen
Berlin, Germany
Manfred Wolff slammed down the phone, cursing loudly enough that his mother tore her attention from the fireplace to gaze blankly in his direction. He raised his bulk out of his chair and went to the window. It was a miserable morning. A brisk wind blew sleet against the pane in an annoying, uneven cadence that was giving him a headache. But the weather matched his mood.
Gunter Schmidt had been found murdered in Haarlem. Apparently the fool had drawn attention to himself and had been targeted for his racial pride. Now that Europe was infested with vermin and race traitors, a good German could no longer hold his head up for the Fatherland. The authorities sided with the worthless scum that had invaded the Continent, and were turning the heat up on Aryan groups. It would be risky sending another man to Haarlem so soon, so Manfred had offered to make the journey himself, claiming he would try to make arrangements for his frail mother.
As he’d anticipated, Erhard Baader, the leader of the Aryan Brotherhood, didn’t think it was a good idea for him to leave his mother, the wife of a Third Reich hero. Baader also had more pragmatic reasons for remaining involved. There was money at stake, and he would get his cut when they recovered the stone. Baader already had a man lined up to buy it, a loyal German living in Argentina. This wealthy collector and his elderly father, a former SS colonel, assisted friends by purchasing art and jewelry hidden since the war. With the passage of time, Nazis and their descendents had found it easier to liquidate these valuables without having to explain their history and prove ownership—after all, the original owners were usually dead, along with their close relatives. Who could account for possessions acquired in the chaos of war? Besides, the German government had paid ample compensation to supposed “victims.”
Of course, no one compensated families like Manfred’s for all they’d lost. No one paid for the bombing of their homes or the crimes perpetrated by the Red Army barbarians when they marched through Germany. Military commanders had anticipated what the Russians would do and had tried to protect the German people by surrendering only to the Western Allies, but it made no difference. Manfred had never asked his mother how she survived the occupation of Berlin. He didn’t have to. Friends of the family said she was never the same afterward.
When Erhard Baader suggested the name of another loyal solider willing to finish what Schmidt had been sent to do, Manfred made no objection. Baader said the man was young, but well trained and eager to prove himself worthy. He would be briefed this morning and instructed to keep a low profile among the Dutch. Manfred wished he could be there to see the countess’s face when she realized who she was dealing with. He wished he could watch as she was executed in her cheating father’s place.
*
Outside Amsterdam
The Saint Francis Institution was a modern two-story, red brick building with ornate wrought-iron balconies. The same wrought-iron also barricaded most of the windows, appearing at first glance to be an innocuous design feature. The landscaped grounds were dotted with wood and iron benches, and the day had warmed enough that several of the residents were out enjoying the sunshine, monitored by a pair of burly security guards.
Allegro steered the Audi into an empty spot on the street in front of the institution where she could get a clear view of the parking lot. Through her binoculars, she watched Kris park the Clio and get out. The Afghan in the Peugeot pulled into the lot as well, but he was being careful and drove to the opposite end. He idled there until Kris was inside the building, then he parked right next to the Clio. After ten minutes or so, he got out and stood between the cars, allowing Allegro a good look at him for the first time.
He was tall, average weight, with a long face, much of it covered by a black beard. He had a long nose too, and large lips, but his eyes were small and set close together, mere slits that made his face seem disproportionately wide. He had on Western clothes under a long dark coat, and his black hair was cut very short. Instead of a turban, he wore a Karakul, a traditional Afghan peaked wool cap.
He tried both doors of the Clio, and the hatch at the back. Was he foolhardy enough to attempt something drastic in broad daylight, in plain view of the institution? There were enough people around that there would be witnesses if he attempted to abduct Kris or take another shot at her. Allegro’s alarm grew when he disappeared from view, crouching down between the two cars. A couple of minutes passed, long enough to plant a bomb or tracking device, or perhaps disable the brakes.
