Too Damn Rich (87 page)

"What the hell—?" "Jones" roared, glowering
at her.

You stupid idiot bastard, Dina thought, and
said: "Unless you let us do something, she's going to bleed to
death. Is that what you want?"

He glared at her in silence.

Dina continued to laser him with her eyes.
Why do things in halves? she thought. Once you're on a limb, you
might as well climb all the way out.

"If she dies because of you," she went on,
"you can kiss her ransom good-bye. As well as Prince Karl-Heinz's,
I would imagine. And the same goes for the Goldsmiths. My husband
and I."

Her words had a galvanizing effect: a
mutinous rumble of angry murmurs rose from the crowd.

"It seems to me," Dina added, with stinging
scorn, "that you're intent upon shrinking your imaginary coffers by
the minute."

For a moment "Jones" seemed confused. This
volley of verbal arrows was the last thing he'd anticipated.

These people aren't easily cowed, he thought.
And as to whether or not this woman's bluffing, that's not my
decision to make.

Dina saw him glancing around, his eyes
searching the gallery as though seeking advice—no! Not advice, she
realized. Permission! She followed his gaze, but nothing caught her
attention.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she
whispered to Karl-Heinz.

He nodded. "Yes. Besides the eight of them,
there's a ninth. Whoever the ringleader is, he's seated among
us."

"Jones's" pager emitted three short
beeps.

"All right," he barked. "Move her to an
aisle. But she can't leave. No one can."

An aisle?
Kenzie thought, with
outrage.
They're going to lay Zandra down in one of the
aisles?
She was shocked. This was no way for anybody to have to
give birth—least of all someone suffering serious complications.
Zandra won't have to, she decided
. Not if I have anything to say
about it!

Kenzie stepped forward. Her throat felt
constricted, and her heart was ka-booming. For an instant she
wondered if she might not be making a terrible mistake. But there
was no time to consider the consequences. Zandra's life was at
stake.

"What about taking her into the painting
storeroom?" she called out." That way, it won't interfere with ..
Her voice trailed off. With whatever, she thought grimly.

"Right," "Jones" decided, and grinned. "Since
you thought of it, you can help carry her in there."

Gladly, Kenzie thought, hurrying around to
the front.

"The prince and I will help also," Dina
decided imperiously. "My husband has our lot numbers."

Without waiting for a reply, Dina tossed her
purse into Robert's lap and tore off her black mesh gloves. Then
she and Karl-Heinz reached down, placed one of Zandra's arms around
each of their shoulders, and lifted her upright. As gently as
possible, they held her up between them and did a slow sideways
shuffle to the aisle.

Kenzie was waiting. She grabbed Zandra's feet
and lifted her legs.

Together, the three of them carried her, like
a fragile, priceless heirloom, to the dais, up the steps, and
around the easel and through the double-width doorway behind
it.

Once inside, they lowered her slowly to the
floor between racks of paintings. Zandra's stomach was heaving
again, and Karl-Heinz took the cellular phone and his wallet out of
his breast pocket and tossed them to the floor. Then, swiftly
shedding his jacket, he rolled it up and placed it under her
head.

"You'll be fine," he kept telling her softly.
"Do not be afraid."

Zandra stared up into his face, her eyes
darkened by shadows. She shook her head. "I'm going to lose the
baby."

"Hush. Don't talk like a fool." He put his
hand over hers and covered it. She gripped his fingers tightly.

Dina and Kenzie, kneeling on either side of
her, pushed the bloodied white gown up to Zandra's waist.

Kenzie drew a deep breath. Oh, shit, she
thought.

The hemorrhaging had not abated. If anything,
it was even worse.

Dina met her gaze levelly. "We need a
doctor," she said firmly, getting to her feet.

"Where are you going?" Kenzie asked.

"Why, to fetch one, sweetie," Dina said,
surprised that she should ask. "Where else would I be off to?"

Kenzie stared at her in amazement.

Sofia slid her cellular phone out of her
purse and punched the automatic speed dial for the clinic outside
Augsburg. Lifting the phone to her ear, she spoke softly into it.
"Dr. Rantzau, please. Tell him it's Princess von und zu
Engelwiesen."

