Rogue Angel 51: The Pretender's Gambit (10 page)

Chapter 13

The party aboard the yacht was winding down into
drunken debauchery as Sequeira knew it would. These things always ended like
this once enough alcohol had been poured into his guests. Most of them had
already left, taking small transport boats back to the coast. Only a few would
stay over on the boat. They would be witnesses if Sequeira ever needed them.

He sat out on the deck with a bottle of wine, a Cuban cigar and
the old journal that had set him on to the trail of the elephant as the sun sank
slowly into the sea to the west. He’d bought the journal three years ago from an
online artifact dealer who had already had the original manuscript translated.
Sequeira had a translation on the iPad that lay on the table next to the bottle
of wine. He had been going back and forth between the two, smoking, drinking and
dreaming of where it all might lead.

If he could only find the elephant.

Over the years, Sequeira had chased a few myths and legends.
That had been how he had found the Spanish ship, and a few other caches of gold
and gems in Europe and in West Africa. He lived for the excitement of finding
more. There was no other drug like that of discovery.

His father had recognized that, too. While he’d only been in
the beginning stages of his sickness, Sequeira had brought his father out to the
shipwreck, had let him hold the treasure they had hauled up from the sea floor.
His father had laughed and celebrated and gotten drunk. It had been the first
time Sequeira had seen the old man act like a young man, and it had made him
realize what he had missed in not truly getting to know his father.

Although he had the translation on his iPad, Sequeira preferred
to turn the pages of the journal. The hardbound book felt old and smelled of
smoke and spices and of the leather that covered the shaved wooden boards that
bound it. Some of the pages were faded almost to the point that the ink had
disappeared. Those pages had been chemically recovered, reconstituted and
translated.

Mostly the journal was filled with boring, everyday things. The
journal’s author had been, according to his narrative, one of Catherine the
Great’s many lovers. He had also been an Austrian spy for the Ottoman Empire,
which had battled Russian expansion many times and again in 1787 to 1791.

The author, Raimund Klimt, had presented himself as a scholar,
a man of letters who intended to write a history of the great queen. Their love
affair had been brief. Catherine had told Klimt that he wasn’t very skilled,
while Klimt argued that the queen was an insatiable beast. But she had set him
up with an allowance and he had remained in Russia. Together with the stipend
Klimt got for spying for the Turks, he did quite well for himself.

While in Catherine’s courts, he had been there the day the
elephant was brought to Russia from Japan.

Sequeira sipped his wine and flicked ash from his cigar as he
studied the pages where Klimt had written about the elephant. Although he
couldn’t read the Austrian’s handwriting, Sequeira knew what it said.

It was such a small gift, actually. No more than a trifle. I was,
quite frankly underwhelmed by the cheapness of the gesture. After all, Queen
Catherine had spared no expense to return those Japanese sailors to their
homeland.

Over the years, Sequeira had learned of the ill-fated Japanese
ship that had gone down in the Aleutians, and of their rescue—more or less—by
Russian traders. Catherine the Great had spared no expense returning the
Japanese survivors home because she’d hoped to open up trade to Japan, which had
been closed off to the outer world at the time. In that, the infamous queen had
been successful.

On the next page, Klimt had sketched a likeness of the
elephant. There were several other sketches in the journal, most of them of the
queen—including a few nudes that alone had driven up the price of the
journal—and of the Russian court and the nobility.

Only one other entry had referred to the elephant. Klimt had
gone drinking with the ship’s captain that had brought the Japanese gifts back
to the queen.

From what the fellow said, you would have
thought the little elephant statue was legendary. Captain Musatov, himself a
very intelligent man who spoke Mandarin, told me that the men who gave him
the elephant insisted that it led to some forgotten past and was reputed to
lead to a mystical legend involving a godlike power.

I asked him if he believed in such a
thing. Captain Musatov laughed at me and told me that more than likely the
pretty story the Japanese painted of the elephant was there only to serve as
decoration for the piece, to give it value. There were many other items that
the Japanese sent that intrigued Queen Catherine much more.

The next few pages included an inventory of those items as well
as a few more sketches. They were mostly spices, robes, ornamental fans and
furniture. The queen had been most taken with the robes, but only for a short
time. She’d been in the middle of the second war with the Ottoman Empire, which
she had won.

Sequeira stared at the image of the elephant. It was small, no
more than five or six inches tall, and had been seemingly made of everyday
stone. There had been no clues or ciphers described anywhere on it. Looking at
it now made him want it even more.

