Beloved Enemy (20 page)

She guided the tip to the center of her neckline, then increased the pressure. She heard the fabric separate, felt the bite of the steel edge, like the nip of an insect bite, at her skin, the warmth, the coppery odor of her own blood. She guided his fist and the blade downward in a straight line until her pullover was bisected, the two sections falling away to either side, revealing her heavy breasts and the light line of blood along her breastbone. A tiny drop, like a liquid ruby, wandered down her abdomen to pool in her navel.

Fareed, mesmerized, followed its path with his eyes. His thick lips were parted, and she could hear the soft animal pant of his breath. His fingers opened, the knife fell to the floor, the edge of its blade covered in a ribbon of her blood.

“Fareed,” she breathed.

As if obeying a silent order, he knelt before her. His hand cupped her breast. His lips opened, his tongue traveling down the superficial wound she had granted him. He licked the drop of blood from her navel.

Reaching down, Annika slowly raised the hem of her skirt, revealing just the point of the vee between her thighs. Fareed sighed as he burrowed his tongue into her. Annika’s head went back, her neck arched, the tendons rising against her tender skin as her hips rocked back and forth. She took his hands, sliding them around her hips until they grabbed her buttocks, and she gasped, bending over him as she came.

Then she reached behind her, unzipped her skirt. He shivered at the sound of metal against metal. The skirt writhed down her thighs as she slowly rolled her hips, pooling at her slender ankles. She lowered herself, kneeling, as she undressed him.

When he entered her, she was already elsewhere. Her body reacted on its own while her mind moved over what she wanted, what she needed, and how to get it. Her thoughts inevitably strayed to her grandfather, to his overarching plan, which, like the chess master he had been, spanned not years, but decades. There were times that she had doubts, when she had been downright skeptical, especially when she had discovered that she did not know every aspect of his dream, but her profound devotion to him kept her to the path he had laid out. When, precisely, had she intuited the key role Jack would play? She did not know, or maybe did not want to know.

Above her, Fareed groaned deeply, bucking his hips into her like a bull. He rolled off her, taking some of her sweat with him.

“Fareed,” she whispered, “I want to see my husband.”

Fareed stared up at the ceiling, then his head turned toward her and he stared into her eyes. “Is there anything you won’t do for him?” he asked.

Though she was startled by the insight of his question she did not show it. Instead, she smiled. “I love him, Fareed.”

He stared at her a moment longer. Then he rose to his knees, rummaging in his trouser pocket. He handed her the key.

“Be quick,” he said. “Namazi will be back shortly.”

Nodding, she stood and stepped past him, the chimera guarding the gate, to the door, inserting the key. She stepped across the threshold, closed the door at her back.

Contrary to what Fareed had told her, Rolan was standing by the window, looking out. He did not turn when he heard her softly call his name. He did not move at all. She thought about what he had been in the summertime of their love, what had happened to him during the Syrian’s terrorist raid, and not for the first time thought it would have been better if he had been killed there in the street with the others, covered with shattered glass and the ball bearings used in the vest bombs. Not better for her grandfather, but better for her, and surely better for Rolan.

Now she went to Rolan, naked, coated with another man’s sweat, and placed the bloody knife in his hand. “It’s time,” she said.

Rolan did not look down as his fingers grasped the hilt, but he turned and looked at her, through her, past her, and Annika’s heart contracted once again, though she had promised herself it would never happen again. She had to remember that the Rolan she knew, who had laughed and held her, slept peacefully beside her and made love to her, was dead, destroyed by the ball bearing that had struck his head, the shrapnel that had pierced his body. He had died, and when he had returned to life it was as a different person. A miracle of medicine or an abomination? Rolan might never have existed. He was now something … other.

It was her grandfather who had recognized this first, even before Dr. Karalian, and had devised a use for what Rolan had become. At first, she had been filled with rage—rage that Rolan had left her prematurely, though being in the wrong place at the wrong time was not his fault. Gradually, the new reality sank in, but her irrational rage at Rolan for being in the wrong place at the wrong time consumed her. For three months she had not seen or spoken to him. And her grandfather had wisely stayed away, letting her passions cool.

