Killerfest (4 page)

“It depends.
If they are pros, they won’t need much help and they should be willing to take
sound advice. So, if I see something they’ve missed, I won’t hesitate to point
it out. If they are amateurs, I’ll let you and Quimper know and make sure
nothing happens to him until you get good people in there. Quimper should
appreciate that, because he’ll want top men guarding him at home and on the
road. The guys who rode us in on the golf carts looked competent. Ex-military
would be my guess. It should be OK.”

“Good.
Anything you need, let me know. If you can’t reach me, Nigel will do whatever
you ask. What did you think of Sebastian?”

“If something
was to happen to him, you wouldn’t run out of suspects. Hell, I might be one of
them.”

Shields
laughed.

“Yeah. He’s a
piece of work.”

“But a quite
valuable piece of work.”

Shields
flashed a cold smile.

“Don’t get me
wrong. I don’t want anyone hurt by Muslim fanatics. But I particularly don’t
want Sebastian hurt .”

At least until
the merger papers are signed, Scarne thought uncharitably.

CHAPTER 5
–
VILLA VENDELA

As she sat in
her study at her computer checking her Swiss bank account underneath the
massive Roka Fujimoto painting of a Japanese courtesan, Vendela Noss could hear
pot and pan noises from her kitchen downstairs. Giusi Rinaldi and Angelina
Casale were busily preparing the evening repast. Soon the house would fill with
unbelievable aromas from the five-course meal they were arranging. At dinner,
those aromas would mix with the floral perfume coming from her garden and
adjacent fields, where borage, buttercups, clover and crocus were blooming.

While an accomplished
amateur chef in her own right, this night Noss had delegated the cooking to
Giusi and Angelina, two of her closest friends in Camucia. The two women
supplemented the incomes of their husbands, both professors at the University
of Alberta in Cortona, by preparing meals for the tourists who rented local
Tuscan villas. They brought in the food and wine, took over the rustic
kitchens, and turned out feasts so notable that they had been featured in the
American magazine,
Bon Appetite
. Giusi and Angelina, cosmopolitan women
who looked as if they should be starring in the Italian cinema, wanted to try
out some new dishes and Noss was only too happy to turn her evening’s guests
into, as she called them, laughing, “guinea pigs.” 

Camucia is a
small frazione, or village, that sits at the base of the mountain below the
more famous city of Cortona in central Tuscany. Its railway station offers easy
access to the rest of Italy. That was one of the major attractions the town
held for Noss, who, while German, loved all things Italian, from the exquisite
cuisine to the men she bedded to help burn off some of the calories. What
vigorous sex did not accomplish in that regard, the verdant hills surrounding
Camucia and Cortona did. A committed runner and bicyclist, she was a familiar
sight on the roads. In a region that did not lack for beautiful women, Noss,
with her short blond hair and fair skin, nevertheless stood out. 

As a small
child she had vacationed in Tuscany for many years with her parents and older
brother. After the motor accident that killed them and left her in a coma for
six weeks, Vendela had gone to live with her mother’s sister in Zwickau, in
East Germany. It had been a wrenching change for a gentle young girl raised in
Dortmund, West Germany. That city, in Westphalia, was surrounded by waterways
and woodland, and contained beautiful parks such as Westfalenpark and the
Rombergpark. Zwickau, on the other hand, was a dreary Saxon mining and coal
city also infamously known for the Sachsenring Automobilwerke, the factory that
produced the millions of clunky and noxious Trabant automobiles that became
symbols of centralized-planning inefficiencies.

Her aunt
Gretchen was a kindly woman but childless herself. Neither she or her husband
knew much about raising a pre-teen. For his part, Walfrid Schlössinger, a
colonel in the Ministerium für Staatsicherheit, or Ministry for State Security,
the hated and feared East German secret police agency, thought it his duty to
eliminate whatever liberal Western ideas his niece had picked up in the
decadent West. All he succeeded in doing was to inculcate in Vendela a visceral
disdain and hatred of authority in all forms. At 15, she started hanging out
with some young thugs in the “Hammerskins,” one of the neo-Nazi street gangs
that gave even the Stasi trouble. She eventually broke with the skinheads over
their anti-Semitic philosophy, which she thought was nonsense, but not before
she engaged in a series of robberies, one of which resulted in the death of her
accomplice and an elderly shopkeeper. Only her uncle’s position saved her from
a long prison sentence. But her career path had been established. For despite
what she had told the authorities, she had not been an unwilling participant in
the fatal robbery. She had actually killed the shopkeeper after the old fool,
using an ancient and illegal shotgun hidden behind his counter, had blown a
hole in her partner.

