Читать книгу White Mountain - Dinah McCall - Страница 10

Vasili Rostov stood with binoculars held close to his face, watching as the downstairs lights went out inside the hotel in the valley below. He watched until a light appeared at a second floor window before he dropped the binoculars onto his backpack and crawled into his sleeping bag. Whatever had been going on downstairs was obviously over.

He cursed softly in Russian, taking comfort in the familiar roll of the words on his tongue. Before they’d pulled him out of his anonymous existence, he had been able to convince himself that he was still as good as ever and that age had no bearing on his abilities. But now that he’d been on the move going on two weeks, he had to admit he was getting too old for this work. He missed his bed and his easy chair, where the cushions sank in all the right spots. And he missed his vodka. He always had a couple of shots before going to bed. Since he’d come to Montana, he’d been forced to endure cold camps and dried foods. The novelty of being back “on the job” was wearing thin. Couple that with a continuing urge to forget everything he’d been sent to do and get lost in America, as Vaclav Waller had done, and Vasili Rostov was an unhappy man.

He looked back down the mountain at the roof of the sprawling three-story hotel and grimaced. He needed to find a way to get inside without anyone knowing. It was the only place he knew to start looking for answers. But how to do that without arousing suspicion was, at the moment, beyond him.

The night sky was clear and cool, but despite the beauty of the stars, he would rather have been in a bed and under a roof. A pack of coyotes began to howl on a nearby hillside. He jerked in reflex and reached for his gun, cursing the fact that the only place to offer rooms on this forsaken bit of earth was the hotel below.

At the present time there was only one paying guest at Abbott House, a man who’d arrived earlier in the afternoon. Vasili had considered the wisdom of staying there himself and then discarded the notion. Since Frank Walton had known within seconds of their meeting who he was, Rostov couldn’t afford a repeat of that debacle.

And he couldn’t help thinking that if it hadn’t been for Waller, all of this would be over. If only they had told him more about why they wanted Waller back, he might have foreseen Waller’s drastic behavior and been able to prevent it. The very fact that the old man had been willing to die rather than let himself become Rostov’s prisoner was highly suspicious. Then he tossed the thought aside. Maybe he had opted to die now rather than being tortured later for information he wasn’t willing to give.

Rostov sighed and closed his eyes. If he’d learned one thing from living through the disintegration of the Soviet Republic, it was that there was no need for rehashing the past.

He shifted nervously within his sleeping bag and considered making a fire, then discarded the thought. The last thing he needed was for someone to get curious about a camper’s fire and come snooping around.

Another series of yips told him that the coyotes were on the move now, running in the opposite direction to his camp. With a sigh of satisfaction, he crossed his hands across his chest, then patted the gun lying on his belly one last time before falling asleep.

Southern Italy—3:00 a.m.

Three men moved across the small town square, taking care to stay in the shadows. This wasn’t the first time they’d set out to steal, but it was the first time they had agreed to rob God. Although the night was cool, a small man called Paulo was sweating profusely. He imagined the Devil’s hand tightening around his throat with every step that took them closer to the small village church.

“We will die for this sin,” he murmured.

Antonio, who was the eldest and the leader of the group, turned quickly and shoved Paulo roughly against the wall.

“Silence,” he hissed.

Francesco, who was Paulo’s cousin, tended to agree with his kin, but he was afraid of Antonio and rarely argued.

Hoping to soothe his cousin’s fears, Francesco gave Paulo a wink.

“Think of the money we are going to make on this one job. It’s more than we made all last year.”

But Paulo would not be appeased.

“Dead men have no need for money,” he said.

Antonio glared at the pair. “Then get out! I will do this job myself. I have no need for cowards.”

Neither one of them had the gumption to anger a man who had killed his own father, and so Francesco smiled, trying to ease the tension.

“Paulo will be fine, my friend, have no fear.”

“I’m not the one who’s afraid,” Antonio said. “So do we go?”

Reluctantly, the other two nodded, then followed him into the church. The massive double doors squeaked on ancient hinges as Antonio pushed them inward. Paulo flinched, then stopped just inside the doorway, again overwhelmed by the impact of what they were about to do.

“Quickly, quickly,” Antonio muttered, and shoved them forward.

Paulo genuflected in the aisle and muttered a prayer for forgiveness before moving toward a faint glow of light above the altar at the front of the church.

