The Double Eagle (33 page)
Authors: James Twining
10:41
P.M.
I
ndifferent to the execution that they had just witnessed, the armed men started to edge toward the staircase, still covering their cowering captives with their guns. A thick red cloud billowed in the water beneath the platform as the auctioneer leaked blood.
“They’re getting away,” said Jennifer, rising to her feet. “We’ve got to stop them.”
“Wait. We can get them later. I know who it is.”
He grabbed Jennifer by the shoulder but her momentum knocked him off balance and he tripped, falling heavily against the grille. Years of corrosion had clearly taken their toll. The grille gave way under Tom’s weight and he plunged headfirst down into the cistern.
At the noise three men, still at the foot of the stairs, spun round and opened fire blindly in Tom’s direction, the bullets fizzing overhead and slamming into the wall behind him.
“Hold your fire.” The killer had reappeared at the top of the stairs, his silver gun still drawn and flecked with blood, skin and pieces of the auctioneer’s teeth.
“I want him alive,” he barked. “Bring him with us.”
The three armed men vaulted over the platform’s low rail and splashed down into the cistern and over to Tom, dragging him to his feet. He seemed confused, his legs unable to support his own weight, as if he had hit his head on the way down.
Above them, Jennifer’s mind was racing. She had recognized the killer’s voice. It was Van Simson.
“Oh, and clean that hole out,” Van Simson shouted. “He might still be with that meddling FBI bitch.”
Jennifer was already on her way. She had to get out and follow them. They had Tom. They had the coins. She couldn’t lose them now.
Behind her, she heard a gentle metallic ping and then the unmistakable sound of metal striking stone, first once, then again, the echo bouncing and bobbling down the tunnel like large marbles. Grenades.
She scrabbled along as quickly as she could until she was fifty, sixty, eighty yards from the opening into the cistern. Silently she counted down the seconds. Five, four, three, two. Jennifer flattened herself to the floor, shut her eyes and covered her ears. One.
Nothing could have prepared her for the deafening explosion of sound and heat that rolled over her, an inhuman roar that pressed her to the ground, driving the air from her lungs. As she gasped for breath, a second explosion rocked through the tunnel, the force of it lifting her several inches off the ground before dumping her back down again like a sack of coal.
She struggled back to her feet, shaking the debris from her hair, her eyes streaming in the smoke and dust. She coughed hoarsely, her mouth dry with fear as blood seeped from a gash on her chin. She had to get out. Fast.
A few minutes later she jumped down into the hammam’s boiler room. A surprised, bare-chested Turk, his dark and hairy body glowing red and covered in an oily slick of sweat and grime, leaped backward in surprise before shouting machine-gun Turkish at her retreating back.
Out of the room, up the stairs, through the corridor, back into the square where they had parked the car in the forbidding shadow of the ancient Çemberlita¸s column, its metal hoops gleaming like manacles.
She slipped behind the wheel and fired up the engine just as two blue vans sped down the street in front of her. She knew she had to stop them, do something, before they got away.
She swung the car onto Divan Yolu, the tires squealing reluctantly over its polished cobblestones. It had long been closed to car traffic, given over instead to trams running in both directions down the middle of the road, a low curb separating the tram lines from the pavements on either side which were, as ever, full of people.
She mounted the curb, the car’s suspension groaning as it slammed down the other side onto the metal tramlines. Ahead of her, the two vans seemed to be trapped behind a tram, but as she accelerated up to them, they both managed to slip out from behind it and roar past. She accelerated up to the tram and then wrenched the wheel sideways to follow them, the left front wing dipping as gravity and aerodynamic pressures took over.
Her windshield was immediately swallowed by the looming headlights of an onrushing tram.
“Shit.”
She slammed on the brakes, the car weaving unsteadily as she tucked it back in, the oncoming tram flashing past in a blur of lights and bells, warm air flooding through the open window.
“Shit.”
As soon as it was safely past, she dropped the car into second gear, the engine screaming in protest as the rev counter flicked to the right, and overtook the tram.
The delay had cost her valuable time. The vans were already over at the far end of the Hippodrome to her right and she gunned the motor hard as she launched herself off the tramlines and after them. The rubber bit into the cracked tarmac.
Up to fourth, then fifth, she was doing nearly seventy miles an hour as Aya Sofya and then the Blue Mosque sped past, their massed walls dyed white in the floodlights, their minarets reaching into the sky like bony fingers. Her headlights flashing, she leaned on the horn, pedestrians scattering in her wake, the car jigging around the seemingly insomniac postcard sellers that littered the city.
