The Painted Messiah (23 page)

'Open your door, please,' the first policeman said, still speaking High German.

Wheeler did not respond because he could not. He sat frozen in terror. The policeman on the passenger side of the automobile tipped his gun down until it was aiming at Wheeler's crotch. In English, he said, 'I will not ask you again. Open the door.'

Wheeler looked about stupidly, wondering what door he meant. Then he fumbled for the door handle. It was locked. He found the switch. He pulled the door handle and the gunman opened the door, gesturing for

Wheeler to slide across and make room. The policeman at the driver's door now jerked Marco's body out of the car and into the street. He settled behind the steering wheel and flipped the gear selector to drive.

They were moving again before Wheeler even understood what had happened.

'Dr North?' The uniformed policemen were both young and well-dressed. They pointed the machine guns slung across their shoulders politely away from her.

'Yes?'

'Would you be so kind as to come with us?'

Nicole was alone. She had only a small travelling bag with her and had already cleared security. 'What is this about?'

'Our supervisor asked us to bring you to his office.'

'I have a flight to catch.'

'That won't be a problem. This won't take long.'

The painting, she thought. They assumed she was smuggling it out of the country. Well, they could look all they wanted, but they were going to be disappointed. 'Why not?' she asked with a sudden smile.

Malloy did not answer the man. Having his moral victory Mohawk walked past him. At that moment a second young man appeared, like the first coming through the door closest to Bob Whitefield. This one had a yellow Mohawk. He was probably older by half-a-dozen years. Yellow Mohawk carried his leather jacket in his right hand. He staggered a bit as he turned back seemingly to close the door. His jacket gave an odd jerk. Malloy was processing this when he saw the barrel of a gun in the reflection of the glass across the aisle. It was moving from behind his headrest and nearly touching his skull.

Before he could react, the explosion of Max's shotgun sent Malloy's would-be-assassin to the floor. The man in the yellow Mohawk dropped his jacket and aimed his handgun at Max as Max jacked a second shell into his gun. Malloy tipped his Glock up slightly and fired once. The man jerked back against the door and slipped to the floor. Malloy stood up and brought his Glock around to cover the kid in the seat by Max, but he was down on the floor, his arms covering his head. The old lady stared silently at Malloy. Her expression was a strange mix of confusion and curiosity. She had not yet registered fear. Instinctively, he said to her in Swiss German, 'We make a movie. We're all actors!' Her face relaxed. For a fraction of a moment everything made perfect sense.

Malloy did not hear the next shot. He heard only the breaking of glass and Max hitting the floor. Expecting the gunman to come into the compartment, he settled his gun sights on the door behind Max, but the assassin stepped off the train as it was still rolling to a stop. He walked along the platform until he came to Malloy's wagon and lifted his weapon.

Malloy fired three shots and the man hit the concrete platform. His gun skittered away. The people around him broke for cover with a roar of panic. Max groaned loudly and struggled back to his feet. His face was grey and stricken. Malloy was watching him and did not see the man outside who shot him. He simply felt himself tossed back into the seats across the aisle. He heard the
gun's explosion as he hit. Max's twelve-gauge deer slug answered. For a moment everything was quiet.

Malloy rolled to the floor. His breath was short and rapid. He touched the vest and found the hot metal slug buried in the padding. 'Platform is clear,' Max told him in English. 'If you are going, you better go now.'

Malloy took a deep, painful breath and crawled down the aisle. When he got to the front of the wagon he saw Whitefield stretched across his seat with a bullet hole in his forehead. Malloy took the package, pushed the dead assassin away from the door, and left the wagon. He found two sets of doors beyond. One faced the platform. The other accessed an empty track. Malloy tried the doors facing the tracks, but they were sealed shut. The platform in front of him was still empty except for two dead bodies. A train waited on the other side of the platform. Through the windows Malloy could see a number of people staring out in horror at the dead gunmen on the platform. Max came through the door. 'The cops are here in another thirty seconds. They are at the escalator.'

Malloy watched for some kind of movement on the train opposite them. When he saw nothing, he started through the door. Max brought his twelve-gauge forward as he did so. 'Get back!'

A movement at the bottom of the escalator turned into a gunman.

Instead of pulling back, Malloy dropped between the train and the concrete platform. He landed on a bed of crushed rock safely out of the line of fire. Max fired three rounds as Malloy scrambled under the train.

Coming to his feet on the other side, Malloy looked in both directions.

The tunnel was well lit at the station, but beyond the end of the train he could see only darkness. He took off at a sprint in the direction from which the train had come. Once out of the station and deep inside the tunnel he was forced to walk for several agonizing seconds. After only a few steps he heard someone running after him. Max? The assassins? The police? He didn't care to find out and began running again.

The light was pale at first, but it provided enough illumination that he could make out the shadows of the tracks as he came to the end of the tunnel. He broke into the daylight still running flat out. He watched the high concrete walls overhead. After fifty yards or so he climbed a steep bank and crossed a small strip of land. He jogged across a service road and entered a Credit Suisse parking lot.

There was a time not too many years ago when the Swiss left their keys in the ignition. Those days were gone. Swiss-owned automobiles now had alarms and J-bars like the rest of the world. The doors were all locked, and most of them were even relatively secure from a quick hotwire. The Dodge Shadow provided a nice exception to hot wiring deterrents though. When he saw one of them Malloy broke the glass with the butt of his gun and opened the door. Around the ignition lock was a plastic glow ring. By jamming a pointed object into the ignition and pulling down hard, he could shatter the ring and access the starter wires. All he needed was a pointed object. He looked around the car and saw nothing. Unfastening his belt, he
jammed the tongue into the ignition and slammed the buckle with his fist. The glow ring broke, and he brought the wires out.

