At Sword's Point (10 page)

"Objections? Hell, no! I don't want any of my men offed by some goon squad hit men," Lopez said.

"Good." Raymunds' smile sliced across his face like a crescent moon on a dark night. "Captain Drummond, I assume you have a passport?"

"Sure. Why?" Drummond asked.

"There's a law enforcement convention in Stockholm next week, and you've just become a delegate." Agent Raymunds stood up. "Now, let's go back to your place and pack."

* * * *

As the Los Angeles Police Department helicopter settled down on the beach outside of Drummond's apartment, Raymunds let out a low whistle.

"Lopez told me you had money, but he didn't tell me how much." He grinned at Drummond. "It must be fine."

"Only if I live long enough to spend it," Drummond replied as they dropped out of the chopper and, crouching low to avoid the whirling blades, trotted up the beach to his condo.

Inside, Drummond went straight to his bedroom closet and pulled out a pair of Gurka bags, then hastily began packing. Five minutes later, he had a week's worth of expensive clothes inside the pair of leather and canvas bags sitting in the middle of his kitchen floor. As an afterthought, he fetched a golf bag out of the hall closet and took it into the bedroom long enough to stuff de Beq's sword inside. Well wrapped in a couple of towels it just fit. He zipped the cover closed and secured the little padlock, pocketing the key, then took the bag out to join those waiting in the kitchen.

"Hey, is that Victoria what's-her-name from
Emergency Hospital
, sitting on the deck next to yours?" Raymunds asked from the living room.

"Victoria Riddenauer."

"What?" Raymunds asked.

"Her name is Victoria Riddenauer, and yes, she's my neighbor." Drummond rummaged in the refrigerator until he found a jar of mayonnaise. Unscrewing its lid, he pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar traveler's checks.

"You always keep your cold cash in the fridge?" Raymunds asked.

Drummond ignored the joke and replaced the jar in the back of the refrigerator. "No," he said, "I usually keep it in a snow bank." Turning around, he picked up his bags and headed toward the door.

"Say, John," Raymunds said. "If you don't mind my asking, how do you afford a place like this on a cop's salary?"

Drummond set down his bags and walked over to the bookcase. Reaching to the top shelf, he took down a framed photo and handed it to Raymunds.

Raymunds looked at the photo for several seconds. This is Cathy Blair, isn't it?"

"Yes. She was my wife," Drummond said, taking the photo from Raymunds and returning it to the top shelf.

"You divorced?"

"No, not exactly. Cathy was injured on the set of her last movie. A stunt went wrong, and she's been in a coma ever since." Drummond picked up his bags. "The studio settled out of court for ten million, plus ongoing medical costs. You're right, I can't afford it on a cop's salary. Let's go."

The Pacific Ocean was the color of dirty pewter underneath the helicopter as it followed the coast from Malibu as far south as El Segundo. Swinging inland, the dark blue police chopper circled Los Angeles International Airport, landing at the police helipad behind the international departures terminal. The rain had stopped and the sun had come out with a vengeance, causing steam to rise from the concrete apron surrounding the airport buildings and pushing the humidity to uncomfortably high levels. Two airport security police met the helicopter and escorted Drummond and Raymunds to the air-conditioned comfort of the VIP lounge next to the British Airways departure gate.

Leaving Drummond by himself for a moment, Raymunds took Drummond's larger Gurka bag and the golf bag over to the ticket desk and collected what looked like a battered camera case. He came back to where Drummond had seated himself, opened the case, and took out an airline ticket wallet printed with the British Airways logo.

"Here are your tickets," he said as he handed Drummond the envelope. "You're already checked in. There's your boarding card. You're traveling under the name of John Olsen, just to be on the safe side." He reached back into the case and produced a Polaroid camera. "Sit still and look at the red dot above the lens." The micro flash went off, and Raymunds pulled out the exposed sheet of film.

"Let's hope this turned out okay," he said, looking at his watch. "Your plane leaves in about ten minutes, and I don't want to have to hold the flight while I mess with this. Meanwhile, here's an American Express card in the name of Olsen—you'd better sign it. And don't forget that you'll have to account for expenses when you get back."

As Drummond took out a pen and signed the card, putting it in his wallet, a timer beeped on the camera, and Raymunds peeled off the backing of the film.

"Not bad," he said, showing the picture to Drummond. There were four, actually, each the right size for a passport. "It almost looks like you."

