Tom stayed on the ground and crawled to the balustrade, where he could at least sit up. He still had the flip phone in his hand and raised it to his ear.
“You missed, asshole,” he said. He looked back at the young man’s body. From its position, he had an approximate idea of the direction from which the bullet must have come.
Next to Tom, a young woman cowered. She had also been showered by the victim’s blood, and she now sat staring into empty space in shock and fear, her entire body trembling. In her hand she held one of the new mega-zoom cameras, the kind of thing you could use to photograph a fly on a wall from a hundred yards away.
“Mind if I borrow that?” Tom whispered.
The girl barely reacted when Tom lifted the camera out of her hand.
“You have one option, Mr. Wagner,” the sniper said, his voice horribly calm.
“And that would be?” Tom was trying to keep the killer wherever he was. He had to give himself a chance to figure out the sniper’s position. He raised the camera above the balustrade and used the monitor to scour the area in the direction from which the shot had come, searching frantically, and quickly spotted the small tower at the end of Via Condotti. Even from there, he could make out the hole in the window. He could not see the rifle, but he knew that a good sharpshooter always shot from inside. It had to be the sniper’s nest. Unfortunately, it was too far away. By the time he got close, the killer would have long since vanished.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to shoot tourists at random until you accept your inevitable fate.” He paused to let that sink in, then said, “I’ll show you what I mean. See the woman in yellow?”
Tom didn’t even have time to draw breath to shout a warning. He did not hear the shot, but the woman’s head exploded and her body collapsed. The projectile slammed into the stone wall, sending chips of concrete flying in all directions. A chorus of screams rose from the crowd and the panicked whimpers grew louder.
“You cold-blooded fuck. When I get my hands on you, you’ll suffer,” Tom snarled into the phone.
The killer laughed at Tom’s courage. “You have three seconds.”
“Stop. Just wait. Please!” Tom’s voice started to crack.
He saw only one way out. He took a deep breath and drew his Glock.
“Okay, I’m coming out.” From cover, he shot out the two streetlamps closest to him. Then he jumped to his feet and quickly and methodically shot out one lamp after the other. The steps fell into darkness almost instantly.
“Andiamo!” Tom yelled, the only word that came to him. He shouted it at the top of his lungs, trying to get the people around him to move, to run away, which they finally began to do. They ran up, down, anywhere to get to safety. Tom, too, ran higher up the steps, and lifted the phone to his ear one last time.
“I’m going to find you and make you pay.”
“I’m impressed, Mr. Wagner. You win round one, but we’ll talk again.” The line went dead.
Tom used the chaos to disappear. At the top of the steps he reached the Piazza di Spagna and ran to the right. A Vespa lay in the middle of the street, its motor still running. The owner was cowering behind a parked car. Tom lifted the Vespa onto its wheels, swung onto the saddle and twisted the throttle. The owner didn’t even have time to protest.
At full speed, Tom raced along Via Sistina against the one-way traffic. All around him, people were running. When he reached the next intersection the street switched directions, and he was at least moving in the same direction as the rest of the traffic. Then he saw a sign: ‘Roma Termini.’ He hadn’t been to Rome’s main train station for than a year. It wasn’t the most attractive part of the city. As in most big cities, the area around the station was crawling with the homeless, with drug dealers and prostitutes. The perfect place to go into hiding. He ditched the Vespa in a side street, washed his face at a small fountain and disappeared down a dark alleyway. He had to keep moving. When he felt he could stop and catch his breath, he took out his phone. There was only one person in Rome he felt he could turn to.
21
Somewhere in Rome
He’d been out of the bustling tourist parts of Rome for more than an hour, but it felt like an eternity. His phone had long since given up the ghost, and in his desperation he’d literally bought the hooded sweatshirt off a junkie’s back. He couldn’t wander through the city looking like a walking Jackson Pollock painting, so he had handed over his last fifty euros for the stinking, ragged sweatshirt. He’d had no other choice. Now he was on foot, picking a path through backstreets to reach their rendezvous.
For a brief moment, he’d been tempted to call Lorenzo Da Silva and tell him the whole story, but he couldn’t stand the guy and that was reason enough not to trust him. He didn’t want to get the Pope involved, which left only one person in Rome he could rely on—Sister Lucrezia. He’d met the Mother Superior and the three younger nuns in her charge more than a year earlier. Their paths had crossed more than once since then, and they had been through quite a lot together.
Tom was standing in the shadows at the rendezvous when the old, bright-red Alfa Romeo Autotutto van he knew so well rolled to a stop beside him. Behind the wheel of the beautifully maintained vintage van sat Sister Lucrezia.
On the back seat behind her sat Sister Bartolomea. She opened the side door and cried, “Tom! Get in!”
Surprised that Sister Lucrezia had already managed to gather reinforcements, he quickly climbed inside. Sister Lucrezia hit the gas.
“I don’t know how many favors I owe you,” Tom said.
“None at all,” said Sister Lucrezia. “We will always be in your debt.” Tom leaned back on the seat and heaved a sigh of relief. He was finally off the street, at least, and for some reason he felt perfectly safe whenever he was around the nuns.
