Eye of the Storm (13 page)

One way or the other he had to know—he didn’t think he could survive much more of this.

“Do we have visual confirmation?” Prescott barked at his junior G-man.

“Yes, sir, downloading from the security office at Three Rivers now. Their cameras are on a three-second scan, so it’ll look little choppy.” He shut up as the images filled the screen.

Drake felt his heart lurch as he saw his mother being manhandled from the back of a Town Car and then placed into the rear seat of a Toyota Avalon. She looked fine, other than the look of terror etched into her face. They drove off and vanished from sight.

A few frames later Kasanov jerked Hart from an identical Town Car. Even in the grainy black-and-white images, Drake could see blood splattering her face and dress, more than what he’d seen in the earlier images of her at Tessa’s. His fists tightened and he took an involuntary step forward as if he could vent his rage on Kasanov in person instead of observing impassively from a distance.

The image flicked again, the men leading Hart to a pale gray minivan.

“That a girl,” Jimmy whispered in the silent room. Prescott nodded in agreement—somehow in the few seconds it had taken her to cross the pavement, Hart had spotted the security camera and made a point to stare at it, her back momentarily to her abductors. In the next frame, she was being shoved into the rear of the Dodge Caravan—her hand planted firmly on the roof of the gray vehicle.

The same blood-smeared hand she’d held out to the camera in the previous frame.

“What was the time on that?” Prescott asked, his eyes cutting to the window and the rapidly setting sun. He didn’t wait for Taylor’s answer but grabbed his phone. “Tell the copters to stay out, sweep a pattern from Three Rivers Medical Center. Gray Caravan, don’t bother with the plates, they’ll change them, but there’s a bloody handprint on the roof. I know they won’t be able to see that in the dark, so tell them to hustle before it is dark!”

“Sir, this footage is almost two hours old,” Taylor said, his voice contrite.

“Goddamn it! Why didn’t those rent-a-cops at Three Rivers pick this up earlier?” Prescott flared.

“Kasanov was there during change of shift,” Taylor explained. “And the parking level they used was supposed to be closed. It’s scheduled to be repainted, so it wasn’t on the live feed monitors.”

“Who knew about the painting? Let’s get someone working on that,” Texas suggested. Drake still hadn’t caught her name—and really didn’t care.

The older law enforcement officers in the room merely shook their heads. “It’ll be a dead end,” Jimmy told her. “We need something to give us an idea where Kasanov is heading next, not how he knew where to go hours ago.”

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen as she returned to her own assignment.

Drake glanced out the window, the sun setting a new speed record as it slid to the horizon. Think you could cut us a break here? he sped the prayer out to the heavens, not really caring who or what was there to hear it, as long as it was answered.

<<<>>>

AS CASSIE SPUN
her tale of that first wild night when Rosa rescued Padraic and then together they plotted to rescue the rest of his crew, she realized there was one good thing about being held captive by a madman while wearing your wedding dress. The billowing skirts hid her legs along with the shards of glass she slid beneath them every time she shifted position.

That glass bottle Kasanov had broken in order to torment her was going to win her a chance to escape.

PADDY FOLLOWED ROSA
out to the back of the barn where he was surprised to find an ambulance parked under the trees. A skinny man in his early twenties lounged in the driver’s seat but leapt out and snapped to attention when he saw Paddy. “
Heil
Hitler!” He saluted as he gave Rosa a wink.

Rosa ignored him and went behind the ambulance. A few minutes later she returned, her trousers and sweater exchanged for a German nurse’s uniform. “Get changed, Major Strauss,” she ordered Paddy. “We need to get a move on.”

“What’s all this about?” Paddy asked the driver as he changed in the rear of the fully equipped ambulance. Two stretchers were in place along either wall with room for two more to hang above them. Rosa stayed outside, giving her men last-minute instructions while the driver scrutinized a map in the front seat.

“You didn’t think we came all the way here on the off chance that some Brits would need rescuing, did you?” the driver answered. “We’re on a mission. Rescuing some downed RAF pilots from the hospital at Villa Chagrin.” His accent was American and he turned to Paddy with a grin. “They call me Dex—don’t ask me why. Real name is Linus.”

