Byzantine Gold (2 page)

Chapter Three

Maksym used his jacket for a blanket and slept on the floor the last two nights. The bed linens smelled funky. The lingering scent of sweat that laundry soap and starch failed to mask made him queasy. He sat on the lumpy mattress, breathing through his mouth, while he assembled the pistol to rifle carbine conversion kit for his Glock. The unit allowed him to fire forty caliber rounds with more accuracy at this range than the pistol version. He was a good shot but not an expert, and he’d be firing from a downward fifteen-degree angle.

He’d preferred the room above the bookstore, which was straight across from the Hotel Du Danube’s door. The shopkeeper had questioned Maksym’s reasons for renting the room. He was polite but vague in his answers and offered the shopkeeper a fair sum of money. The man refused and suggested this dilapidated hotel next door.

As planned, the Dashiell woman saw him at the basilica. He wanted her to know he was in Paris. He wanted her to know who killed her lover. She’d identify him to the police. They’d canvas the area for possible witnesses. They’d question the staff at his hotel who’d verify he was a guest. By then, he’d be long gone. The authorities would alert the airports, train stations, and border crossings, expecting him to flee the country. Instead, he’d hole up under their noses at the fashionable George V, his favorite hotel in the city.

Finished with the conversion, he dragged a chair to the window to wait. His mind wandered as he passed the time. He studied the façade of the Du Danube, curious if it was once a private residence before being converted. From the layout, he thought the Napoleonic structure was once a private residence. Dashiell must’ve picked the small boutique hotel. Quaint and charming, it’s the sort of place that appeals to women. He saw Atakan as favoring a more contemporary style, larger with more amenities. Those hotels often had doormen who presented a logistical complication for men like Maksym. A callous smile played at the corner of his mouth. Dashiell’s choice eliminated that problem.

He scrolled through the playlists on his MP-3 player to the one that began with Slipknot’s
Dead Memories
and put the buds in his ears. The list was half over when the couple came into sight at the end of the block. They stopped in front of an antique store’s display window. Atakan pointed and said something to the Dashiell woman, who nodded.

Maksym opened the window and shifted off his chair. He adjusted his position to the correct angle with one knee on the floor and one elbow resting on the sill. Eyes on his target, he estimated the seconds it would take the couple to reach the hotel. But instead of continuing toward the Danube, Dashiell went into the shop and Atakan followed.

Maksym relaxed and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly as he rotated his head in each direction until his neck popped. Several more songs played with the couple still inside. Their interest in antiques confounded him. Didn’t archaeologists get their fill of old junk on a daily basis?

When they stepped onto the sidewalk again, Atakan carried a small box. A cool breeze gusted through the open window, chilling Maksym’s nose and ears. In the military, he’d dealt with snipers. They described how they learned to blot out external distractions.
Do not think of how hot or cold you are. Concentrate on target acquisition. Regulate your breathing. Breath control affects aim. The slightest rise and fall of your chest causes the rifle to move. Inhale and exhale normally, sight alignment occurs during the natural pause after you exhale.

Maksym used their techniques to ignore the cold and disregard the noise from the street. His focus stayed fixed on Atakan. Afternoon foot traffic was light. The few pedestrians in the vicinity probably wouldn’t even hear the shot. A suppressor on the conversion unit muffled the sound.

He sighted-in on Atakan’s chest as the couple approached. A head shot was certain death but more difficult. He didn’t trust his abilities and aimed for the larger target, center mass. He took a normal breath, exhaled, and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Four

Atakan cradled the box in the crook of his arm and opened the door for Charlotte, turning slightly as he stepped aside.

The round went high, hitting him in the shoulder. The box went airborne as he slammed into the door from the impact.

Charlotte heard him groan and turned, stepping back into the doorway. His breathing was rapid and shallow and he clutched his shoulder. “Atakan?”

He pushed off the door. Swaying unsteadily, he shoved her out of the entryway. “Move.” He staggered a few steps and slumped against the frame, the door closing behind him.

“Atakan?” she asked again, confused about what happened to him. His face was contorted in pain, but she couldn’t see why.

“What’s wrong?”

She thought he said, “Shot.”