“There it is,” Antonio said. “Francesco, you’ve got the glass cutter. Paulo, you help him. I’ll keep watch. And if you don’t want a dead priest on your conscience, too, then get busy.”

Paulo crossed himself one more time, muttering as he followed his cousin up a series of steps toward what appeared to be an oblong box made almost entirely of glass. The dimensions were about two feet wide, no more than four feet long and two feet deep. A niche had been chiseled out of the thick stone walls where the glass box now lay. Francesco leaned forward, peering intently at the brass plaque mounted beneath.

St. Bartholomew 1705–1735

A shiver of foreboding ran up Francesco’s spine, but he shook it off, blaming it on Paulo’s ridiculous predictions. They weren’t going to be cursed for stealing a few old bones any more than they would be cursed for the sins they’d already committed.

“Help me,” he ordered, and together they pulled the glass coffin from the niche, then set it on the floor.

“Hold this,” Francesco said, and handed him a flashlight.

Paulo’s hands were shaking as he took the light, but when it flashed on the ancient and yellowing skull within, his stomach lurched.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, forgive me for this sin.”

Seconds later, the faint sound of metal against glass could be heard as Francesco carefully cut out a panel on the backside of the coffin.

One minute passed, then another and another. Despite the coolness of the evening, sweat dripped from Francesco’s forehead onto the glass. Paulo’s hands were shaking so hard that he once almost dropped the flashlight. It had taken a sharp word from Antonio and a slap on the head before he had regained his equilibrium.

Suddenly Francesco rocked back on his heels, holding a long, slim panel of the old handmade glass.

“I’m in,” he whispered.

Antonio spun, his eyes glittering eagerly as he took the glass from Francesco’s hands and carefully laid it on the altar. Then he pulled a cloth sack from inside his jacket and thrust it in Francesco’s face.

“Here. You know what we came for. Take it now.”

Francesco stared down into the small casket, eyeing the fragile bones. He knew people who prayed to this saint for healing—and he knew people who had been healed. He couldn’t bring himself to actually desecrate something that holy—not even for a whole lot of money.

“I can’t,” he whispered, and handed the sack back to Antonio.

Antonio cursed and shoved both men aside as he dropped to his knees.

“The light,” he whispered. “Hold the light so that I may see.”

Paulo angled the beam of the flashlight down into the casket, highlighting all that was left of the small man of God.

Antonio thrust his hand through the opening that Francesco had cut, fingering the bones as if they were sticks of wood from which to choose. Finally he settled on two of them, one a small bone from the lower part of the arm and another that had a minute bit of leatherlike tissue still adhering to a joint.

He pulled them out and thrust them into the sack, then stood abruptly.

“Do you have the glue?” he asked.

Francesco nodded.

“Then replace the glass and put the box back in place. We’ve been here too long.”

Francesco’s expression was anxious as he went about the task of doing what he’d been told.

“This patch will show,” he said.

Antonio sneered. “But not easily, and by the time someone discovers what has happened, we’ll be long gone.”

Within minutes, the earthly remains of St. Bartholomew, minus a bone or two, were back in the niche. The trio slipped out of the church and back into the streets with no one the wiser—except God. Hastily, they made for the edge of the village, and when they could no longer see the rooftops, Antonio did a little dance in the middle of the road.

“We did it!” he crowed. “We’re going to be rich!”

“We’re going to die,” Paulo moaned.

“When do we get our money?” Francesco asked. Antonio smiled, his teeth gleaming brightly in the moonlight.

“We take the left fork in the road and follow the path up to Grimaldi’s meadow. He will be waiting.”

“Who’s he?” Francesco asked.

Antonio shrugged. “I don’t know his name…only that he pays well for goods received.”

“How much is he paying us?” Francesco asked.

Antonio smiled. “We each get five thousand American dollars.”

The amount was staggering for men who had no vocation and who lived by their wits and their lies. Still, Francesco worried.

“You’ve done business with him before?”

Antonio hesitated. “No, but I can tell these things. He has fine clothes and manicured hands. Men like that have no need to lie.”

Paulo snorted beneath his breath, convinced that his life was over. Clean men were killers, too, but he had no intention of voicing his thoughts. If he hadn’t been so certain that fate would catch up with him wherever he went, he would have walked away right then. But he had no wish to die alone, and so he followed the other two men to the meeting place.