One of the two burner phones on the table rang and the
viewscreen showed a New York number. Sequeira had been waiting on the call for
hours. One of his telecommunications companies manufactured the disposable
phones and he always kept several of them on hand. He scooped up the device and
answered.

“Yes?”

“It has been done.” The lawyer on the other end of the phone
was American, a man Sequeira had used before when negotiating legitimate
business dealings in the United States. Most of the lawyer’s work was in the
realm of intellectual properties, but he had friends who were lawyers who worked
in other fields. He did not use Sequeira’s name. They never used names on the
phone.

“They are free?”

“Yes. Only just. I doubt they cleared the building where they
were being held before I called the other party.”

“Good. Thank you.” Sequeira broke the connection, took the
phone apart and tossed the pieces over the side of the ship into the ocean.

The other party
was quite possibly
the most dangerous person Sequeira had ever known. Restrepo was only a few years
younger than Sequeira. Born in Bogota, Restrepo had become an assassin for the
cocaine cartels, and had left Colombia when the American DEA forces had closed
in and shut down drug operations in that area. Better still, Restrepo had
escaped before anyone could get a picture or fingerprints into any kind of
tracking program.

The assassin was called
Brisa
,
which translated into breeze, like a gust of wind. Brisa was called that because
the assassin came and went with impunity, just like a breeze. Only when Brisa
left a place, dead men littered the location.

Sequeira had found Brisa on the beach. Brisa had been living
hand to mouth as a contract killer, working through an accountant in Lisbon who
was a distant relative. The accountant also handled some of Sequeira’s business.
When a bit of business came up that couldn’t be handled by cooking the books and
it would be better if a witness disappeared, the accountant had recommended
Brisa.

After that first kill, done so neatly and so quietly, Sequeira
had put the assassin on his invisible payroll. Even Adrian Sequeira had been
impressed by Brisa.

Sequeira closed the journal and placed it atop his iPad. He
sipped his wine and smoked his cigar, dreaming of the time he would get his
hands on the elephant. And he waited on Brisa’s call. That would come in on the
second burner phone, and Sequeira knew he wouldn’t have to wait long.

Brisa was quick and efficient. Always.

* * *

T
IRED
AND
NERVOUS
, knowing that he had been fortunate to be
released from the American police, Calapez hurried down the steps leading from
the police station where he’d been kept. Since his arrest, he’d been moved twice
to different places. He didn’t know if that was to confuse him or to put anyone
who tried to follow him off his trail.

“Can we get something to eat?” Pousao matched Calapez’s
stride.

“Later. The first thing we do is get out of this city.” Calapez
turned up his jacket collar against the chill.

“Why? The lawyer said we were free to go.”

“This is America. We were arrested by New York City police
officers. The next thing you know, we will be arrested by Homeland Security, and
there is no getting away from them.”

“If you have enough money, you can get away from anyone. The
man we work for has plenty of money.” Pousao was clever enough not to mention
Sequeira’s name in public.

Calapez made no reply. Pousao was young and did not know as
much about the world as he wished to believe. The police could arrest them once
more, that was true, but Calapez was more afraid of what Sequeira would do.
Their employer did not like to brush up against the law and did not allow any
ties to him regarding an illegal activity.

The man Calapez had killed was a definite liability. There was
no statute of limitations on murder in the United States. If that murder was
ever solved, the police could come after Sequeira as well as Calapez and Pousao.
Sequeira might not know about the murder. Calapez hoped not. He chided himself
for not simply tying the man up, but he had been angry that his assignment had
turned difficult, and that anger had needed to be let out.

Walking with long strides, Calapez almost fled down the
sidewalk through the thronging afternoon crowd. A street vendor offering hot
dogs stood at the corner and called out his wares.

“Please. Something to eat.” Pousao sounded pathetic, almost
like a child. How he could be so professional on the job and be like this now,
Calapez could not understand. “We can eat as we walk. Do you even know where
you’re—”

Startled by the abrupt cessation of Pousao’s question, Calapez
turned to look at the younger man.

Pousao stumbled backward, his face a mask of confusion. A
single dot of blood wept from his forehead, then tracked down his face, between
his eyes, and on the left side of his nose. Then he toppled over. His eyes were
vacant.

Brisa!
Calapez looked around as
passersby started to skirt Pousao’s corpse. A couple of women screamed in alarm.
A teenager pulled out his phone and began taking video while he was talking to
someone on an earpiece.

Everyone on the sidewalk was in motion. Calapez didn’t know in
which direction to run. He had never laid eyes on Brisa and didn’t know anyone
who had.