A moment later the engine sputtered to life.

Jeffrey Bremmer waited for the two private security men to bring Nicole North to him. It had cost him roughly ten thousand Swiss Francs for each. And of course no questions asked. The office cost him nothing. It belonged to a true Knight of the Temple.

The moment Nicole North arrived, he asked the two cantonal policemen to step outside and make sure he was not disturbed.

'You were travelling with Dr Starr,' he said to the woman in English.

The question put her off-balance for some reason. 'What of it?'

'Where is he?'

'What is this about? Who are you? I want to see some credentials.' It was the tough talk of someone who knows her rights, but North's eyes betrayed her. She was scared.

'I need to speak to Dr Starr.'

'I can't help you. If you want to talk to him, go find him. I have no idea where he is. Now may I go? I have a plane to catch.'

Bremmer walked behind the woman. The stink of her fear began to smother the sweet scent of her perfume. 'You may not go. You may not even live another fifteen seconds if you don't tell me what I need to know.'

North spun around to face him, but her courage, like the blood in her face, washed out of her. 'Who
are
you?'

Bremmer presented the opened blade of a razor. 'I am the man you answer and obey if you want to keep your face. Now where is Dr Starr?'

North grabbed the desk to keep from collapsing. Her eyes never left the exposed razor. Against her pleadings for her life Bremmer's only response was to tell her to give him the information he requested.

'He was going to follow the courier - Thomas Malloy. He wanted to make sure nothing went wrong.'

Bremmer made a phone call. He spoke in German so North would not understand. If Starr was inside the airport, Bremmer needed a team to find him at once.

The answer came back unexpectedly. 'We don't have anyone available. Everyone is looking for Malloy.'

Bremmer raged angrily, 'Malloy? What are you telling me? He got away?'

'We've put every extra man we have in the airport looking for him.'

'He was the only one who mattered!'

'I understand that.'

'I don't think you do!'

'Do you want me to call someone back to look for Starr?'

'No. Call me in ten minutes or as soon as you have Malloy.'

Off the phone, Bremmer looked at Nicole North and felt a moment of remorse. Sir Julian had given Dr North to him for the afternoon - anything he wanted after the interrogation - only this requirement: her death was to leave one unmistakable message —
Gare le Corbeau!
He had been looking forward to this afternoon for several days, and now suddenly nothing
was settled. Malloy had gotten away with the portrait.

'What are you going to do to me?' North asked.

Kate called Ethan just as he was hanging the Shop Closed sign in the front door of his Zürich bookshop. Sean, the soon-to-be owner of the bookshop, was on the second floor of the old building opening and shelving the season's new mysteries.

'Check your bank account,' Kate told him.

Ethan paced nervously. 'I already have. It's great.' He glanced toward the second floor stacks. Sean was already pressing him about his decision to sell. What was he planning? What about Kate? Was it really over? Talking about roughly eight million dollars would pretty much confirm his suspicions that Ethan was involved in something more than an unexpected family inheritance.

'Happy?'

'That's a tough one,' Ethan answered. 'You know it's not supposed to buy happiness.'

Kate laughed pleasantly. 'But it certainly makes misery easier to handle.'

'Does it?'

'I've been thinking.' Her tone was serious. He was about to hear that it was over.

'About us?'

'About giving up the life, actually. I think you might be right. Quit while we're on top of our game.'

'You're serious?' Ethan felt dizzy with excitement. 'I thought you were going to tell me to forget it.'

'I thought I was, too, but then I decided working alone again ... I'd probably get caught.'
'You're too good for that.'

'You're probably right. The truth? The truth is ... I don't want to lose you.'

'I was sure you were going to call and tell me it was over. I mean, I just gave the shop to Sean.'

Kate laughed. 'Make him give it back!'

'No. I want to do something else. Maybe go to graduate school, try to become a professor.'

'Where?'

'Doesn't really matter. Just so I can be close to you.'

'Why don't you come down to the cabin this evening and we can talk about . . . you know . . . alternatives. I'm not going to sit at home and knit while you go to school.'

Ethan laughed, pacing excitedly. 'Sean and I are going out this afternoon. I'm signing the business over to him in the morning at the lawyer's office—'

Sean shouted from the second floor.

'That was Sean.'

'Say 'hi' to Sean for me.'

'I will. How about tomorrow afternoon? I can be there around one o'clock.'

'I'll see you then. Hey, one more thing. Do you want to get married next week?'

The door to his shop rattled. Ethan turned to see two men in suits. They were middle-aged. One of them was well over six feet tall. The second man was small and round, but even with a suit jacket on Ethan could see he was mostly muscle.

'I thought—' He had thought marriage was out, the last thing in the world Kate wanted. 'That sounds good, Kate! Let's do it!'

The taller of the two men held a detective's badge against the glass door.

'Listen, there's someone here. I have to go.'

'Is everything okay?'

The shorter man glanced toward the street. Ethan stepped toward the door and held his hand up, a gesture that announced he was coming as soon as he was off the phone. 'Everything's fine. You're serious? You mean like kids and happily-ever-after?'

'Why not? If we're going to do it, let's do it right.'

'Sounds great. I'll talk to you tomorrow.'

Ethan was still smiling when he opened the door for the two detectives. He spoke High German to signal to them he did not understand Swiss German. 'What can I do for you?' He figured it was a piece of paper he hadn't filled out correctly for the bureaucracy. That had to be it. There was nothing the Swiss enjoyed more than paperwork. The larger of the two men folded his badge away and shook Ethan's hand. A big soft hand, but the eyes, like those of his partner's, moved restlessly, cop- style, taking the room in at a glance. 'Zimmer,' he said.