Handing over one of the photos, he had Drummond sign it on the back with his new name while he rummaged further in the case and produced a U.S. passport, a sheet of transparent adhesive film, and an embossing seal. Placing the signed photo on the appropriate page of the passport, he deftly covered it with the transparent film, binding it in place. Then, using the handheld seal, he embossed the cartouche of the U.S. State Department on the edge of the photo.

"Now, if you'll just sign here again, Mr. Olsen," he said, handing Drummond the passport, open to the appropriate page.

Drummond signed his new name again, then pocketed his pen.

"Great," Raymunds said. "That should do you. You've even got five minutes left till takeoff. Have a good time in Stockholm, Mr. Olsen."

"Just one question," Drummond said as he shouldered his suit bag. "How long is this conference?"

"A week. Hopefully, we'll have everything sorted out by then. Check in with our embassy when the conference is over, and they'll give you an update on the situation." Raymunds extended his hand. "Bon voyage."

Drummond shook hands with the federal agent, who ushered him through a door marked restricted entry that led directly to the gangway of his waiting aircraft, a British Airways 747 that would take him to London on the first leg of his journey to Stockholm.

Drummond slept most of the way to London. He had not really caught up on the jet lag of his flight home from Munich, much less from his bout with the Mossad agents' drugs, and he was a little disoriented as he woke up and had to remind himself that he was now in yet another time zone.

A slight drizzle was falling as the big plane set down at London's Heathrow Airport. He watched as the plane pulled up to the gate and the ground crew began connecting up the jetway. As he pulled his suit bag out of the closet in first class, the stewardess cheerfully asked him if he had brought his raincoat.

"No," Drummond replied, "I loaned it to a friend in LA"

Inside the terminal building, Drummond claimed his other bags, cleared passport control and customs, and then found himself in the departures lobby, lugging his bags toward the check-in area for KLM Royal Dutch Airline. A Swedish couple and several British businessmen were in line ahead of him, and as Drummond waited for his turn at the check-in desk, he idly scanned the large departures board above the shops on the other side of the lobby, looking for his flight to Stockholm. As he ran his eyes down the list of cities, he spied a flight to Vienna leaving in less than an hour. Without hesitating, he picked up his bags and walked over to the Austrian Airlines ticket desk.

The young man behind the desk looked up from a mound of paperwork as Drummond set his bags down.

"Yes, sir, can I help you?"

"What's the chance of a seat on the next flight to Vienna?" Drummond asked.

The young man tapped away at the keyboard on his desk. "Only first class available, sir," he said.

"Fine. How much?" Drummond asked.

"One way or return, sir?"

"Open return, please."

"That will be six hundred forty pounds, sir."

Instinctively Drummond reached for a credit card, then thought better of using either of his current names. Looking around, he saw a
bureau de change
next to a small shop selling neckties.

"I'll be right back with the cash," he said.

Leaving his bags next to the counter, he walked over to the
bureau de change
and pulled out his traveler's checks. He started signing checks furiously, handing over a dozen in exchange for six hundred eighty-five pounds sterling and change from the girl behind the inch-thick glass.

Returning to the Austrian Airlines ticket desk, Drummond counted out six hundred forty pounds and handed it to the ticket agent.

"Name, please?" the young man asked.

"Markus Eberle," Drummond replied.

The computer on the desk printed out Drummond's ticket, and the young man tore it off the machine and stuffed it into a paper folder with a prancing Lipizzan printed on it.

"You can check in at counter number four, Mr. Eberle," the young man said as he handed over the ticket.

Drummond took the ticket and headed to counter four. Placing his bags on the conveyor belt, he handed the girl his ticket.

"Passport, please, Mr. Eberle," she said as she tore off the flight coupon.

"I beg your pardon?" Drummond said in what he hoped sounded like a German accent.

"I need to see your passport, some ID," the girl said.

"Ach. Okay." Drummond pulled out his wallet, took out Eberle's card, and handed it to the girl.

"Oh," she said. "You're an Austrian policeman. I thought you were an American by the way you were dressed." She handed back the card. "Boarding is at gate nine."

"
Danke
," Drummond said, taking Eberle's card and putting it in his wallet. "
Danke
."

On his way to gate nine, Drummond stopped at a pay phone and, running one of his credit cards through the channel on the side of the phone, called Eberle in Vienna.

