Kitabı oku: «The Good Thief», sayfa 4

Chapter 7

Lindsey resisted the urge to tell the cabdriver once more how urgently she needed to be on time for a meeting at the Place des Nations. Beatrix expected her in five minutes, but they were stuck in traffic on Geneva’s Pont du Mont Blanc. The cabbie couldn’t change that miserable fact.

At 8:00 a.m., a half hour later than planned, she’d hurried aboard the private jet in Florence. In Geneva, she spent another fifteen precious minutes connecting with a taxi. It was now 12:55. If she didn’t make it on time, Beatrix could use that as an excuse to avoid seeing her.

A young girl’s life shouldn’t depend on making transportation connections, Lindsey thought as the taxi burned fuel going nowhere fast.

The bridge spanned the southern tip of Lake Geneva where the lake flowed into the Rhone River. A thick layer of ice created by winds gusting off the lake covered benches on the quay on the north shore in white. The famous Jet d’Eau geyser was, of course, turned off for the winter. Everything seemed pewter-colored, the buildings, the lake, the sky, the peaks of the Savoy Alps beyond Geneva. Despite the warmth of the cab and her black Cossack-style coat and boots, Lindsey shivered. The gray, cold day mirrored her mood.

Her cell phone rang. Beatrix. Lindsey explained the traffic mess and added, “I’ll be no more than ten minutes late if I have to get out and run.”

“You still wouldn’t make it. But I was calling because I must cancel. My lunch appointment is lasting longer than anticipated.”

Lindsey clutched the telephone, her pulse accelerating. Remain calm. “Just tell me where you are, and I’ll meet you there afterward. I only need a few minutes, Beatrix.”

“Do you realize that I could be fired just for being seen with you, if your line of work were discovered?”

Beatrix was overreacting. Probably. “I’ll wait till your lunch meeting is over and—”

“No, Lindsey, I’m sorry. It’s just impossible. I have to prepare for an—”

“Beatrix, when you hear how important this is—”

“Dear girl, I have all the high-priority crises I can handle, thank you very—”

“R-JUV-8.”

The connection between them fell silent. Last year, Lindsey, in a dicey contact, had stumbled onto a shipment of an antiaging serum claiming to be chock-full of human growth hormone but being instead a mix of herbal derivatives and an illegal new, and very dangerous, stimulant. She’d involved Beatrix, who then received credit for the confiscation of six million dollars’ worth of the product. Beatrix owed Lindsey a favor or three. Since Lindsey worked outside of legal channels, Beatrix was extremely nervous about dealing with Lindsey.

“Are you there, Beatrix?”

Beatrix sighed. She gave Lindsey an address in the Paquis district, one of the few interesting areas in this city, which was, for such an international population, pizzazz-challenged. Behind practical gray stone walls, powerful people met and conducted world affairs. World Council of Churches. World Intellectual Property Organization. Eurovision. All those banks. Virtually every major NGO, and, of course, the diplomats. Geneva was unofficially the world capital of bureaucracies. “We can meet there. No one I know eats there and I can return to work quickly.”

The menu outside indicated that the steamy restaurant, Bistro Eidelweiss, offered typical Swiss and French food. The tiny lobby was crowded. Lindsey immediately spotted Beatrix’s brown chignon and on her way to Beatrix’s table she passed hot fondues and soups, onion tarts, crepes with all kinds of fillings. Her stomach growled. All she’d eaten on the jet was a health bar topped off with coffee.

By the time an obviously overworked waiter signaled he’d soon be there to take Lindsey’s order, Beatrix had already listened to Lindsey’s story about the possibility of trafficking in genetically modified human embryos. She checked her BlackBerry, then shook her head.

