Watchlist (19 page)

“Only one thing: It brought me and the rest of the Volunteers out of retirement. That was your point, of course. To eliminate us. The Volunteers.”

It was Kalmbach who asked, “But why, Harry?”

“Close to a billion dollars in stolen art and sculpture and manuscripts—stolen by the Nazis from throughout Europe and stashed in a dozen churches and schools in Kosovo, Serbia and Albania. Just like at St. Sophia. We knew that Chambers did a brief tour in the Balkans but got out fast. He must’ve met Rugova and learned about the loot. Then he bankrolled the operation and hired Faust to oversee it.

“A few years passed and they wanted to cash in by selling the pieces to private collectors. But Rugova preempted them—and he got careless. He didn’t cover his tracks and word got around about the treasures. It was only a matter of time until the Volunteers started to put the pieces together. So Chambers and Faust had to eliminate Rugova—and us too. But to keep suspicion off them they had to make it seem like part of a real terrorist attack. They brought Vukasin and his thugs over here.

“Well, after I realized his motive, I just looked for what would be the perfect way to kill all of us. And it was obvious: an attack at the recital hall.”

Now Middleton turned to Chambers. “I wasn’t surprised to find out that you were the one at Homeland Security who suggested the concert, Dick.”

“This is all bullshit. And you haven’t heard the last of it.”

“Wrong on number one. Right on two: I’ll be a witness in your trial, so I’ll be hearing a lot more of it. And so will you.”

Kalmbach and two other agents escorted Chambers and Faust’s two thugs away for booking.

Middleton and inspector Jozef Padlo found themselves standing alone on the chilly street corner. A light drizzle had started falling

“Jozef, thank you for doing this.”

“I would not have done otherwise. So . . . It is finished.”

“Not quite. There are a few questions to answer. There’s one intriguing aspect I’m curious about: Eleana Soberski. She had a connection to Vukasin. But I think there was more to her. I think she had her own agenda.”

He recalled what she said just before she was shot: “We are aware of your relationship with Faust.”

“Ah,” Padlo said, “so there’s someone else interested in the loot. Or perhaps who has some of his own and would like to expand his market share.”

“I think so.”

“One of Rugova’s men?”

Middleton shrugged. “Doubt it. They were punks. I’m thinking higher up. Someone highly placed, like Dick Chambers, but in Rome or Warsaw or Moscow.”

“And you are going to find out who?”

“The case is my blood. You know the expression?”

“I do now.”

“I’ll keep at it until I’m satisfied.”

“And are you going to do this alone,” asked the Polish cop, with a clever gleam in his eye, “or with the help of some friends?”

Middleton couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, we’ve talked about reuniting, the Volunteers.”

Padlo fished in his pocket for a pack of Sobieski cigarettes. He pulled one out. Then frowned. “Oh, in America, is okay?”

Middleton laughed. “Outside in a park? That’s still legal.”

Padlo lit up, sheltering the match from the mist. Inhaled deeply. “Where do you think the stolen art is, Harry?”

“Faust and Chambers probably have a half-dozen safe houses throughout the world. We’ll find them.”

“And what do you think you will find there?”

“If the Chopin is any clue, it’ll be breathtaking. I can’t even imagine.”

Middleton glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. Still, this was northwest D.C., a yuppie oasis in the city that often sleeps. “Will you join me for a drink? I know a bar that’s got some good Polish vodka.”

The inspector smiled, sadly. “I think not. I’m tired. My job is done here. I leave tomorrow. And I must get up early to say farewell to someone. Maybe you know where this is?”

He showed Middleton a piece of paper with the address of a cemetery in Alexandria, Virginia.

“Sure, I can give you directions. But tell you what . . . How about if we go together? I’ll drive.”

“You would not mind?”

“Jozef, my friend, it would be an honor.”

PART II

The Copper Bracelet

1

JEFFERY DEAVER

F
inally the families were alone.