Calapez held his hands up in surrender. “Please! Please don’t
do this! I didn’t say anything! I never said a—”

His words stopped when he felt a harsh pinch just behind his
left ear. He felt dizzy and tried to take a step but discovered that he could
not move. His legs no longer obeyed him, then they no longer held him up. He
fell, knowing the impact against the sidewalk was going to hurt, but he was dead
before he got there.

* * *

T
HE
PHONE
CHIRPED
once and Sequeira
picked it up. Anticipation made his heart accelerate. Maybe his goal would still
be achieved. He read the simple text message.

THEY ARE BOTH DEAD.

The phone vibrated in Sequeira’s hand. He glanced at the
viewscreen and saw the picture of Calapez and Pousao lying dead on a sidewalk in
the center of a gawking crowd.

EXCELLENT WORK. THANK YOU.

NOW I WILL FIND THE ARCHAEOLOGIST.

Sequeira smiled.
LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU DO
. He re-read the
texts, thinking that he should have sent Brisa to get the elephant. He would
have if Brisa hadn’t been in Prague dealing with another situation that had gone
badly. Calapez and Pousao had only been sent to New York to bring back the
piece. Sequeira had fully intended to win the bidding war for the elephant.

Only that hadn’t worked out.

But things were working out now. He tore the second burner
phone to pieces and flung them over the side of the yacht, as well. Brisa would
find Annja Creed and the elephant, then the hunt for whatever lay at the end of
the legend would begin in earnest.

Chapter 14

“Did you know that Onoprienko has killed three men?” Annja peered at her tablet PC as she rode in the backseat of the cab. She had been researching their quarry and putting feelers out about the elephant piece on the archaeology websites she regularly used for research. So far there hadn’t been any pingbacks.

Klykov sat on the seat next to her and looked calm, not at all like they were on their way to visit a known murderer. He and Pitor Serov had both put on
Chasing History’s Monsters
T-shirts and now wore them under their jackets. “Sure, sure. But that’s only the number of men Onoprienko has been convicted of killing. He’s killed many more. The police have suspected that for years. He is much better when he kills professionally.”

In the front seat beside the driver, Serov nodded in agreement. “They haven’t even found the bodies of some of those men. Onoprienko can be methodical and effective when he wishes.”

“Meh.” Klykov dismissed the praise. “I said only that Onoprienko was better. I didn’t say he was someone you should go to.”

In the pictures of Pavel Onoprienko that Annja had found online, the Russian appeared to be an average-looking guy. He could have been a plumber or a tire salesman. He wore a button-up shirt and slacks, and he looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. His hair was a fading red and gray at the temples. Judging from the pictures, Onoprienko had a habit of squinting or had bad vision. Maybe that was why he killed with a hammer.

“What is he doing out of prison?” Annja asked.

“Because no one ever proved Onoprienko intended to kill those guys.” Serov twisted around in his seat, causing the driver to shift aside a little. “The last conviction was for second-degree murder. That carries a mandatory five-year sentence, but since Onoprienko got five years for the first one, he received eleven years for the second. He had the bad luck to draw the same judge, and that man felt Onoprienko was too prone to violence, which is a fair assessment. Also, they made Onoprienko undergo counseling. I was told on good authority this did not help.”

The driver ignored them, listening to a self-help on real estate over his ear buds. Pop music flowed from the radio, creating a soft undercurrent of sound that was incongruous to the conversation they were having.

“How did he manage to get second-degree murder charges
twice
?” Annja couldn’t believe it.

“He had a good attorney,” Serov said. “One that I have used in the past.”

“And one that I have used. Maruska Deyneka’s second boy, if I remember correctly.”

Annja couldn’t believe the two old gangsters were chatting so casually. She shook her head.

“I thought Oleg was her third boy,” Serov said.

“Whatever.” Klykov rummaged inside his jacket and took out a business card. He offered it to Annja. “Here. For if you ever need him. And if you do, tell him I sent you. He is very good with murder charges.”

Although she never planned on needing the lawyer’s services, Annja took the card and stuck it into her backpack to be polite. “What is Onoprienko doing these days?”

“Obviously he’s still killing people. Look at poor Maurice.”

“When he’s not killing people. Legitimate employment.”

“You mean what is he doing as a job?” Klykov asked.

“Yes.”

Klykov looked thoughtful, tilting his head to one side. “He works as a bouncer at a club, right, Pitor? Someplace where the music is bad and it is too loud?”

Serov disagreed. “Pavel’s working as a stocker at a discount liquor place these days. The club didn’t work out after he put a couple people in the hospital. They were cutting in line. Pavel told them not to. They didn’t listen. I heard they had to wait even longer at the emergency room.” He smiled at Annja as if he’d told a joke.