The year was
1990. Following the breakup of the Soviet Union and German reunification the next
year, Vendela Noss moved to Brussels, armed with the names and locations of
turncoats, traitors and other despicable types she copied from her uncle’s
files before he burned them. Totally apolitical herself, she made a small
fortune selling those names to people in the new Germany who wanted to settle
various Cold War scores. She made even more money settling scores for people
who didn’t want to do the dirty work themselves. It wasn’t hard. Her seductive
beauty lulled many of her otherwise cautious victims. It wasn’t long before she
had accumulated enough money to buy her house in Italy. The first thing she
placed in it, next to her bed, was a framed picture. In the photo, a
five-year-old girl stood holding hands with a slightly older boy, their proud and
smiling parents behind them with Tuscan hills in the background. 

The two-story
villa she purchased was now her pride and joy, with its a 200-square-foot
wood-beamed central hall; five bedrooms; three baths, two fireplaces crafted
from dark gray Cardoso stone; an old wine cellar and olive oil storeroom; a
fully furnished kitchen with a wood-burning oven, and a laundry. Decorated with
antique furniture and expensive art from some of the finest galleries in
Europe, Villa Regina, as it is known, was built in 1804 and could only be
reached along a narrow winding road that proved a challenge for visitors,
particularly when leaving at night after drinking too much wine. Since Noss
liked to entertain almost every weekend, her guest rooms were frequently occupied.
It was a better solution than having to organize a drunken search with
flashlights when someone called back to the house to say they had driven into a
ravine. On more than one occasion she and her search companions had run into
nervous neighbors, armed with shotguns, who heard all the yelling. Given the
dangers of her real profession, getting blown away by a lupara-toting
grape-grower would be a bit much. Her table, and hospitality, had entranced the
locals, who now informally referred to her home as the Villa Vendela.

Tonight, the
guests included not only Giusi and Angelina’s husbands, but also the mayor of
Camucia, the head of a local museum, her Cortona solicitor and all their wives.
As she was between lovers, Noss had also invited Monsignor Puccio to make an
even dozen for dinner that because of the food, wine and political talk would
run late into the night.

She liked the
priest, who was also in her bicycle club and, although pushing 50, stayed in
great shape. She often stopped by his church, where he helped her polish her
Italian, which was nowhere as good as her French and English. But even though
she was born a Catholic, Noss had to date resisted politely Puccio’s
blandishments to return to the active Church fold.

She could just
see herself in the confessional:

Bless me
Father, for I have sinned. I frequently have impure thoughts, and recently I
arranged the murder of an American author and then eliminated my hired assassin
by burning him to death in a van with a phosphorous grenade while he stroked his
penis.

You must
avoid those impure thoughts, my child. Now, for your penance say three Hail
Marys and recite a stanza from Deutschland Über Alles.

Noss smiled
inwardly. No, the good Monsignor would have to be satisfied with generous
donations to the church and the occasional meal. Not to mention a bed for the
night. He loved his wine and usually never made it down the hill. Someday, she
thought, I may test the strength of his vows. Now a bad-looking man, he had a
sense of humor, as she found out when she teasingly asked him what the Italian
word for fellatio was. Yes, he might be interested to know that some of my
impure thoughts have been about him.

Vendela’s
latest erotic rumination was interrupted by a shout from the bottom of the
stairs.

“Della, do you
want to see how we braise the rabbit?”

“I’ll be right
there, Giusi,” Noss called down, as she closed the bank page, which bore a
numbered account under a name other than Vendela Noss. That was the identity
she went by in Italy, and it was on one of several passports she carried.
“Noss” actually was a family name, from her mother’s side. “Vendela,” which
means “unknown” in Old Norse, was just an inside joke.

