Vienna (26 page)

“But only with one of the originals. The copies would be a single piece of resin, made to replace destroyed originals.”

“Yes.”

“We need enough time to take a real one apart without the owner knowing it.”

“If the star isn't inside, then what is?”

“Christian Bell didn't craft exquisite puzzle boxes to leave them empty. Maybe love offerings of some kind. His anarchist offspring replaced them with something significant enough to get people killed, even after all these years.” Justine clinched her jaw against another yawn. “Though none of this works unless the manikin puzzles are difficult to solve. Otherwise, why go through the destroy-and-replace cycle?”

Vienna's hands twisted over air, manipulating imagined pieces of wood. “The seven key pieces are small, three in the foot and four in the hip. The rest are larger. Without knowing about the small ones, you would have to split the wood. Once it was splintered, you would never discover the trick of taking them apart.”

“Then we know what's happening, but not why.”

“Or why Andries was killed in the first place.”

“Because he believed you might provide answers. Once he had the solution, he wouldn't have to share the spoils. His seeking you out was a betrayal of whoever was working with him.” Lord Davy.

“Then why not meet me at the gelato shop? He knew I worked there.”

“He was scared.”

“Scared of what?

“Dear Uncle Anson.” It felt too right not to be true.

“But to know any of this for sure, we have to see inside an original manikin?”

“Exactly. The statue in Vienna is owned by an older woman. She's a huge fan of mine—or so James tells me—though not likely susceptible to my charms. But the Iceland manikin belongs to a musician—Haldor Stefansson. He's into New Age Nordic schlock. Fancies himself an international lady's man.”

“You know him?”

“I read everything I could find on him over the last five hours. Wish I had your memory. Still, I know his discography, from
Northland Roar
to
Dawn of the Old
Gods.
I called him before you woke. We're meeting him today.” Justine tried to keep worry from her voice. “How long do you need to take the statue apart and put it back together?”

“Two hours, if it's like the diagram.”

“I was hoping for fifteen minutes, but if it were easy, they would have figured it out. I can get you three hours.”

“How?”

Here we go.
“A disgraced fashion model and a niche musician who fancies himself the gods' gift to women. Surely he will be able to work his magic on me.”

“Magic?”

“Love.”

“But you're with me?”

“He doesn't have to know that.”

“It's in the news.”

“That means nothing. Men of a certain type believe that women of a certain type need men of a certain type.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know, Vienna. It's important that you listen, okay?”

She nodded.

“To make this work, I have to lie. It's not fair to you. Or to him, or to me, for that matter. But I'm scared. The police haven't connected the dots, but we have and they're all being murdered.”

“What sort of lie?”

“That I don't love you and that I might be convinced to love him. You need to understand it will be a lie.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“To get him out of the room so you can work. He lives north of Selfoss. I have a rental car waiting outside. We have to leave in two hours. Will you be okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We need to get some protein in you, and fluid as well.”

Vienna sat up. “You didn't sleep last night, did you?” she asked.

“I'll be fine for one day.”

Justine helped Vienna choose clothes, picking the most unflattering skirt and pulling a mismatched blouse. Vienna would never notice. As Vienna started her shower, Justine went online, tracking down a quote she'd heard back in school. Then a quick text to Lord Davy:

I know Shakespeare as well:

“Let us sit upon the ground

And tell sad stories of the death of kings.”

Which sad story am I sleeping with?

Yankee Invader

Keep pushing and see what breaks loose. Isn't that what they always did in the movies? She shut down the BlackBerry, ordered a large breakfast for Vienna, and took her own shower. By the time she was out, the BlackBerry had Davy's reply.

Richard II is all well and good, but there are kings and then there are Kings. Try Deuteronomy for explanation:

A bastard shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD; even to his tenth generation.

