Bloodline (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

Jorge Shweisser crossed the Bahnhofstrasse with his shopping bags, wary of the heavy Sunday morning traffic. A Renault darted around him and he resisted the urge to give the driver the finger. Now on the east side of Zurich's main shopping artery, he had his choice of many medieval alleyways, most of which led to the Limmat River and ultimately to Zurichsee. He wandered into one of the narrower alleys, which opened, after two blocks, into a small square encompassing St. Peters Kirche. The clock face on the parish church showed eight minutes after eleven. He felt relaxed as he entered Thermengasse, one of his favorite streets in all of Zurich, with the excavated ruins of ancient Roman baths underfoot. He was a romantic, and he liked to imagine himself in that period.

Shcweisser wasn't a strong man, nor was he vibrant or charismatic. He was a mouse in man's clothing, only five- seven and one hundred and forty-six pounds. And he only weighed himself while clothed. He wore glasses, and that alone probably would have meant an early death had he lived long ago. He couldn't see ten feet without his spectacles. In modern times, there were glasses or, if he'd wanted to go that route, contact lenses or laser surgery, to compensate for this inadequacy. But what did the nearsighted do in medieval times? It was a thought that plagued him every time he walked over the baths and thought of ancient Rome. He brushed a wispy strand of hair from his face and continued past the guildhalls toward the lake.

But these were modern times. And he was well educated and very well paid, and thus had status in Zurich society. Shweisser liked hiring large tradesmen to work on his luxurious three-story home in the Altstadt. Once he had them on-site, he berated them, finding fault with the smallest error in the woodwork or the tile, demanding it be fixed before he'd pay the invoice. Money was the master. And he had money.

His position at Banque Suisse de Zurich was cushy and covered the expenses, but his gravy money came from the unknown owner of the billion-dollar account, as he liked to call it. For twelve years he had been receiving regular payments to watch the account for the owner. And although he wasn't one hundred percent positive of the owner's name, he suspected it was one of the Colombian drug lords. And he suspected he knew which one, although it hardly seemed possible. But recently he had been double dipping. A second client, one he knew to be Mario Rastano from Medellín, had come to him a few years back and offered him a great deal of money to report any activity on the account. And although the account had remained dormant, collecting interest for the better part of twelve years, there was now activity. Twice this year electronic withdrawals had been processed and the cash shipped via satellite to some offshore Caribbean bank. He had done his job and reported the withdrawals to Mario Rastano. And in return he had found five hundred thousand euros in a briefcase in his car one afternoon. He liked working for the Rastanos. Risky, but lucrative. And what the owner didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Schweisser strolled down Stadthausquai until he reached Zurichsee, the beautiful lake that borders the southern portion of Zurich. The boat docks were busy with locals and tourists queuing up for rides on the tranquil waters. To the south were the Alps, still encrusted with winter snow, their peaks rising above the lake like a postcard. Jorge Shweisser sat on a bench and set his shopping bags next to him. He loved Zurich in the spring.

A woman passed him on the path and took a second glance. She was younger than he by a few years, perhaps in her mid-thirties, and reasonably attractive. Her short hair was dark, almost black, and she wore little or no makeup. Her skin was pale from the long winter and she wore a baggy sweater that covered her top and hung down to mid-thigh. She stopped and backed up, pointing at the bags next to him.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” she said, her voice even and smooth. It seemed to match her appearance perfectly. “But I've always wondered about that store.” She was now quite close to him and he could tell she was interested in the bag from En Soie. “I think it's maybe too expensive for me, so I've never gone inside.”

He smiled at her and nodded. “It is expensive. I don't shop there very often. Usually just for gifts.”

She smiled back. It was a nice smile, although a couple of teeth were slightly crooked. “Your wife is a lucky woman,” she said, and waved as she moved on.

“It's for my mother,” he said.

She stopped again. “A man who shops for his mother. My God, I thought those were all dead centuries ago.” She was a few feet away, but facing him. “What did you buy her?”

Jorge dug in the bag and pulled out a scarf woven from raw-textured silk. The colors were muted, but it shimmered in the spring sunlight. “A scarf.”

“It's beautiful,” she said, moving back to him and touching the material. “And it's silk.” She glanced away from the scarf to his eyes. “You have excellent taste. Your mother will be very pleased.”

He grinned like a schoolboy who just got the highest grade in a surprise exam. “Thanks. It was tough picking it out. I think it would be easier to shop if I had a woman to help me.”

“Take your wife when you go shopping,” she said.

“I'm single.”

The woman eyed him for a second, then said, “This may seem a little forward, but nice guys are tough to meet, and I'd like to have a coffee with you. Do you have some time?”

“Actually, if you're hungry, we could have lunch.”

“That would be nice,” she said. “I'm Elsa.”

“Jorge.”

