A Triple Thriller Fest (115 page)

“I remember Frank,” she said. “Came to the house once, right? Got rich by shuffling imaginary money from one bank computer to another and taking his cut, right?”

“Something like that,” Peter said.

“I don’t know those other two guys.”

“You met McIves at La Baux, he was the guy with your book and the gold dagger. Old-time Texas oil guy. Santini’s a hedge fund manager. Thick New Jersey accent.”

“Okay, I think I remember him. He’s with Borisenko’s army, right, because I haven’t seen him.”

“That’s right, so are you in?”

“I am,” Dmitri said.

Tess turned in surprise. “You, too?”

Dmitri hated Borisenko. Didn’t matter if Peter was right about the man, it wouldn’t change the way he’d acquired his wealth. Or the way he’d betrayed the people and friendships of his own town, one of whom was Dmitri.

“Well, Tess?” Peter asked.

“Think of what we could do,” Lars said. “Break the back of the smuggling rings.”

“Hardly,” Tess said. “We start buying smuggled goods and we’ll drive up the market. Like those people who free slaves in the Sudan. Good idea, nasty side-effects.”

“So get there first,” Peter said. “Sniff out the illegal digs. Put a legit team in place. Give the local government money to build a new wing on their museum to house it all.”

“Come on, Tess,” Lars said. “This is a huge opportunity, think about it.”

Tess, truly, felt torn. She didn’t believe this fantasy of Peter’s. It was the ziggurat all over again. So he’d managed to convince a few others to go along. That just made his fantasy more compelling, and more dangerous at the same time. She couldn’t get swept up in it. Except for one thing.

“Fine, I’m in. But with one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I want Nick.”

Peter looked confused. “Nick?”

“Yes.” She got down from the chair and approached until she encroached on his space. He leaned back.

“That’s my deal. I’ll work for you, Peter, but I want joint custody. And I want it in writing. Signed in front of lawyers.”

“Wait, you want me to give up my son? That’s your condition? You’re out of your mind.”

Dmitri and Lars looked like they wanted to melt away. Tess didn’t care. Her emotions were crackled on the surface.

“He’s my son too,” she said. “Yes, he is. I don’t care if I didn’t give birth to him, but his mother died. And you put us together. You made that boy love me when he didn’t know any better. Don’t you see that? And you made me love him. Three years. Three and
a half
years. I came for you, I stayed for Nick. I don’t care what the law says, or if anyone else in the world sees it but me and that boy.”

He couldn’t look her in the eyes at first, but she didn’t draw back. When he looked up, she could see doubt and hesitation. “I look at that boy and he’s so beautiful,” Peter said. “A bit of my chin, my hair. But mostly, I see his mother. Her eyes, especially. And sometimes I think, I wonder. What would our child look like, Tess? Would he have your eyes?”

A lump in her throat. “Why don’t you just stick a knife in me, Peter?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just, you know, this is so important. I didn’t have time for us. I still don’t have time. I made a mistake, maybe, I don’t know.”

“Let me help. With Nick, I’ve got time for him. I’ll make time.”

He nodded. “Yes, okay. Yes.”

Tess stepped back and made her voice certain. “Fine, then I’m in. I’m in all the way.”

She drew back her cloak and turned on her heel, then strode toward the far doors. She moved with a confidence, almost to the point of arrogance. But inside, she was a turmoil of emotions.

Chapter Twenty-three:

Niels Grunberg was by himself in the cold and dark when the murderers came into camp. He had good eyesight, and there was a full moon and he crept around the edge of the castle with no other light.

Since the failed attack of that afternoon, Tess had doubled the number of guards on the walls and at the gatehouse. Smoke heaved into the sky over the blacksmith shop and men worked in a frenzy to shore up the portcullis. Hoardings extended from the walls all around the gatehouse and fires burned in braziers atop the wall.

Niels would not mount another direct assault. Not yet. The larger trebuchet would be finished tomorrow and he’d set that to attack the walls, soften the enemy defenses. It would be three more days, minimum, before he’d mount another full-scale assault.