For further enlightenment ask our girl for the history of Emperor Franz Josef. She has a circumlocutious entry that we traced to a 50s encyclopedia. Heaven knows where she came across it. Time her recitation. She is nothing if not a creature of precision. Seven minutes in is the rest of your answer. Some genes carry true. As for a family name, her descent is strictly paternal. Few people know. Keep it that way.

Lord Wanker

Justine erased the message. She'd expected Davy to evade her question. One more piece that didn't fit.

Out of the Radisson to the rental. The air smelled of wet pavement and winter. Rain coated the car's windshield. The sky was the color of seawater, as if the North Atlantic had been suspended overhead and was slowly seeping back to earth.

Justine wound through the Reykjavík traffic with recklessness copied from other European cities. Highway 5 was four lanes of asphalt that would rate as a minor artery in Atlanta.

“How are you doing, Vienna?”

Vienna pointed to a long row of white apartments. “Curtained windows and reflections like a captcha.” It sounded bad, whatever it meant.

“Would it help to be distracted? Back at the Brussels stylist, you read local history.”

“I don't know the history of Reykjavík. Except that part about throwing high-seat pillars—whatever those are—overboard and following them to see where they beached.”

Justine resisted the impulse to follow that. “Then how about European history? Say, Franz Josef.” It was such an awkward shift she worried Vienna would balk. But the girl fell into search mode.

“The emperor of Austria? He was very famous in connection with his beautiful wife.” Her voice grew more animated. “Empress Elizabeth, that is to say Sisi, who was murdered by one of Lina Zahler's friends.”

“Let's stick with him for now.” That was all it took. Justine timed Vienna's recitation on the car's glowing blue clock. Seven minutes and twenty-one seconds in:

“… Franz Josef was renowned for his ability to recall the names of people he had seen only once. He applied the same prodigious memory to written works, reading even the longest state documents and instantly memorizing them.…”

Justine expected Vienna to stop her recital long enough to consider such provocative lines, but she continued on, lost in the words. Vienna of the House of Habsburg, albeit by way of a bastard.

Not that her regal ancestry made any difference to the forest of corpses being planted at her feet.

 

20

Vienna took distant note of her surroundings as she read to Justine. They climbed a long hill out of Reykjavík. Geothermal plants tapped spigots from hell, sending roiling clouds of steam across the road. Beyond landscaped yards, there were no trees, only twisted channels of volcanic rock covered in emerald moss. The green looked overly saturated, as if backlit by elvish enchantment.

Selfoss passed in a huddle of wet buildings and long greenhouses. Justine took several turns under direction from her GPS. The result was a narrow, all-weather tarmac leading inland. The terrain became more rugged, waterfalls marking basalt scarps. The road resorted to roller-coastering over hills and around pitched gullies. Everything was green tundra and roiling water and silver-black gravel.

A band of white appeared in the distance. Vienna thought it was a cloud.

“Glacier,” Justine said. Her voice didn't sound right.

Haldor's house was at the end of a long side road. A geodesic dome painted bright yellow. “Great,” Justine said. “How are you with Fuller Domes?”

“They're boring,” Vienna answered.

“Boring?”

“In Bath, my foster family had a geodesic greenhouse. I saw it every day, and they're all the same.” She felt Justine wasn't convinced. “This is a third-order geodesation of an icosahedron, yeah?” She hoped she pronounced the words right. She'd never heard anyone actually use them.

“Naturally,” Justine said. “So how many small triangles are there?”

Was she joking?
There was no way of knowing except by asking, and there didn't seem time as they were almost in the driveway. Vienna spoke quickly. “The number of triangles is found by taking the square of the number of times a line of the original icosahedron is cut. A third order geodesation would result in 180 small triangles. But this isn't a complete sphere. I'm not sure how far it goes down in the back.”

“Let's say ninety and call it good.”

It would be more than that, but the car was stopping.

Haldor Stefansson was a nice-looking man, Vienna thought. Barrel chest and a full, red beard. Sandy-red hair and deep brown eyes. “Go than dragon,” he said, or at least that's what it sounded like.