Then she waited, ignoring the Lebanese who
was cursing her from the aisle and gesturing that she put the phone
away.

Dr. Rantzau came on the line. "Your Highness?
I was about to call you. I'm sorry. Your father is slipping away.
The priest has just been here to give him his last rites."

The priest! Sofia thought. Who gives a damn
about the priest? "Are Herr Meindl and his son there?" That's
what's important!

"Yes, Your Highness."

"They are to remain there to time and witness
what happens."

"Yes, Your High—"

Sofia punched off the phone and slid it back
inside her purse.

She thought: If Zandra should give birth now,
it's doubtful the child will live. Not that it matters, anyway.
There's not one, let alone the three requisite lawyers present to
confirm the birth.

She was smiling.

Things really couldn't be working out any
better . . .

Outside Burghley's, the floodlit Venetian
facade throbbed with colors from the flashing blue, red, and orange
light bars atop the various emergency vehicles. Inside the police
barricades, the number of squad cars had tripled, joined now by FBI
sedans, a total of twenty EMS vehicles, six fire engines, and two
bomb squad vans.

Overhead, news helicopters circled the twin
campaniles of Auction Towers like predatory birds, feeding live
aerial footage back to the networks.

The number of spectators on the scene had
multiplied, obviously a result of the breaking news headlines.

All over the country, people were glued to
their TV sets.

This was television at its best. Not only was
a real-life hostage drama unreeling, but the victims were among the
richest, most powerful, and protected people on earth, the
privileged few who waltzed through life inhabiting a seemingly more
elegant and brighter parallel universe.

Now the sordid horrors of the real world had
caught up with them.

And millions watched. Fascinated.

"The fuck is going on?" Charley muttered
silently to himself. He was above the auction gallery, peering down
through a ventilation grille. At first glance, everything looked
normal, like an auction was in session.

Then a man with a semiautomatic Uzi revolver
in each hand passed directly below him.

Definitely not normal, Charlie thought. Just
about as far from normal as you can get.

Now that he was on the lookout, other gunmen
caught his eye, eight if you counted the one behind the lectern.
Beside him stood a well-known, elegant white-haired man in his
seventies. Charley turned his head sideways, putting his ear to the
grille to listen.

"Lot number two. Veroni, Maurizio Paolo. Age,
seventy-three. Married. Resident of Bareggio, Como, Rome,
Pantelleria, New York, Paris, and London. Industrialist. Fortune
derived from Fido automobiles. Net worth six billion dollars. Your
reserve price has been set at five hundred million ..."

Holy shit! Charley raised his head. They're
auctioning off people!

He quickly crawled on, trying to move faster.
Hoping to God that the painting storeroom wasn't guarded. That he
could crawl out and hop down in there.

I've got to radio for help, he thought. There
are too many of them. Trying to take them out single-handedly would
be suicide. And I'm not ready to die just yet.

The police commissioner was taking the heat
from the Feds. "You have done your part, now you stay out of this,"
the head of the local FBI office was telling him, punctuating each
"you" and "your" with a jab of his finger. "From here on in, it's
our call. You got that?"

As usual, the Suits had come barging in,
trampling over everyone and leaving a trail of bruised egos in
their wake.

Except this isn't a matter of bruised egos,
the PC thought. It's a matter of life and death.

"Back off, buddy," he retorted, showing
starch and backbone. "First off, I've put a man in there. No one
jeopardizes him or does anything until we hear from him."

"And how long's that going to take?"

"Till I say so. Second, unless I personally
hear differently from your director, we do this my way. You don't
know diddly about what's going on in there. Third, you want to know
how many of the hostages are personal friends of the President's?
I'll gladly show you the list. You get trigger-happy, I'll go right
over your head and call the White House. You'll be lucky if they
send you to a field office in Alaska or North Dakota!"

"Fifteen minutes," the Fed snapped. "After
that, it's our show. Fifteen minutes is all I'll give you." Again,
he jabbed his index finger on the word "you."

Quick as a flash, the PC grabbed the digit
and held tight.