They passed Bahnhofstrasse then cut north and strolled along Talstrasse for two blocks until they reached Baur au Lac Rive Gauche, a gastronomic jewel set in the heart of Altstadt. Fifty euros convinced the maitre d' that reservations were not really necessary, but a nice touch for those who liked planning ahead. He rewarded Jorge's generosity with a table next to the window that had a great view of the neo-gothic street. They settled in, ordered and quite enjoyed themselves for the next hour. When the check arrived, Jorge paid and left a substantial tip for the attentive waiter. They walked out together into the cool spring air.

“That was wonderful,” Elsa said. “Thank you very much for lunch.”

“You're welcome. Which way are you heading?”

“I live between the river and Bahnhofstrasse, close to St. Peters Kirche. It's not so far from here.”

“I know exactly where it is. I love that part of Old Town. In fact, my favorite part of Altstadt is the Roman baths. I find the history fascinating.” He paused and wet his lips with his tongue. “I'm walking that way. Would you mind if I joined you?”

“I'd be delighted,” she said, slipping her arm through his and pushing against him lightly. “Now who would have guessed I'd meet such a nice man while out for a walk.”

They moved up Fraumünster, just another couple out enjoying a spring walk in one of Europe's most romantic cities. When they reached Münsterhof, just south of the church, she pointed to one of the many narrow alleys dating back to medieval times. They moved into the narrow cobblestone street, the buildings shielding them from the sun and throwing a chill into the air. It was darker here, and deserted. She pressed up against him a little harder, then stopped walking. It took him a fraction of a second to respond and he spun slightly on his heels and ended up face to face with her. They were very close.

“Do you mind if I kiss you?” she asked. Her voice was intoxicating, her lips perfectly formed and moist.

“No,” Jorge said. “Not at all.”

She touched her lips to his ever so lightly, then pushed harder as he responded. Her left hand encircled his waist and her right hand caressed his neck. He felt a prick on his neck and jerked back, his hand instinctively moving to the spot where his nerve endings relayed pain to his brain. His hand came away sticky and red. Blood.

Elsa shoved off him and moved away quickly to her left. He staggered from the strength of her push, spinning away from her. He saw a trail of blood on the cobblestones and wondered where it had come from. Then another trail and another, and he realized the blood trails were coming from his neck, spurting across the dirty cobblestones. He looked back at Elsa, but she was already twenty feet away and moving quickly toward the main street. He tried to stop the bleeding but the blood just kept pumping out. He felt cold. His vision was going fuzzy and for a second he wondered what was wrong. Then, in an instant, he knew. He was dying. He had been murdered. The woman had cut his carotid artery, and he was quickly bleeding to death in an alley. He tried to call out, but his strength was gone. The blood flow was slowing, but he knew that was only because there wasn't enough blood left in his body to create pressure at the break. He fell to the ground, one hand clutching his neck, the other still holding his parcels.

Slowly his eyes closed, the last vision in his life that of an old woman leaning over asking him what had happened.

Chapter Twenty-five

Julie Escobar worked the metal clip she had removed from the back of the fridge into the screw head and turned. Hours of relentlessly reshaping the piece of metal on the rough backing of the DVD player paid off as the clip fit into the screw head perfectly. The screw groaned for the first quarter-turn, then spun almost effortlessly. Julie left it and started working on another of the eight screws holding the face plate that covered the air conditioning duct. Shiara, at the door listening for the sounds of anyone coming, whispered to her mom.

“Did you get it?”

Julie nodded, then added quietly, “Yes. I'll loosen all eight screws now, and then we'll have a look inside the duct later, when everyone's asleep.”

Standing on a sturdily built teak dresser, she worked on the other seven screws for the better part of an hour before she finally got all of them turning. What would have been a relatively easy job with a proper screwdriver and a can of WD-40 was an arduous task, and her hands were cramped and sore when she finished. She hid the impromptu screwdriver and settled onto the couch with her daughter for the nightly check. Promptly at ten o'clock the door opened and two guards, dressed as always in black with sub-machine guns dangling on straps over their shoulders, entered and poked about. They were polite but businesslike and gave the series of rooms a close look before exiting and locking the door behind them. Julie waited ten minutes then got to work.

She popped the grill off once all the screws were completely out, revealing a rectangular hole in the wall about fourteen inches high by twenty inches wide. Julie and Shiara piled a couple of cushions from the couch on top of the wall unit and Julie stuck her head and shoulders into the hole. It was an extremely tight fit and she backed out, shaking her head.

“I don't think I can do it,” she said. “It's too tight. I won't be able to move forward very easily and I certainly won't be able to back up. Unless there's some place in the system that's big enough for me to turn around, I'll be stuck.”

Shiara glanced at the hole and said, “Let me try, Mom. I'm smaller than you.”

Julie shook her head. “No way. I'm not letting you go in there without knowing it's safe.”

Shiara grasped her mother by the arm. “Mom, we don't have a lot of options here. We're not getting out through the door, and that's the only way out except for this duct. We need to try. I think I'm small enough to fit.”

