Indisputable Proof (22 page)

CHAPTER 37

September 13. Thursday – 4:14 a.m. Isle of Patmos, Greece

Tolen reconvened with Diaz and Jade back in Jade’s room where she handed Tolen his weapon. “I’m...I’m sorry,” she said. “She rushed at me so fast, I didn’t know what to do.”

Tolen was angry with Jade, but he checked his emotions. He had only planned to be out of the room a few seconds. The phone call from Vakind had delayed him. The comment for Jade to shoot Denoit in the kneecap was to scare Denoit into staying put. It had failed.

Tolen told Diaz about the intruder, who she was, and how she had escaped. Then he looked at his watch. “We have just over 29 hours before the Feast of the Cross begins.”
And 17 hours before President Fane tips the fundamentalist group off by elevating the terrorist alert
, he thought to himself. “I’m flying out, but will be back in the afternoon. I need you two to stay here. Diaz, you can expect another attack. I’m certain of it.” He said it with conviction, even though there was really no certainty to it. “Try to take them alive.”

Diaz’s face grew intense, and he started to object. Tolen walked away before the inspector could spew the first word. Tolen went to his room, grabbed his bag, and returned to the hallway. Diaz was waiting for him there.

“And exactly where are you going?” Diaz pressed.

“I’m following a thin lead. With time running out, we need to leverage our manpower. You and Jade stay here, effectively to remain as targets for the ‘True Sons of Light.’ I’m going to Germany. The CIA received intel that Boyd Ramsey may be there.” It was another lie. “I will be in touch.”

“You want us to stay here with a bullseye on our chests?” Diaz asked.

“Guard Jade,” Tolen ordered.

Tolen left with Diaz still objecting and threatening to call his superiors.

Fifteen minutes later, Tolen arrived on the tarmac several miles inland from the hotel. The early morning air was comfortable with only a slight breeze. The sweet smell of gardenia and bougainvillea perfumed the air. The pre-dawn skies were clear.

Tolen was content to be working on his own at the moment. While Diaz was quite capable, he was often narrow-minded and resistant, and he slowed Tolen down. Jade had also become a distraction. He found himself drawn to her inquisitive and intelligent nature, her eloquent mannerisms, her undeniable femininity. Yet, he also sensed she was hiding something from the first moment he met her.

He wondered if it was simply misfortune that Claudia Denoit had gotten away under Jade’s watch.

Bar had sent the accident report of Jade’s car crash in New Jersey to Tolen’s phone. He reviewed it on the cab ride to the airstrip. The information bothered him. Jade’s claim of being run off the road after attending Phillip Cherrigan’s funeral had not been substantiated by any witnesses, although the wreck had occurred on a barren two-lane highway. Jade had reported that a dark van with tinted windows had come alongside and forced her off the road into a ravine. The damage to her rental car confirmed a sideswipe. Scratches and dings to the front bumper and grill indicated damage as a result of plowing down a hill through underbrush and small trees. Yet, remarkably, Jade had come out of it unscathed except for some minor bruises.

The reality was Tolen had kept his destination to Switzerland a secret not from Diaz, but from Jade. His rising mistrust of her was also the reason he had planted a small tracking device in her PC bag before leaving the hotel.

Tolen sent a text message to Bar requesting Simon Anat’s address. She confirmed receipt and responded minutes later with the information. He also requested she find out if Claudia Denoit had been in Switzerland on the same day as the others last year.

The moment Tolen stepped aboard the airplane, Reba Zee addressed him in her usual bubbly tone. “Looks like we’ve got beautiful flying weather today.”

The flight took three hours. Tolen slept the entire way. It might be his last opportunity to rest for some time. Shortly before landing, he changed into a charcoal gray suit and maroon silk tie.

They arrived at Zurich International Airport, and Tolen took a taxicab to the address Bar had furnished. Dietikon, Switzerland was less than ten miles southwest from the airport. The estate of Simon Anat was on the edge of the Honeret Forest.

Tolen considered what he knew about the billionaire. Fifty-six-year-old Anat, a lifelong bachelor, had always been a public figure until a year and a half ago, when he literally dropped out of sight. As far as anyone knew, he had remained at his residence all that time; not unlike Howard Hughes toward the end of his life when he had become a recluse and severely altered his appearance. Thus, Tolen thought, it was possible Simon Anat was undergoing the same type of transformation. The last time Tolen had seen Anat in
TIME
magazine, he appeared as the consummate professional: well groomed and immaculately tailored. If Hughes-like eccentricity had set in, there was no telling what the man might look like these days.

