“Hey! I need help! She’s been shot,” Tom screamed as he pushed into the emergency ward. The nurse at the front desk jumped as if stung by a bee when she saw Tom carrying the blood-covered body of the young woman.
Tom heaved Sienna onto an empty gurney. He stroked her face with his bloody hand to sweep a few hairs aside.
“Sienna, you’ve got to hold on,” he said softly.
A doctor suddenly pushed Tom aside. “What happened?” the man asked as he checked Sienna’s vitals.
“Her name is Sienna Wilson. She’s been shot. The bullet passed straight through, I think her stomach,” Tom replied with military precision.
“I’m hardly getting a pulse. We have to get her into surgery. Wait here,” the doctor ordered, and he ran off after the gurney, which was being pushed by two nurses through the double doors toward the operating room. Tom stood without moving for a moment, staring at the doors, which swung back and forth a couple times before coming to a stop. Then a sudden commotion behind him snapped him out of his trance.
“Hands in the air and turn around,” a policeman shouted. A shocked murmur rumbled through the waiting room.
Just a few miles away, still close to the Genesis Program, the Kahle sat listening to the local police radio band. When he heard a report about a high-speed pursuit and an injured woman in a local hospital, he stomped on the accelerator and sped away.
“I’m not going to say it again. Put your hands in the air!” The trembling in the officer’s voice was not lost on Tom. He obeyed the order, raising his hands slowly, holding the case by the handle in his left hand.
“Drop it,” the second cop shouted.
Tom obeyed that order, too. But the case didn’t fall far. The handcuff caught it and it swung in the air.
“As you can see, I can’t drop it.”
“Down on your knees,” the first cop ordered. Terrified, the few patients already in the waiting room could only sit and watch the drama playing out in front of them. The small town would be talking about this for years.
Tom slowly dropped to his knees and reached both hands out in front. With the case on his wrist, he could not easily put his hands behind his head. He had to come up with something fast. He was in a serious mess this time, and shooting his way out was not an option. The two policemen wouldn’t be too great an obstacle, but there were too many civilians in the room to risk it. For now, he decided to play along and see where things led. He could always escape later.
“Who are you and what’s in the case?” the first officer asked. The man was clearly extremely nervous. He’d probably never been part of anything this exciting in his career. His colleague, meanwhile, edged around to the other side of Tom.
“My name isn’t important, what’s in the case is none of your business, and you wouldn’t believe my story anyway.”
“You’re the guy all that stir’s about down at the Genesis Program. You killed all those people there, didn’t you?”
The people in the waiting room held their breath.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but that wasn’t me.”
“Hands behind your back!” The second officer was now standing behind Tom.
“Full disclosure: I’ve got a gun tucked in the back of my belt,” Tom said, making the cop pause for a second.
“Don’t move.” He approached Tom as he might a snake ready to strike at any moment. First, he took Tom’s gun away, then the two officers put him in an armlock and dragged him outside. The waiting patients applauded with relief.
“We’ve got him! We’ve got the guy from the Genesis Program,” the second officer announced gleefully on his radio when they reached the parking lot.
The first officer had time to say, “We’ll get a promo—” before he was cut off by the bullet passing through his head.
The second officer tried to draw his gun, but a second bullet to the head instantly killed him, too.
Nobody heard the two shots from the silenced pistol, but Tom found himself staring down the smoking barrel of Friedrich von Falkenhain’s gun.
38
Office of Prison Administration, Geneva, Switzerland
A black Audi A8 sedan and an armored police van, both with Dutch license plates, rolled along the Chemin des Corbilletes and, at the junction with the Chemin des Coudriers, turned at the traffic circle into the parking lot of the F-shaped brick building. The prison was located in a surprisingly nice part of the city, surrounded by parks, well-tended gardens, modern office buildings, an embassy, and a cultural center—not the kind of places one would normally associate with a prison. The passenger door of the A8 opened. A man in a black suit and sunglasses climbed out and opened the rear door, and an elderly woman, elegant in a dark-gray business outfit, stepped out of the back. Flanked by two men in dark suits, she made her way to the prison entrance.