Annika turned now, watching Rolan cross the bedroom, swing open the door, and step out into the salon. She could see Fareed, already dressed, sitting on the chair she had used, bending over to tie his shoelaces.

His head came up when he sensed someone approaching. His eyes grew wide, surprised that it was Rolan, not her standing in front of him. She saw Rolan’s arm swing out in a shallow arc, perfectly calibrated and incredibly fast. Fareed had just enough time to register alarm, but not enough to rear back, before the knife blade slid across the width of his throat, left to right, so deeply that, in a geyser of blood, his cervical vertebrae were severed, his entire head dangling at an impossible angle.

T
HIRTEEN

D
R.
B
ENJAMIN
M. S
CHEIWOLD
, the discreet brass plaque by the right side of the door said. The brass was so highly polished Jack could see his face in it. He didn’t particularly like what he saw. He looked haggard, dark rings bruised the flesh beneath his eyes, as if he had been in a fight, which he was, a fight for his life. But his skin looked bleached and his hair was disheveled from his adventures in Bangkok and the long flight to Zurich, during which he had read in detail Nona’s material on Leroy Connaston. He looked like a hunted man, though he knew that he must present himself to the world as perfectly normal.

A doctor, Jack thought now as he drew away from his reflection. He took out the slip of paper Connaston had secreted in the gold heart he had given Jaidee, checked the address again. Jack had expected it to lead him to one of the great Swiss banks. Why was Scheiwold so important to Connaston he felt the need to leave his address in Jaidee’s safekeeping before what he must have suspected might be his last rendezvous?

Jack rang the bell next to the brass plaque, but there was no immediate answer. He turned, staring out at the busy street and the city.

Zurich, hunkered like a neoclassical
burger
at the northwestern tip of a cerulean blue Alpine lake, was founded by the Romans more than seven thousand years ago. Millennia later, in 1519, to be exact, it had given painful birth to the Protestant Reformation. At the moment Jack had stepped out of the Kloten Airport into a brisk, dry wind and a clear, high sky, Zurich was still one of the major financial centers of the world, which was very possibly why he had chased Pyotr Legere here.

With its plethora of high-steepled churches and steep-roofed houses, Zurich studiously maintained a certain Middle Ages charm. Across the placid surface of Lake Zurich could be seen boatyards and, farther inland, settlements that might still belong to German barons with storied, long-tail histories. Beyond, the vista widened out onto azure mountains towered over by the razorblade shoulders of snow-capped Alps.

Turning back, he rang the bell again, and this time received an answering buzz. He pushed the heavy wrought-iron and glass door inward, and stepped into a circular marble foyer, on the far side of which was a wide staircase with a polished brass banister. Above his head hung an ormolu chandelier, like a multifingered stalactite. On a small antique marquetry console to the left of the door to the doctor’s suite stood a fluted crystal vase out of which exploded like fireworks two dozen white calla lilies, exuding the unmistakable scent of money.

Jack crossed the small space, opened the wide door, and stepped into Dr. Scheiwold’s office. The moment he saw the frame with a digital display of women before and after facial surgery displayed on a glass coffee table in front of a plush semicircular sofa, he heard Legere’s voice, an echo from the tape Paull had played for him:

“… he swung the M82A3 Special Application scoped rifle right into my face. I’ll need plastic surgery. I can’t go back into the field with this on my face. How would I ever melt into a crowd? It’s like a neon sign.”

It was clear now. Legere had been desperate to escape Bangkok and the attention of Naresuan 261 as quickly as possible so he could get his damaged face repaired.

“May I help you, sir?” A blond, blue-eyed woman in her early thirties who could have been a model, and no doubt was a living advertisement for Dr. Scheiwold, glanced up from whatever she had been doing. Her exquisite face was reminiscent of an alabaster statue, the features so perfect they were blinding.

“I’d like to see Dr. Scheiwold,” Jack said, stepping up to the marble counter behind which she resided, and which reflected the expectant expression on her face.

“May I have your name, sir?”

“Edward Griffiths.”

The receptionist glanced down at her tablet, then back up at him. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see your name in Dr. Scheiwold’s appointment book.”