Simon Anat’s sprawling estate was sequestered upon a rolling, tree-covered landscape. Tolen knew from the information Bar had provided that the mansion dated back to 1682 and was originally the location of a winery. The opulent grounds were a conglomerate of beautiful meadows with acres of old grape vines and lavish gardens. There were no less than six ornamental stone wells spread out on the property. High quarry stone walls ran horizontally from either end of the dwelling, obscuring the view of the back. The entire complex was guarded by a high, pronged iron fence, with signs bearing strong warnings that it was electrified.

With an inward shudder, Tolen reflected that electrocution was not something he ever wanted to experience again.

As they approached, Tolen admired the edifice. A proud contribution to Swiss architectural eloquence, the main structure of the estate was white stone with a brown tiled roof. From the road, the dwelling appeared to be as long as a football field with more windows than Tolen could count, each double glazed and fitted with a decorative awning. Spires loomed into the sky at each end, with another pair in the middle. A long, single-lane driveway ran from the road to the wrought-iron security gate and beyond, stretching to the house after a series of unnecessary curves.

Anat was a known art connoisseur. Although never confirmed, it was rumored he had a large temperature-controlled room on the second floor which contained over four billion dollars in paintings from such masters as Donatello, Giotto, Cimabue, and Raphael. Some conspiracy theorists suggested the Hungarian billionaire had somehow recovered stolen artwork from the World War II “Gold Train,” the infamous 42-car freight train Nazis had loaded with gold, jewelry, gems, paintings, and an assortment of other valuables in 1944, all of which had been taken from Jews as the Soviet army advanced on Budapest, Hungary. Much of the stolen loot was never recovered. The fate of approximately 200 paintings seized from the train has never been determined, but U.S. restitution policy officially considered them “cultural assets” which should have been returned to their country of origin: Hungary. Some even contended Anat had the original of Raphael’s
Portrait of a Young Man
, created circa 1515, which was speculated to be worth well over $100 million today.

Tolen had the taxi driver pull into the driveway but stop well before the security gate. He paid the driver and requested he wait, tipping the man handsomely. A guard in a sentry box regarded Tolen as he approached on foot.

“No one is allowed entry, sir,” the guard, a burly man in his mid-thirties clad in a brown uniform, said in German.

Tolen arrived at the sentry box and responded in kind. “Tell Mr. Anat these two words: Gurkha and Sudarium.”

“No, sir,” the man responded brusquely. “Leave the property immediately.” The guard stepped out from the box and laid a threatening hand on the pistol holstered at his right hip. With a flick, he undid the holster strap.

“I believe you’ll find Mr. Anat wishes to speak with me,” Tolen said calmly.

The guard drew his gun. In a flash, Tolen swung his arm up, knocking the weapon from the man’s hand. At the same time, he withdrew his Springfield .45 and pressed it to the man’s forehead. The guard’s pistol clanged to the pavement a dozen feet away.

“Let’s start again,” Tolen said sedately. “I have a proposition for you. You get on the phone and tell Anat what I said, and I won’t shoot you.”

The German grumbled, but Tolen was certain he would comply. Few people have the courage to fight once the barrel of a pistol touches their head. The guard suddenly batted Tolen’s arm away and grabbed him in a crushing bear hug, easily lifting Tolen’s 225-pound frame off the ground. His gun also rattled on the driveway. Tolen’s ribs were close to snapping when he raised both hands above his head and to the side, and boxed the other man’s ears as hard as he could. The guard let out a feral yelp, dropped Tolen, and clutched at his ears in agony. Tolen took the opportunity to drive a fist into the bulky man’s face. It only took one shot. The guard dropped his hands, staggered, and collapsed to the ground. Blood rolled from his broken nose as he lay groaning weakly.

Tolen stood, then stepped inside the sentry box and found the telephone.

“Tell Mr. Anat,
Gurkha
and
Sudarium
,” he said to the male voice who answered in German at the other end.

The line went dead without a response. Tolen wondered if he might have to find his way inside the grounds by alternative methods. A minute later there was an electronic beep and the joined gates opened inward.

