Chapter 11: Scarlet Bird
It was midafternoon by the time Sara and Mozzie arrived at their destination—a forested slope in the Matra Mountains. They parked in a pull-off and hiked the rest of the way to Count Lamberg's estate. The mountain air was chilly, but they'd come prepared with warm parkas. They both had backpacks with birding gear and were carrying binoculars. Just a couple of ornithologists surveying bird populations.
The security gate to the property was close to a parking lot. At five o'clock, many staff personnel left the castle for their cars. Sara was able to scrutinize the outfits of several of the women. The housekeeping attire had the most promise, consisting of a black dress with white collar, black tights, and sturdy shoes. She'd assumed that domestic help of some sort would be her most likely role and had brought along black oxfords to wear. Mozzie opted for the look of a gardener—twill pants, a faded cap, and a heavy work jacket.
When they returned to the camper, they picnicked on the ground with supplies they'd bought along the way. Mozzie set up a portable propane heater to provide welcome warmth.
They intended to do their shopping the next morning. The closest town was a half-hour away. Most of the workers probably lived there. Mozzie was confident that if they couldn't buy suitable clothes, they'd be able to lift them from local laundries. He assured her that the local populace would be delighted to be rid of the scourge of Ydrus. A few clothes were ample repayment. Privately, Sara disputed his logic. If Ydrus was using the castle as their headquarters, the locals could hate to see the loss of an employer.
"You just have rookie jitters," Mozzie remarked, slicing cured sausage onto a paper plate. "You'll be fine. Didn't you and Neal break into the campus of Scima Workshop in London?"
"My part was to distract them with stories while Neal did the actual breaking in," Sara admitted.
"Still it was an excellent introduction to your new life of criminal intrigue. I thought the Doctor Who and Rose scam was quite entertaining, but it's time for you to broaden your repertoire." He uncorked a bottle of Hungarian red wine with his Swiss army knife and sniffed the bouquet. "Have you ever had Egri Bikaver—the bull's blood of Hungary?"
"I've never had the pleasure," Sara said, watching his activities with amusement. It was impossible to stress about the dangers ahead with someone who maintained such a cavalier attitude.
"It acquired its moniker from the Turks during the Ottoman siege of Eger. The Hungarian troops drank this wine and became such fierce warriors that the Turks fled in panic, claiming their enemies were drinking the blood of a bull."
Sara held out her paper cup. "I'm glad you bought several bottles." The wine was heavy with tannin and pungent with the taste of forest berries. A few sips of this and she'd be ready to head into battle too. She leaned against a tree trunk and munched dark bread and cheese. "I can easily picture you and me in a Doctor Who adventure. You're as irrepressible as the Doctor."
Mozzie beamed. "We are both all knowledgeable. And you make a worthy companion," he added generously.
"Why thank you, Doctor. Now that you've finished Henry's movie, you may wish to write a Doctor Who script. Have you ever considered writing for television?"
"Diana and I have discussed it," he acknowledged. "Perhaps when she no longer needs my assistance for Arkham Files, I'll branch out."
"Any clues about her next story?" she asked. By the time it was published, Neal would be rescued and the Mansfelds behind bars. If she said it often enough, she might believe it.
He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially as if the owls were enemy agents. "I wrote several scenes and added some references to my youth."
"Anything about Mozart the bear?"
"No, but the man who gave me the nickname is featured. I also had an idea for Henry."
"Tell me more."
"It was based on a prompt by Neal. As you know, Henry has been claiming he doesn't read the stories."
"—while secretly conspiring with El to spark a romance between Neal and me through our Arkham Files characters."
He smiled. "Yes, their attempt has been quite obvious, hasn't it? I saw through it from the beginning."
"We did too. It was the initial reason we created the Clueless con. Neal didn't tell me about his idea for Henry. What is it?"
"He should enjoy the part. It will build on several of his talents."
#
Peter called the team to the conference room for an update after the call ended.
"I just spoke with Mozzie," he informed them. "He and Sara are in position. They set up camp in the forest near the estate. They'd arrived early enough in the day to monitor day worker traffic. A two-lane road leads to the property. The security gate is staffed by a guard but there are no draconian measures in place."
"Nothing to suggest it's the headquarters of an international crime group?" Jones asked, lifting a brow.
"It's what we expected," Peter confirmed. "Ydrus must be going to great lengths to maintain the impression that Count Lamberg is alive and well."