"Hey—!"

"And fourth," the PC growled quietly, "next
time you point your fuckin' finger at me, I'm gonna fuckin' break
it off, buddy! You got that?"

Then the PC let go of him and strode toward
the waiting SWAT teams to brief them on the heating ducts. I must
be crazy, he thought. I've got more faith in Ferraro than all the
Suits combined.

He wondered if maybe it wasn't time to get
his head checked.

"Lady, you're becoming one hell of a pain in
the ass. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you right
now."

Dina was undaunted. "Because," she informed
him calmly, "my friends and I are much too valuable to shoot. Or
perhaps you'd like to use your beeper and ask permission from your
superior?"

The blood blossomed under the skin of
"Jones's" face, coloring it crimson. "I'm in charge," he snarled.
"Maybe killing you will prove it." He raised one of his revolvers
and aimed it at her.

Dina froze. For one horrible, drawn-out split
second, she wondered whether she had actually gone too far.

Then his beeper emitted a single burst of
sound.

He kept the revolver trained on her a moment
longer before slowly lowering it.

So Heinzie and I guessed correctly! Dina
thought. The mastermind really was out there somewhere. Somehow,
we'll have to find a way to flush him out.

But that could wait.

She addressed the assemblage in a loud, clear
voice: "I believe I recognized Dr. Irving Landau, the heart
surgeon, when we first came in. Dr. Landau? If it is you, please.
We need help desperately."

The handsome, gray-haired surgeon rose from
the eleventh row on the right.

"I can't thank you enough, doctor. We shall
cover your ... er, reserve price." Carefully avoiding Robert, who
was no doubt keeping a mental tally and ready to go ballistic,
Dina's eyes swept the rows of seats. "Also, to witness the birth,
we need three practicing attorneys—"

"No!" Sofia screamed, jumping to her feet.
"You can't let her—"

"Silence!" thundered the Lebanese on her side
of the aisle, who raised his Uzi. "Sit down!"

"Erwein!" she whined. "Do something!"

Erwein did. He grabbed her by the wrist and
yanked her down into her seat.

She shook off his hand and turned on him. "I
told you to do something!" she hissed.

"I did. I was saving your life."

"Humpf!" she sniffed, turning away. Erwein
saving me! she thought. What a joke!

"For legal reasons," Dina continued, "this
child's birth must be witnessed by three attorneys. So please. If
there are three of you, we'll be happy to pay for your reserves
also."

Now she could distinctly hear Robert
choke.

"Any three of you," Dina added urgently as
five men rose from their seats. "But please! Hurry!"

Dr. Landau had reached the dais and Dina
swiftly took him by the arm, guided him around the Velazquez, and
into the painting storeroom. He took one look at Zandra and
stripped off his jacket.

"Cover her with this." He tossed it at
Karl-Heinz. "We don't want her to go into shock."

Unasked, Kenzie unbuttoned her suit jacket
and gave it to Karl- Heinz, and Dina slid out of her burgundy
cut-velvet silk jacket and did the same.

"We need to keep her covered," Dina told the
three attorneys as they came in. "Please, gentlemen. If you could
lend us your jackets?"

Kenzie stared at the attorneys as they shed
their coats. Each was famous, a star in his own field.

One was the top divorce lawyer in the
country.

Another was the infamous
consigliere
of a Mafia crime syndicate.

And the third was a well-known entertainment
lawyer.

Only Dina could have come up with that
selection, Kenzie thought admiringly.

"Water," Dr. Landau ordered, plucking the
gold cufflinks off his white shirt, rolling up his sleeves, and
kneeling between Zandra's parted legs.

Kenzie said, "There isn't any, I'm
afraid."

He shook his head in despair and sighed.
"Well, then we'll just have to make do. Perfume?"

"Zandra was still clutching her purse when we
brought her in," Kenzie said. "Let me see."

She looked around, spied it, and snapped it
open. "Will a spray bottle of Panthere de Cartier do?"

"In a pinch, yes." Dr. Landau held up his
hands. "And be quick about it."

Kenzie liberally squirted both sides of his
hands and half his forearms.