“Whatever it is, it’s monstrous,” Beatrix said. “I’m sorry I avoided you. I’ll help. We’ll just have to work around your…fascinating connections—even if it means I lose my job.” Her blue eyes sparkled with what looked like determination. “Kestonians are looking to develop human supersoldiers. Their new dictator, Vlados Zelasko, is a nut. The idea is outrageous and impossible. We log the movements and actions of Kestonians wherever they turn up. I can provide you with the names of all the labs we’re watching, but that’s all I have that could be relevant.”

Human supersoldiers. Extra strong. Extra fast. Superhuman eyesight and hearing. Human weapons. Exactly the kind of thing that would bring a huge black-market price. And maybe no longer an impossible idea at all. “That’s exactly what I’m after—”

“Oh, my God!” Beatrix blurted out as she hid her face with her purse.

“What?” Lindsey said.

“The man that just came in, he works with me.”

“Shall I—”

“Just leave, okay?”

Lindsey reached across the table and squeezed Beatrix’s arm. “Done. You take care. And thank you.”

No specific leads. No crepes. No fondue. She rose and made her way back to her coat and hat, her stomach demanding that she eat a mountain of pasta very soon.

Chapter 8

His name was Iacapo Donato, but Lindsey called him Jake. Known publicly as a highly respectable antiquities dealer, his various and nefarious ties extended far beyond the world of thousand-year-old kraters, coins, or marble busts—things that were occasionally reasons for Lindsey to contact him about underground rumblings. Jake had also helped her father find the son of a billionaire Moroccan, kidnapped despite her father’s security team. Jake had learned of a shipment of illegals from Morocco into France. The smugglers of cheap labor also had the boy. NSI had successfully returned the boy to his family.

It was quite possible that Jake may have heard of something involving a kidnapping, maybe even specifically about the high-profile kidnapping of two American girls from Phoenix, Arizona. Checking AA.org, Lindsey saw that Shannon Connor, a former Athena Force student with no love for her alma mater, had also been on international broadcasts of BBC and CNN, continuing her negative spotlight on the Athena Academy.

When Lindsey had called Jake from the jet to make sure he’d be at his private club in Florence tonight, he’d invited her instead to his villa for the evening. “I’ll be showing off my latest acquisitions—and more,” he said in his affected British accent. “Wear that marvelous jade gown.”

So. Formal attire instead of cocktail. The dress was actually sage-green, but definitely the sexiest thing she’d ever owned. Stretch satin and nearly backless, its modest neckline set off a faux emerald necklace while the daring cut of the sides displayed more of her breasts than an unescorted woman in Italy should reveal. The floor-length sheath was slit only to midthigh level, but the back plunge and clinging fabric made underwear impossible.

Dress and heels. Nothing else, except necklace and earrings and her fluffy hunter-green mohair shawl.

Jake’s villa lay sixteen kilometers from Florence. She pushed her Alfa Spider above the speed limit through the village of Malmantile, which had grown around an old Tuscan fortification on the road to Pisa. The villa, perched on the side of a shallow canyon, had been added onto a centuries-old square tower. Five stories tall, its crenellated top had been roofed and glassed in. The four-story front section and the three-story wings featured romantic balconies and rows of narrow arches. The place was architecturally stunning and filled with pricey antiques—all watched over by Jake’s staff and all for sale.

Inside, she checked her shawl, ascended a broad staircase to the second floor, and worked her way through elegantly attired guests toward a buffet table without spotting Jake. He was probably in the gaming room in the back where high-stakes, illegal baccarat and roulette were played. Jake’s payoff from her for his efforts was always two things: five percent of her finder’s fee and that, every time she came to him soliciting information, she spend at least two hours in the back room schmoozing with his gamblers and looking her most alluring.

Before she could select any of the gorgeous morsels on the buffet, a man’s hand clapped her bare back and swept her from the table. Beppo, a glorified fence for stolen goods, whisked her onto a balcony into the shock of cold air and thrust her backward in a motion so smooth and sudden, she had no immediate defense. Smelling of stale tobacco, he leaned on top of her like a tango dancer bending over his partner, and the rail pressed painfully into her spine and kidneys.

