Father Lazarev knew in that moment that it made no sense to go on pretending ignorance. The psychopath standing over him was capable of anything. Father Lazarev was torn, unsure what to do. He was the only person alive who knew the secret. If he let Falkenhain kill him, then it was lost forever.
“Kitezh! I want to know where it is, old man. No more games. None.”
16
Via Degli Acquasparta, Rome
The message had been delivered. Now all he had to do was complete his preparations. He had studied his target’s dossier to the last detail, and a man like Wagner would have no choice but to accept his invitation.
The assignment the man had accepted was certainly a challenge. Not only the actual shot, but the target himself. And now he had to factor in a certain amount of improvisation. The attack on Wagner had originally been planned for Vienna, but then Wagner had unexpectedly boarded a plane for Rome. Through contacts, however, the Kahle had managed to organize everything he needed at short notice.
He stopped on Via Degli Acquasparta and looked up at the theater in front of him, the Teatro Tordinona. The original building had been constructed four hundred years earlier, and had been rebuilt four times since; its current incarnation already had a good 140 years under its belt.
The Kahle slipped into the historical building through a side entrance and moved quickly and soundlessly up the stairs. The muffled strains of the last performance of the evening filled the narrow corridors. At the top floor, he silently broke the lock on the door that led higher still, to the rooftop level. To call it a tower would be an exaggeration, but the small room with leaded glass windows on all sides made a perfect sniper’s nest.
The room was neglected and only used for storage. The layer of grime on the leaded windows made it almost impossible for him to see out. Some of the windowpanes even had newspaper pasted over them. A pity, actually, he thought. The view over the Tiber to the Palace of Justice on the opposite side was breathtaking. He set the backpack down on a table, took out the telescopic sight and crossed to the northeast window. The window was hinged in the middle and he tipped it up. He peered through the sight, tracing the length of Via Condotti, which led to one of the Rome’s best-known tourist spots: the Spanish Steps. His target.
A complicated shot, the Kahle thought. One thousand two hundred meters through a canyon of buildings to a public square at the far end. But he had done his homework well and the weather was on his side. There was not a breath of wind. He had walked the length of the high-end retail street in the afternoon and had set out a few strategically placed little wind monitors that, on their own radio frequency, fed precise wind data to his ballistic calculator.
He pulled the table into the center of the room and assembled the rifle, then set it up on its bipod on the tabletop, the ballistic calculator and his mobile phone beside it. Using a glass cutter, he removed one of the panes from the leaded window to give himself a clear firing line at the height of the table. He pulled up an old wooden chair and sat down.
The display on his phone showed a blinking red dot on a map of Rome. His target was already on the way. The invitation was an extravagant gimmick, but it also had its pragmatic side: inside the heavy paper, he had concealed a small GPS transmitter. He could follow every step his target made.
He clicked the magazine into place and chambered a round. He read the ballistics data from the calculator and adjusted the telescopic sight accordingly. He was ready. He peered through the sight, keeping himself focused. Mr. Wagner was right on time. So predictable. The sniper reached for his phone and tapped the number on the screen.
17
Tom’s houseboat, Vienna
Hellen parked her car and climbed down the embankment to the shore of the Danube River. As she approached the houseboat moored at the river’s edge, she admired the picture-perfect sunset. The sight brought back old memories. As reluctant as she was to admit it, the days when everything had still been good between her and Tom had been good days. Romantic evenings spent on the small veranda and walks alongside the Danube with the nighttime lights of the city glittering on the water. A new love in full bloom. It had been a carefree and lovely time. But as so often happened, reality and her job got in the way. And as wonderful as things had been between them at the start, the end had been ugly. But that made her all the happier that they had found a way to be around one another again, at least for now, in a more mature relationship, as friends.
She crossed the small gangplank, knocked on the door and tried to continue straight inside, but it suddenly and painfully became clear to her that the door was locked. She rubbed her bumped forehead in annoyance.
