Breaking Point (21 page)

Dude made his choice, and watched Jules.

Possibly because he’d already disarmed Max. Although, wait. Wasn’t that Max’s shoulder holster and sidearm over there on the bed? As if he’d placed it there while he’d changed his bloody shirt?

Curiouser and curiouser.

Max was deep in discussion with Ulster and Goldie—talking about the information that had turned up after the analysts had poured over thousands of satellite images.

They’d traced the vehicle that had exploded near the cafe, backwards chronologically on the day of the explosion, all the way to the rundown apartment where this particular terrorist cell had been squatting. They also noted that the tangos had made a pit stop while en route to the airport that very same morning.

“They stopped at the home and workshop of . . .” Goldie consulted her little notepad but apparently couldn’t read her handwriting. She frowned at Ulstie. “Is it Gretl or Gretta?”

God forbid she make a mistake while talking to Max Bhagat.

Jules could relate.

He, too, was not eager to make a mistake in front of Max. Such as allowing a dangerous criminal who might know Gina’s whereabouts to sit with a loaded weapon in his hidden left hand.

“Gretta Kraus,” Ulster said with confidence that quickly wavered. “I think.”

Over at the desk, Bill Jones finally gave Jules an opening as he turned back toward Max. “Gretta Kraus?” he repeated. “The counterfeit artist?”

Jules took advantage, moving swiftly behind Jones. Bending down, he pretended to pick something up off the floor as he removed his sidearm from his shoulder holster. Keeping it concealed, he straightened up. And, behind the chair’s padded back, where Goldie and Ulster couldn’t see it, he aimed the barrel of his weapon at the man’s spine.

Jules put his other hand on Jones’s very broad, very muscular shoulder as he spoke quietly, right into the man’s attractive ear. He smiled, as if they were sharing a friendly secret or a workplace complaint.
Can you believe this dickweed boss of ours won’t let us have even ten minutes to grab a slice of pizza?
“Left hand up and on the table, friend.”

“Gretta Kraus, the forger,” Goldie was telling Max. “She had a lucrative business creating passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates—you name it, she’d make it. And, yeah, I’m sure in certain circles she was thought of as an artist.”

“Back off,” Jones muttered to Jules. Louder, he said, “Was?”

His hand stayed in his pocket.

Which pissed Jules off. He leaned close again to whisper to Jones that until he put his hand on that desk, he better not so much as pass gas or he’d end up extremely dead, but the man actually shushed him.

And Max, as usual, aware of everything going on around him, met Jules’s eyes and shook his head. It was the slightest movement, done while he smiled—yes, and smiled patiently, boys and girls—at Vera Goldstein.

That head-shake was an obvious warning, a silent echo of Jones’s own words,
back off.
But now Jules had to wonder if Max, who was probably being coerced, was capable of making the right choices.

So he stayed exactly where he was.

“We went over there, to ask some questions,” Goldie was reporting, “and everyone was dead—Gretta, her husband, their sons, her assistant.”

“Oh shit,” Jones breathed.

“Forensics estimates they died on the same day as the bombing,” Goldie continued, starting to dig for something in her shoulder bag. “But they lived in a part of town where gunshots go unreported, so . . .”

Max was nodding to show he was listening, but he’d moved to the bed, where he picked up his shoulder holster and put it on. A message to Jules?

Definitely. But Jones could well have taken all of the bullets out of that handgun that Max slid home and locked down with velcro.

Goldie was still talking as she searched through her massive shoulder bag. “The security cameras in Gretta’s workshop were all destroyed, so we were working on the theory that the terrorist cell came in, killed them, and then took what they wanted—forged passports and visas and ID cards. But then we did an electronics sweep . . .” She triumphantly came up with a DVD in a plastic jewel case. “And we found backup security—one of those hidden nanny-cams. There’s no sound, but the picture’s very clear. We made you a copy of the digital recording, sir, so you don’t have to go all the way downtown to see it.” She presented it to Max with a flourish.

“Thank you,” Max said, reaching out to shake her hand, even as he moved back toward the door. He was very good at signaling the end of a conversation, although he usually did it with a flat
Shut the door behind you.
“I’ll definitely review it later—”

Ulster, however, didn’t budge. “No, sir, I’m sorry—we didn’t make it clear.” He ruined the generous, blame-embracing effect of the word
we
by shooting a look at his partner that broadcast
You Stupid Eeee-diot
quite loudly. “We’re not certain, but we think your, uh, friend, Gina, and her traveling companion had an, um . . .”