Potted palms and heavy drapes prevented onlookers from inside the party witnessing what they’d assume were eager lovers if they did catch a glimpse. With one hand he clamped her throat, fingers digging in. She could barely breathe.

“No one will hear you scream over Iacapo’s pretentious chamber music,” he said.

She struggled, but with his other hand, he forced one of her arms behind her.

“Because of you,” he snarled, “I had Interpol breathing down my back for weeks, carabinieri and private detectives, too.” He pushed her head farther back as she thrashed. “Double-crossers get what they deserve.”

Her hair clip loosened and fell into the canyon below—where she just might fall if she didn’t do something. Her throat and back in agony, she still clutched her purse in her free hand. She tried to push him back. Failed. She screamed, though weakly, to distract him. With her thumb, she flicked the clasp open, hooked fingers around the small container, let the bag drop, flipped the release and sprayed him full in the face with superstrength mace/pepper foam.

He screamed Italian swearwords, or tried to, and dropped to his knees.

“I don’t think anyone can hear you over Iacapo’s pretentious chamber music,” she said as she picked up her purse. “And if guys leaned on you, Beppo, it wasn’t because of me. Pieces looted from the Baghdad Museum are still too hot.” Through Beppo and extremely discreetly, Lindsey had helped a benefactor of the museum return a Persian golden lion to the curators.

Shivering, she left him writhing on the balcony, shut the double doors, locked them and closed the heavy damask ivory drapes.

Jake, delighted to see her, joined her and squired her into the gaming room. She complied, inwardly seething with impatience. This better pay off. Every minute she played hostess, Teal Arnett might be gasping a last breath.

“I like your hair flying loose that way,” Jake said. He was in his early fifties, pudgy and bearded, black hair shot through with gray. She stepped back a little. He said, “Did you know that musk from the male musk deer is worth three times more per ounce than gold on the black market? One of my many friends here—”

“Jake, I hate to interrupt but I have two urgent situations.” She quickly explained, as if she were dealing with separate cases, a kidnapping of an American girl and any news of trafficking in human genetics, in any form.

“I have nothing for you.” He frowned. “Do you hear banging?”

“That will be Beppo. We had…a little disagreement. I locked him onto the downstairs balcony.”

Jake looked genuinely distressed. “Il figlio di putana! I’ll have the bastard thrown out, Lindsey.”

She put in her two hours as hostess, and when he finally returned to her as she was preparing to leave, he looked sad. “If I hear anything—”

“Time is critical, Jake. Wake me up if necessary.”

Her secure cell phone rang as she opened the door to her apartment just before 1:00 a.m. Lindsey fetched it from her purse.

“Lindsey? It’s Allison.”

“Any news?” Lindsey felt suddenly breathless.

“I think so. Katie Rush’s friend, Stefan, the psychic. He’s receiving powerful mental impressions that he’s sure come from Teal.”

“Oh, thank God. She’s still alive and okay, then?”

“The communication is more in images, not words. We can’t be sure of much.”

Lindsey grabbed a pen and paper. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“He says he has an image of a city that looks old and European with drifts of snow on red-tile roofs, domes poking out of the snow, and spires. Lots of tall spires.”

Lindsey scribbled—old, Europe, snow, spires. “That sounds like a hundred European cities this time of year.”

“No kidding. Sam cross-referenced satellite visuals of snow across Europe with architecture and cities of over a hundred thousand and came up with over 250 cities.”

Lindsey sighed. “Why didn’t Stefan send messages sooner?”

Allison sighed, as well. “I feel sorry for this young man. He admitted to, at one point, seeing only blackness around Teal. He secretly feared she’d died. Now he thinks she may have been drugged. Maybe they drug her off and on.”

“I have a few more leads, but all I’ve turned up is that the Kestonians are interested in creating an army of genetically enhanced soldiers.”