“Pity,” Jack said. “In any event, I need to see him now.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. The doctor is in with—”

“Tell him it’s about Pyotr Legere.”

The most extraordinary thing happened to the receptionist’s face. An instantaneous flicker, like the briefest of power drains to a computer screen, passed across her eyelids. Otherwise, she remained motionless until her head moved from side to side.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffiths, but I don’t recognize that name.”

Jack glanced at the door to the offices, saw that it could only be opened by the receptionist buzzing him in as she had done with the door to the street.

“Dr. Scheiwold will,” Jack said, “I assure you.”

“I’m sorry.” Her expression indicated that she wasn’t in the least sorry.

At that moment, the door to Scheiwold’s inner sanctum swung open and a fragile-looking woman, so thin she looked like a whippet, came through and began to engage the receptionist regarding payment and booking her next visit. Her face was a blotchy red, still swollen from the doctor’s procedure. Like the receptionist, she looked far too young for plastic surgery.

Jack took the opportunity to grab the door before it closed, and step inside.

“Sir,” the receptionist called after him. “Sir, you can’t go in there.”

She rounded the corner, but Jack was already at the doctor’s consultation room and had stepped inside before she darkened the doorway with her perfect body.

“Yes?” Dr. Scheiwold looked up, peering at them both through wire-rimmed glasses with round frames.

“My apologies, doctor,” the receptionist said, “but this man just barged in and—”

“I’m here,” Jack intervened, “about Pyotr Legere.”

“Doctor, I told him I had no idea who—”

“That’s all right, Greta.” Scheiwold raised a pink, manicured hand in which he held a slim gold fountain pen. “I’ll take care of this.” And when she hesitated, hanging indecisively in the doorway, he flicked his fingers at her. “I believe Fraulein Kirsch wants to come in next week.”

“Very well, doctor.” The scowl on Greta’s face did not do her any favors.

When the two men were alone, Scheiwold put down his pen and tented his fingers. “Now who the hell are you?” he said in a tone reinforced with steel.

“My name is Edward Griffiths.”

Scheiwold shrugged. “Means nothing to me.”

“It doesn’t mean anything to anyone,” Jack said.

“Ah, you’re one of those.” Scheiwold nodded. “The moment you mentioned Legere’s name I should have known.” He extended one hand. “Well, then. You might as well make yourself comfortable, but please close the door first, if you don’t mind.”

Preferring a private interview, Jack closed the door, then came and sat down on an upholstered armchair facing the ornate polished walnut desk. For a moment, he studied Scheiwold. The doctor’s real age could be anywhere from mid-forties to mid-sixties. He had the opulently polished look of all the marble and wood he had selected for his office, as if each morning he was massaged, barbered, bathed, and clothed by professionals. He wore an immaculate three-piece suit obviously made for him, beneath which Jack observed little fat. He had the aquiline nose of a Roman, the eyes of a hawk, and a loose-lipped rather feminine mouth.

“Now tell me, Herr Griffiths, what is your business with Pyotr Legere?”

“He’s a patient of yours,” Jack said, ignoring the other’s question.

Scheiwold winced. “Please. Client.”

“You worked on him, very recently.”

Scheiwold shrugged again. “Why would I?”

Jack leaned forward. “Because last week in Bangkok Legere was struck on the cheek with the butt end of an M82A3 Special Application scoped rifle. Do you know what that is, doctor?”

Scheiwold picked up a lighter, flicked it open. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Shouldn’t you know better?”

The plastic surgeon gave a snort as he opened a desk drawer. Jack was out of his chair in an instant. Reaching over, he clamped his hand around Scheiwold’s wrist just as the doctor had taken hold of a wicked-looking gravity knife.

“You’re not going to smoke that, Herr Doktor,” Jack said, pocketing the knife. “And from now on, keep your hands on your desktop where I can see them.” When Scheiwold had complied, Jack continued. “The rifle, Herr Doktor. Are you familiar with it?”

Scheiwold looked disgusted. “I go hunting up in the mountains. I have several sporting rifles. I don’t know this one.”

“It’s a United States marine assault rifle. Pyotr Legere, your
client
, is in some very deep
Scheiße
. He’s a wanted man. More specifically, he’s wanted by me.”