IV. Berlin
The room was crowded and musty, the way most antique shops are, with the lights dimmed to a warm pale glow. There were books stacked like tumbling columns amid the glorified ruins of desks, wardrobes, chests, and shelves, all flat surfaces heaped with lamps, mismatched china, mirrors, photographs and old posters. Everything was a faded and yellowed color, dusted with a fine white powder of age.
Meanwhile, standing in the midst of the relics of the past, was a man with no present, and only a vague future.
Without papers the Professor had no name and no way of leaving the country, strangely enough, standing very much alive in the front room of one of Europe's best black market salesman, he was more dead than had he would have been as a corpse lying in a morgue, for here, no one even knew he existed.
"It is a good thing you came to me." Phillip Dietrich's voice sounded as if his vocal cords were made of parchment, frail and cracked with age, "Any one else would not have taken twice the time and cost you four times as much." the old man appeared from behind the door of the office and made his way to the counter, removing his spectacles as he went.
"I knew I could trust you to get the job done." The Professor said stoically, keeping a careful eye on the gnarly fingered tradesman. He was crafty, dealing on the black market required that as an outstanding trait.
"Trust. A dangerous commodity." the old man lifted a wary eye to the assassin, "But you know this."
The Professor said nothing, simply waited as Phillip made it to the counter and laid a narrow, elongated black leather case on the glass top. "If you want to check the work first…" and allowing him to look at the documents the old man stepped back.
Everything was in excellent order.
"They're good." he said, closing the wallet. He left it on the counter and, reaching into his breast pocket, placed a stack of green bills next to it. "Five thousand, US."
Phillip picked up the cash and, without counting it, put it in his own pocket. "I trust you." Amusement glimmered in his dark eyes and sliding the case closer to his client, "Welcome to Paris, Monsieur Niklas Friedman."
The new Niklas Friedman glanced up at Phillip, struck by the irony of that statement; upon that statement of welcome he was being given his ticket out of France completely. But he simply nodded and left. He pulled out of the alley only minutes later, heading for the border.
- - -
It was several days later and exhaustion was playing on his nerves like rowdy children on a jungle gym. The cold air kept him awake, offering some energy after his breakneck drive, and calling upon his last reserves he walked up to the hotel with his briefcase in one hand, his pistol in its shoulder holster. Looking up the street in the early gray dawn, there was almost no one about, all the party goers having gone home about an hour go, leaving the skeletal trees with their holiday lights still shining looking sad and lonely. It was a good thing, the fewer people who saw him, the better.
He stopped and did a scan of the lobby once he had entered it. Plush carpets covered the great expanse of the floor, high ceilings and ivory walls giving an even grander feel to the hotel's ambiance. His footsteps made hardly a sound as he crossed the empty room to the ornately carved desk. There the only other soul appeared as if he had sensed a new patron's presence; his suit crisp, his posture even more so.
"Good evening, mein Herr." his accent was as thick as syrup left in the cold. "How may I help you?"
"I would like a room, please. Single. Preferably with a view of the street."
The man paused, the light of the computer monitor catching the vague confusion in his eyes, "Don't you mean the lake, sir?" He asked, somewhat hesitantly since having caught on to the brusque nature of their new guest.
"No." A stoic focused expression was all the concierge received.
"Very well, sir." he looked back to the screened quickly. "We have a room on the fourth floor…How many nights, sir?"
He paused briefly, "Reserve it for a full week."
"Very well, sir. That will be…" his voice trailed off as a sizeable stack of cash was placed on the marble counter before him.
"That should cover my expenses."
"Yes, sir." and with a wisdom that could only come from living in this particular city all his life, the concierge expected the sum and thought nothing more about it. "What name, sir."
"Friedman. Niklas."
There was the clacking of computer keys and then, turning for a moment to a board hung with bits of brass, a pair of keys were proffered. "Room 408, Herr Friedman. Do you need help with your luggage?"
"No. Thank you." and taking the key, Niklas turned and went to the elevators.
- - -
The room was perfect, the view suitable, and the locks strong. The neutral colors were easy on Niklas' tired eyes as he stripped down to his undershirt and slacks before going into the bathroom and turning on the shower so the water could get hot. Meanwhile, he would take care of one more piece of business.
Sitting on the edge of the bed he dialed a number and listened to the other line ring three times before it was answered by a quiet voice gruff with sleep.
"Ja?"
"Peer Werner?"
"Ja?"
"I believe you are holding a purchase for me."
There was a pause and a rustling sound in the background as the man on the other end seemed to finally wake up. "I told you never to call me here! My own home…" His voice was an even quieter, albeit harsh, whisper.
"I would like to pick it up."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
He did not answer the obvious.
"It would have to be late."
"Good."
He seemed somewhat surprised, "And there will be the…holding fee, to be paid."
"All right."
"Twelve o'clock, tomorrow night then."