“Ye gods… Well, then the Kestonians would certainly be interested in any Lab 33 info that might be for sale.”

Lindsey ended the call. “Lots of tall spires.” God, she was tired. She couldn’t think. But that’s why we have computer searches.

She brought up the Web browser on her computer and entered Europe city spires and immediately found what she was struggling to remember. The first entry of hundreds of thousands of hits. “Golden city of spires.” “City of a hundred spires.” Prague.

Nothing was that easy. She knew better than to jump to the conclusion that she’d found the answer, but it was nice to have a name at the top of the list. Fatigue took possession of her body. She stared blankly, as if her mind was like the static of “snow” on a TV screen. She had to eat something.

She stumbled into her bedroom instead and took her shoes and gown off. Naked, she threw the covers back and focused on setting her alarm. Too tired to even wiggle into a nightshirt, she crashed onto her pillow.

To her amazement, she thought of Marko, picturing his arms around her, imagining the warmth of lying together.

No…

No.

Chapter 9

She woke after six hours, feeling desperate. In the shower, Lindsey remembered she’d had a disturbing nightmare of parachuting and landing in a cold, black sea. Like Teal must have done. The sea…

Of course!

Someone she’d only worked with indirectly was in her files. She threw on sweats, made peanut butter and jelly on toast and opened her file on a man who specialized in sea traffic in the Mediterranean and eastern Atlantic—including modern-day piracy and human smuggling. He lived in Pisa but choppered daily to the port of Livorno for his business. Anything coming in through a port, especially in cargo containers, came to his attention sooner or later. He paid hundreds of miscellaneous crew members, private and military. He knew the strictest ports in Europe, as well as the leakiest. She e-mailed him asking for any knowledge of a rescue at sea in the Atlantic south of Ireland, along with where the ship may have docked and any subsequent destination, and left her cell phone number, urgently requesting a call.

Maybe finding Teal would require putting bits and pieces together instead of making one right connection. Her next contact, Cesare Fumagalli, required another shift in persona. He’d originally met her at one of his wild parties where she’d cornered a drugged-out thief from a tapestry buyback gone south. She’d caught the thief stealing one of Cesare’s heirloom pinkie rings worth several thousand dollars—which proved the power of drugs, since no one sober would consider pulling such a stunt. Word was, the creep was never seen again. Ever. Lake Como was the deepest lake in Italy.

Cesare was the son of a bona fide Mafia don—whom he had, he bragged, badly disappointed. He wanted people to think he was legit but didn’t even bother with a front to account for his lavish spending and fabulous villa on Lake Como. Still, Cesare had plenty of money and nobody messed with him. And he had amazing black-market contacts, buying and selling South African Krugerrands and diamonds, pharmaceuticals, legal and otherwise, religious icons, weapons, “black gold,” which was not oil but caviar, regular gold and anything else of value.

He thought of Lindsey as hot and wild. It was cold up there now in the lake district, and she could wear her Cossack coat and boots, but after that, she’d look nothing like she had in Geneva. She pulled on purple tights. Then the spandex micro-mini. Sheer teal knit top—no bra. Gray silk shirt unbuttoned. Shabby-chic iridescent black wool scarf. Hair gelled, twisted up and clipped, teased and sprayed. Makeup. Layers of it around the eyes.

Ready.

With desperation snapping at her heels, she caught a train to Milan and another to Como, where she rented an Alfa Romeo and drove to the grand hotel in Bellagio for lunch at one, a three-hour trip, one-way.

Cesare was handsome and amusing, midthirties, very Latin with dark eyes and lashes any woman might covet. Their table overlooked the lake, everything in view lightly dusted with snow. Her Eurotrash persona attracted stares from the hotel’s sedate clientele. Cesare wouldn’t mind. He loved flaunting his outrageous lifestyle.

“You know,” he said after he’d ordered, “I always thought my ancestors were cooks who smoked chickens.”