Since the start of their vacation two days ago, they’d been in public constantly, taking in the sights in this touristy area along the beaches near Nice, France. They’d seen the museums in Antibes Juan-les-Pins, the fragrant perfume-making town of Grasse, the violet fields of medieval Tourettes sur Loup and nearby Cannes—a dull provincial village when emptied of film-makers, paparazzi and actors.

And wherever they went: too many people around for him to move in for the kill.

Now, at last, the Americans were alone, picnicking on a deserted stretch of white sand and red rocks near le Plages de Ondes at Cap d’Antibes—a postcard of the South of France. Sullen autumn was on the land now and everyone had returned from holiday. Today the weather was overcast and windy, but that hadn’t fazed the two families—a husband and wife in early middle age and a slightly younger couple with their baby. Apparently they’d decided to take the day off from sightseeing and strolling past the tabacs, cafés and souvenir shops, and spend the day alone.

Thank you, thought Kavi Balan. He needed to get the job done and leave. There was much to do.

The swarthy man, born in New Delhi and now, he liked to think, now a resident of the world, was observing the family through expensive binoculars from a hundred yards away, in the hills above the beach. He was parked in a rented Fiat, listening to some syrupy French pop music. He was taking in the gray water, the gray sky, looking for signs of gendarmes or the ubiquitous governmental functionaries that materialized from nowhere in France to ask for your passport or identity card and snidely demand your business.

But there was no one about. Except the families.

As he studied them, Balan was wondering too about a question much on his mind the past few days: how he would feel about killing a whole family. The adults were not a problem, of course, even the women. He’d killed women without a single fleck of remorse. But the younger couple’s baby—yes, that murder would bother him.

He’d lain awake last night, considering the dilemma. Now, watching the young mother rock the infant’s bassinette absently, he came to a decision. Balan had been instructed to leave no one alive, but that was because of the need to eliminate anyone with certain information. He hadn’t seen the baby, but it couldn’t be more than a year old. It could hardly identify him, nor would it have retained any conversation between the adults. He would spare the child.

Balan would tell his mentor that he’d grown concerned about somebody approaching as he’d been about to kill the child and had left the beach quickly so he wouldn’t be detected. This wasn’t unreasonable, and wasn’t a complete lie. There were houses here, cars and trucks passing nearby. Even though the beaches were deserted, people still lived in the area year round.

There. He’d decided. Balan felt better.

And he concentrated more closely on the task before him.

The families were enjoying themselves, laughing. His ultimate target—the American husband in his fifties—joked with his wife, who was a bit younger. Not classically beautiful, but exotic, with long dark hair. She reminded Balan of an older Kareena Kapoor, the Bollywood film star. Thinking this, he felt a wave of contempt course through him at these people. Americans . . . they had no idea of the richness of Indian cinema (no American he’d ever met even knew that that Bombay supplied the “B” for Bollywood, which, they also didn’t know, was only a part of the nation’s film industry). Nor did they understand Indian culture in general, the depth of its history and its spiritual life. Americans thought of India as customer-service call centers, curry and “Slumdog Millionaire.”

On the beach the two men jumped to their feet and pulled out an American football. Another shiver of contempt raced through him, as he watched them pitch the elongated ball back and forth. They called
that
a game, gridiron football. Absurd. Big men running into each other. Not like real football—what they called soccer. Or the most sublime game in the world: cricket.

He looked at his watch. Soon, he thought. Just one phone call away. He checked his Nokia to make sure it was working. It was. Balan was known as a fanatic about details.

He turned the binoculars on the families again. Since they were about to die, he couldn’t help wondering where they were on the ladder of spirituality. A Hindu, Balan had an appreciation of the concept of reincarnation—the concept of returning to earth after death in some form that echoes spiritual justice for your past life. His philosophy was a bit at odds with traditional Hindu views, though, since he believed that though he devoted his life to death and torture he was doing higher work here on earth. In an odd way, perhaps by hastening the families’ deaths—before they had a chance to lead even more impure lives—he might hasten their spiritual growth.