“Get out the way!” she screamed over the whine of the engine, catching sight of her wild hair and dust-caked face in the rearview mirror. Long, dirty tearstains tumbled from the corner of her eyes, even though she couldn’t remember crying. The acrid smell of her burning clutch filled the car, making her cough.
At the end of the Hippodrome, the road banked sharply downhill and toward the left. Jennifer saw the turn late, but instinct took over. She dropped into second again and lifted the hand brake as she turned the wheel, sending the car into a screeching sideways skid, the suspension yawing violently.
Her foot instantly back on the accelerator, she massaged the engine speed, turning first into the skid and then—as she sensed some faint traction returning to the blistering tires—back the other way as she goosed the gas. The car flicked obediently out of the skid, rounded the corner, and plunged down the hill like a roller coaster jackknifing through a turn.
She could see the vans down below her now, heading down to the water’s edge, but a police car leaped out of a side street to her left, siren blaring and blue lights flashing. She yanked the wheel to the right to avoid clipping its front wing and then back to the left, the car carving across the cobbles like an ice-skater doing a figure eight. Above her, she caught a glimpse of the tiered foundations of the Hippodrome’s banked seating, the silent ghosts of the bloodthirsty crowds cheering her on.
She turned to follow the vans down a narrow side street but was immediately confronted by another police car speeding toward her, its lights on full beam. Blinded, she threw her arm up to her face. The front right tire hit the curb and snatched the wheel out of her hand. The car jumped sideways and ploughed into the side of an apartment block, the metal chewing into the crumbling stone in a blaze of sparks.
Panting, she gripped the wheel, her knuckles white. The police car’s passenger door flew open and a familiar figure emerged into the beam of her one remaining headlight. Jennifer tumbled out of the car.
“It’s Van Simson, sir. He’s got the coins. And he’s got Tom.”
PARIS, FRANCE
30 July—11:02
A.M.
T
he smell of chloroform hung about Tom’s clothes like cheap aftershave, its burning sweet taste clinging to his dry and cracked lips. He remembered falling, being dragged out of the cistern and then tossed roughly into the depths of a van. But then nothing.
He was alive, at least. Given the cold-blooded way that Van Simson had disposed of the auctioneer, that was something. Although it did raise the question, of course, as to what exactly Van Simpson was planning to do with him.
He tentatively rolled over onto his front and tried to stand up, his eyes still adjusting to the light. He collapsed almost immediately, vomiting noisily over the stone floor. Gasping, he rolled onto his back and fought back the waves of nausea, focusing on his breathing to try and calm his racing heart and pounding head.
Van Simson? Was he Cassius? It didn’t make sense to Tom. He couldn’t be—why would he have stolen coins from his own auction? But he could still have been behind the Fort Knox job and then had the misfortune of Steiner stealing them from Schiphol Airport. Maybe he’d murdered Harry and hit the off-site to take back what he deemed to be rightfully his.
Either way, Van Simson was deeply involved in the whole mess and Tom had fallen straight into his lap. Literally. And what about Jennifer? Had she been able to get away? How would she know where Tom was when he didn’t even know himself for sure?
The nausea subsiding, Tom allowed himself to study the room around him. It was twelve feet square, he guessed, lit by a single bulb housed under an industrial-looking glass dome. There were no windows and the only way in or out was through a single steel door. An untouched tray of gray rice and yellow chicken lay at Tom’s feet.
He would have guessed that the room was an old wine cellar or some similar type of underground storeroom, if it hadn’t been for the items that had been theatrically arranged throughout the cell.
In the far corner, he recognized the unmistakable shape of an iron maiden, so called because of the unsmiling female face that decorated its exterior, unkempt hair trailing, some said, like a gorgon. Shaped like an upright sarcophagus and standing about six feet tall, it opened down the middle to reveal an inside filled with iron spikes. Its unfortunate victims would be placed inside and the two doors shut so as to impale them. In a sadistic refinement, the spikes were carefully positioned to avoid vital organs and so prolong the agony.
The walls were studded with similarly grotesque items. A blunt-looking heretic’s fork, large thumbscrews and some rusty cat’s-paws were just some of the items Tom recognized. Suspended from the ceiling, the thick chains of a Judas cradle swung gently in an unseen breeze.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke into his thoughts and he snapped his eyes toward the door as it gently eased open.