“Less-than-kosher connection to Gretta Kraus,” Goldie finished for him. “This is probably the last thing you want to hear, sir, but according to this footage—” she tapped the DVD “—they were there, in the studio, when the terrorists arrived. They barely made it out alive.”

“Oh, shit,” seemed to be Jones’s new mantra.

Happy-Max had vanished. His replacement brought the DVD over to the desk, as Jones woke up the computer.

“Why, for the love of God, would they go to Gretta Kraus’s workshop?” Max asked it as a rhetorical question.

Jones kept his mouth shut, although it was clear to Jules that he knew the answer.

“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us,” Ulster said to Max.

The DVD began to play, and both Max and Jones leaned in to watch. Jules had a clear view over Jones’s broad shoulder.

Max—the real Max who could turn coal to diamonds with certain tightly clenched muscles—used the opportunity to tell Jones, sotto voce and through gritted teeth, “I’m going to kill you. More slowly and painfully this time so that—”

But then Goldie was upon them, leaving the rest of Max’s threat hanging.
This time
? Jules could only guess what that meant.

The female agent used her pen to point to the screen, which revealed a stagnant shot of what could have been an architect’s studio. Slanted work surfaces, stools, clean lines, bright colors, cut flowers in ceramic vases—it looked like a page from the upscale section of an Ikea catalogue. She tapped. “This is Gretta.”

Gretta was neither typical Hollywood thriller forger-nerd, with pocket protector, thick glasses and streaks of ink on her face and hands, nor James Bondian catsuit-wearing babe-of-evil. She was, instead, 100 percent German hausfrau. Fifty and frumpy. Good for her, for not conforming to expectations.

Except wait. Not so good for her—considering they were watching the last few minutes of her life. She was about to become the newest poster girl for the Crime Doesn’t Pay campaign.

“Gretta’s husband and her sons,” Goldie pointed again with her pen to three men leaning over a computer, much the way Max, Jones, and Jules were doing now. Except Max, Jones, and Jules had all of their teeth. As they watched, the oldest of the three men took his out, putting it—them?—on a plate alongside of what looked like a donut.

Yikes.

A youngish woman entered the frame, “Gretta’s assistant,” Goldie narrated. “And watch Mr. Kraus as she brings the women in. He makes a phone call.”

On the screen, the assistant was followed by . . . Yes, that was definitely Gina, but with an adorable haircut, along with another woman. And sure enough, over by the computer Mr. Kraus looked at them, then slipped in his teeth and picked up the phone.

As Jules watched, both Max and Jones tensed, and Jones oh shitted.

“That’s her,” Max told Goldie and Ulster, trying hard to resurrect Happy-Max, but not quite able, considering. “Gina. And her friend, Molly Anderson.” He looked at Jules. “Also known as Mrs. Leslie Pollard. She was married recently. When was it exactly . . . ? Do you remember what Father Soldano told us, Bill?”

“About four months ago,” Jones said, his voice tight as he stared at the screen.

And Jules finally backed off, because he now understood. Jones was apparently as invested in finding Molly and Gina as Max was. And, for various reasons—the most obvious being that the man would be wrestled to the floor, handcuffed, and immediately extradited to the United States—Max wasn’t ready to disclose Jones’s true identity to Ulster and Goldstein.

Jules, however, was trusted with the truth. He reholstered his weapon, pretending he had an itch under his arm.

On the screen, Molly seemed
pissed.
A statuesque redhead whose entire attire and attitude screamed crunchy-granola Unicef Mama, she was talking and talking, but Gretta just kept shaking her sullen head. “I’m sorry,” it looked as if she were saying. And, No.
“Nein.”

Gina stood there, hugging her nifty ergonomic backpack, as if she’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

Jules couldn’t wait to find out what they were doing there. Although he suspected if he asked, “Who here needs a professionally forged passport and ID?” only one of them would raise his battered-knuckled hand.

But what kind of lowlife scum willingly sent two women into a literal den of thieves?