"Whereas, if he's not being held a prisoner, he's most likely dead," Diana noted.
Peter nodded. They were all banking on Neal being held at Python's location, but there was no certainty. He could be a prisoner virtually anywhere. If Mozzie and Sara didn't find any evidence of Neal being present, would the Hungarians agree to raid the estate? If they did and he wasn't there, Klaus and Neal could disappear for months, maybe years. Being forced to rely on others to scout the property was maddening. Peter's frustration was mirrored on the faces surrounding him. Everyone was feeling the same pressure.
Peter forced himself to focus on the current task. "Any sign of Marta?"
"Not yet," Jones said, "but Bianka and Jacek are under constant surveillance. She's bound to contact one or the other when she arrives. Have you heard anything more from Rolf?"
"Not since last night. Rolf called to request an update on the heist. I told him it was scheduled for Thursday." By then Peter hoped they'd have rescued Neal and they wouldn't have to go through with it. Contingency arrangements had been made with the museum in the event Neal was still being held.
"Were you able to pinpoint Rolf's location?" Diana asked.
Travis shook his head. "He probably has a drawer of burner phones. We caught a lucky break with the call from Python." He turned to Peter. "Elizabeth sent me a check-in confirmation signal from Chicago."
"I spoke with her this morning," Peter said. She'd left yesterday to visit a friend, and Tricia was now taking her place. She'd arrived disguised as El the previous evening and would work remotely from his townhouse till the completion of the assignment. The resemblance was eerie. Satchmo had met Tricia, and the two got along well together, but he was one confused pooch over why his mistress now smelled like Tricia. Hopefully, the noses of Ydrus agents weren't as keen. One kidnapping at a time was all Peter could manage. As it was, he'd had nightmares of Neal on a gurney with Penfold leaning over him.
"How's Henry holding up?" Diana asked.
"Not well," Peter admitted. "Especially now that he knows I'm going to Hungary." He turned to his tech specialist. "Has Richard finished your disguise?"
He nodded. "I'm ready to take your place whenever you're ready. Richard's taught me how to apply the prosthetics."
"Boss, you realize there's a solution for Henry," Diana said. "You're using Travis as a stand-in once Neal's location is confirmed. Henry already has one."
"I'd thought of him, but depending on what happens in Hungary, the theft may actually have to be carried out."
Travis smiled. "Given his record, I don't expect he'd mind. We should at least find out if he's available."
#
Neal set his brush down on the palette to stretch his fingers. He paused to gaze out the mullioned window of the alcove. The view no longer made him nauseous. He'd been able to sort out that he didn't really have acrophobia. But that wasn't necessarily an improvement. Now that he could see he was high in the mountains, he felt more trapped than ever. His perch resembled an eagle's aerie, but he was unable to fly away. The life he'd left behind seemed impossibly distant.
Whatever drug they had him on didn't appear to affect his coordination, but he felt lethargic. Flashes of scenes flickered in front of his eyes at random moments, making it difficult to focus on anything. The shot which arrived with dinner must have been stronger. By the end of the meal, he could barely stay awake to get to bed. Once he was asleep, the memories of Bianka and Klaus were so vivid, it seemed like he hadn't slept.
Neal tried to picture scenes of Peter and El in their townhouse, but they clashed with memories of Chantal and Klaus. Different realities were waging a war in his head.
He glanced at Klaus working on his laptop. The day before he'd wheeled in a mobile desk and spent the entire day in Neal's room. They'd taken their meals together with Klaus not leaving till after dinner. Neal vaguely recalled he was the one who'd suggested it, but it was a bad idea. Too often when he looked at Klaus, he saw Henry instead.
When Neal was sick with pneumonia in Chicago, Henry had come back into his life after an absence of 15 years. He'd helped Neal recuperate and shown him photos of relatives he didn't remember. Now it was Klaus performing Henry's role, and the photos were snapshots in his mind. Peter, El, Mozzie, Klaus, Henry—his life was constantly reshuffling. Once, Neal caught himself calling Klaus Henry. Klaus hadn't pointed it out. How much did he know about Henry? How much had Neal told him and now didn't remember?
He didn't think Klaus had asked him about the Raphael and the Renoir—the paintings Peter had supposedly lifted from the cave. Neal tried in vain to figure out the significance. At the start of the day—whichever day it was—Klaus had taken him back on the roof. He'd warned him several times that every move, every whisper in his locked chamber was being recorded and analyzed. Neal's response was to speak as little as possible.