Darius Van Simson strode into the room, followed by two men, one wiry and thin, the other short and square. All three were still dressed in black combat fatigues. Clearly, they had not been back long.
“Tom, Tom, Tom.” Van Simson shook his head and tutted like a disappointed parent as he looked from the pool of vomit to Tom still huddled on the floor. “I’m sorry, really I am. That it should come to this. It’s not what I wanted.”
“Spare me your sympathy, Darius,” said Tom weakly. “By the way, nice place you’ve got down here.”
Van Simson smiled stonily.
“I’m reliably informed that this is the original torture chamber of the jail that stood on this site in the fifteenth century, before they knocked it down and built my house.”
So they were in Paris, Tom now knew. That was a five-hour flight from Istanbul even in Van Simson’s private jet. With a car journey at each end, that meant that at least six or seven hours must have passed since he’d been caught.
“I discovered it during the restoration work and thought I would recommission it. For historical reasons, of course. The items you see displayed here are all authentic.”
“What are you playing at, Darius? If the FBI isn’t on to you yet, they soon will be. And you’ve got Cassius to contend with now.” At Cassius’s name Van Simson’s back had stiffened slightly. Quickly he relaxed into another grudging smile.
“I see you share your father’s fighting spirit,” he observed.
“You leave my father out of this,” Tom snapped.
“And you also share his inability to mind your own fucking business.” The spittle flew from Van Simson’s mouth as he spoke, momentarily staining the floor black where it landed on the dusty flagstones.
“You made it my business when you killed Harry,” Tom yelled back, his strength returning to him.
“Harry? Harry Renwick? Is that what this is about? Oh, you should have said. We could have avoided all this unpleasantness. That was nothing to do with me. All I wanted was the coins. All I’ve ever wanted was the coins. I let that slimy bastard Ranieri slip through my fingers, but when I heard all five were going to be sold off I made my move. You should have kept out of it. It was a private party and you weren’t invited.”
“And you were?” Tom gave a short laugh.
“You think I’m worried? By Jean-Pierre Dumas’s eager little helpers scuttling around outside my house? They’ve got nothing. By the FBI? Well, that’s why you’re still alive, Tom. When they find out that Agent Browne’s dead and that the coins have disappeared for good, I think they’re going to be pretty interested in talking to you. I’m going to gift wrap you and hand you over myself. I might even tell them I caught you trying to break in here just to spice it up some more.” Van Simson’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile at the look on Tom’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t know, did you? I flushed out your little rabbit hole. I’m afraid she’s gone. Along with any alibi you might have had.”
With a sudden cry of fury, Tom lunged at Van Simson. But before he could cover the few feet between them, he was overpowered by the two guards who leaped onto him. The two men pinned Tom’s arms to his side and sat him up with his back to the wall.
“You will have to excuse me, Tom, but I am expecting someone,” said Van Simson as he reached up and unhooked a large metal object off the wall.
Tom recognized what he was holding. A scold’s bridle: A large cage made to lock around its victim’s head and prevent its unfortunate wearer from speaking by jamming a metal protrusion into their mouth.
“Husbands used to put these on their nagging wives,” said Van Simson as the two guards forced the cage over Tom’s head. “Let’s see if it cools your tongue. And your temper.” The lock clicked shut as he turned the key.
Tom tried to shout as Van Simson and his two guards left the room, but the thick metal tongue piece dug sharply into the back of his throat and he began to gag.
One thing was clear to Tom. He had to get out and he had to get out fast. Before Van Simson changed his mind and returned to try out any more of his sadistic toys.
Running both hands around his neck, he soon found the lock positioned on the right-hand side of the cage. He felt a glimmer of hope. Van Simson, in his commitment to authenticity, had not replaced the original, rather rudimentary lock with a more modern one. Grabbing the metal fork off the tray of congealed food on the floor next to him, he bent one of its prongs out and then back in on itself to make a small hook.
Inserting the bent prong into the lock opening, Tom moved it carefully around, feeling his way through the springs and levers until with a sudden click, the mechanism popped open. He lifted the cage off his head with relief, massaging his jaw and moving his tongue around in his mouth to get the circulation back, spitting flecks of paint and rusty metal out onto the floor.
Struggling to his feet, he made his way over to the door. This was not so hopeful. Here Van Simson had not compromised, fitting a complex electronic lock that would require specialist equipment to open. Equipment that Tom didn’t have.
Across the room, half lost in the semidarkness, the iron maiden leered at him pitilessly.