Tolen left the still-slumped guard and proceeded on foot up the driveway, turning once to ensure the taxi remained by the road. He passed between the spires and through an elaborate trellis onto a large portico. He approached a high, arched entryway with two massive oak doors. Before he had a chance to ring the bell, the doors parted.

Before him stood a man with deepset eyes, high cheekbones, and dirty-blonde hair. His age was difficult to determine. Tolen placed him somewhere between his early thirties to mid-forties. He had a sullen expression, as if his responsibilities were so oppressive that they caused his face to droop. “Who are you?” the man asked sourly in German.

Tolen responded in English, “My name is Samuel Tolen. I’m an American CIA agent, and I have business with Simon Anat.”

The man cocked his head arrogantly and spoke in English with a heavy German accent, “Not according to Mr. Anat.”

Tolen stared at the man wordlessly.

“He has, however, consented to allow you an audience. I am Nicklaus Kappel, Mr. Anat’s personal assistant.” He did not offer a handshake. “Please follow me.” Kappel stepped far back, allowing Tolen ample room to enter. He led Tolen through the vestibule, where Doric columns sailed up to the high ceiling and colorful tapestries draped the walls. A huge, elaborate Tiffany chandelier hung high overhead. The vestibule emptied into a long corridor where artwork adorned every wall. They passed statues of the Roman figures Romulus and Remus at the end of the hallway before it spilled into a copious living room with a box-beam ceiling. A fruity fragrance filled the air as they approached a deep kitchen with built-in cupboards and modern stainless steel appliances which seemed woefully out of place in the antiquated space.

Kappel opened a door in a sidewall. He led Tolen down a stony staircase. They arrived at a dark corridor with a stone floor and low ceiling. If not for the light somewhere ahead in the distance, they would have been immersed in complete darkness. The air was cool and dry with a musty, oaken smell. Tolen recognized the place as a wine cellar. They took the hallway a short distance to where it opened into a large, arched cellar with wooden wine racks crawling up every wall.

Sitting behind a quaint, wooden desk in the middle of the room was a clean-shaven, frail man with gaunt eyes and short, unruly silver hair. He wore a light-blue collared shirt buttoned up to his neck. The man silently watched them approach with searching brown eyes. He had a look of frustration, as if he might know Tolen, yet something was interfering with his recollection.

It took a moment for Tolen to realize the man was Simon Anat. The man’s appearance had changed to the point where he was almost unrecognizable.
Just like Howard Hughes
, Tolen thought,
he’s gone over the edge
.

There was a nondescript wooden chair before the desk. Kappel motioned for Tolen to take a seat then backed behind him a dozen feet where he stood quietly.

Tolen looked at Anat. The man was a weary shell of his former self. Tolen prepared himself, certain he was about to engage in a conversation with a man disconnected from reality. Who else would set up a desk in a wine cellar?

“And how is it that I know you, Mr. Tolen with the American CIA? Surely I would remember a man who is so fashionably dressed and handles himself with such bravado.” Anat’s voice was clear, his words thoughtful and concise, spoken in perfect English. Anat already knew who he was, but that was not what surprised Tolen. It was Anat’s lucidity that was completely unexpected.

Tolen chose not to mince his words. He leaned back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Gordon Nunnery recently died. How do you know the man?”

“I don’t believe I do,” Anat said with a subtle smile. He looked over Tolen’s shoulder at his assistant. “Do I, Mr. Kappel?”

There was a hesitation. “He was...on the guest list for last year’s event.”

“So you do know him,” Tolen pushed.

“I would venture to say we’ve met, but I don’t really know the man. He was at the mansion once.”

“What were the circumstances of his visit?”

Anat leaned in. His expression turned defensive. “What is your interest? You disable my guard and then call in using the words
Gurkha
and
Sodarian
. Speaking of Gurkha,” Anat sat back and opened a desk drawer to the side. He retrieved a box, which he laid on top of the desk. “Best cigar ever made, in my opinion. Sadly, I find after 10 or 12 puffs, the flavor wanes. I recommend anyone who smokes a Gurkha stop at that point.” He smiled. “I never smoke alone. I see so few visitors these days, and it’s been a while since I’ve indulged. Will you join me?”

Tolen saw the hand-carved, camel bone box was, in fact, a box of Gurkha Black Dragons.
Ten or twelve puffs
. That explains why the cigar found in Nunnery’s house was only partially smoked. “Thank you, but I respectfully decline.”