Eye Wit (19 page)

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You look like you could faint.”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Sometimes I get a little lightheaded when I climb stairs too quickly. Because my blood pressure is always low.”

“That would be a hazard in a hot-air balloon, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s why I always drink lots of coffee before we lift off.”

He chuckled. “Well, there it is,” he said, swinging his right arm toward the fireplace. “My Roma treasure. What do you think of it?”

I moved to the fireplace and the luminous ball on its copper base. I knew in my heart I was finally seeing my grandmother’s crystal ball, her totem, given under duress to Josef Mengele nearly sixty-five years ago.

“May I?” I asked, reaching for the ball, feeling my blood pressure rise.

“Of course.”

I picked up the ball, hefted it, stared into its soul. I half expected to see GrandMama Luludji Krietzman’s ghostly countenance staring back at me. Instead, I saw an image of the base upon which it had been resting, floating in the center of the ball. The ball felt warm in my hand, very warm.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Just lovely.”

I reached for the elaborate, filigreed copper base, which loomed like an altar of worship in front of me. It was light as a feather, to my surprise. I expected heft, real weight, but it was so delicate and fine––as if webbed of gossamer, its only mass the burden of its long sad history in evil hands.

I turned the base over. It was just as beautiful on the underside, where few would ever look.

There! Just at the very center, a tiny inscription. I held it closer.

B K 42

I spun around, my blood pressure suddenly in the realm of an imminent stroke.

“You bastard! This is my grandmother’s, the crystal ball Josef Mengele took from her at the Birkenau Death Camp!”

Fellini fell back a step. “Hans, calm down. You are mistaken. It’s just a crystal ball on a pretty base. A relic, nothing more.”

I worked to keep my voice down, reduced it to a growl. “A relic? You are absolutely right, you son of a bitch. It is a relic, a relic whose copper base was carved by my great-grandfather, Besnik Komoroff, in 1942 when he gave it to my grandmother, Luludji Krietzman.

“Look,” I said, holding up the base. “His initials are on the bottom:
‘B K’
—Besnik Komoroff. And
‘42’
—the year he made it. See?”

Fellini was mute, his countenance stricken. He knew. God damn him! He knew!

“Magie Sehar Luludji, my grandmother, was known in Hamburg and to us Romani. Do you have any idea what this precious ‘relic’ means to my family? What it stands for, to us?”

“Please, Hans,” he said. “Please. You are mistaken. Calm yourself. Sit, please, and let’s talk about this. I’m sure there is some reasonable explanation.”

He moved towards me, slowly, as if afraid I would attack.

“May I see it, please?” He reached for the base. “Please, Hans, let me see the base.”

Reluctantly, I relaxed my death grip on the crystal ball so that I was only gripping it, not squeezing it as if my hands were a vise. Marco walked over to a wingback chair and sat down, staring at the underside of the base. He motioned me to the chair opposite, and reached out for the ball, which I handed to him, equally reluctantly.

“Hans,” he began, calmly, slowly. “I bought this at from a reputable antiquities dealer in Sao Paulo last September, when Sophia and I were on vacation. I would be happy to show you the receipt. Considering the artistry that went into its creation, particularly the copper base, I paid a pittance for it. I assure you Hans, it is a curiosity, a very pretty one, but it is nothing more.”

“Where did the dealer get it? Did Mengele give it to him personally?”

“No, of course not. In the first place, Mengele died in the seventies as I recall, before this dealer was even in business—before I was in business, for that matter. Much more importantly, the dealer is very reputable, as I said. He would never deal with anything connected to the Nazis, especially not a work of art stolen during the Holocaust. Nor would I. That would be professional suicide.”

“Then how do you explain my great-grandfather’s initials, and the year, incised in its base.”

He tried a little smile of tolerance. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the initials and the year are very precise, very even. That indicates to me that they were pressed into the base by a metal stamp, which tells me that many bases just like this one were produced in 1942, all with the same stamped initials and date. Which would indicate it came from a factory.”