Justine reached out to shake hands. “Good afternoon,” she replied.

“It's rare to greet such beauty at my doorstep,” he said. His accent was Germanic, stretched over long, liquid vowels. His voice was deep and intimidating.

“Thank you.” Justine nodded to Vienna, “This is Vienna.”

“The Brit I've read so much about.”

“Rumors fly.”

The man smiled at this. “My sanctuary is yours.”

The interior was a clutter of heavy timbers and thick furs. So much wasted space. Vienna rearranged the room in her mind, throwing a third of the furniture away. Starting with a gaudy two-handed sword in its polished stand—an ornate stage prop with no basis in history.

Lady Hildur, the Icelandic manikin, stood in the middle of the great room floor. The tupelo girl wore a wig of jet black. Her arms were folded under her breasts. She looked forlorn—like the poster of the girl Vienna had in Brussels. Haldor had left her nude, and Vienna was left to wonder why Christian Bell had taken the time to carve nipples on his statue's chest. Had he been embarrassed while he did it? At least the manikin had green eyes, so Justine wouldn't have to wear contacts.

Vienna placed the sculpture over the Cart House diagram, just as she'd placed the map over Brussels. She saw the shape of each piece. Unless you looked closely at the toes, you would never figure out how to get inside. She enjoyed her secret knowledge.

“She's amazing,” Justine said. Her voice had the soft blush Vienna was familiar with from Justine talking too much during lovemaking.

“She's spending the night here after a week of getting fit for her new wardrobe,” Stefansson replied. “I'm glad she's back.”
The duplicate has been made.
“I had to have her, as she is named for the queen of elves. She has a very Icelandic spirit.”

“Your country does have a magical temper, as you noted in your last CD. I can see how it inspires your music,” Justine said. “A shame about the rain, I would love to explore.”

“There's much to see close by; more beautiful in the rain than sun.”

“One hundred and twenty-seven,” Vienna said. It was all she could think of to draw attention to the fact she was being excluded from the conversation.

“What's that?” Justine said, not even turning around.

“The number of triangles in the dome.”

“Yes, Vienna. That's a good girl.” Justine kept her eyes on Haldor. Vienna sensed everything had changed but didn't know what it meant. Except that Justine was meaner than she ever had been and that was saying a lot.

She couldn't see Justine's face, but Haldor was smiling. “Perhaps we could explore together?” he asked.

“That would be wonderful.” Justine paused. “We can take our car. Vienna can squeeze in the back.”

“Or we could take my Porsche,” Haldor said. “I wouldn't want to trouble Vienna over much. She looks tired and she would be more than welcome to stay here.”

“A great idea,” Justine said. “Be a good girl and don't get into trouble, Vienna.”

“There are a few English channels on TV,” Haldor said. “Mostly BBC, but one or two from America if you want to hear people screaming at each other.”

“Perfect,” Justine said. “She loves watching the news.”

And then, arm-in-arm, they were gone. Just like that. Vienna stood motionless. She felt her pulse thrumming in the back of her throat, driving shame through her body. Scattering her thoughts and leaving her mouth dry. Memories of men who'd come to her door in Brussels. They all left, too.

“Stop it!” she shouted into the empty room.

Deep breaths, like her doctors always wanted. Talk it through inside your head. Justine had said she was going to trick Haldor into believing she might care for him. And isn't that what she'd just done? It's okay. That had been the plan.

“It's okay.”

Vienna tried to remember exactly what Justine had said, except now she got stuck on Justine's parting comment about watching the news.

“You didn't even remember that I don't like the telly,” Vienna yelled at the empty house. “I've only told you a hundred times and if you really cared you would have remembered.” And before Vienna could be still or do any of the things her doctors were always on about, she saw another truth. Justine had admitted that Haldor knew a lot about women. So how could he have been fooled by the flimsiest of pretense? Unless it had been no pretense at all.