The alcove with its easel became his refuge. By focusing only on the painting, he could reduce the number of extraneous images flashing through his mind. Klaus had already gathered the supplies for the Da Vinci. The poplar wood which the master had used as a canvas looked exactly like the original. The tubes of paint and brushes were brought in at the start of the day. At sunset, they were whisked away for some servant to clean. An excellent ventilation system sucked paint fumes out of the room.
Klaus restricted the music to Schubert and Schumann. Neal recognized one in particular—"Of Foreign Lands and Cultures" from Scenes from Childhood. Was it a covert message, a part of the virtual reality program? Was it designed to reinforce the impression that Klaus was his brother, caring for him, watching out for him no matter where Neal was? He was the one who had Neal's best interests at heart. Neal realized that wasn't true, but it would be so easy to give in.
He had photographs of the original painting to work with. The subject was anonymous, but he knew who it was—Sara. They were the secret no one knew about. No flashing images. Her face smiled at him. Thoughts of her kept him from shattering into a million pieces.
"You appear quite content," Klaus remarked. "How's the acrophobia?"
Neal stepped closer to the window. "Not a twitch."
A door opened and a man in his fifties wearing a white lab coat entered the room. His white hair was cropped short. Erasmus Penfold. Neal whipped his sluggish brain cells into alert mode as his stomach performed a nosedive. Penfold was followed by a younger man, also wearing a lab coat, who was pushing a medical cart equipped with supplies.
"Now this is what I like to see! You're making remarkable progress." Penfold strode forward to shake Neal's unresisting hand. He didn't introduce himself, although Neal didn't remember having met him. How many times had Penfold visited him without him being aware?
"I hope you'll permit a small interruption," Penfold said as if Neal had any choice.
"What do you have in mind?" Klaus asked, switching to English. He and Neal carried out all their conversations in German.
"Only a few simple tests." Penfold turned to Neal. "You were in quite a state when you arrived." He frowned sympathetically. "Are you still suffering from hallucinations?"
Neal felt a buzzing in his head. Flashes of Penfold holding a needle, jabbing him, shining a light in his eyes. Neal slammed down on the images and glanced at his image of Sara on the easel. "I'm much better now, thanks." No snarkiness, not now. He was the model patient. You can leave now.
Penfold checked his heart rate and blood pressure. He had Neal walk for him, stand by the windows, and hold out his arms. Penfold didn't comment about any detected problems, instead praising him for how healthy he appeared. When the orderly drew several tubes of his blood, Neal became lightheaded. He fought to control the accompanying shakiness
Was this a preliminary exam for the reprogramming Klaus had warned about? Judging by Klaus's expression, that was his fear.
"I'm going to reduce your medication this evening," Penfold said. "If you have any discomfort, be sure to let me know."
Finally, the words Neal had longed to hear. "How long will it take before I notice a change?" he asked.
"Only a couple of hours. Don't be concerned. We'll monitor you closely. If you experience any discomfort, it can be easily remedied."
Even though he already knew it was occurring, hearing Penfold confirm it was brutal. Where was Peter? Hadn't they discovered where he was?
Klaus followed Penfold when he left the room, and Neal returned to his painting. Would he even remember who Sara was after the procedure? A wave of nausea slammed him and he rushed to the bathroom. Retching into the toilet, he couldn't control the panic flooding through him. If he faked being sick during the night, would that postpone the procedure? Or would it demonstrate the necessity to rewire his brain? Neal stared at the gilt mirror, wanting to hurl something at it. Was the mirror one-way glass? If he smashed it, would they be forced to stare at him in the open?
He heard footsteps outside and quickly rinsed his mouth.
"Are you all right?" Klaus strode into the bathroom.
"Yeah, the quiche didn't sit well," Neal mumbled, unable to mention the real cause for fear of being overheard.
"The taste seemed off to me, too. I'll speak with the chef." That was for the camera's benefit.
As Neal turned around, Klaus drew close to him and murmured, "It's going to be all right. I have a plan. I won't let anyone harm you."
Klaus's cell phone buzzed. He stepped back to read the text.
Neal returned to his aerie and picked up his paintbrush. Painting was the only tangible link he had to his former life.
"I'm needed elsewhere," Klaus said, walking toward the door. "I won't be gone long."