Though the humor didn’t quite suit, Annja smiled in return.

Klykov smirked. “Those people are lucky Onoprienko didn’t have a hammer.”

“Pavel complained to the club owner, Karl Braz, and the police. Said he didn’t start the fight, he just finished it. Exactly what he thought he was supposed to do. He claimed he was doing his job and shouldn’t have been fired or arrested. You ask me, Braz got the worst of it. Pavel got arrested and released after Oleg Deyneka used video in front of the club to show that Pavel warned the people repeatedly. They didn’t listen, but they listened to the personal-claims shyster they retained.”

“So Braz got sued.”

“Of course. Cost him a fat bundle.”

“Why would Braz hire Onoprienko in the first place?”

“Says he got him cheap. Thought Onoprienko could just stand in the corner and scare people. Pavel can look very intimidating when he wishes to.”

Annja looked at the image of the man on her tablet PC. Upon closer inspection, she spotted the deadness in his eyes.

“Onoprienko complained to Braz?” Klykov asked as the cab driver took a right-hand turn and honked impatiently at the car ahead of him.

“Yes. Pavel said he was treated unfairly, and he even tried to sue Braz himself. That didn’t go so well.”

“How did Pavel get the job at the discount liquor?”

“His mother. She begged the owner, who was the son of her best friend, to give Onoprienko the job. Onoprienko said he wasn’t to blame for the problem at the club, so his mother went to bat for him.” Serov chuckled. “This guy is a real chump
.
No matter what he does, it is always someone else’s fault.”

“His
mother
got him the job?” Annja asked in disbelief.

“Sure, sure. His mother, God bless her, loves her son very much even though he believes the rules of the world do not apply to him.”

Annja tried to comprehend that. “She knows Onoprienko’s a killer?”

“Sure, sure. She was always at his trials. She got thrown out of most of them. She’s a very demonstrative woman.”

Serov nodded. “I think she is where Onoprienko gets all of his passion.” He paused. “The job at the club should have been a good fit for him. Pavel just doesn’t have much tolerance, you know. Especially not for authority.”

“A guy like Pavel? The club owner should have known better. You can’t put him in a corner and expect him to stay there,” Klykov said.

“Before we get all
Dirty Dancing
,” Annja said, “maybe we should talk about how to handle Onoprienko.”

“Dirty dancing?” Klykov asked in confusion.

“Sure,” Serov said. “You remember. The film with Patrick Swayze. We’ve seen it.”

“Ah. The corner and no for Baby. Good movie.” Klykov nodded with a small smile and focused on Annja. “Never you mind about Onoprienko. Pitor and I will handle him. You just be prepared to ask him about the elephant. You’ll soon learn what Onoprienko did with it.”

Annja didn’t feel too certain of that, but before she could ask any more questions, her phone rang. She checked the screen and saw that the caller was Doug Morrell, her producer. She considered blowing off the call, but he had come through with the swag delivery for Klykov and his cronies.

She answered and put the phone to her ear. “Hey, Doug.”

“Look, I know you’re helping the police solve that murder and everything, but I tell you, we gotta come up with something for the show before long. Production wants to get something cooking.
I
want to get something cooking.” Doug was ambitious and always looking for the next big thing in television.

“I’ve sent you three lists.” Annja drew a breath, willing to bet that Doug hadn’t even looked at the subjects she’d suggested. He seldom did until he was truly desperate, and he wasn’t there yet. She could tell by the tone in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah, but we need something sexy. Not just that history junk.”

Annja bristled at his casual disregard of her chosen field of study. If it hadn’t been for her successes,
Chasing History’s Monsters
might not have lasted a season. Of course, the whole monsters concept had been Doug’s idea.

“Kristie is working on a volcano god story,” Doug said. “She got herself scheduled to become a sacrifice in Hawaii. Grass skirt, hula hoops, the whole enchilada. Of course, she’s not going to become a real sacrifice, but it sounds pretty intense. There’ll be lava, tiki gods, some kind of evil worshippers. I can’t wait to see it.”

Kristie Chatham was the other star of
Chasing History’s Monsters.
She definitely was not an archaeologist or historian. She played on sensationalism and generally had wardrobe malfunctions in every episode. Her popularity among the teens and European market was a little higher than Annja’s own popularity, but the hardcore fan base of the show tuned in to see Annja. Generally she didn’t feel the competition, but occasionally she got irritated.

“A sacrifice to a volcano god? Seriously? Doug, Christie just wants to go to Hawaii.”