“Oh? Let’s see, fuma is smoke and galli, yeah, chicken. So what were they really?”

“I just learned that they smoked henhouses to keep chickens from squawking when they were being stolen. So, chicken thieves!”

They both laughed.

“Not cooks but crooks,” she joked.

He stopped laughing.

My God, Lindsey, watch it. This Mafioso can make people who tell jokes at his expense disappear.

They chitchatted. He seemed interested in what she knew about musk from male musk deer and about Dacian coins. While eating eggplant parmesan, she spoke to him of the kidnapping. Almost as an afterthought she also explained she had another client interested in anything about genetic tampering with humans. Of all the things Cesare would be least likely to know about it was genetic engineering.

He held his hand out, indicating she should put her hand in his. She did. A passing busboy gawked and dropped a dish off his tray. Ignoring the boy completely, Cesare pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed slowly, never taking his eyes off hers.

Still holding her hand, he said, “You found my ring, and I retrieved your tapestry. Mutual reciprocity is a wonderful thing.” His gaze traveled to her breasts and then back to her eyes. “If I find information on this matter for you, the debt will again pass to you.” He kissed her hand again. “And I’m sure we’ll think of something mutually gratifying.”

She drew a deep breath, and then laughed, as though thinking his comment was intended to be one of his fake Mafia jokes. “Right. I’d owe you one.”

He smiled slightly, staring at her as if he knew something she didn’t. Then from the inside pocket of his soft black leather jacket he pulled out something she never expected a playboy like Cesare to even know about, let alone own—a BlackBerry. “Let’s check out the latest on the black-market eBay.”

He clicked several times, frowned, began another series of clicks and smiled. “What do you think of this? ‘Private auction. Anyone interested in genetic engineering of humans for medical or other uses would be interested in this sale item. Seven-figure bids only. Prospective buyers will be screened. Personal contact required.’” Another smile, one of victory. “It is to be in two days in Prague and there is a Prague contact number.”

Oh, my God! Prague!

“This source is dated. It’s been circulating for nearly four weeks. But it’s big-time black market stuff.”

Not surprising. Whoever had planned the kidnapping would have wanted to line up potential buyers. She stood, giving him a warm smile but feeling more than a bit displeased. Lots of competition would already have had this information for four weeks.

“You owe me, Lindsey.”

Using her cell phone on the return train trips, Lindsey made flight reservations to Prague for the next morning. A call came in from her shipping contact in Lovorno, saying he’d traced an arrival in a charter ship under circumstances like those she’d described into the French port of St. Nazaire on the Bay of Biscay near Nantes, but he had no further information. But it didn’t matter. No more contacts needed. Cesare had come through.

She punched another number and was connected to her dad’s voice mail. “K-bar, it’s me. Sorry I missed you. I’m leaving for Prague on a ten o’clock flight out of Rome in the morning. Czech Airlines. It’s another…this art deal is more complex than I’d thought. Back in two or three days. Kisses. Bye.”

Finally a call to Christine at the Academy.

“You did it! Excellent work, Lindsey,” she said after listening to Lindsey’s news. “Stefan has been bombarded again with images and feelings from Teal. She’s in a place Stefan describes as a dungeon, and she’s anxious, freaked out but not terrified. They must still be taking relatively good care of her. He senses her powerful loathing for a slender man with slicked-down hair. Mediterranean-looking.”

“I’ll need cover.” She gave Christine her flight number and departure time.

“I’ll put people on it immediately. You’ll have a packet waiting at the Florence airport tomorrow morning. What we can’t have ready for you by then will be waiting at the CIA safe house in Prague. I’m virtually certain I have the pull needed to arrange for the safe house to be your base. If not, I’ll arrange something else.”

“We’re going to get Teal back,” Lindsey said.

“Be careful, Lindsey. We don’t want to lose you, too. The sense here is that something far more sinister than a kidnapping seems to be going on, we just don’t know what.”