Before they had time to catch their breaths, a man stepped out from behind a rock. Paulo gasped and stumbled as Francesco stopped short, but Antonio swaggered up to meet him.

“You have it?” the man asked.

Antonio smiled and held up the sack. “We kept our end of the bargain. Do you have the money?”

“I will see the merchandise first,” the man said.

“And I the money,” Antonio retorted.

The man set down a satchel, then opened it, revealing three substantial bundles of American twenty-dollar bills.

Antonio handed over the sack and then went down on his knees, laughing as he thrust his hands into the satchel and pulled out the cash.

“See?” he cried. “See, I told you. We’re rich. We’re rich!”

Francesco grinned at his cousin and then dropped to his knees as greed overtook shame.

But Paulo couldn’t bring himself to touch the money any more than he would have touched the bones of the saint, and because of his hesitation, he was the first to see the man pull a weapon.

“He has a gun!” he cried.

And because of his diligence, he was the first to be shot. He hit the ground with a thud as a sharp, burning pain began to spread within his belly.

The man fired twice again in rapid succession, killing both Antonio and Francesco before they could look up. He grabbed the money-filled satchel, scattered a few cheap pieces of jewelry upon the ground, as well as a handful of rare coins he’d stolen last week in Cannes. Then he took another gun from his coat and fired it into the air before laying it down on the ground beside the men. He knew their reputation. When their bodies were found, it would be assumed that they’d fought over stolen property and killed each other in a fight. Without looking back, he disappeared into the night.

Paulo clutched at his belly with both hands, trying to hold back the flow of blood, but there was too much, and he was becoming too weak. What was left of Francesco’s face was on the ground near his shoe, and the back of Antonio’s head was completely gone. His one regret was that both men were no longer alive to see that his prediction had come true.

His voice was weakening, his breath almost gone. But he said it again, if for no one else’s benefit but his own.

“See…I told you we were going to die.”

Despite all the wrongs that he’d done, Paulo had always been a man of his word.

By the time their bodies were discovered two days later, the killer’s payoff was in a numbered account in a prestigious Swiss bank and the goods were en route to the buyer.

Jack woke with a start, momentarily confused by the unfamiliarity of the room. Then he saw the dirty dishes on the tray by the door and remembered the nighttime meal he’d almost shared with Isabella Abbott. He couldn’t quit thinking about how sad she’d been, and how beautiful her face was. Shaking off the feeling of miasma, he reminded himself that personal feelings had no place in his line of work. He couldn’t afford to feel empathy for someone he was investigating. He only dealt in facts.

As the blessed quiet of the old house permeated the room, he ran through a mental checklist of all the things he needed to do today. First on the list was checking in with the director to let him know he had arrived. With a reluctant groan, he threw back the covers and got up. A few minutes later, freshly showered and half-dressed, he sat down on the side of the bed and reached for his cell phone. With the punch of a few numbers, he was connected.

“Sir…it’s Dolan. I’m on the scene.”

“Fine. Remember, I want this played loose and easy. It’s entirely possible that no one there knew a thing about the old man’s background. If that’s so, then his reasons for deceit have died with him.”

Jack sighed. “Yes, sir, I understand, but in our business, we’ve always got to look for conspiracy, right?”

“Do I detect a note of ambivalence?”

“Maybe. And maybe I’m just more tired than I thought.”

“How are you healing?” he asked.

Jack flexed his stomach muscles, noting that each day brought a little more ease.

“Good. I rarely feel any pain.”

“That’s good. No need pushing yourself unnecessarily.” Then he added, “As a matter of curiosity, what’s your first impression?”

Other than the fact that I almost let myself get infatuated with a ghost? “Not much. I’ve only seen a desk clerk. Everyone else was at Frank Walton’s funeral. I did meet the owner briefly last night, but I didn’t have time to make any kind of connection.”

“Did he say anything about Walton’s death?”

“He is a she, and she referred to the old man as Uncle Frank. She also mentioned that her father had passed away less than two weeks ago, so she’s pretty devastated. I didn’t push.”

“Hmm, that’s quite a coincidence—two people living under the same roof and dying within weeks of each other. Check into the father’s passing. Make sure it was from natural causes.”