“Maybe so, but if she can pull off something worth filming—”

Or some article of clothing
, Annja couldn’t help thinking.

“—then we’re locked and loaded. That’s all I’m asking for, Annja. Something that will satisfy the fans. That’s all any of us really want.”

No, some of us would like to present a solid documentary.
Annja sighed and tried to think of what to say. In a few days, Doug would be desperate and the tension would start to mount. Another call beeped in and the viewscreen showed Bart’s name. He wouldn’t call unless it was important because he thought she’d gone home and gone to bed.

“I have to take this call, Doug. It’s the police. There could have been a break in the case.” That possibility deflated Annja somewhat. Solving murders was Bart’s job, but she felt like the elephant was much more than evidence in a homicide investigation. Once the police got their hands on the elephant, it would be impounded and she wouldn’t have access to it.

“We need a show, Annja.” Doug sounded whiny and desperate, but it was put on, certainly not his best effort.

“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. And thanks again for the swag.” Annja broke the connection and answered Bart’s call.

“A volcano god?” Twisted around in his seat, Serov nodded with bright interest. “Now that is something I would like to see. The other girl is not so good as you in my opinion, and she’s
gorda.
A little heavy. She needs to go to the gym more.”

Klykov snorted. “You’re one to talk about gyms, you who have never been inside one.”

“I used to box.” Serov held up his hands and bobbed his head. The driver swayed away from the old gangster and looked concerned for a moment, then, when he realized the fists were just part of the conversation, he returned his attention to his driving and the real estate audio. “So why have we never gone to Hawaii?”

“Too much water.” Klykov dismissed the question. “I don’t want to end up fighting sharks.”

“Annja?” Bart said. “Are you there?”

“Hi.” Annja turned away from Klykov and Serov. They got the hint and started shushing each other, sounding like leaky tires. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Bart hesitated. “We had to let those two guys who shot up the diner go free. Someone, we don’t know who yet, hired one of Manhattan’s top criminal lawyers to force us to cut them loose.”

“They didn’t pay for their own lawyer?”

“No. They never even called anyone. Judging from the little background we’ve got on these guys, neither one of them had the money to hire the attorney they got. But that’s not the real problem. I take it you haven’t been near a television.”

The television above the bar had on a Russian-language channel. “No.”

“As soon as those guys left the precinct, they were shot dead, killed right on the street. Whoever did it was a pro, put a .22 round in each of their heads in the open and got away with it clean. We’re going over the videos of the security cams, but nobody’s seen anything.”

“Why would anyone kill those two?” It didn’t make sense to Annja.

“I think the hunt for your elephant is still on.” Bart didn’t sound happy. “Whoever hired those guys to look for it decided to clean up the mess they left behind.”

“That means they knew whoever had them killed.”

“Yeah, so we’re digging into their backgrounds, looking for anything that will lead us to anyone interested in stuff like that elephant.”

“Antiquities.”

“Yeah. Those. Just a second.” Bart was silent for a moment, but a voice spoke up in the background. “Look, I gotta go, Annja. I just wanted to call and make sure you were okay. I didn’t see these murders coming, and it made me worry about you.”

“I’m fine, but now I’m worried about you. You’re still looking for the person behind this.”

“I’m with the NYPD. I’m not going to be alone. I just didn’t want you out there doing anything stupid.”

“Just a little shopping.”

“Get it done and get home. Put your security on at your loft. Stay inside. That guy Nguyen? He’s in the wind, too. He escaped the cruiser that was transporting him to lockup, and a few minutes ago I got a report that a guy matching his description got into a fight with some Russian thugs only a few blocks from the Benyovszky murder scene.”

“Where was this?”

“A cybercafe.” Bart read off the address and Annja realized it was on the same street as Buba’s. Just across the street, in fact. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“No.” Annja hated lying to Bart, didn’t do it as a general rule because she respected him too much and their friendship was one of the things she valued the most, but she wanted to keep him out of her investigation, at least for now.

“Then why did you ask?” Bart was suspicious. He had good instincts.

“Just curious, that’s all. If Nguyen is still in that area, maybe the elephant is, too.”

“Exactly what Joe and I were thinking.” The voice sounded in the background again, more insistent this time. “I have to go. I just want you to make sure you take care of yourself.”

“I always do.”

Bart said goodbye and hung up.

If the elephant led to Benyovszky’s murderer, Annja told herself she would hand the artifact over. Reluctantly. She told herself the only reason she wasn’t blowing the whistle on Onoprienko was because she wasn’t yet as convinced of the man’s guilt as Klykov and Serov were.