She was about
to shut off the computer entirely when she heard the familiar email ping. She
opened her provider and saw the name on the email. It was her agent in
Brussels, the man who eventually convinced her to join his select group of
freelancers. Theirs was more than a professional relationship. They liked and
trusted one another. But as usual, when discussing business on line, Gaetan
Mendelsohn got right to the point.

Are you
available?

I was
hoping to take a holiday.

You are my
first choice, as always. And you know the territory. Recently.

That meant the
job was in the United States

Flattered, but
is it that important?

Same
client.

Risky,
going back to the well so soon.

Mendelsohn
sensed her hesitation. He typed:

We can add
a zero to the end of our regular rate.

Good Lord!
Noss typed back:

Can I meet
you on Monday?

Of course.
We have time. I’ll make a reservation at our favorite restaurant in Waterloo
for 8 PM. Enjoy your weekend.

Vendela Noss
turned off the laptop and went down the stairs to do just that.

CHAPTER 6
–
TOUGH SCHEDULING

“Vendela, you
look more beautiful every time I see you.”

Mendelsohn
gave Noss a warm hug and kissed her on both cheeks. He always seemed genuinely
thrilled to see her.

“I never know
how to take a compliment from a gay man,” Noss said, laughing.

“In the spirit
in which it is given, ma chéri. Beauty is beauty.” He turned to the man
standing next to them. “Isn’t that right, Michel?”

 “It certainly
is, Mr. Mendelsohn,” the maître ‘d replied. He had been waiting patiently as
the couple greeted each other. After all, Gaetan Mendelsohn was a frequent and
valued guest at La Maison du Seigneur, one of Belgium’s premier restaurants on
Chaussée de Tervuren in Waterloo about 11 miles from Brussels. “Madame is
certainly very beautiful. Your regular table is ready. Please follow me.”

Heads, male
and female, turned to look at Vendela as she glided through the dining room.
Many of the men had the same thought when they saw Gaetan: Lucky devil. A
debonair, sophisticated man of the world and his lovely, exciting younger
mistress. A few who knew his sexual orientation had another thought: What a
waste!

At their
table, the maître ‘d snapped his fingers and the sommelier appeared. Mendelsohn
ordered the wine and they capered away. Vendela always left the wine decisions
up to him. She’d probably also defer to him when ordering her meal. His taste
was exquisite. Several paintings and other objects d’art from his Brussels
gallery graced her villa in Tuscany. It was he who had found the Fujimoto
painting now in the study in her Tuscan villa.

They made
small talk until the waiter brought their bottle, a Pascal Jolivet Sancerre.
That meant oysters to start, Noss knew. Gaetan was expert, but somewhat
predictable. Their main course would be some sort of game, with a bottle of
good Bordeaux as an accompaniment. After the corking, sniffing and sipping,
Mendelsohn told the waiter the Sancerre was acceptable.

“The wine
rigmarole is wasted on a white,” Mendelsohn said as he and Noss clinked
glasses, “but it makes the waiter happy, I think. Sancerre is Sancerre, but it
is the only wine to drink with oysters.” He looked up at the waiter. “A dozen
oysters each. Six Creuses and six Gravettes. To be followed by venison, rare
but not bloody. Fresh vegetables, let the chef choose, and a bottle of 2005
Château Franc-Mallet.”

After the man
left, Mendelsohn said, “And now to the business at hand.”

“Let me
guess,” Noss said. “Quimper.”

Mendelsohn
smiled. She was usually one step ahead.

“Yes,
apparently the warning made no impression. The client doesn’t blame us.
Arhaut’s demise was inspired. But the local authorities, probably influenced by
Shields and Schuster House, kept a lid on the story. There was also a bit of
bad luck, in that there was a mass shooting on the same day that took up much
of the news coverage.”

“Trying to
schedule around gun violence in America is almost impossible,” Noss said.

“So, instead
of fading away,” Mendelsohn said, “Mr. Quimper will be the star attraction at
some sort of writers’ conference in Manhattan. Our principal thinks that will
be the perfect occasion to get his point across, once and for all. He doesn’t
want Quimper to survive the conference.”

“Have you been
able to identify our client?”

“No. And his
man made it very clear that I should not try. A real savage by the way. I do
not think actual Muslim fanatics have anything on him.”

“I thought you
liked savage men,” Vendela teased.