Jack’s pulse kicked up a notch. “Do we have any reason to assume otherwise?”

“Company intelligence thinks we’ve got a visitor.”

Jack stilled. “Soviet?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks, maybe more.”

“Do we have any background on Walton or, I should say…Waller? What was his line of expertise? Was it nuclear…? Biological…? What in hell did that old man know that would still be of interest after all these years?”

“He was a doctor. If there was a special project, we know nothing about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dolan.”

“Sir?”

“Watch your back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line went dead. Jack dropped the phone on the bed and reached for his shirt. The leisurely week he’d been hoping for had just gone up in smoke.

Up one floor and at the far end of the hall, the uncles had gathered in David Schultz’s room. Their demeanor was morose, reflecting their depression. Jasper Arnold scratched his bald head as he looked about the room.

“What about the clinic?” he asked.

“What about it?” Thomas countered.

“Samuel was the heart of it,” he said. “David and I have wanted out for more than five years. The staff is well-trained. We’ve accomplished what we set out to do. I say let them have full authority and we officially retire.”

Rufus Toombs smoothed his hands over his paunch, then laid his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

“Samuel had plans, remember? He swore he’d perfected the process even more than before. Things have already been set into motion.”

Jasper waved away the comment. “Exactly my point. Samuel had plans…but Samuel is dead.” He took out his handkerchief and mopped the nervous sweat from his brow. “I have plans, too, and they do not include being murdered.”

David interrupted. “I think you’re all overreacting.”

Thomas Mowry had been listening quietly, but when he heard what sounded like derision in David’s voice, he had to speak up.

“There are facts that cannot be ignored. Please. We should concentrate on them and not run amok here, worrying unnecessarily and blaming each other for what is, ultimately, inevitable.”

“What are you talking about?” Jasper cried.

“Age has caught up with us,” Thomas said. “And…quite possibly our pasts. We knew this could not go on forever. Besides, we have Isabella to consider and protect.”

The other four looked at each other and then away, individually nodding or muttering.

“Yes, yes, Isabella,” David said. “We have to think of our precious girl.”

“Right,” Thomas said.

For a moment there was silence, then Jasper asked, “So, what are we going to do about the last project? You know how high Samuel’s hopes had been. He kept claiming to have corrected the final flaw in our earlier works.”

Rufus sighed. “Speaking of the works…I have news.”

The others grew silent, waiting, fearing, yet knowing that their sentence must be that they hear it, if for no other reason than the fact that they were the ones who had set it in motion.

“We have another self-destruct.”

There was a collective sigh of frustration and regret that went up within the room and then, moments later, Thomas asked, “Who?”

“Norma Jean Bailey.”

“The blonde?” Thomas asked.

Rufus nodded.

Thomas’s voice began to shake. “I had such high hopes for that one. She’d already done some modeling and had enrolled in acting school, remember?”

Each man there averted his eyes from the others, choosing instead to look away, as if afraid to see blame in the other men’s eyes. David Schultz simply bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

Thomas Mowry stood abruptly. “This leaves only two of the original twenty alive. I find this an unacceptable reason to try once more.” Then he strode to the window and stared out at the valley and White Mountain beyond.

John Michaels, who up until now had remained silent, cursed beneath his breath, then, oddly enough, began to cry.

The others said nothing. What could they say that hadn’t been said before? Finally Jasper broke the silence.

“Does this mean we scrap Samuel’s last project?”

“I say we take it to a vote,” David said.

The five old men looked at each other. Finally they nodded in agreement.

“Then a vote it is,” Jasper said, and picked up a pen and a pad of paper from beside the telephone. “Yes means we give the project one last try. No means we quit. Now. With no regrets and no blame.”

“All right,” they echoed, and then each wrote his decision on a piece of paper and tore it off before passing the pad and pen to the next man.

David took a small porcelain bowl from a bookshelf, folded the paper his vote was on and dropped it into the bowl before passing it around.

One by one, the men dropped in their votes. Jasper Arnold was the last. He dropped in his paper, then set the bowl aside as if it contained something foul.

“It’s your bowl. You count them,” John said, and handed the bowl to David.

David Schultz felt every one of his seventy-eight years as he moved to his desk with the bowl in his hands.

“Once the count is made, there is no going back. Understood?”