At the first security checkpoint, the woman and the two men escorting her showed their identification papers.
“Bonjour. I am Antonia Bolovatto, from Europol headquarters in the Hague,” she said in flawless French. “I would like to speak to Warden Lanchet.”
The man checked the woman’s papers in his computer, making the necessary confirmations: Antonia Bolovatto, Deputy Director of Europol’s Organized and White Collar Crime division. The officer reached for the telephone and informed the warden of her arrival, and the electronic door latch buzzed. “You’re in luck. He’s still in the building. Take the elevator to the second floor. Warden Lanchet’s assistant will meet you there.”
Passing through additional security points, Antonia Bolovatto was soon seated in the warden’s office. She came straight to the point.
“I’m here because of a Red Notice concerning a Hellen de Mey and a François Cloutard. I am here to transfer both prisoners to Europol headquarters. Cloutard is an international art smuggler, a man we’ve been after for years. Madame de Mey is working with him, and we have reason to suspect she is connected to the man behind the incident at the WHO conference.”
Bolovatto handed Lanchet the file. He leafed through it, raising his eyebrows repeatedly and nodding. Beside the warden’s desk, a bank of twenty-five monitors displayed the most important sections of the prison. One of them showed the parking area, and it was this monitor that Lanchet now pointed to.
“I see I don’t need to provide you with a vehicle.”
Bolovatto shook her head. “I would like to take both prisoners for interrogation as soon as possible.”
“Of course, of course,” the warden said, scanning the transfer papers again. He pressed a button on his desk telephone. “Stephanie, bring me a transfer form, please.”
Lanchet smiled at Bolovatto. “Every time the same old paperwork.”
“Every ‘i’ dotted and every ‘t’ crossed,” said Bolovatto.
A few minutes later, Bolovatto was back in the parking area. She watched as Cloutard and Hellen were led out to the armored van. A prison guard removed their handcuffs, and Bolovatto personally snapped new cuffs on. Then she opened the back of the van. Hellen glanced fearfully at Cloutard, who also seemed nervous, and they both climbed inside.
“We’re innocent,” Hellen blurted, her voice loud and shrill. Her whole body was shaking. “We are UNESCO employees, for God’s sake! Where are you taking us?”
“You will find that out soon enough.”
One of the officers climbed into the armored van and Bolovatto slammed the door closed and locked it. She looked across the parking lot and up to where the warden stood at his second-floor window. She raised her hand in farewell, then climbed into the back of the A8. Both vehicles began to roll.
“My God, François! We’re in big trouble. Europol! Handcuffs! Armored cars! I’m starting to feel like an actual criminal,” Hellen said, staring angrily first at the Europol officer and then at Cloutard.
Neither of the men said a word. Hellen’s mind raced. She should have insisted on calling her mother and not left their one post-arrest phone call to Cloutard. Whoever it
was he’d called, it obviously hadn’t achieved anything. But Hellen could not think about it any longer: the van was already slowing to a stop again. The Europol officer stood up and unlocked first Hellen’s and then Cloutard’s handcuffs. Uncomprehending, Hellen could only sit as the door opened and the elderly woman glared reproachfully at Cloutard.
“Your father would roll in his grave, Francesco. How many times have I had to spring you from jail?” she said in Italian, and Hellen was fairly sure that she could detect a Tuscan accent.
Meekly, his shoulders slumped, Cloutard raised his hand and indicated the severe-looking woman.
“Hellen, I would like you to meet my foster mother.”
39
Somewhere in the southwest of England
“So what’s the plan for me?” Tom asked, and he glanced to the left at the man in the passenger seat. Friedrich von Falkenhain, also known as the Kahle, kept his automatic pistol trained on Tom as Tom drove the SUV through the darkening twilight toward London.