Jules predicted that after Max got rid of Ulster and Goldie someone and someone else might just trip over the ol’ lamp cord again.

On screen, Molly didn’t give up. She just kept talking. Jules wished this recording had a soundtrack. He could only imagine how frustrated Max must be.

Gretta now looked pissed. She pulled out a file from a cabinet, tossed it on her desk, gesturing to Molly.

Maybe it was just Jules’ vivid imagination, but Gretta had to be saying,
auf Deutsch,
of course: “So who’s going to pay for this? Huh? Huh? Huh?”

This
being the masterpiece of forgery that was surely in that file. Whatever it was, the camera angle didn’t pick it up. Jules guessed passport. And he’d bet big
dinero
that the photo used in the official document would show a remarkable likeness to the man sitting directly in front of him.

The name on the passport, of course, could have been anything. Anything except for Grady Morant, David Jones, or Leslie Pollard.

“Bill” had already used those names—he would surely have chosen something fresh and new. Something, oh, say,
not
on anyone’s Most Wanted List.

On the computer screen, Gina was now digging in her bag. Opening her wallet. As she and Molly now argued, she handed Gretta a . . . credit card?

Even more absurd was the fact that Gretta took it. She vanished out of range of the camera as Molly and Gina stepped closer to each other to continue their disagreement.

“NTS International,” Max murmured.

Of course. That mysterious twenty-thousand-dollar charge to Gina’s credit card. NTS International was a temporary front for Gretta Kraus’s lucrative illegal business. No wonder they were having trouble tracking them.

“Now, here’s where the husband gets a phone call, probably from the front office,” Goldie pointed to the screen. Sure enough, in the background, Mr. Kraus again picked up the phone. What were the chances that the old guy’s first name was Klaus? “And now he goes out front and . . .”

Mr. Kraus came back into the workshop with another man.

Jules had never seen him before, but Gina and Molly sure as hell seemed to recognize him. They backed away. As if they were afraid of him.

“Motherfucker,” Jones expleted, apparently having used up his
oh shit
reserve. “He’s clearly our guy and those assholes just walked him in.”

“Do you know him?” Max asked Jones, who was probably still alive thanks only to Goldie and Ulster’s continued presence.

“No. You?”

“No.”

As everyone on that screen did more of that silent talking, the man—dark hair, medium height and build, mustache, maybe mid-fifties—casually took out a handgun. His demeanor wasn’t threatening, but that weapon really ramped up the mood from frightened to scared shitless.

Gretta Kraus got into the discussion then, as Gina stepped slightly in front of Molly.

And it was Max’s turn to cuss. He glared at Goldie. “Do we have an ID on him?”

“Not yet, sir,” she said. “It was lower priority, since he doesn’t seem to be connected to the terrorists and . . . See, here’s where Gina’s got her passport behind her—it’s in her wallet. See, she’s backed up against Gretta’s desk and . . .”

As they watched, courtesy of the camera positioned back behind that desk, Gina slipped her wallet—large, made of brown leather—beneath some of the papers scattered there.

Maybe she was trying to hide her identity. Or maybe she thought that without her passport, she wouldn’t be able to leave the country.

“Molly’s passport was in there, too,” Jones said. He glanced up at Goldie, adding, “Probably. I mean, she’s not carrying a purse or anything, so I’m guessing . . .”

“And now the shooting starts,” Jim Ulster took over the narration.

On the screen, everyone jumped, as if there was a sudden loud noise from out in the other room.

Gretta, who’d been standing close to Gina, went down, hard, with a spray of blood.

“Ah, God,” Max breathed, no doubt noticing the look of pure horror on Gina’s face. She didn’t quite know what had happened. She was still just standing there.

The room exploded around her as bullets hit the plaster walls, the lamps, those vases with cut flowers. And the mustached gunman, who’d already tackled Molly, dragged Gina down with him to the floor.

On the far side of the room, the two younger Kraus men grabbed for weapons—serious-ass military-type machine guns—ready to fight back. But their as-of-yet unidentified gunman didn’t waste a single second returning fire. He shouted something to Gina—he had her by the wrist—and she grabbed Molly. And he pulled them both with him out of camera range.

“Back door’s back behind the camera, to the left on your screen,” Ulster told them, as they watched the last two Krauses get riddled with bullets and fall.