“Padraic—Paddy.” The uniform was a decent fit but Paddy stopped when he saw a spot of blood on the back of the shirt collar.

“Rosa’s got the technique down pat,” Dex said. “Dagger to the base of the skull. Silent, fast, and hardly any blood unless you remove it too soon.” He turned the whole way around, facing Paddy, gauging his reaction. “Which she had to do when the other one surprised us.” He opened his uniform jacket revealing a pink stain over the chest of his uniform shirt. “Haven’t been able to get it all the way out.”

Paddy considered that. That slight girl with blood on her hands—not just anyone’s blood, a German officer. “How many men has she killed?” It was an insane question and he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Dex shrugged. “Not sure. She’s been in this war longer than any of us. Started back in ’36 when the Germans killed her family and sent her to a prison camp.”

“Her entire family? Why?”

“She’s Roma—gypsy. Before the Germans targeted the Jews, they tried to exterminate the gypsies. They built camps, using them as slave labor. Those who fought back, like Rosa’s family, they massacred. Guess it was practice for what they’re doing now with the Jews. You know the Germans, so damn efficient.”

Paddy had heard the officers talk about rumors of death camps and forced marches as the Germans rounded up the Jews within their borders, but he—and the officers—had dismissed it as propaganda. He glanced out the rear door in the direction Rosa had gone. To see your entire family butchered simply for who they were. It was as insane as the Troubles in the north—his mother’s family was from Ulster and caught up in the fighting there.

“You’re American. Why are you doing this?” Paddy gestured to the bloodstained uniforms they both wore.

Dex leaned back, his gaze distant. “Charlie and I started in Paris. We were taking a year off after Yale, pretending to take classes at the Sorbonne, but really just kicking loose before we started working for our fathers. Mine’s on Wall Street—you’ve no earthly idea how much I dread being manacled by stocks and bonds and paperwork. Anyway, we were caught there when the Germans invaded, decided to do some good, so joined the American Volunteer Ambulance Corps. One thing led to another and we found ourselves transporting refugees, made it south to the border—more luck than anything, well, also the French are the most unorganized people on the face of the planet—and thankfully stumbled into one of Rosa’s operations before we got everyone killed.”

“So you decided to impersonate German officers and use your ambulance to rescue British prisoners?”

“Decide is a strong word. Rosa had an idea and she is extremely hard to say no to. Truth be told, Charlie and I both jumped at the chance. It was an adventure. We’d kicked around Germany, so both spoke the language. All we needed was to repaint the ambulance and grab a few uniforms, legit papers.”

Paddy finished dressing in the dead man’s uniform just as Rosa climbed into the rear of the ambulance and shut the doors. Dex started driving.

“Fits him better than the Basque,” Dex said as he drove the vehicle across the farm lane’s rutted, frozen mud. Paddy quickly realized they hadn’t chosen him simply because he spoke German. The dead man had been tall like Paddy with broader than average shoulders. All those years working the boat and nets with his da had left Paddy’s chest and shoulders built up so they fit the major’s uniform perfectly.

“The Basque?” Paddy asked, hanging onto the strap bolted to the wall as the vehicle lurched from the dirt lane onto a paved road.

“Fernando,” Rosa said. Ah, that explained the strange language. How many languages did Rosa speak? She eyed Paddy appraisingly. “He’s no Charlie.”

Dex sighed and glanced at Rosa in the mirror. “No one is.” They both were silent for a moment, mourning a fallen comrade—Paddy knew the look, the tone. So it wasn’t just one man who’d died wearing this uniform. What was he getting into?

Rosa reached behind her and handed Paddy a bundle of papers. “Memorize everything in here.”

He glanced at them: official identification, transit pass, and several letters, some handwritten, some typed on Nazi letterheads. He was now Major Heinrich Strauss. Inside one of the handwritten letters was a photo of a tall blond woman and two small girls clinging to her skirts.

Fear lit his gut on fire. Despite Dex’s cavalier attitude, this wasn’t simple playacting on a lark.

“I can’t read German,” he finally admitted. He shoved the papers back at Rosa. “Read them aloud to me and I’ll remember.” No one needed to mention that their lives depended on his memory and acting skills.