“Un moment,” she heard from inside. A few seconds later, the door swung open and Cloutard welcomed her with a smile.
“Why is the door locked?” Hellen asked sharply, stepping briskly past Cloutard and into the houseboat.
“Why should the door not be locked?”
“Tom never locks his door!”
“But chérie, Tom is not here, and neither will I be for much longer. I must find another residence as soon as I can,” Cloutard groaned. Hellen walked through the small living room, rummaging around a little. “Tom does not even have a decent bottle of cognac here, un scandale totale.”
“Well, you were used to living in a fortress by the sea and having servants to satisfy your every wish. Your bathroom was probably bigger than Tom’s houseboat.”
Cloutard nodded, his face revealing his yearning for those long-lost days. “So true, ma chère, so true.” Then softly, to himself, he added, “Et je récupérai tout—I will get it all back.”
Hellen had stopped listening to Cloutard’s murmuring. A silk scarf on a clothes rack had caught her eye, very clearly a woman’s scarf. Hellen let the delicate fabric glide through her fingers.
“This is not exactly your color,” she said to Cloutard. An odd feeling blossomed inside her. She was jealous. Did Tom have a girlfriend?
“It is also not mine,” Cloutard replied, studiously ignoring the implied question in Hellen’s words. He had no intention of getting caught bumbling between two opposing fronts. He put his hat on his head and with a sweep of his hand ushered Hellen back outside.
A short time later, Hellen’s Mercedes CLA, her brand new company car, shot across the Reichsbrücke, the Imperial Bridge that led to the heart of Vienna. Passing north of the Prater park, she drove on toward Schwarzenbergplatz, where she could already see Schwarzenberg Palace rising beyond the Soviet War Memorial. Prinz-Eugen-Strasse led her along the park behind Schwarzenberg Palace, and a short distance further on was the famous Belvedere Palace. The palace had been built between 1714 and 1723 for Prince Eugen of Savoy, one of the Habsburg Empire’s most prominent military commanders.
As a freelance journalist and war reporter, Tom’s grandfather had made more than one lucrative deal for his pictures, and at the end of the 1980s he’d been approached by a publishing house. The result had a been a coffee-table book of his best work, which had sold countless copies worldwide since its release. This had brought him financial independence and an apartment with a view of Belvedere Palace, in the heart of Vienna’s embassy district. But not even ten years later, with the arrival of the internet and the rapid rise of digital photography, his profession had suffered a major setback. In certain circles, however, he was still counted among the greats.
“Magnifique. Vienna is truly one of the most beautiful cities in the world, à l’exception de Paris,” Cloutard said with a sigh when Belvedere Palace came into view.
“It is. And this part of the city is pretty special. You could do far worse than having the palace park at my front door. Belvedere comes from the Italian for ‘beautiful view,’ you know.”
Hellen turned the Mercedes into Theresianumgasse and began to look for somewhere to park. She was in luck; an open spot presented itself almost immediately.
“What do you think Tom’s grandfather can tell us?” Cloutard asked as Hellen led the way t
o the old man’s apartment building.
“I don’t have the slightest idea. But if Tom says he saw the Cross of Kitezh in a photograph with his grandfather, let’s hope it’s a good story,” Hellen said as they turned the corner into the Belvederegasse. She pointed to the building with the two lion sculptures flanking the iron gate.
“It’s up there. It’s been a long time since I saw the old man. I liked him a lot, but after Tom and I—”
She did not get to finish her sentence. An ear-splitting explosion followed instantly by a wave of heat swept Hellen and Cloutard off their feet. Shards of glass from dozens of windows shattered by the explosion rained down on them. Tongues of flame blazed from the building. Hellen’s scream caught in her throat. Moments passed before what had just happened sank in.
“Oh my God . . .” she stammered. “That was his apartment.”