"Hi, Markus?" Drummond said, when he finally got through to the detective's office.

"John, is that you? Must be pretty dull in L.A. for you to call twice in the same week," Eberle joked.

"I'll tell you all about it when I get in. Can you meet me at the airport in three hours?" Drummond asked.

"Three hours? This is kind of sudden isn't it?" Eberle said.

"I suppose it is," Drummond said. "I'll tell you all about it when I arrive."

"Okay. Do you want me to book you back in at the Palais Schwarzenberg?"

"Sure, that'll be fine. Tell them I'm back for a week, possibly two."

Drummond gave Eberle his flight number and then rang off. Looking at his watch, he hurried down to gate nine and his flight to Vienna.

Vienna's Schwechat International Airport was about the same size as Phoenix's Sky Harbor, Drummond decided as he waited for his bags to slide along on the conveyer belt. As he stood in the crowded luggage return area, his suit bag over his shoulder, two smartly uniformed police officers walked up to him and saluted.

"Kapitän Drummond?" The policeman's tone of voice was more of a command than a question.

"Yes," Drummond replied.

"Inspector Eberle is waiting." He gestured toward the exit. "This way, please."

Flanked by the two policemen, one of whom relieved him of his suit bag, Drummond was escorted through customs and passport control and into the main lobby of the airport, where Markus Eberle stood smoking a cigar.

"John, it's good to see you," Eberle said as he grabbed Drummond by the elbow and shook his hand. "What brings you back to Vienna so soon?"

"I'm on my way to a symposium on violent crime being held in Sweden, and I thought I'd take a detour for a few days," Drummond replied.

"Sweden. Ah, those lovely blond ice-maidens…" Eberle flashed Drummond a smile that featured two stainless-steel front teeth. "Give Arndt your tickets so he can collect your bags, and we'll head off to the hotel."

Drummond started to hand one of the policemen his ticket, then remembered that it was in Eberle's name. Quickly he tore off the luggage claim tags that had been stuck to the ticket envelope and handed him those instead.

"Here you are," Drummond said. "There's a golf bag and another one like this, but larger." He indicated the bag the other officer was holding. "Dark green canvas with russet leather trim."

Arndt saluted and moved off toward the baggage claim area with the other police officer in tow. Taking Drummond by the arm, Eberle led him toward the exit, pausing along the way to stub out his cigar in one of the stainless steel ashtrays bolted to the end of the counter at the Aeroflot ticket desk. As Eberle shot the Aeroflot sign an evil glance, Drummond noticed that Eberle seemed to grind out his cigar with an uncharacteristic vengeance.

"Not too happy with the cigar, huh?" he asked.

"It's not the cigar, my friend." Eberle jerked his head in the direction of the Aeroflot desk. "I hate Russians." His voice was loud enough to be heard by the manager behind the Aeroflot desk. "I was ten when the bastards finally left Vienna in 1955. I remember climbing up on the roof of our house and pissing on the troops as they marched out of the city carrying off everything that wasn't embedded in concrete. If I had my way, I wouldn't let them put a stinking foot in Austria for love or money."

"Sounds unpleasant," Drummond said, as they reached the doors leading out to the street.

"Unpleasant? Shit is unpleasant, and the Russians were worse than shit. They raped the women, killed the men, buggered the little boys, and did everything they could to destroy my city and my country. And they have the god-dammed unmitigated gall to accuse Austrians of having been war criminals."

Drummond could tell he had pressed Eberle's button.

"I'm sorry I asked, Markus," he said quietly.

"It's okay." Eberle grinned. "I only carry on like that in public. Periodically, I just like to remind some of our left-wing assholes what it would have been like if the Red Army had stayed."

They walked over to a deep red Citroën CX parked in front of the terminal building. Arndt and the other policeman had just emerged by another door, carrying Drummond's cases, and they deposited them in the trunk of the car when Eberle opened it. As Eberle closed and locked the trunk, Arndt saluted and the two police officers vanished back into the airport.

"This is quite some car, Markus," Drummond said as he climbed into the plushly appointed interior. "I don't think I've ever seen one in Los Angeles."

"Well, don't get the wrong impression. My wife is a director of a big department store here in Vienna, and this is her company car." Eberle signaled before pulling out into traffic. "When she's out of town, I get to use it. Otherwise, it's a police car—or, if I've been especially good, I take my Corvette."

"A Corvette? What kind?" Drummond asked.