“It's getting back I'm worried about,” Julie said.

“I'll go a few feet into the duct, then see if I can back up. Okay?”

Julie thought about it for a moment, then said, “All right, but you stay in the main shaft. No branching off into smaller ones. Understand?”

Shiara nodded and stepped up on the cushions. She pulled herself into the duct headfirst, her arms in front of her. Once inside, she pulled with her forearms and pushed with her toes and made good progress for about twenty feet. Then she reversed and pushed with her arms, using her toes to keep her centered in the shaft. Moving backward was actually easier than moving forward and she dropped back to the cushions, the front of her jeans and shirt a bit dusty, but otherwise, she was fine.

“It's not that bad,” she said. “I can feel the air moving through the shaft. It was cold and it was blowing in my face”

“That makes sense,” Julie said. “That vent is for the fresh air to enter the room.” She pointed to a much smaller grill just above the tile floor on the opposing wall. “That's the return air. You have to find a return air shaft, Shiara. One where there is no cold air and the flow is away from the room toward the outside of the house.”

Shiara shook her head. “I don't think so. The two systems will be independent of each other. The only place they'll meet is at or near the air conditioning unit.”

“How do you know that?” her mother asked.

Shiara grinned. “That boy you saw on a bike at the house the other day, his father has an air-conditioning servicing business. He showed me a few things.”

“About air-conditioning, I hope,” Julie said.

“Don't be silly. Of course. Can I try again?”

Julie glanced at her watch. “Fine, but keep it to about a half hour tops. And when you're in the shaft you can't make any noise. These ducts go through the entire house and the sound will carry.”

“I understand,” Shiara said, gulping back some water, then hoisting herself into the shaft for a second time.

“Be careful,” Julie said as her daughter disappeared into the darkness.

Shiara carefully slid her hands along the metal surface, aware that any sharp piece of tin would slice her hand open before she could react. She used the bandage over her severed finger, which was also wrapped around much of her hand, to her advantage. Leading with it, but still using caution. She kept her weight to the edges of the duct as best she could, to keep from depressing the tin and having it pop back.

After crawling for a number of minutes, she wasn't sure how long, she came to a junction in the duct. The shaft split off in three separate directions, each one identical in size. The air was swirling about and she couldn't tell the direction of the flow. Shiara stayed at there for a minute or two, thinking. If she were to try one of the other shafts, the problem would be finding the correct one on the way back. Unless she somehow marked her conduit.

She ripped a small piece of cloth from the bandage on her hand and tucked it into one of the joints, then picked a shaft and kept moving. Maneuvering around the corner was difficult, but her back was quite flexible and she managed to drag herself around the corner. She could feel the air flow coming from behind her now, which meant she was heading toward another room that needed cold air, and not toward the source. She was intrigued to see which room, and crawled for another three or four minutes before arriving at the grate.

The results were less than she had hoped, as the lights were off in the room and she could see nothing. Shiara returned to the junction and tried to discern which of the other two shafts fed the cold air. But it was impossible to be sure and she picked another shaft. Again, once well into the shaft she felt the air pushing from behind her. This time she stopped immediately and retreated. It was getting difficult to breathe; the movement of her body had stirred up some dust and she could feel it stinging her throat and lungs, aggravating her asthma. She pushed back to the last shaft and, once inside and moving, felt the air gently pushing in her face. This was the conduit to the air-conditioning unit.

She reversed directions and slowly crawled back through the narrow passage to the junction. She felt around until she found her bit of cloth, then moved cautiously back down the shaft toward where she knew her mother was anxiously waiting. When she arrived, her mother helped her out of the opening. She swallowed back half a glass of water, realizing now how thirsty she was.

“What took you so long?” her mother asked. “You were in there over an hour.”

Shiara was shocked. “It didn't seem like that long. Sorry. But there's a junction in the ducts about fifteen minutes from here that splits into three other shafts. I found the one leading to the air conditioning unit, but the dust was getting thick and I came back without going all the way.”

“That's okay. You can try it another night. Let's get you cleaned up and put the grate back on.”

They fixed the cover back in place, and Shiara had a quick shower, washing away the dust. They sat and talked for a while, then Shiara yawned and headed off to bed. Julie sat up in the darkness, looking at the walls of her prison and wondering if Eugene was making any progress.

She knew he was a resourceful man. And that he loved his family beyond anything else on the planet. But was that enough? Whatever he had to do, she was sure it was against almost incalculable odds. She felt depressed and alone. She and Shiara had been counting the days and she knew today was Sunday, six days from the deadline for Eugene to come through with whatever it was their captors wanted. A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of the consequences. Not for her, but for her daughter. She hadn't missed the looks from the guards, their eyes glancing over her young body. They were eager and wanting.

Finally she rose and headed to her bedroom. Aside from having a finger cut off they were being well treated, and now there was the possibility of escaping if the air- conditioning duct led somewhere useful. Things could be worse. They still had six days.

But then what?