Without another word Niklas hung up, stood, and, taking the vase of flowers from the entryway table and throwing them out, balanced the empty vase on the knob. With that done, he went into the bathroom and peeled off his shirt. Tomorrow night he would begin to put his strategy into action…but for now he would wash away the aches in his muscles, shave his face, brush his teeth, and then sleep.
- - -
He was sweating in the cold of a midwinter night, his hands were trembling, and he could not stand in one place, instead pacing the walk beneath the bridge, first back and then forth. He was nervous. But Peer Werner was never nervous. Never. Except whenever he met him.
His gaze darted about, searching the shadows for movement, and he looked at his watch. It was five minutes after midnight. But of course, this particular patron never came when expected. That was what made Peer so anxious. He could read all his other customers, he had been in the business long enough to learn all the roles. There were the drug dealers, sick with weed and greed, the mafia, demented mixtures of paranoia and arrogance, and then there were the political activists, psychotic and obsessive. But him…he was the one he couldn't categorize. He didn't talk. He didn't do anything but order his guns, pay, and pick them up. They were small orders. But Peer knew someone big was behind him.
With his one free hand he fumbled for a cigarette and, with a flick of a gold plated lighter, lit it, pulling the smooth sweet tasting smoke down into his lungs and holding it there. For a blissful moment everything was still and calm, and then he exhaled, turning to find the one man who could unnerve him standing but a step away.
He looked like he always did, wearing a dark coat, his eyes like orbs of steel behind their spectacles, like the sight of a rifle, like the bullets in its chamber. A focused, unstoppable force.
Peer held out the case, long, slender and black, and excepted a leather wallet, thick with money, in exchange. He would not count it, he knew it would be the right amount, and besides, he didn't have time. He was turning and leaving, disappearing into the shadows from where he came.
"Fuck it." Peer muttered, stuffing the money into his coat pocket and taking a hard pull on his cigarette. He flicked it into the water mirror-like water and started back for his car, hoping the smell of the smoke would fade before he got home to his wife.
- - -
The clicking of chips on the felt, hopeful and dejected cries, drunken laughs, and a smooth voice singer. It was a good business night, and he had been in such a good mood. Shame that it should be spoiled so.
Reynaud blew a thick cloud of rich imported smoke out of his mouth and his nearly black brown eyes glittered broodingly as they set on the guest who was currently being frisked by his guards. More of an intruder rather than a guest, in his opinion. "Get out of here all of you." he said with a dismissal wave of his hand, tossing a winning hand of poker onto his large oaken desk. "You too Mira…" his voice was softer as he turned to the ballerina figured brunette in the tiny red dress at his shoulder.
Her glance darted suspiciously resentful to the stranger and then she moved away from him smoothly, her fingers trailing along his arm.
"So…What are you calling yourself these days?" Renard said testily as the door clicked shut.
"Does it matter?" It was the first time Niklas had spoken since he'd entered the casino owned by his less than enthused host, Renard Fomenko.
"No. But…" Renard took a drag on his cigar, "…I did have the impression we were somewhat friends. Although, I may be rethinking my position on that all together. Have a seat." he motioned to the chair in front of the table. "Cigar?" But when he received no answer he smirked dryly, "Of course not. I forget, you have no appetites." He exhaled with a sigh, "Sometimes I look at you and wonder what its like to be alive and not live…Pointless in my opinion, but then again…" he shook his head, dismissing the thought of how little it mattered to this man what his opinion was. "What brings you to my humble place of business?"
"Information."
"Of course. But about what…or should I say whom?"
"Dyusheyev."
Renard's cigar stopped just in front of his lips, his eyes locked on the assassin that sat only a few feet away from him. "Demetri Dyusheyev?"
"Yes."
He shifted in his chair, leaning forward, his eyes narrow, "You have a lot of nerve coming here, to my place, asking questions like this…Especially since you broke the rules - Your own rules!" an angry exhalation of smoke, "I think you know what I'm talking about - I thought you worked alone?"
"I do."
"Do not insult me." Renard hissed the words, pointing a finger at him. "You can keep your secrets, kill who you want, but do not lie to me!" He sat back and adjusted his black tailored tuxedo. "Don't lie to me." he muttered. "Romanov has the girl."
"What girl?"
Renard was startled by the sudden intensity of the assassin's eyes but remained unmoved. "I don't know who the hell she is. But they have her and they want you to come and get her." Renard blew a cloud of smoke and withdrawing a picture from the top drawer of his desk, he threw it onto the desk. "My men took this several days ago."
Niklas picked up the picture and looked at it. Though the woman's face was covered by a burlap sack, he still recognized her. Not by sight, but by instinct instead.
"Romanov was in prison in the US when you killed Dyusheyev, but he is patient when it comes to revenge."
Niklas' eyes darted up from the photograph with a cold gaze, "Where?"