He guessed that Tess’s sluggish response was intentional. From Niels’s vantage, it looked as though he’d been two, maybe three blows from smashing the portcullis, then a few minutes to splinter the inner gate. At worst, he would have taken the outer curtain, the bailey, and the manor house and other buildings. Driven Peter and Tess into the keep.

More likely, he’d not been as close as it had appeared. Tess was feeling him out. Now she had his order of battle—or thought she did—and could plan accordingly. Well, he had a few surprises in store.

The watchman on this side of the castle approached with his pole and lamp. Niels squatted behind a granite outcrop, then peered over the top. The watchman braced the lamp against a merlon and swung the lamp from side to side to illuminate the ground below the walls. He leaned to inspect the various lumps and shadows. Finally, the watchman hefted the pole over his shoulder and continued. Niels had watched for the last hour and knew that his return would be random, somewhere between three and ten minutes from now.

He stepped around the rock and ran at a crouch toward the castle. There were two places to find the blocked-up entrance, he guessed. Here, on the southwest side, or on the far northeast corner.

Niels reached the curtain wall. He felt the stones, smoothed by a hundred years of exposure. His fingers traced joints. He needed something that felt different. Rough. Or better, poured stone stamped to appear like cut stone. Some place where workers had put in a wall to close the opening to the garage. The wall would look solid, but would not be as strong as the original.

A muffled cheer came from inside the castle. Pine-scented smoke filled the air. They were having some kind of feast or celebration. He could hear loud voices from here. He was suddenly aware of their own cold, rough encampment, with tents that couldn’t keep out drafts. Inside, more food, more fire, more comfort of every kind. That was probably the point of all that noise. To remind Lord Borisenko’s men of their miserable condition.

Something moved to the forest at his back. It startled him from his thoughts. He turned to see four shadows moving from tree to tree. Deer. He’d set someone to follow their trail. They could use more venison.

The first deer ducked into the shadows of the granite outcrop that had just sheltered Niels. His scent would still be strong there. The other three moved into the same space. They must be right on top of each other. He frowned.

The first started forward, then shrank back into the protection of the rock. It was enough to glimpse a flash of steel in the moonlight. Niels drew his breath. A raiding party. Four men, dropped perhaps by ladder from the castle, sent to attack his camp, catch them asleep. Niels had his own guards, of course, but would they be ready? And what if Tess sent more men from the other side?

A light swung out from the wall. It couldn’t have been two minutes, but the night watchman had returned. Niels did not move against the wall. The light rotated from side to side. The watchman continued his paces.

The men behind the rock slipped away. There was no confusing them for deer now. They moved with drawn swords and soon disappeared into the woods on the far side of Lord Borisenko’s camp.

What the hell? The four men had also hidden from the watchman’s lamp. Why? Were they Borisenko’s men, then, sent to find him? No, they’d come from the woods. It was the best way to approach his camp by stealth, without the need to cross either the road or the meadow. They had to be enemies.

Niels left the castle walls to follow the men. He drew his sword.

He caught up at the last break of trees before the camp. Niels stopped about twenty feet back. The men stood behind trees. The leader made hand signals to the other three. Niels had a hard time seeing any of them in the darkness. But he stood even further from the campfire light that came through the trees; unless he stumbled or snapped a branch they could not see him. He crept closer.

He could shout an alarm, but he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t just a reconnaissance mission. If so, let them spy; he could change the configuration of his camp the next day. But in turn, he could follow them back to the castle, to see how they’d come out. It hadn’t been through the gates; he had two men watching the gates at all times.

Niels’s own watchman patrolled the northern edge of the camp. He blocked the light from the campfire, hesitated, then continued in a counterclockwise motion. Three of the four enemies sprang into the clearing.

The first man clamped his hand over the watchman’s mouth. He thrust his sword into the man’s back in a violent gesture. The man groaned and slipped to the ground. The three continued into the camp.

Niels stepped after them. His man lay sprawled in front of the campfire and this distracted him from his first thought, which was to look for the fourth attacker. The watchman looked really hurt. That thrust had been overly aggressive.

He turned the man over, who twitched and groaned. His paint pack gushed. His face was white, in shock. Bloody foam flecked at his mouth. Niels looked down with shock. It was not red paint on his hands. The man’s named was Chris Stewart. An American with a wife and two daughters, and an Iraq war vet.