“I do, my
dear. But I also like them to occasionally bathe. Something this particular
brute apparently avoids.”

“How did he
find you?”

“The usual
way. He has contacts in the European underworld who called me. They weren’t
very complimentary but they vouched for him. They fear more than respect him,
but they said he was fastidious about payment, if not personal hygiene. He
promised half the fee as an advance. Ah, the oysters!”

It is
difficult to talk assassination shop while slurping oysters, so they chatted
like the friends they had become.

Looking at a
huge, glistening bivalve in his hand, Mendelsohn said, “The first man to eat an
oyster must have been very brave.”

“Or very
hungry,” Noss commented. “But we owe him a lot.” She picked up her wine glass
and raised it. “To the first man.”

Mendelsohn
raised his glass and said, with a mock leer, “To the next man.”

Noss laughed.

“You know
Gaetan, these are delicious, but if it’s true about their aphrodisiac powers,
given our respective sexual proclivities why waste them on me?”

After allowing
the oyster to slide down his throat, Mendelsohn replied, “You should see how
many I order when I am dining with one of my boyfriends.”

“I think it’s
a myth, anyway,” Vendela said.

“Some Italian
scientists have discovered in oysters two amino acids not found in the human
body,” Mendelsohn said. “They have been shown to stimulate the production of
testosterone in males and progesterone in females.”

“Italians
could find a reason for more sex in ravioli,” Vendela replied. But, as usual,
she was interested in everything her friend had to say. “Are all oysters the
same in that regard?”

“Apparently,
but the best time to eat them is in the spring, because it is their mating
season.”

“So, we are
eating horny oysters? It doesn’t seem fair to them, does it.”

***

During the
main course, they got back to business.

“How long will
it take you to put together the particulars for me?”

“So, you will
do it.”

“You were
serious about the extra zero?”

“Yes, 250,000
Euros. This will be a very risky proposition, Vendela.”

“Have you read
any of Quimper’s books?”

“No.”

“Well, I have.
I keep some in the library for my illiterate American guests. And, of course, I
read the Arhaut book before I went over. Terrible. This job will be like doing
a public service. Besides, the money comes at an opportune time. My new hobby
is turning out to be quite expensive.”

“Ah, yes. The
scuba diving. How is it going?”

Mendelsohn
knew that Noss craved excitement. She was already an accomplished skydiver, and
had climbed some of the highest peaks in the Alps.

“I am just
beginning. Just ordered the equipment, spear guns and the like. But the real
expense is the pool. I am putting one in as part of some renovation work I am
doing on my villa.”

Her dining
companion feigned horror.

“Italian
contractors? Are you insane? Talk about risk!”

“The local
chief of police and I fuck occasionally. His wife looks like a carriage horse.
He will make sure things are done properly.”

“The chief of
police?”

Noss laughed
at his consternation.

“Yes. And the
mayor. And the editor of the weekly paper. The pillow talk is part of my
security system. I know everything that happens in my town, almost before it happens.
I’m seriously considering adding the local priest to my stable. He hears
things, too.”

That brought
Mendelsohn up short.

“What about
the seal of the confessional?”

“Oh, please,”
Noss said dismissively. “We have a saying in Germany. ‘When the cock stands up,
the brain sits down.’ Seal of the confessional, indeed.”

Mendelsohn
laughed. She was unique. 

“You won’t be
able to farm this contract out to some Slavic imbecile, my dear. Quimper’s
security will have been enhanced. I will get you as much information as I can,
but there is a lot of uncertainty.”

“I will be
careful,” she said. “And I plan on the personal touch. I understand Quimper
fancies himself a ladies’ man.”

“Three wives,
and counting. Unattached now. There is one other thing. Quite distasteful.”

“Yes.”

“You must
still convince everyone that the incident is related to the insult to Islam.
Whatever you do, it must be spectacular. Even more so than a skewer in the
throat.”

“I suppose a
spear gun won’t do.”

“You are
teasing, I think. But no. I don’t think too many Muslim fanatics have access to
spear guns. It’s not exactly the weapon of choice in the desert. Skewers,
maybe, but not spear guns.”

“Pity. I could
use the practice.”

“My love, it
must be something gruesome. Something that can’t be buried in the media.”

“I will come
up with something,” Vendela Noss said.