Rosa didn’t accept the papers. Instead she turned away, shoulders drooping. Dex pulled the ambulance to a stop. “No worries,” he said. “Rosa, you drive. I’ll coach our Irishman. After all, I did play the lead in
Hamlet
back at New Haven.”

Situation diffused, they traded places and resumed their journey. Paddy was reminded once again how young Rosa was. It was clear that although she spoke several languages, like him, it was a verbal skill. Could she read and write at all? If she really was gypsy, like the travelers back home, then maybe not. How could a girl with no formal education have any chance going up against the well-trained Nazis?

Dex diverted his thoughts as they began to chat in German. “Tell me about yourself,” he started. “What’s your favorite hobby, Major Strauss?”

Padraic froze. Hobbies? He had no hobbies.

Dex read his anxiety. “Relax, man. The key to acting is using bits and pieces from your real life. Stick with the truth whenever possible—it makes the lies more believable and it’s easy to remember the truth, so if you’re questioned, you don’t have to worry about mixing things up.”

Paddy nodded and drew in a breath. “Fishing. There’s nothing I love more than heading out for a good day’s fishing. I’ll even skip Sunday services to go fishing.”

“Good job, Fisherman.” Dex scanned the papers. “Looks like those Sunday services would be Lutheran. Now, let me tell you about those lovely wife and daughters you left behind in Hamburg.”

<<<>>>

AFTER THE SUN
abandoned them and there was no sign of Hart or the gray minivan, Drake could stand it no longer. Jimmy in tow, refusing to leave his side, left the federal building and drove over to Alicia Fairstone’s historical Shadyside residence. Anyone other than a Fairstone would have called the large colonial on its sprawling lot a mansion, but to Alicia, it was merely her “city house.”

Drake barely noticed the elaborate holiday decorations as he strode up to the front door and leaned on the bell. Alicia had declined an interview when Jimmy had called earlier, directing them to her lawyer instead, but by God, she’d talk to him.

A woman in her fifties opened the door. She wore black stockings and a matronly gray dress. Add an apron and she could have walked straight out of a BBC historical drama.

“We’re here to see Ms. Fairstone,” Jimmy said. Drake didn’t bother with words, simply walked past the woman, barely noticing her expression of outrage.

“You can’t—”

He’d been here once before, making final arrangements for
Steadfast
’s sale. Then Alicia had held court in a beautifully appointed salon off the main foyer. He headed that way, leaving Jimmy to deal with any repercussions.

The housekeeper and Jimmy following behind, he crossed into the salon. Alicia was alone, sitting in a chair near the fireplace, reading a book, and sipping from a martini glass. She glanced up at his abrupt arrival.

“Remy. What are you doing here?” She tried to sound surprised, but to Drake it sounded rehearsed. She stood as Jimmy entered along with the housekeeper. Alicia wore a silk pants suit—a lounging outfit the designer probably labeled it—and had her makeup, hair, and jewels ready for a photo op. Staged. That’s what the moment felt like.

She’d been expecting him. Or someone.

“You know why I’m here,” he said, his tone harsh.

“Ma’am, should I call the authorities?” the housekeeper asked.

Jimmy flashed his badge. “We are the authorities.”

Alicia jerked her chin and the housekeeper scurried away. “Would you like a drink?” she offered, resuming her seat.

“How do you know Nickolai Kasanov?” Drake demanded.

“He’s a fellow collector. The one who first told me about your work, in fact.”

“Kasanov told you about my art?”

“Yes. He emailed me photos of it, along with your bio.”

“Bio?”

“That you were a Pittsburgh police detective, pursuing art as a second career. Obviously, with the local connection, I couldn’t resist. Especially when he offered to fund half the purchase price with an anonymous donation to the foundation.”

“Wait. He sent you my real bio? You knew who I was before—” Drake broke off, the pieces falling into place.

Jimmy and Drake exchanged glances. How the hell had Kasanov manipulated all this? No. Bigger question: why?

Burning
Steadfast
, taking his mother and Hart—this all felt so very personal. Revenge or retribution. Drake had never encountered Kasanov. Yet the man had been planning this for months.

“I don’t understand,” Alicia said. Again, it sounded rehearsed, not genuine. “I thought you knew Nickolai. He was at the gala last night, didn’t you see him there?”