18
Cacio e Pepe restaurant, Rome
“Spanish Steps – 2300 – right stairway – foot of the streetlamp,” the message said.
What was the cryptic invitation all about? Who sent it? Was it connected with Kitezh, or was it something else? Tom decided to be at the Spanish Steps at eleven, as stipulated, but he would keep his eyes open.
He checked his watch: just after ten. He took out his phone and opened the maps app. He’d been to Rome several times, but he was still a long way from being able to find his way around without assistance. The app told him he was a mile and a half from the steps. A little stroll after a fantastic meal like that certainly won’t hurt, either, he thought as he left the restaurant.
When he reached the fountain at the base of the Spanish Steps, he checked the time again. In a few minutes, he hoped, he’d have answers to his questions. He made his way up the steps warily, looking around as he climbed, scanning the area. Despite the late hour, countless tourists were still out and about. At the first landing of the brightly lit stairway, he went to the streetlamp on the right, which stood on a stone plinth. He examined the elaborate cast-iron foot of the streetlamp and found a flip phone duct-taped underneath it, out of sight. As soon as he took the phone out, it rang. Taken aback by the timing, Tom flipped the phone open and lifted it to his ear. Was someone watching him?
“Welcome, Mr. Wagner.” Tom’s gut tightened—the man had mispronounced his name, but that at least revealed the first detail about the mysterious caller. The man spoke in accent-free High German. So he’s either from Hanover or he’s just walked off stage at the National Theater, Tom thought. The ludicrousness of the thought made him smile inwardly, but he stayed focused.
He looked around. Dozens of people were sitting around the edge of the fountain below, laughing and chatting. Everywhere he looked he saw tourists, and quite a few of them were on their phones. Which of them was “his” stranger? His eyes continued to roam.
“What’s on your mind?” he said.
“Mr. Wagner, I’ve been asked by a mutual friend to pass on a message.”
“You couldn’t have just written it on the card? Why are we playing cat and mouse?” Tom said, his tone sharper. He kept looking around. Anyone with a phone in their hand was suspect. Something about the invitation in his pocket was bothering him, too, although he could not think why.
“Safety precautions. That, and I’m supposed to pass on the message in person,” the man replied. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Okay. I’m here. Where are you?”
“Up on the next level.”
From where he stood, Tom could see very little higher up. He slowly climbed the steps, his unease growing. He wound his way between tourists, his eyes switching from one to the next. Who was the caller?
“In the middle. Don’t you see me?” the man asked. He sounded cynical.
Tom, in fact, did see a man with a phone to his ear. He headed toward him, but when he reached the center of the landing, the man suddenly hung up and hugged a girl who walked up to him just then. The two disappeared into the crowd.
Tom swung in a circle. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He looked down at his feet for a moment, and he suddenly understood.
2300. No normal person would write the time like that. It was military. Tom’s instincts shifted into full alarm mode.
“This is for Guerra,” Tom heard, and his eyes widened.
19
Sheremetev Castle, Yurino, Russia
“What are you talking about? No one knows where Kitezh is,” the old priest groaned.
Within a heartbeat, Falkenhain metamorphosed again, making Father Lazarev shudder. The wild beast once again transformed into the outwardly calm negotiator. Two of the guards lifted the priest’s chair upright again.
“No need to lie anymore, old man. I happen to know that you’re the guardian. And I also know that you have not yet passed on your secret.”
The priest smiled. “I don’t have the least idea where you got this information, but I can assure you: you are mistaken. Or whoever told you I know the location was mistaken.”
Falkenhain sighed, but remained calm, as if the outburst of a minute before had never happened. “But my task is to find out from you where Kitezh lies. And we have already established that I never leave an assignment uncompleted.”
Falkenhain turned slowly to one of the guards and raised an eyebrow. The man immediately left the room only to return a moment later with an old leather bag, which he opened to reveal a range of metallic tools: knives, scalpels, nails, needles, hammers, shears and more.