Something jabbed Niels in the back. “Don’t cry out,” a voice said. “Or move. You’ll be next.”

#

Alexander Borisenko woke to find that Yekatarina had gone out. He was always conscious of her moving in the night, whether she couldn’t sleep, was fighting a restless dream, or, like now, had gone outside to pee.

The excitement of the day’s attack had kept him awake for a good hour after bed, and now he would be awake until Yekatarina returned. So close. Just a few more blows and the portcullis would have collapsed. Borisenko had not wanted to abandon the attack. They could have pulled back the shed and put the fire out, returned for the attack.

“No,” Niels Grunberg had insisted. “Even if we put it out, the thing will be charred and useless. A few stones would crush it to kindling. But the attack was a success. We know their weakness.” Nevertheless, he looked disappointed.

It was cold in the tent, but warm enough under the blankets. More so with Yekatarina sharing her body warmth. There were advantages to being lord. Borisenko moved to her side of the rope-mattress bed to keep it warm for her return.

He heard movement outside the tent a few minutes later. The entrance rustled and a hand parted the tent flaps. A chill draft poured in.

“Hurry, Katenka,” he told her. “You’ll be cold as ice.”

Two dark shapes pushed inside. Before he could cry out, one man jumped on his chest with a knee to the neck. He clamped a gloved hand over Alexander’s mouth and shoved a sword under his chin. The tip was sharp.

“No cries. You’re alive only so long as you cooperate. One stupid move and I’ll shove this sword right through your head. Understand?”

Borisenko managed a nod.

The man sheathed his sword and climbed off. The second dark figure stood near the doorway to the tent.

“What is this? Who sent you? Tess Burgess?”

The man chuckled. He stepped back. “You don’t recognize me?” He switched to Russian. “How about if I speak the mother tongue?”

“Antosha, is that you?”

“Ah, so you do remember me.”

“What? Why aren’t you in Moscow? Who is negotiating with the Chinese?” Beijing was in aggressive negotiations to buy output from a new refinery in Vladivostok.

“Don’t worry about that, it’ll be taken care of.”

“How? You didn’t put that Armenian in charge, did you?” He rose to his feet. “And what are you doing here, anyway, I told you not to come.”

The blow came hard and unexpected. A closed fist. Borisenko rocked back, hand clamped over his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils. More painful was the horror at his cousin’s betrayal. “Antosha, what? Why are you—?”

A third man arrived, then. He dragged a body into the tent. Blood flowed from the man’s neck, which lay at an awkward angle. “Sorry,” he told Kirkov in an American accent. “I know what you said.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Kirkov said. “Not everyone in camp is our man.”

“They will be.”

Alexander stared at the dead man in horror. Everything he knew fell away.

“Where’s Yekatarina? What did you do to her? If you touched her, I’ll—” He stopped as Yekatarina stepped into the tent. “Oh, thank god. Did they hurt you? Are you okay?”

“My poor, dear naïve Sasha,” she said. “I really wish there were another way.”

And he saw that she was not restrained. She was not threatened with a sword or in any other way. In fact, Anton stood in a way that Alexander’s eye saw as deference.

He stared, trembling. He had been afraid before. All that was gone now, replaced by anguish. The horror, the rage, and the frustration of a man deeply and completely betrayed.

“Now,” his wife said to Kirkov. “Let’s lure that bitch out of her castle and put a sword through her head.”

Chapter Twenty-four:

Tess felt more full and comfortable than she could have imagined. They crammed the entire garrison into the great hall, minus a few miserable souls who patrolled the walls or kept watch at the gate house. The kitchens burned hot all afternoon and by nightfall they feasted on Canada geese, illegally taken, and a pair of massive hams, together with hot bread, cheese, turnips and potatoes cooked in butter, and plenty of beer.

A pair of fires crackled and spit in the hearths on both ends of the great hall. Peter’s Texan friend, McIves, played a mandolin while his wife sang; she had a beautiful voice. The singing eventually degenerated into fifty men and women singing a German drinking song. One of Peter’s Arab friends (all drinking, she noted, so perhaps not Muslim, or at least not devout) juggled three swords.