“That’s preposterous. This is Luludji Krietzman’s crystal ball, Fellini, and you know it.”

“Hans, please. Be reasonable. Do you have any documentation of that? Any at all? A picture, perhaps? Any kind of proof of what you’re saying?”

“I’ve just showed you the proof,” I said. “Besnik Komoroff’s initials.”

“Those could be anyone’s initials, or even the factory’s mark, Hans.”

I was losing control of this exchange. Fellini was being much too calm, relentlessly reasonable. He had admitted nothing. What could I do?

“So you say this isn’t my grandmother’s crystal ball and that its base was not carved by my great-grandfather.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, and without any proof at all to the contrary, I’m afraid you will just have to accept that as the truth. Any reasonable man would.”

“So you expect me to just leave this here, with you. My family’s most treasured possession. I cannot do that.”

“You have no choice!” he said, raising his voice for the first time. “But I must say I’m really quite impressed with your performance. You obviously came here under false pretenses, but you had me fooled.

“Now I see you were just trying to get something for nothing, like so many others of your ilk. You are nothing but a thief who is carrying some cheap ‘Gypsy’ trinket in that bag of yours, probably from China, hoping to trade it for something of value, with a bizarre story no one could believe. I doubt that you even have a wife, much less one who just died, and I’ll give ten to one odds that you don’t even know Frankie Manning. I would give larger odds that your name is not even Hans.”

He stood. “So now you will pack up all your lies in your pathetic bag with your pathetic trinket and leave.”

“You bastard,” I said, gritting my teeth. I rose, shaking, to my feet, and by a great effort of will managed not to throttle him. “You will not get away with this, Fellini. I will see to that, to be sure. The Gypsy curse on your crystal ball will ensure that evil will befall you, but that won’t happen fast enough. I will sue you and your business and I will contact the papers and inside of a week everyone in New York will know what you have done, that you are not only a common, ordinary criminal but an extraordinarily evil man who traffics in goods stolen by Nazis. You have not heard the last from me.”

“My, my, my, how you do rant,” Fellini said. “Know this, Mr. Reiniger, or whatever your name may be. Taking me on would be the biggest mistake of your miserable life. You have absolutely no proof of any wrongdoing on my part whatsoever—none.

“You had best think long and hard about the slander and liable laws in our country and in yours. If you do anything to harm my reputation, anything at all, by the time I’m done with you, you will find yourself in prison for extortion and if you survive that and are released, you will find that I will own your balloon business, if a lying Gypsy like you even owns a business.

“Get out of my sight.” Fellini turned away from me and called out to his adjoining office. “Jessica, please see that Mr. Reiniger leaves the building.”

As Jessica took my arm and walked me towards the stairs, Fellini said, “Be grateful that I am not calling the police, Herr Reiniger. Be utterly certain that I shall not hesitate to do so, if I hear from you—or about you—ever again.”

31

It really was impossible to see clearly in the gloom of the tunnel and Yoko wondered how Zoran was managing because the air was dank, literally cloying. Thank the goddess she wasn’t claustrophobic. Gradually her eyes adjusted but she knew Zoran’s eyes would take longer to make that adjustment because the meds for his OCD made his vision system less flexible. She felt sorry for the brilliant detective, it had to be tough, keeping the lid tamped down on his Pandora’s Box of compulsions and obsessions.

“Zoran, you can guide yourself by touching the wall to one side of you every now and then.”

Yoko regretted her words instantly. Touching the tunnel wall was probably the last thing Zoran wanted to do. She could hear him stumbling along behind her, breathing heavily, but he was keeping up, although that wasn’t too hard to do because they weren’t moving very fast.

“So dark, so damp, the floor is uneven. What are we doing here?” Zoran said. “I cannot even see where I am going.”

“Look to the right,” Yoko said. “You’ll see a phosphorescent line on the wall.”

“Shh,” Dan warned. He stood still and Yoko and Zoran came to a stop behind him. All they could hear was occasional drips and now and then a faint rumble, probably street traffic on the surface.