“What hornet’s nest have you been stirring up now, Signor Tom?” Sister Bartolomea asked.
“I wish I knew. I don’t have a clue what’s going on. First we find the Cross of Kitezh on St. Peter’s Tomb and the next moment a stone-cold killer is shooting at me and innocent bystanders in the name of Guerra.”
“For all that, you don’t look too bad.” Sister Bartolomea waved her hand in front of her nose. “But you should really get changed. Get rid of that pullover as soon as you can. With fire, preferably,” she said, plucking at Tom’s newly purchased sweatshirt.
“Guerra . . . he was that horrible man in Barcelona, wasn’t he?” said Sister Lucrezia.
“Yeah. And apparently someone’s got a score to settle with me on his account, presumably the organization whose plans I screwed up back then. I don’t think they’re my biggest fans.” He smiled tiredly.
“By the way, you’re a YouTube star,” Sister Bartolomea said, holding out her phone for him to see.
Tom’s face froze. Unbelievable: someone at the Spanish Steps had filmed him. The grainy video showed a blood-covered man—him—firing a pistol in all directions and screaming “Andiamo!” The video was colorfully titled “Crazy gun-toting tourist runs amok in Rome!”
“When you told me what had happened, I checked online,” said Sister Lucrezia. “Things happen so fast these days, you know. And that’s what I found.”
“But no one’s going to recognize you in the video, thank the Lord. Not with all that blood on your face,” Sister Bartolomea said, doing her best to console Tom. He feigned a smile, the best he could manage.
“We brought your things,” Sister Lucrezia said, and Sister Bartolomea pointed to Tom’s gray duffel in the back of the van. “The Holy Father was able to contact the Patriarch in time. He said he could take you with him to Nizhny Novgorod. His plane is flying under diplomatic protection and they’re waiting for you at the airport.”
“We’re taking you straight there,” Sister Bartolomea added.
“You shouldn’t have brought the Pope into this,” Tom protested.
“He was more than happy to help. He always will be, you know that.”
Tom nodded.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes. You really should put on something fresh.” Sister Bartolomea pulled the duffel forward for Tom, but he only sat and gazed out into the night, lost in thought. He sensed that this was only the beginning. He could not explain what the attempt on his life had to do with Kitezh. Suddenly, like an electric shock, it hit him: Hellen, Cloutard and his grandfather were very likely in danger, too.
22
Arthur Julius Prey’s apartment, Vienna
The devastation was immense. Countless windows in the surrounding buildings had shattered and flames leapt from Tom’s grandfather’s apartment. Car alarms screamed. Fire engines, police and emergency vehicles rapidly blocked the narrow street. The building’s residents had been quickly evacuated and now stood behind the police barrier. Several of them needed treatment for smoke and injuries. Rubberneckers joined neighbors at the police tape, and curious faces watched from buildings all around.
The fire truck ladders were being retracted as the firefighters, air tanks on their backs, left the building. The fire was out, but steam and smoke still drifted skyward.
“Tell me again exactly what happened and how you know Mr. Prey,” the officer talking to Hellen said, and she told him in a few words what she and Cloutard had witnessed.
“ . . . and Mr. Prey is the grandfather of a friend of mine. Tom Wagner. He’s ex-Cobra. Maybe you know him.”
“Oh, yeah. Waaaagner,” the officer said with disdain. “Yeah, we all know him.”
Hellen narrowed her eyes and continued. “Anyway, Tom’s in Rome just now, on assignment at the Vatican. He asked me to look in on his grandfather while he was away. He’s an old man, after all.”
She had made up her mind to keep their true reason for visiting Tom’s grandfather to herself, but thinking about the nice old man made Hellen sad. For her, he would always be Grandpop Arti. How was she supposed to tell Tom that his last family member in the world was dead? Cloutard saw the pain on her face. He put one arm around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring hug.
The fire chief joined them and signaled to the policeman that he wanted to talk. “Excuse me for a moment,” the officer said, and he turned away to talk to the chief.
“The fire’s out,” Hellen heard the chief say. “But it looks like someone triggered a bomb up there. And if you ask me, whoever it was ransacked the place before that. We’re referring the case to the arson unit. Seal off everything. No one’s to go near the apartment.”
Hellen and Cloutard looked at each other in shock. “Who in God’s name would want to kill Grandpop Arti?” Hellen said softly to Cloutard. “The Cross of Kitezh suddenly appears and someone tries to kill Tom’s grandfather? That can’t be a coincidence, especially if Tom thinks his grandfather might know something about the cross.” She raised her voice again: “If that’s all, we’ll be going. We have to let a good friend know that his grandfather’s been murdered,” Hellen said, a lump forming in her throat. “You have my number,” she added, and turned away.
The fire chief was just leaving, and the policeman turned his attention back to Hellen and Cloutard. “Murdered? Why murdered? They didn’t find any human remains in the apartment, just what was left of a cat. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”
Another surprise. “If Tom’s Grand-père was not at home, then where is he?” Cloutard asked.
“Good question,” Hellen said, just as puzzled as Cloutard.