She started the Audi and turned into the lot. She backed into a space a reasonable distance away and ticked off a mental checklist. Only one of her instructions gave her any pause. The order “by any means necessary” meant she could, and should, use force or threats to obtain the diamond. Her present options were very simple. She needed to kill the Afghan before he could get the diamond or harm Kris. Then she had to seize the Blue Star, no matter what. If Kris didn’t give it up willingly, she might have to hurt her. It consoled her a little that the sooner the stone was out of Kris’s hands, the sooner she would be safe. But in the process of taking the diamond, Allegro would lose Kris’s trust forever. Even if Kris was willing to listen to an explanation sometime in the future, Allegro would never be able to tell her the whole truth. It didn’t matter how she handled this phase of her assignment, she was going to lose Kris’s respect. If she imagined any other outcome, she was heading full speed toward a hopeless finish line.
She checked her Walther and focused again on the Afghan, Azizi, planning the shot she might have to take. There could be no untidy mistakes. She would prefer to take care of the Afghan more discreetly, but she’d carried out quick, clean executions in worse surroundings. If he attempted to harm Kris, she would do whatever was necessary to end the threat. Azizi lit a cigarette and leaned against the Peugeot as he watched the building. When his posture stiffened, Allegro followed his gaze to the front entrance. Kris and her mother emerged and slowly descended the stairs. They walked along a concrete path, passing by the parking area, not five yards from the cars, before settling onto a bench slightly farther away.
Wilhelmina van der Jagt seemed to be paying little attention to Kris, her gaze always elsewhere, her face expressionless. Kris took a scarf out of her coat and put it in her mother’s hand. Allegro recognized the scarf, having seen it earlier that morning when she’d searched Kris’s coat pockets. Wilhelmina seemed to recognize the accessory and started to give it back, but Kris pressed it on her, tucking it into her pocket as they stood up. Azizi hadn’t moved.
There was no way Allegro could let Kris get into the Clio until she’d had a chance to see what he’d been up to between the cars. She pulled out her cell phone, slid down in her seat, and dialed Kris’s number.
*
Kabul, Afghanistan
The door to his office was locked and his blinds were drawn, because Culture Minister Qadir was studying the plans for al-Qaeda’s most ambitious and devastating attack yet against the Western infidels. His covert patronage of the group had earned him the honor of being able to anticipate and enjoy their works in Allah’s name, and his esteem with the devoted brethren would be greatly heightened once he turned over the Setarehe Abi Rang. The diamond would pay for many attacks against the U.S. and its allies. He
stroked his beard and imagined how the world would react when the plans before him came to fruition. The time was very near.
Qadir’s telephone rang, breaking his quiet contemplation. He’d told his assistant not to disturb him unless it was matter of the utmost urgency. The caller was Professor Rafi Bayat. Frowning, he snatched up the phone. “Yes?”
“I have located relatives of the Jew who had the countess’s diamond before World War Two, sir,” Professor Bayat informed him. “And the story they tell is very disturbing.”
Qadir stiffened, anticipating more difficult facts to respond to. He hoped Azizi would soon complete his primary task, so that he could deal with the overly inquisitive academic. Bayat’s information confirmed what Qadir already knew, that the diamond in the Netherlands was the real Setarehe Abi Rang. But the story learned from the Jew added new urgency. The diamond had been traded for goods by the puppet king, Shah Shuja ul-Mulk, before his assassination. If this history could be verified, the stone’s provenance would be established. It could not be surreptitiously sold once the whole world knew the story. It would have to be returned to the crown. The plan would be ruined. Al-Qaeda would let it be known that he was unreliable.
“How can this be so?” the professor asked. “Perhaps there has been a great cover-up for reasons of pride. How could it be admitted that an Afghan sold the Setarehe Abi Rang to a Jew?”
“No, it’s impossible, as I told you,” Qadir said without hesitation. “The story is a lie invented to make this similar stone appear more valuable.”
“As you say, Minister,” Bayat answered respectfully, but Qadir could hear the doubt in his tone.
“You have done well, Professor Bayat. Now return to your world of academia, and let us take care of this delicate matter.”
“If I might be of further service—” Bayat began, but Qadir cut him off.