"Oh, an old Stingray. I bought it from the U.S. military attachi at your embassy about ten years ago. It was really on its last legs, but I'd always wanted one, so I bought it." Eberle turned the Citroën onto the motorway that headed north into the city.

"It took me about three years to rebuild it. Fortunately my friend at the embassy was able to get most of the parts shipped over here in a diplomatic pouch, and another friend at the police garage did most of the work."

Eberle eased the dark red Citroën into the traffic on the Rennweg and after a few short blocks cut over to Prinz Eugen Strasse and turned up toward the Palais Schwarzenberg. "I'll show you my car tonight at dinner." He turned into a set of elaborate wrought iron gates and headed up a formal driveway. "In the meantime, let's get you settled in at your hotel."

As they pulled up in the baroque forecourt, two servants in gold-striped vests and black trousers emerged from a set of double doors and came to open the car doors. Eberle popped the trunk release before getting out, which gave the servant who had opened Drummond's door time to reopen the lobby doors. The man bowed as they passed, and the concierge came to attention behind the green marble-topped desk set discreetly in one corner of the lobby. Impeccably correct in cutaway coat and striped trousers, he bowed as Drummond and Eberle approached, the precise clicking of his heels punctuating his greeting.

"Kapitän Drummond, it is an honor to welcome you here once again. Shall I have your luggage sent to your usual suite?"

"Thank you, that would be fine, Herr—Hubmann," Drummond said, reading the man's name from a discreet name badge as he signed the guest register. He had learned, on his last trip to Vienna, that names—and titles—were very important in Austria.

"Perhaps," said Hubmann, "you and your guest would care to take coffee on the terrace?"

Drummond turned to Eberle and arched an eyebrow. "Time for a coffee, Markus?"

"Sure," Eberle said, glancing at his watch. "But it will have to be a quick one. I've got to get back to the office and terrorize my subordinates."

The two men laughed as they followed Herr Hubmann out onto the terrace of the Palais Schwarzenberg and settled down at a turn-of-the-century cast iron art nouveau table.

"You know," Eberle said, when he had confirmed their order with the concierge, "coffee is an Austrian national institution. The very first coffeehouses in the world were started here in Vienna in 1683…"

His lecture on Vienna's premier social custom was interrupted by the prompt arrival of their coffee, served by a uniformed waiter complete with white gloves.

"Anyway, as I was saying," Eberle went on, when the waiter had poured their coffee and departed. "As the Turks were driven from the gates of the city, an enterprising Viennese named Kolschitzky found hundreds of sacks of coffee that had been abandoned in the rout of the enemy. He, or so the story goes, opened the first coffeehouse outside the gates of the Hofburg Palace and soon became a millionaire."

Eberle lifted the delicate gold-rimmed white cup to his lips and sipped. "Ah… such aroma, such taste…"

Drummond chuckled. "Markus, I have to hand it to you. You certainly know how to appreciate life."

"And death," Eberle replied in an even tone. "Do you mind if we talk shop for a few minutes?"

"Not at all," Drummond said, surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation. "What's on your mind?"

"Three killings," Eberle said, taking another sip of coffee. "On the surface they don't seem to be related, but down in my guts I think they are." He set down his coffee cup. "Maybe you can provide a link."

"Go on," Drummond said, not sure of the direction Eberle was heading.

"I followed up on your suggestion that I look at the report filed by Franz Reidl concerning the body they found near Schloss Dielstein." Eberle leaned both elbows on the table. "Now, here is connection number one.

"Reidl's body was dumped in the woods about the same time that the coroner estimated that Hans Stucke was murdered in Vienna. Both were totally drained of blood. In fact, Reidl's corpse had several collapsed veins, as if the blood had been sucked out. Both victims had their throats cut."

Drummond nodded, saying nothing.

"Now, connection number two. Remember the double killing you saw the report about? One victim was decapitated, and the other had her throat cut and virtually all of the blood drained from the body." Eberle gave Drummond a conspiratorial grin. "Here is the clincher. The double homicide took place less than five hundred meters from where Reidl reported finding the first body. Interesting, huh?"

Drummond finished his coffee before replying. "So, what do you think?" he said, replacing his cup on its small white saucer.

"I'm not sure," Eberle said, "but I'd like you to give it some thought, since you made the first connection." He looked at his watch. "I've gotta go. Perhaps we can talk about this over dinner tonight?"