Charlotte pulled his hand away from his shoulder. She gasped frozen for a split-second by the sight of his bloody palm. Then, she yanked the side of his jacket open. Blood soaked the area around his shoulder. “Oh God—oh God. Help me,” she screamed to the desk clerk. “Call the police...the...gendarmes,” she told the concierge who started over with the clerk. She forgot the staff spoke fluent English.

She cautiously slid Atakan’s arm on the injured side over her neck, careful to minimize movement, while the clerk slid Atakan’s other arm over his neck. The concierge was on the phone by the time she and the clerk eased Atakan into the lobby sitting room. Her mind raced trying to sort out what she should do next.

She’d taken basic first aid when training for her advanced diver’s certification but she had no idea how to treat a gunshot victim.

“Lay him down,” she said.

“Should I put a pillow under his head?” the clerk asked.

She shook her head. “No...I’m not sure.”

Within the short time it took to move Atakan, blood already drenched the front of his shirt. She remembered reading somewhere that gunshot victims often went into shock.

“Hand me those cushions,” she told the clerk and jerked her head toward the chairs. She knew from her first aid class shock could cause organ damage and even death, if not treated quickly.

The clerk pulled the cushions off.

“Raise his legs.” She wedged the cushions under Atakan’s legs then stripped off her coat and covered him.

“Get me something clean—a towel, a pillowcase, anything,” she said to a wide-eyed maid gaping at the scene.

The girl didn’t move.

“Serviettes! Allez! Vite!” The clerk barked out the orders again. The maid ran and rushed back with a pile of folded towels.

Charlotte grabbed the stack. She ripped open Atakan’s shirt and wiped some of the blood away to see exactly where the bullet struck.

“Help me roll him toward you,” she told the clerk.

Atakan winced and closed his eyes as they rolled him over far enough for her to slide two towels under the spot where she approximated the bullet exited—if it exited. She guessed it had from the blood on the back of his shirt. They laid him flat again, his body weight serving as a pressure bandage.

She slid her hand inside his shirt, feeling for the entry wound. The bullet hit three fingers below the collarbone. She laid a thick towel over the wound and pressed her palm against it to staunch the flow of blood.

“I think it missed the bone. That’s good, right?” she asked the clerk.

“I do not know, madam.”

The shrill high-low of police sirens wailed in the distance. Behind them, droned the deeper pitch of an ambulance.

Atakan mumbled assurances to her that he was fine.

“Don’t talk. Stay quiet, save your energy.”

The color had drained from his face and his lips were turning bluish-white. Charlotte felt his forehead. It was clammy to the touch, an early sign of shock.

“Hand me those pillows,” she pointed to the throw pillows on the settee. “I need to raise his legs and feet higher.”

The clerk grabbed the pillows and placed them for her so she didn’t have to remove her hand from over the entry wound.

Atakan’s head lolled to the side and his eyes drifted closed.

“Stay with me Atakan,” Charlotte told him, patting his cheek lightly with her free hand.
Don’t die. I will not let you die.
“Stay with me.”

He straightened his head and blinked a couple of times. His eyes opening partway, his lips twitched in a weak effort to smile.

The police and paramedics arrived simultaneously. The paramedics waved her to the side and began to treat Atakan. One took his blood pressure while a second moved the towel away to inspect the gunshot. They spoke in rapid French as the first medic removed the cuff and slipped an oxygen mask over Atakan’s nose and mouth. His blood pressure had fallen dangerously low. They feared internal bleeding.

“How bad is the internal bleeding?” she asked in French, not wanting to alarm Atakan.

The medic who took his blood pressure started to answer her in English.

Charlotte raised her hand, interrupting him. “En Francais.” She slanted a glance down at Atakan and back to the paramedic.

He switched to French and said he couldn’t say for certain. “Il est dans un etat critique.”
His condition is critical.
Another paramedic brought a gurney in and they loaded Atakan onto it. “Le personnel de la sale d’urgence en savoir plus,” the first paramedic said.
The emergency room staff will know more.”

“Where are you taking him?” she asked.

“L’Hopital Americain. You know where it is?” the third medic asked her.

She nodded. “Yes, but can’t I come with you?”

“No, madam. Our personnel only are allowed.”

She held onto Atakan’s immobilized arm, rambling reassurances while they wheeled him out to the ambulance. “You’ll be fine. You’re definitely going to be just fine. I’m right behind you,” she told him, unaware she’d spoken in a mix of French and English.