“You’ll find out soon enough. For now, you drive. I’ll tell you when to turn,” the Kahle replied. His excitement at the chance to torture his brother’s killer at his leisure, then finally send him slowly and painfully to the afterlife, was palpable. His instructions had been clear enough, but now that he had Tom Wagner in his power, he didn’t give a damn about the instructions. Just days before, powerless to intercede, he had watched as Tom had brutally murdered his twin—his best friend, his other half. All that mattered to Friedrich now was avenging his brother’s death.
The silence was getting unbearable. Tom had to think of some way to get clear of the car without Friedrich shooting him full of lead from his Glock. “That was you in London with Noah, wasn’t it?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Before I set off the fire alarm. He hired you to get this stuff, didn’t he?” he rapped on the case, still attached to his left wrist and lying in his lap. Tom was glad, at least, that Cueball’s car was an automatic. Changing gears on a stick shift with the case cuffed to his arm would have been a challenge. The Kahle ignored him.
Samson was right, Tom thought. It was never about the WHO summit. Maierhofer will be happy. The oppressive silence continued. This bastard’s stubborn.
“You’re better off without a wig, you know. The bald look suits you better. But I don’t really get the eyebrow thing. If you ask me, you shouldn’t keep shaving them off,” Tom said, running his fingers over his own eyebrows. He knew perfectly well that the Kahle had a genetic defect that kept him from growing hair at all. Maybe Tom could use it to get him riled up.
“Shut up,” the Kahle replied, and he pressed the Glock to Tom’s temple. “Keep driving.”
“Are you taking me to Noah so he can kill me?”
The Kahle laughed out loud. “No. I’m not going to share that pleasure with anyone. Mr. Pollock’s only interest is what’s in that case, which I’m going to cut off your dead hand when I’m finished with you,” he said confidently, almost with delight.
“See, that’s what I find hard to believe,” Tom said, with impudent nonchalance. “If I know Noah, he’s got something special planned for me.” After a short pause, he added, “I hope so, too. For his sake. I’d take it very badly if he just left me to an idiot like you. No offense. But after all he and I have been through, I feel I’ve earned better.”
“Just shut your fucking mouth.”
Slowly but surely, Tom was getting to him. All he needed now was the right place. They were just coming into the port city of Plymouth, and in the distance he saw what he’d been waiting for.
“Should I tell you something? Your brother cried like a baby before he kicked the bucket.” That was the last straw.
The Kahle pressed his gun hard against Tom’s head and roared at him: “Pull over, right here. I’ll show you here and now what I’m going to do to you.” The Kahle unfastened his seat belt to get out as soon as the car stopped. That was Tom’s cue. He’d secretly deactivated the passenger airbag via the on-board computer and activated sport mode. He jammed his foot on the accelerator, and the SUV lurched forward. The inertia swung the Kahle’s arm swung back. The Glock fired, but the shot went through the rear side window, just before the speeding car slammed into the upright of an overpass spanning all four lanes.
Tom hit the airbag, but the Kahle was thrown into the windshield. Blood poured down his face, but he wasn’t dead, just stunned. Tom struggled to free himself from the airbag, and once he’d managed to get clear of the car, he ran for the bridge across the Tamar River, just ahead. A backward glance showed him that the Kahle was already after him—hobbling, to be sure, but he had the gun. Tough guy.
“WAAAAGNER!” the Kahle screamed, and he fired a salvo in Tom’s direction. But the blood pouring down his face affected his aim. “I’ll kill you, Wagner!” Blind with rage, he staggered on after Tom.
Cars flew past Tom and the Kahle, horns blaring, blinding the Kahle with their headlights. Tom climbed over the bridge railing. It was a long way down and he had no idea how deep the water was, but he had no other choice. It was either that, a bullet, or Cueball’s torture chamber. He took a deep breath and dropped into the darkness. Straight as an arrow, the case pressed to his chest, he slammed feet-first into the icy water. Bullets fizzed into the dark water around him. He’d done it. He was alive. But he couldn’t surface yet. Handicapped by the case, Tom battled his way toward the central pylon of the railway bridge that ran parallel to the automobile bridge. Protected by the pylon and the structure overhead, Tom surfaced and waited.