"Sure," Drummond replied. "Where would you like to eat? I'll have the hotel make reservations for us."

"No, you are having dinner at my house. Just the two of us. There, we can talk about this case at our leisure." Eberle stood up. "I'll call for you at seven-thirty."

Drummond watched him walk across the terrace and vanish into the hotel lobby. He picked up his cup, but found it empty. On reflection, he decided that he didn't want any more anyway. Leaving the table, he went up to his suite, already giving careful consideration to how much he dared tell Eberle when they met for dinner.

As with his previous stay at Palais Schwarzenberg, Drummond found that the hotel valet had already whisked away his suit, blazer, and slacks to be pressed and laid out his shaving kit in the large tiled bathroom that adjoined his bedroom. His leather trenchcoat was hanging in the antique wardrobe that stood opposite the imposing brass bed, and all of his other clothes had been neatly folded and placed in the nearby chest of drawers. He decided that he could very easily get used to this kind of service.

He sighed and walked over to the French doors that led onto the balcony, glancing down to the terrace below— and below that, the spiked black wrought iron railing that surrounded the Palais Schwarzenberg. The railing onto which an attacker had impaled himself after being pitched over the terrace—and from which he had levered himself up and off with the ease of a gymnast, though the fall alone should have killed any mortal man. And to be impaled like that, with two spikes protruding through his back…

Shaking his head, Drummond closed the balcony doors and pulled the drapes. Despite having slept on the flight between Los Angeles and London, and the infusion of caffeine in the form of strong Viennese coffee, he could feel the edge of fatigue beginning to creep over him. He had to be sharp when he dealt with Eberle later tonight. Stepping into the bathroom, he turned on the taps in the center of the massive bathtub and emptied the contents of a small sachet of foaming bath salts under the splashing water. He went back into the bedroom and stripped while the tub filled, leaving his rumpled gray suit tossed casually over the back of a chair. Padding back into the bathroom, he eased himself into the hot bath and wrestled with the problem of what to tell Eberle over dinner.

There was one other problem gnawing away at Drummond's subconscious, however, and as he sat soaking in the deep tub, it managed to displace all other thoughts, it had come to him in mid-flight, and it remained a growing question.

When the Mossad handed over their file on him to LAPD's Internal Affairs Division, they had mentioned his visit to the Angel of Mercy Sanatorium in New Hampshire. That meant it was possible—in fact, it was highly likely—that they knew about his contact with Father Freise. If they had traced Freise to the castle in Luxembourg…

He wondered whether they could move that fast, and suspected that they could. It was obvious from his interview the night before they tried to kill him that the Israelis knew about Kluge, and knew that he was a vampire. How much more they knew was a matter of speculation, and Drummond was willing to speculate that even if they didn't know about Freise and the Order of the Sword, it wouldn't take them too long to find out about them, once they were on the right track. Hopefully, he'd be able to come up with a plan of action after dinner with Eberle—if Eberle could be convinced the whole thing was serious. And at this point, Drummond still wasn't certain how much he wanted to tell him.

Sitting in the tub wasn't waking him up, though. If anything, it was putting him to sleep. Drummond pulled the plug, stood up in the tub, turned on the taps, and adjusted the temperature just on the cold side, then switched the water from the faucet to the hand-held "telephone" shower and rinsed off. He was feeling a bit more clear-headed as he turned off the water and towelled off with a thick white towel the size of a small bedspread.

Padding back into his bedroom, he noted that his gray suit was missing from the back of the chair where he had tossed it—and that his pin-striped suit and blazer were back in the wardrobe, looking none the worse for their hours crushed in his suit bag.

"Yes, indeed," he muttered to himself, as he lay down to catch a nap. "I could get used to this kind of service."

At precisely seven-thirty, Drummond was dressed in his dark pin-striped suit and waiting in the lobby when the bright red Corvette pulled to a halt in front of the baroque tower in the center of Palais Schwarzenberg. Picking up his leather trench coat, he stepped outside and strode over to the car before Eberle had a chance to extricate himself from the seat belts. The doorman, running after Drummond, managed to reach the Corvette's door handle a split second before Drummond would have been obliged to open his own door.

Realizing that he had saved the hotel the embarrassment of having one of their guests have to stoop to such a menial task, Drummond muttered a profound, "
Danke
," to the doorman and slid into Eberle's car.