Atakan reached with his free arm and squeezed her hand.

Charlotte stayed on the sidewalk until the ambulance drove away.

“Madam, please,” a policeman said and gestured to the door.

Light-headed, she lost her balance and stumbled as the officers led her inside the lobby. Another wave of dizziness overwhelmed her as she struggled to take a deep breath.

A policeman helped her to a chair. “Put your head between your knees.”

She did as he instructed.

“Try to breathe normally,” he said when she continued to pant.

Her breathing evened out and she finally calmed enough to sit up. The clerk brought her a cognac in a beautiful crystal snifter. Blood on her palm formed a sparkling crimson prism behind the cuts in the glass. A man was shot on his doorstep. The man’s lover was hyperventilating in his lobby. The room was crawling with cops, and he still made certain to serve the drink in the proper stemware. If the situation weren’t so serious, she’d have laughed.

Although, she didn’t care for the taste of cognac, she took a sip. It tasted sharp and acidic. The warming effect was immediate and comforting when it hit her stomach. The second sip wasn’t as harsh on her tongue and tasted faintly of vanilla and a bit smoky. To her surprise, the drink settled her nerves. She focused and answered the officer’s questions.

When they directed her outside to the spot where Atakan was shot, she positioned herself where he had stood.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you more. My back was to the street. I didn’t see how it went down. Everything happened so fast,” she apologized, shivering as the officers made notes. She’d forgotten her coat lying on the floor where the paramedics left it.

One of officers pointed to the curtains ruffling in the breeze of an open window in the old hotel across the street.

“Chilly day to leave a window open.”

The others agreed and the officer, notebook in hand, ran over to the hotel.

An astute observation, Charlotte thought. She scanned the cars parked on the one-way street. She tried to remember if they were the same ones as earlier or if any had left. She hadn’t paid attention. A stupid mistake. She should’ve been more aware, especially after the incident at Sacre Coeur.

There was a slim chance Tischenko fired from a moving vehicle, although she doubted it. Perfect timing was necessary. His best opportunity came from a fixed position.

She eyed the rooftops of nearby buildings. Again, pretty tricky shot with the distance involved. With a father, brother, and stepmother all in law enforcement, she knew a thing or two about guns. And, she knew how to shoot. The wound was from a handgun. The range between the roofs and the ground presented a problem. The window appeared the most logical point but that range also seemed too far for a handgun to be accurate. How had Tischenko made the shot? 

A detective unit arrived. After the responding officers gave them the initial information, the detectives instructed them to canvas the area for witnesses. Charlotte reenacted everything from the time she and Atakan left the antique store to when he was shot.

The detective picked up the box from the sidewalk. “Yours?”

Charlotte nodded.

He handed her the jangling box with the shattered Haviland teapot inside. 

She and the detectives returned to the lobby. She told them about Tischenko and described him.

“Interpol or the Ukrainian authorities have pictures of him,” she said.

“Yes, we know,” the detective said.

The officer who went to investigate the room with the open window joined them. He’d recovered the gun, a converter kit, and one standard forty caliber shell casing. The description of the guest who rented the room matched Tischenko. He’d paid in cash and indicated he’d check out the next morning. But when the officer entered the room, the man’s personal belongings were gone. The desk clerk said no one left by the front at the time the crime occurred.

“He must’ve escaped out the back. Emergency exit doors located at the end of every floor lead to an iron fire ladder bolted to the rear outside wall.”

“We’ll search the neighborhood, but I doubt he’s stayed in the area,” the detective told Charlotte.

“The officer mentioned a converter. What is that?”

“A unit used to give his handgun rifle range capacity.”

“I suppose the convertor and gun aren’t difficult to obtain here if he knows the right people,” she commented.

“Is there a place where that isn’t true?”

“Sadly, no.”

“You can ride with us to the hospital.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Someone had hung her coat up on the rack in the lobby. She reached to take it from the hanger and paused. Patches of damp blood darkened the lining. On her palms, it had dried to a muddy, red-brown.

“I’ll just be a moment,” she said and went to their room to wash her hands and get a different jacket.

When she came down, the lead detective walked beside her to their car. “I have one more question. Why Paris? Why today?”

She’d asked Atakan the same thing earlier. The answer was the same then as now. “I don’t know.”