“Are we close to the Con Ed tunnel that has lights?” Dan whispered to Yoko. Behind Yoko, Zoran sighed at the abbreviation of the utility company’s name.

“Wait here, I’ll go on ahead. When I find the tunnel with the lights, I’ll rap on the wall like this.” He tapped on the wall twice and the sounds reverberated softly. Yoko put a hand on Dan’s belt and tugged gently, and he reached back, caressing her hand, then he moved away.

Zoran exhaled loudly, no doubt grateful that movement on his part was not necessary at the moment. Yoko strained to see but couldn’t make out exactly when Dan’s outline melted into the darkness. She and Zoran stood waiting, adrenalin running on high. Later, Yoko explained that it might have been a minute or two, but in the dark isolation of the tunnel, it was hard to know how much time passed. When she heard the muffled sound of cautious footsteps, she wasn’t exactly certain which direction they came from.

“Dan?” she called softly.

A light flashed on and off. In the split second of dazzling illumination, Yoko glimpsed that she was actually standing a yard or so from the Y juncture of two tunnels. The light had come from the tunnel to the left of where she and Zoran stood. The brightness dazzled on again, nearer. From the size of the beam Yoko judged it was a flashlight, a biggish one. It was aimed directly at Zoran and Yoko, which made it impossible to see who was holding the light. The two figures behind the light were dim shapes but Yoko was certain it was Sophia Fellini and Jessica Ware. Anyone else––another Quaker exploring under the city?––would have called out, identified themselves. The lack of friendly voices calling out in greeting sent a message that didn’t need words to be menacing.

What happened next was a blur. Yoko was backed roughly against the wall and heavy twine twisted around her hands. A push sent her stumbling to the ground. From where she lay, Yoko could see Zoran standing motionless, a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Now the two women were close to Yoko. She could just make out their shapes but she was puzzled, what were the shadowy figures doing?

The sibilance of bowstrings being drawn back sounded and instantly Yoko knew what that meant––the two fugitives were preparing to use the bows and arrows from the club.

“They’re aiming at you,” she yelled to Zoran, “Run.”

Desperately, Yoko pulled against the twine. It cut into her hands and loosened a fraction but not enough for her to wriggle free. Frantically, she lashed out with both feet and landed a direct hit on the legs of the woman standing close to her.

“Crap, you ruined my aim.”

The angry cry was followed by scuffling and curses as the person Yoko had kicked was thrown off balance and crashed into the person next to her. Yoko had disrupted the shooting stance of both archers but she hadn’t succeeded in galvanizing Zoran into moving.
Twang.
Yoko heard the release of an arrow and watched in horror at the sight of one flying straight at Zoran.

The OCD detective stood and watched the arrow’s trajectory as if it was in slow motion. His feet were motionless but his upper body shook and jittered, left an inch, right an inch, left half an inch again. Duck for pity’s sake, Zoran, Yoko thought.

He didn’t.

The arrow flashed towards Zoran and thudded into his chest. He fell back and lay on the floor, the arrow sticking up, still quivering from its flight. Yoko heard throaty sounds of satisfaction from the archer.

A kick landed in Yoko’s side and she cried out at the stabbing pain, struggling for breath.

“Count your blessings, Doctor!” The voice was Jessica Ware’s.

Yoko heard hurried footsteps. She craned round in the direction of the receding noises and saw the beam of a small flashlight bouncing off walls. The light disappeared. They’d left her alive. Why? She pushed the question aside, how the hell could you get into the mind of killers? Yoko twisted her hands frantically, trying to wriggle free of the binding.

She scrambled to her feet awkwardly, still tugging at the binding and it suddenly slipped off her hands. Yoko stood, trying to orient herself. Where was Zoran? She took a tentative step and her foot brushed against something. It was the large flashlight that the fugitives had abandoned. She fumbled with its switch, relieved when the light came on, surprised to find Zoran close by, aghast at what she saw.

“Hold on, Zoran, my God, hold on. Don’t move.” Zoran was slowly beginning to sit up. Even worse, he started to tug on the arrow impaled in his chest.