He didn’t need this idea to justify what was about to happen, of course. All that mattered was that his mentor, Devras Sikari, had singled him out to kidnap the husband—and kill anybody with him—then torture the man to find out what he’d learned on his recent trip to Paris.

There are more than 300,000 deities in the Hindu religion, but Sikari, though flesh and blood, was higher than them all, in Balan’s mind. In India, the social and economic caste system is impossibly complicated, with thousands of sects and subsects. But the religious text the Bhagavad-Gita defines only four castes: the highest are the Brahmin spiritual leaders, the lowest, the working-class Sudras.

Devras Sikari was in the Kshatriya caste, that of spiritual warriors and leaders. It was the second most spiritual class, below only the Brahmin. The Bhagavad-Gita says that those in the Kshatriya caste are “of heroic mind, inner fire, constancy, resourcefulness, courage in battle, generosity and noble leadership.” That described Sikari perfectly. His first name, Devras, meant servant of God. The surname meant “hunter.”

The man took the names when he was “twice born,” a phrase that has nothing to do with reincarnation, but refers to the coming-of-age ceremony for Hindu youths. Balan believed a name was important. His own first name, for instance, meant poet, and he did indeed have an appreciation for beauty and words. Mahatma Gandhi’s surname meant “greengrocer”—and was a perfect description of the mild-mannered commoner who changed the history of his country though peace and passive resistance.

Devras Sikari, the hunter chosen by god, would change the world too, though far differently than Gandhi. He would make a mark in a way that befit
his
name.

Balan now recalled the day he left for this mission. The dark, diminutive Sikari—his age impossible to guess—came to Balan’s safe house in Northern India. Sikari was wearing wrinkled white slacks and a loose shirt. From the chest pocket blossomed a red handkerchief. (Red was the color associated with the Kshatriya caste and Sikari always wore or carried something red.) The leader had greeted him in a soft voice and gentle smile—he never shouted or displayed anger—and then explained how vital it was that he find a particular American, a geologist who had been making inquiries about Sikari in Paris.

“I need to know what he’s learned. And why he wants to know about me.”

“Yes, Devras. Of course.” Sikari insisted that his people use his first name.

“He’s left India. But find him. Kill anyone with him, then torture him,” he said as casually as if he were ordering a cup of Kashmiri shir chai—pink salt tea.

“Of course.”

His mentor had then smiled, taken Balan’s hand and given him a present: a thick copper bracelet, an antique, it seemed. A beautiful piece, streaked with a patina of green. It was decorated with ancient writing and an etching of an elephant. He’d slipped the bracelet on Balan’s wrist and stepped back.

“Oh, thank you, Devras.”

Another smile and the man who had brought so much death to some and hope to others whispered one of his favorite expressions: “Go and do well for me.”

And with that Devras Sikari stepped out the door and vanished back into the countryside of Kashmir.

Now, remaining hidden from the victims soon to die, Balan glanced down at the bracelet. He knew it signified more than gratitude: the gift meant that he was destined for some place high in Sikari’s organization.

It was also a reminder not to fail.

Do well for me . . .

Balan’s phone trilled.

“Yes?”

Without any greeting, Jana asked coolly, “Are you in position?”

“Yes.”

“I’m up the beach road, a hundred yards.” Jana had a low and sultry voice. He loved the sound. He pictured her voluptuous body. In the past few days, as they’d prepared for the attack and conducted their surveillance, she’d worn bulky clothes that had concealed her figure. Only last night, when they’d met in a café to survey the escape route, had she worn anything revealing: a thin t-shirt and tight skirt. She’d glanced down at the outfit and explained dismissively that it was just another costume. “I’m only playing tourist.”

Meaning I’m not sending you a message.

Though, of course, Jana knew that he came from a country where the most beautiful women often wear concealing saris, even to the beach, and that Balan
had
to be aware of her body. So maybe there was a message.

But the killer had resisted even glancing at her figure. He was a professional and had learned to stifle his lust. Sikari always came first.