They walked slowly back toward the car. Hellen said a little prayer of thanks that she had parked around the corner, or they would have had a much harder time escaping this chaos quickly.
“Maybe we should ask the neighbors if anyone knows where—” Hellen began, but as they ducked beneath the police tape, an elderly woman reached out and touched her arm.
“Excuse me, young lady, are you by any chance looking for Mr. Prey?”
“Yes!” Hellen said, and her expression brightened instantly.
“Oh, how lovely. I thought you might be, because you looked very familiar to me. You’re the grandson’s girlfriend, aren’t you? I haven’t see you here for a very long time. You really ought to come and visit Arthur, I mean, Mr. Prey, more often,” the old lady said, a finger lifted in reprimand.
Hellen blushed a little. She had neither the time nor the desire to talk about her love life with a stranger.
“Do you know where Mr. Prey is?”
“Of course. He’s on vacation in Cuba,” the old woman said. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper and winked at Hellen as she added, “He’s visiting his sweetheart! I’m looking after his cat while he’s away.”
“Je suis désolé. The cat, I am afraid to say, did not survive the explosion,” Cloutard said, putting on a very French accent.
Hellen rolled her eyes. “Do you know how we can reach him? Mr. Prey, I mean.”
The old woman smiled and, to Hellen’s astonishment, she took an iPhone out of handbag and navigated with surprising skill to an email that Tom’s grandfather had sent her.
“My granddaughter gave me this phone, you know. It took me a little while, but I think I’m slowly starting to get the hang of it. We do a lot of that Face-thingy together, you know. Here, look.” She smiled broadly and held out the phone to Hellen.
Hellen quickly read the email.
“May I forward this?” she asked. The old woman nodded and Hellen quickly sent the email on to herself and Cloutard. She thanked the old woman and handed back her phone. Then she hooked her arm under Cloutard’s and pulled him along with her.
“Tell young Tom he should visit his grandfather more often,” the old woman called behind them, waving.
When they had moved away a little, Hellen said, “If this really was a bomb, then Tom’s grandfather is still in grave danger.”
“Leave it to me,” Cloutard said. “I have good contacts in Cuba. South America used to be an excellent, shall we say, hunting ground. And Cuba was always a good place to hide. You fly to Russia and I will make sure nothing happens to the old charmeur.”
As they turned the corner out of sight, a man stepped from an apartment block entrance and headed straight for the old woman who had just been talking to them.
23
Pearl Continental Hotel, Karachi, Pakistan
The delicate hand worked its way along the Welshman’s neck, kneading his shoulder muscles so forcefully that he had to grit his teeth and concentrate to stop himself from screaming in pain. It never failed to amaze him that such fine hands, attached to such a petite, fragile-seeming body, could contain so much strength. He had found the diminutive Thai woman ten years earlier in the slums of Bangkok, in the port area of Khlong Toei. She had been twelve years old at the time, living alone in filth and poverty and on the edge of starvation. He had made up his mind to rescue her from the slums—he had always had a soft spot for Thai women, although even after ten years her name simply would not stick in his head. Over the years, she had become his servant, his lover, his masseuse, and sometimes his assistant and adviser as well.
She had almost finished with the daily, two-hour massage when the Welshman’s cell phone rang. The woman dutifully interrupted the massage, reached for the phone and glanced at the display.
“This is important,” she said, somewhere between an observation and a command. The young woman and the Welshman, over the years, had developed a unique relationship. The Welshman sighed, sat up on the massage table and answered the call. While he talked, the woman went to work lower down.
“I hope for your sake the old man talked,” the Welshman said.
There was silence on the other end of the line. The Welshman knew what that meant. It was a few seconds before the caller could bring himself to reply.
“No, sir. We can’t a word out of him. We’re going to have to use other methods. Friedrich is an expert in special interrogation techniques, as you know.”
The Welshman let out a low groan as the massage began to take effect and blood flowed
from his brain to a part of his body where it was more urgently needed. The caller dutifully ignored the groan.
“No. The man is old. He would not survive the German’s special treatment for long. We have other options for getting the answers we need, fortunately. Plan B is on track?”
“Yes, sir. Everything is going just as you planned.” The caller paused as if he had to summon all his courage to formulate what he had to say next. “Sir, we believe it is necessary for you to be here in person. Our communication options here are very limited. When things really start to move, we will have to decide quickly. It would be good to have you here for that. You are also the only one able to keep Friedrich in check. The man is good, but he’s a bomb with a short fuse.”
The Welshman nodded. His masseuse was making considerable progress with her own “special techniques” and it was becoming an effort just to string a complete sentence together. He had to wind up this call as fast as he could.
“All right. I’ll be on the next plane,” he said and hung up. He looked down at the girl and had just closed his eyes to give himself over completely to the final pleasure when the door flew open and Qadir, his right-hand man, burst into the room.
The young woman shrieked and jumped away, and the Welshman hastily covered himself with a towel, although it did little to hide the consequence of the intimate massage. But it was not the first time Qadir had witnessed such a scene, and he ignored it completely.
The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3) Page 5