Peter Lazarev knew where this was going. And it was true that he had not yet initiated his successor. Now he had to make a decision: die and take his knowledge to the grave, or reveal to his tormentor the secret that his family had preserved for centuries. But he could at least try to buy a little time. “What’s the point? I know nothing. Torturing me won’t change that.”
“I’m not planning to torture just you, old man. I’m going to start with you, then move on to everyone you hold dear . . . I have time. Are you married? Then we’ll bring your wife. Your son. Your daughter. Your grandson. And you’ll see for yourself just how talented I am.” Falkenhain ran his fingers lightly over the diverse instruments in front of him.
Father Lazarev inhaled sharply. He would not survive that, he knew. His own pain was one thing, but he would never be able to sit and watch this man torture his family.
Falkenhain grinned mockingly at him, until his cellphone rang and broke the malevolent silence. Falkenhain answered.
“Heinrich, have you got the priest?”
Falkenhain knew the voice on the line. He straightened up and squared his shoulders.
“Of course. He’s sitting right in front of me,” he answered quickly.
“Good. Has he said anything?”
“He denies all knowledge of the city. I think it’s going to take a little time”—he looked into the priest’s eyes—“but I have no doubt he’ll tell me what we want to know quite soon.”
“Do whatever you think is necessary. I know there’s no one better than you, Heinrich, when it comes to talking stubborn people around. Just make sure he does not die.”
“That goes without saying. I’m hardly going to touch a hair on his head.” Again, Falkenhain stared at the bleeding priest.
“One more thing. There’s someone else following the trail to Russia, a man named Tom Wagner. He’s on his way to Nizhny Novgorod. He knows about Kitezh. We’ll send you all the photos and information we have. I’ve crossed paths with him before. You can’t afford to underestimate him.”
“Naturally. I’ll take care of it,” Falkenhain said obsequiously.
“He’ll be arriving soon. You can send a few of your people to watch him, then step in if he gets too close to us and our plans.”
“Of course.”
“I repeat: be careful. Do not underestimate this man.”
Before Falkenhain could say another word, the caller had hung up.
Falkenhain put the phone away in his pocket and looked absently
at the priest. He thought about Tom Wagner. He did not need to see any files about him. He knew who he was and what he was capable of. He had to be eliminated. Apart from himself, he knew only one other man he would trust to take Wagner out. So many others had already failed in the attempt. But that would not happen to him. He’d be the one to send Wagner to his grave, and he’d be the one to reap the reward. He and no one else.
He took out his phone again, tapped in a number and gave his orders. He knew how to deal with Wagner.
20
Spanish Steps, Rome
Screams. Panic. Blood. The crowds scattered in all directions. What happened? He had not heard a shot. He was lying on the ground. He looked at his hands, his shirt—he was covered in blood. But not his blood. In front of him lay a young man whose head had literally been blown apart. People cowered by the walls or lay flat on the ground. Some had taken cover behind the balustrade on the middle level of the steps. Some looked around for help. Other already had their phones out, filming.
Everything had happened in a split second. Tom had realized that he was standing atop a star-shaped relief set into the landing halfway up the Spanish Steps. With that and the military time on the invitation, he suddenly realized that a sniper had lured him into his crosshairs. He had dropped instantly and the bullet has missed him by a hair’s breadth, taking the life of the unlucky young man who had been standing right next to him instead. He probably owed his life to the fact that lot could happen in the one second the bullet was in the air. This is for Guerra. He had run through many scenarios in his head, but that had not been among them. What did his parents’ murderer, the man Tom himself had killed in Barcelona, have to do with Kitezh? Probably nothing. Okay, someone obviously knew he was in Rome, but who? Once the terror reports surrounding the Patriarch’s visit to the Pope had turned out to be false, he had relaxed and let his guard down. He had wrongly connected the unknown attacker’s message to the Kitezh story.
The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3) Page 4