Jana now said through her untraceable cell phone, “I have the hypodermic ready for him.”

The plan was that Balan would stun the American with a Taser and kill the others. Then Jana would race up in the van. They’d throw the man inside and inject him with a tranquilizer. She’d drive him to an abandoned warehouse outside of Nice for the interrogation. Balan would meet her there soon after.

“You’ll kill the family,” she said, as if this were something they’d argued about, which they had not.

“Yes.”

“All of them.”

“Of course.” He resolved to keep to his decision not to harm the child. But he couldn’t help but wonder about her: How could a woman be so casual about killing an infant?

“Get to work,” Jana said abruptly.

Because she was beautiful he didn’t give her a snide response, which was his first reaction. Instead he simply disconnected.

Balan looked around for traffic. Nobody was on the wind-swept beach road. He climbed out of the car with a canvas bag over his shoulder. Inside was an automatic weapon with a sound suppressor. It could fire 600 rounds a minute, but he had it set to fire in three-shot bursts every time the trigger was pulled. This was far more efficient than fully automatic, and more deadly than single-shot.

The bullets weren’t big—.22 caliber—but they didn’t need to be. Sikari instructed his people to look at guns as an extension of more primitive weapons, like spears or knives. “Your goal,” Sikari said, “is to open the flesh and let the life flow out. Let the body destroy itself.”

How brilliant he is, Balan thought, his heart tapping hard with love and awe as he rubbed the copper bracelet and walked closer to the people whose lives were about to change so dramatically.

He crossed the sandy road and slipped behind a faded sign advertising Gitane cigarettes. He peeked out. The family was pouring wine and beer and setting out food.

Their last meal.

Balan looked over the older husband, who was fairly fit for someone in middle age. From here—50 yards away—he was handsome in a nondescript American way; all of them looked alike to him. And his wife was even more striking up close. The younger man, Balan now decided, wasn’t their son. He wasn’t young enough. Besides he didn’t resemble either of the older couple. Perhaps he was a co-worker or neighbor or the American’s younger brother. His wife, the mother of the baby, was blond and athletic. Recalling his thoughts about sports, he decided she looked like a cheerleader.

Balan reached into the bag and extracted the gun, checked again to make sure it was ready to fire. He then put on a powder blue jacket that said
Inspecteur des Plages
and a fake badge, slipped the gun’s strap over his shoulder and hung the gun on his back so it wouldn’t be seen from the front.

He thought of Sikari.

He thought of Jana, the cold, beautiful woman now waiting in the van.

Would she await him later that night? In her bed? Perhaps this was only a fantasy. But, as Sikari taught his followers, fantasies exist so that we might strive to make them reality.

Then standing tall, he walked toward the family with casual purpose.

One hundred yards.

Then 75.

Making slow progress over the fine white sand.

The American, smiling from something his wife had said, glanced his way, but paid Balan little attention. He’d be thinking, a beach inspector? Those crazy French. At worst I’ll have to pay five euros for permission to lunch here.

Fifty yards.

Forty.

He would shoot when he was 15 yards away. Balan was a good shot. He’d learned his skill killing Pakistanis and Muslims and other intruders in his home in Kashmir. He was accurate even standing in the open with the enemy shooting back.

The younger woman, the mother beside the baby’s bassinette, glanced his way without interest and then turned back to her music streaming into her ears through the iPod. She leaned forward on her beach chair, looked inside the carriage, smiled and whispered to the baby.

That will be her last image as she died: her child’s face.

Thirty yards.

Twenty-five.

Balan kept a restrained smile on his face. Still, none of them was suspicious. Perhaps they were thinking that with his brown skin he was from Algeria or Morocco. There were many Frenchmen around here who had roots in North Africa.

Twenty yards.

He wiped his palms on his blue jacket.

Fifteen.

All right . . . Now!

But Balan froze as he gazed at the family. Wait . . . what was this?

The two men and the older woman were diving to the sand.