- - -
She did not know where she was or how long she had been there. Hours, days, weeks? Time was unmarked and continuous. She was hungrier than she had ever been in her life, yet she did not think there was anything that could tempt her to eat. In between states of unconsciousness, as she was moved in unknown vehicles and by strange rough hands, as she sat bound motionless to a rough wooden chair, she wondered where she was, who had her, why, and, most of all, she wondered where Henry was and if he was safe - if he was alive.
A rough hand grabbed at the top of her head and pulled, and she shook her head free of the scratchy material she had lived within for the past interminable stretch of time. Her hair was a knotted mass in her face, and she breathed hard against the gag tied much too tightly about her mouth as she looked out from its greasy veil.
There was light here, naked and sharp, like an unsheathed blade. It stabbed at her eyes and she winced.
"You will get used to it." The voice was smooth, but rolled like water falling over stones. "Are you thirsty?" She looked up to see a silhouette, a tall, slender silhouette, who had no face or eyes, who had no soul as far as she was concerned. Her response to his question was to breathe quietly.
She drew back as he suddenly stepped forward, but his hands were inescapable as they caught hold of the gag and pulled it away from her mouth. Her jaw hurt and her teeth felt out of place in her mouth as a cup was held before her, a clear straw sticking out of it and she looked up to the man who offered it with an accusatory gaze.
"Drink." he commanded, not harshly.
With a slight tremble to her limbs that she had not bid, she took a tentative sip, and ended up coughing as if she'd taken the Nile into her throat.
"Damn it…" the voice whispered as he wiped away the water and saliva from her chin, "I told you to take proper care of her. Is this what you call proper?"
"Sorry, Vladimir."
The voice suddenly had a name. Vladimir.
Alicia looked up at him with renewed interest, trying hard to penetrate the shadows that ensconced him and find a face. He tilted his head and moved to stand sideways, throwing the light on his features, as if knowing her wish and granting it.
He was tall, certainly, and he had dark hair that hung loose and curled in to his cheekbones. High cheekbones, divided by a nose that led straight to a curved mouth. He was handsome, he could have even been beautiful had it not been for the hard darkness of his eyes, never mind the small scar that ran down his cheek.
"So, Miss Dawes, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here?"
His finger trailed along the curve of her chin, but she said nothing.
"Or perhaps you are more concerned about your nephew, Henry?"
"Henry?" Her mouth was dry as the Sahara, and her thoughts spun with terrible images. "Where is he!" she demanded.
"Don't look so alarmed. He is quite safe - with his father in London." Vladimir pulled a chair from somewhere in the shadows and brought it into the light.
All comfort disappeared in a moment as he sat before her.
"But I'm sure you're anxious to see him."
Alicia narrowed her eyes.
As if receiving the exact answer he wanted, Vladimir sat, lighting a cigarette. He held out the pack to her but she barely shook her head; she wanted nothing from him. He blew a wisp of smoke into the air. "The boy has nothing to do with the matter." his voice was cooler as he eyed her observantly, pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket, "Do you recognize this man?"
The change in subject was not a change in reality. Alicia knew that. She stared at the man Vladimir as her stomach did a series of flips worthy of an Olympic gold medal and then looked at the photo. It was a quarter profile view of none other than Jeremy Cale…Her pupils dilated.
"I'll take that as a yes."
She looked up at Vladimir, confusion making her green eyes cloudy. "He was Henry's piano tutor." That was the only way the two were connected - but this man seemed to make more of it.
"I know that - that was his cover while he was stationed in London" He fixed her with a gaze as hard as iron. " What else?"
Her brows furrowed and she shook her head, confused, "I don't know anything else."
Another phantom cloud of smoke. "Nothing, Alicia? Miss Alicia Dawes…" he looked at her from beneath his eyelids. "I know that cannot be true."
A crawling sensation ran up her spine, it was fear, and it sent tremors through her muscles.
"Our friend here…" he tapped the photograph, "…He doesn't have friends, or lovers - he is all about business. So…" his eyes slid back up to her face, "…When he says a name, it means something. Do you have something you want to tell me now?"
As if they were bees in a beehive, Alicia's thoughts swarmed and sped. She didn't know anything. She thought she had known a man - but she hadn't. Apparently all she knew were lies. There was no comfort in that. There was no help. Adrenaline raced through her blood and her toes curled in her shoes. Her eyes burned, wet, and she looked past the shadowy man in front of her with a hard set gaze. She couldn't tell him anything anyway.
Vladimir watched her with a carefully guarded gaze, and he saw the furtive tear that slipped from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. "All right…" his voice returned to that soft whisper as he stood, straightening slowly, "I see that you need some more time to collect your thoughts." His eyes roved over her, slowly devouring. "Perhaps you would care for some dinner?" He turned away abruptly, hiding the hungry gleam in his eyes, not allowing her a chance to answer. "George. Bring her upstairs."
Alicia's trepidation was compacted by the entrance of a large blonde man into the garish circle that was her prison. She cringed as he untied the bonds, his reply that of a leering smirk and she fisted her hands uselessly.
