Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9)

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Chase Baker

and the Seventh Seal

(A Chase Baker Thriller No. 9)

Vincent Zandri

“I saw a scroll in the right hand of the one who sat on the throne. It had writing on both sides and was sealed with seven seals.”

—Revelations, 5, 1-2

CHAPTER 1

Trenitalia High-Speed Train Service

Somewhere between Innsbruck, Austria and the Italian Border

The mirror mounted to the far wall of the narrow sleeper car gives the blue-eyed, ghost of a woman away. But then, she’s been following me for hours — ever since I boarded the train in Innsbruck for what I assumed would be a comfortable ride through some of the most stunning and lush scenery in Northern Europe. Fields of tall grass separated by streams of rushing water the color of blue gemstones. Thick pine forests as dark as night at mid-day. Deep gorges spanned by trestle bridges that make you feel as though you’re about to drop off the side when you peer out the window.

She’s been able to maintain her distance, but I know in a matter of minutes . . .
seconds
. . . that distance will be breached. It began this morning as soon as we boarded. She followed me to the café car where she sat two tables away, sipping numerous espressos. Her surveillance continued during lunch in the dining car where, once more, she sat two tables away enjoying an entree of grilled chicken and steamed green beans while I ate split sausages smothered in a tangy mustard sauce and washed down with an ice-cold bottled lager.

She was of medium height, athletically thin, but not too thin with pale skin and thick, if not lush, blonde hair parted carefully over her left eye, which was as stunningly blue as the right one. Unnaturally blue, like she wore colored contact lenses. She sported an ample bosom which, in itself, was enough to rob me of my oxygen, and a shapely behind accentuated by a sexy short black skirt over even sexier black, sheer stockings. Covering her feet and lower legs were black high-heeled leather boots which were also sexy as hell. For a shirt, a gray satin button down revealed considerable cleavage and, over that, a black leather motorcycle jacket. Chase the smitten.

She smiled at me a few times, and I smiled back just to let her know how aware I was of her. But I wasn’t about to take the bait. That is, engage in a conversation which almost definitely would have revolved around the case I was wearing over my shoulder, criss-cross style so that the thick leather strap crossed-my-heart-and-hoped-to-die should someone decide to snatch it away from me.

Its contents were the literary find of the century — two book-length manuscripts and four short stories belonging to Ernest Hemingway. The material had been lost for nearly a century, the then aspiring literary lion’s first wife, Hadley, having famously — or infamously — lost them while en route to meet her husband in Switzerland via Paris in December of 1922. So the story goes, Hadley packed all of her husband’s work in progress to date inside a leather case, along with all the carbons. But, while the train was still standing in the station at the Gare de Lyon, she left her berth to purchase a bottle of Evian water for the trip. Having left the case unattended, she returned to the berth to find that it was gone. The manuscripts were never recovered. Much like the relationship which, tragically, ended in divorce less than five years later.

As Hemingway’s reputation grew, so did the value of those lost stories until they became priceless. That is, to the right collector. Which is where I came in. I’d been contacted by a young, hopelessly hip, and very wealthy collector in New York City who wanted to put my skills to work in retrieving them. Having managed a couple of leads via several treasure hunters and antique book dealers in Switzerland and Austria, I was led to an unassuming bookshop in Innsbruck that housed the material inside its original leather valise which, considering its advanced age, wasn’t in too bad a shape. Convinced of the authenticity of the material after forwarding several MMSs to my client back in New York, I paid the bookstore proprietor an ungodly amount of Euros and, without further ado, hopped the next train to Venice where a private plane would be waiting for me at the Venice airport.

Which brings me to where I am now: walking back to my private berth after lunch for what I’d hoped would be a long two-hour nap until we pulled into the station. But given the fact that my pale blonde admirer is right on my heels, that prospect is beginning to look dim, to say the least. But then, no one said this project wouldn’t be without its challenges or dangers. Or so my client assured me when offering me a substantial advance which he graciously deposited via electronic transfer into my bank account.

My eyes lock on her in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I stop. She stops too, the distance separating us maybe ten feet.

“You’re following me,” I say into the mirror.

Her brilliant eyes go wide as she runs her hands through her hair. She looks one way, then the other.

“Are you talking to me, sir?” she asks. Her accent is strange. Not European, not North or South American. I’m guessing Middle Eastern. Perhaps Israeli.  

I feel the swaying of the train car and the weight of the leather bag strapped to my shoulder. The weight not only conveys density and mass, it conveys importance. It is a treasure that more than a few antique book collectors and writers, no doubt, would give their left nut for, not to mention their life’s savings. I guess you could say the lost Hemingway manuscripts are the holy grail of antique books.

Slowly moving my right hand, I slip it inside my charcoal suit jacket, my fingertips tickling the stock on the 9mm Beretta presently on loan from my Innsbruck contact.

“Yes,” I say, slowly turning to face her. “There’s no one else standing out in the corridor of this carriage. Who else would I be talking to?”

She smiles, her blue eyes peering into my brown eyes. The gaze goes through me, makes the small hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. It also makes my heart beat faster. Now that I have a full, unobstructed frontal view of her, I can see just how truly stunning she is.

“You must be mistaken,” she says, pulling her hands out of her pockets, and crossing her arms over her chest. Clearing her throat, she approaches me. “But, now that you mention it,” she goes on, “I couldn’t help but notice the bag you’re carrying around your shoulders. I haven’t once seen you without it.”

I cock my head to the side.

“Call me safety conscious,” I say.

“Not a bad way to be in this day and age,” she replies. Then, reaching for the carriage door beside me, her hand gripping the latch. “Listen, I was going to open a bottle of champagne. Would you care to join me?”

My built-in shit detector speaks to me. It says,
Chase, proceed to your assigned berth and wait this one out all the way to Venice.
But the unattached man in me says,
Here’s a beautiful young woman who can’t keep her eyes off of you. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy a simple glass of champagne with an attractive woman. After all, better to keep tabs of her every move rather than lose sight of her. That is, in case she poses a danger to you and Mr. Hemingway’s precious cargo.

I paint a smile on my face. Not too gracious wide. Not too greedy small. I straighten the ball knot on my black and red-striped rep tie and casually shove one hand into my trousers, making certain my Swiss Army pocket knife is handy. What I wouldn’t give to be outfitted in my usual uniform of a worn bush jacket over Levi jeans and lace up boots, but this job requires the grace and finesse of a rare book dealer. One has to look the part or be denied by underground book dealers who can be as ruthless to threats as they can be obsessive over minute details like spine construction, page bleeds, and typesetting.

“I’d be delighted to join you,” I say.

She opens the door, and I step inside. She follows, closing the door behind her, locking the latch.