Furious, the Kahle staggered into the middle of the road and stopped a car. Being covered in blood, looking insane, and carrying an automatic weapon were enough to make anyone stop and run for their life. He dragged a panicked woman out of her car, jumped in and raced away.
After a while, Tom swam slowly through the night. A hundred yards upstream was an offshore mooring where several boats lay at anchor, and Tom climbed aboard one of the larger motorboats. He hot-wired the ignition and deactivated the GPS, then steered the boat down to the mouth of the Tamar and into open water. He puttered east, following the coast. After about two hours, he turned the boat into the bay at Newton Ferrers, a coastal village east of Plymouth in the county of Devon. Steering the boat into a dark corner, he dropped anchor close to the forested shoreline. Through the trees, he’d spotted a large number of wooden huts, and he soon found what he was looking for. One of the huts stood some distance off the path, hidden by a thicket. It looked as if no one had been there in quite a while. He smashed a pane of glass with his elbow and slipped inside. Exhausted, he dropped onto the bed and immediately fell asleep.
40
Café Citroën, Seville, Spain
“Your foster mother is really a charming person,” Hellen said.
She and Cloutard had just stepped out of the taxi that had brought them from the airport. The Café Citroën was just a stone’s throw from the Alcázar royal palace. The medieval complex boasted a long history that stretched back to the rule of the Moors. Originally designed as a Moorish fort, it was later extended several times to become the present-day palace, and was one of the most imposing examples of Mudéjar architecture. Constructed under Christian rule, the buildings were nevertheless influenced by Islamic styles and motifs. Later monarchs, expanding the palace, had added Gothic elements and impressive parks and gardens.
Cloutard frowned. “If you say so. She still treats me as if I am a little boy.”
“If the only time you call her is when you’re in trouble, then I’m not surprised. I didn’t realize that it was also her who got you out of jail back when you first met Tom.”
Cloutard could clearly hear the mocking edge to Hellen’s voice. She was enjoying this—a little payback for his affair with her mother.
“Please do not rub it in. She still keeps bringing that up.”
“You’ll have to tell me sometime how you came to be brought up in an Italian mafia family. But for now let’s focus on finding E
loisa,” Hellen said.
She squeezed between the crowded tables on the terrace, which offered a view of the palace, and headed for the bar. Cloutard watched from a distance as the waiter pointed to a table beneath the trees, where a petite elderly woman with a voluminous, elaborately pinned-up hairdo was sitting. Her hair was pitch black and obviously dyed—Cloutard estimated that she had to be almost seventy years old. Hellen waved to him and pointed him toward her table.
Hellen was about to introduce herself when the woman cut her off. “You’re the two crazies who want to break into the Alcázar,” she said disapprovingly.
From one dominatrix to the next, thought Cloutard, his mother’s imperious tone still ringing in his ears.
“Sit!” Eloisa commanded, pointing to two free chairs, and Hellen and Cloutard immediately did so. Eloisa’s tone was more suited to a drill sergeant than to the frail old woman she appeared to be. “His Royal Highness has already instructed me. It’s all coming together nicely. I can certainly use both of you today.”
Cloutard and Hellen looked at each other in confusion.
“Use us? What for?” Hellen said. She could see that Cloutard did not feel comfortable asking questions.
“The royal family is currently in residence in the palace, and a gala dinner is taking place today in honor of . . .” her voice faded and she appeared to think. “To honor . . . oh, something. We celebrate non-stop and don’t even know why. As long as they manage to spend all our tax money as quickly as they can. Things would be different if I had any say in it.”
Hellen cautiously raised her hand and repeated her question despite the old woman’s anger. “Señora, you have not told us what you need us for.”
Eloisa looked daggers at Hellen. She was obviously not used to people interrupting or questioning her.
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