“Understood,” they echoed.

He unfolded the first bit of paper.

“Yes. It reads yes.”

He laid it aside and picked up the next, unfolding it with methodical precision.

“No.”

He picked up the next and the next, until he had two votes for yes and two votes for no. The room was completely silent except for the occasional hiss of an indrawn breath and the faint scratchy sound of paper against paper.

“This is the last and deciding vote. Whatever it—”

“Just do it!” Jasper cried.

David nodded, then unfolded the paper. His nostrils flared. His expression went blank. He looked up.

The men held their breaths.

“Yes.”

A collective sigh filled the room, part of it tinged with disbelief, part of it echoing the inevitability of what lay ahead.

“Then that’s that,” David said. “One more time.”

“For Samuel,” Jasper added.

“And for Frank,” Rufus said.

They nodded, then stood. Without speaking, they left the apartment, adjourning to their own rooms to dress for breakfast. There was work to be done.

Isabella handed the room key to the couple who’d just checked in, directed them to the elevator, then watched them as they walked away. She didn’t have to ask. She knew they were here for the clinic. There had been so many over the years that she’d come to recognize the quiet look of desperation they all wore. Saying a silent prayer for their success, she filed away their credit card information, then turned to answer the phone. As she did, she missed seeing Jack Dolan’s descent down the stairs.

But he didn’t miss her.

He’d heard her voice before he’d seen her, and despite his hunger for a hearty breakfast, he had to see her again—in broad daylight, when he could be absolutely certain she wasn’t the ghost he’d first imagined her to be.

“Good morning.”

Isabella turned around and found herself face-to-face with the man from the lobby last night. Her first impression was one of surprise. The night before, she’d been so wrapped up in her own grief that she’d failed to pay him much attention. To her, he’d just been a lost and hungry guest whom she’d fed and sent on his way. But now, with the early morning sunlight coming in through the mullioned windows over the entry doors, she had ample light by which to see. She took a deep breath. There was plenty to see.

He was tall—taller even than her Uncle David, who was six feet two inches. His hair was thick and straight, a warm, chocolate brown, and clipped very short. His eyes were blue, with a tendency to squint. She could tell by the tiny fans of wrinkles at the corners of both eyes. He had the physique of a runner—lean and fit, without a spare ounce of flesh. His shoulders were broad, as was the smile he gave her when he leaned across the desk.

“Good morning to you, too,” Isabella said. “I trust you slept well after your midnight snack.”

Jack’s gaze swept the delicate curve of her cheek and neck, then back up to her face, looking for signs of exhaustion. They were still there, behind the smile.

“I think I slept better than you,” he said. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The dull ache in her heart shifted slightly as his concern gave her momentary ease.

“Thank you.” Then she changed the subject. “I’m guessing you’re headed to breakfast. The dining room is across the lobby and to your left.”

Realizing he’d been politely dismissed, he nodded his thanks and turned away from the desk just as an odd assortment of elderly gentlemen exited the elevator and headed for the desk.

“Isabella…darling…you have no business working like this so soon. Where is Delia?”

Isabella blew Thomas Mowry a kiss. “Good morning, Uncle Thomas, and quit fussing about me. She’ll be here any moment, I’m sure.”

Jack nodded politely as, one by one, the men gave him a studied look. These, he suspected, would be the men she referred to as her uncles.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jack said.

They nodded and smiled, but Jack could tell they were only being polite.

“I’m Jack Dolan,” he said, and held out his hand to the nearest man.

David Schultz hesitated, but only briefly, then accepted Jack’s offered hand.

“Dr. David Schultz,” he said. “The gentleman to my right is Dr. Jasper Arnold, then Rufus Toombs, John Michaels, and the last one on my right is Thomas Mowry. We are Isabella’s uncles. Are you visiting family in the area?”

“Nope,” Jack said. “All my family is still in Louisiana. I’m in the area gathering some research for a book.”

John Michaels clapped his hands in delight.

“A writer! I always wanted to write, didn’t I, Thomas?”

Thomas Mowry shifted his glasses to a more comfortable position on his bulbous nose as he gave Jack a closer look.

“So you’re a writer, are you? Are you published?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah…I see.”

Jack felt a little like he used to feel when his father would look at his report card. The disappointment was always there, even though he had tried hard not to show it.