#
Sara and Mozzie drove to town the next morning to shop for clothes. A local store carried the uniforms, and a thrift store supplied Mozzie with all the clothes he'd need. By midday, they were ready to sneak onto the estate. Sara wore a raincoat over her outfit so if she was spotted before she entered the building, they wouldn't wonder why a housemaid was outside.
The castle was bordered by landscaped gardens. As on the previous day, men were raking leaves and tidying paths. Mozzie intended to join them. Sara planned to sneak in through the back entrance.
A delivery truck rolled up while she was hiding in the bushes. When a couple of the staff members approached it to carry in supplies, she seized on the opportunity and dashed through the door. She found herself in a passageway leading to a cavernous kitchen in the basement. A mudroom opened off the hallway. She hung her coat on one of the pegs, smoothed down her hair, and took a deep breath.
Mozzie reasoned that if they could discover Neal was there, Peter would be able to convince authorities to make a raid. Any information they could acquire about the castle would be invaluable. Were there stockpiles of arms? Stolen art? All she cared about was finding Neal.
For today's role, she'd worn a different wig with long black hair pulled into a chignon and had added glasses to her look. There were several employees in the kitchen taking lunch when she arrived. The kitchen was in one section of an extensive basement. She passed one corridor where the doors had sophisticated electronic locks. Possibly storerooms for arms or loot. She grabbed a stack of towels from the laundry to hold in front of her. They gave her an excuse for keeping her head down.
She didn't dally on the ground floor, assuming it contained the public rooms, but caught glimpses of a large salon and dining room. She'd counted four floors from the outside. Her best guess was that Neal was on one of the upper floors. The second floor contained offices and several large bedrooms. There were too many people milling around for her to get a good look. She'd discovered a service stairway in the back that she was using for her reconnaissance, but it presented issues as well, with domestic staff a constant threat.
When Sara reached the third floor, she smoothed down her stack of linens as she rehearsed her line. Fresh towels for the bathroom. A logical reason for why she was upstairs.
When she stepped into the hall, two men in white medical coats were exiting a room at the far end. Her heart leaped with excess adrenaline. Was that a sign Neal was there? If she found him, he wouldn't recognize her under the wig and makeup but she hoped her necklace would alert him to her identity. She was wearing the bird pendant he'd given her.
The men were heading her way. Sara darted into the first opening from the service stairs and found herself in a linen room. She waited while footsteps and voices passed her cubbyhole. When all was quiet, she sneaked a look. The hallway was clear. Picking up her towels, she strode quickly forward.
As she neared the far end, the door opened. Sara steeled her nerves. I'm a housekeeper. I'm supposed to be here.
She swallowed when she recognized Klaus Mansfeld leaving the room. She'd studied photos taken by the Bureau when he was in New York City two years ago, and his appearance was the same. When he spotted her, he beckoned her toward him.
Sara approached, nodding respectfully. "Yes, sir?" she asked in her best Hungarian.
He nodded toward the room. "Take the coffee service to the kitchen."
She'd heard enough Hungarian by now to know that his wasn't very good. He spoke slowly and Sara hoped she'd gotten the meaning right. The door to an adjacent room was ajar. She caught a glimpse of two men with computers. Monitors displayed surveillance feeds.
Klaus used his index finger to disengage the electronic lock and opened the door for her. As she stepped inside, she heard him command the men in the room next door to keep watch.
Tears of relief blurred her vision when she spotted Neal standing in front of an easel, brush in hand. She fought to retain her composure as he glanced briefly at her then turned back to his painting. He didn't appear physically injured, but that glimpse of sadness she'd obtained was heartbreaking. She longed to rush to him and tell him help was on the way.
She scanned the room as she headed for the coffee tray on an end table next to a sofa. His bedroom was light and spacious. He didn't appear restrained in any way. The Whistler painting on the wall was unexpected. Was that the original? Sara remembered it had been stolen from a museum in Los Angeles shortly before Neal's ill-fated trip to California.
Even though they were being monitored, she couldn't leave without letting him know who she was. Neal was focused on his work and ignoring her. Oriental rug runners were scattered on the floor. They would have to do.
She picked up the tray and when she turned, caught the toe of her shoe in the rug. Letting out a small exclamation, she staggered and tilted the tray enough to cause a spoon to drop. She managed to kick the spoon under the sofa as she grabbed the coffee pot.
Startled, Neal looked up at the commotion.
"Excuse me, sir," Sara said in Hungarian, acting flustered. She quickly placed the tray down and bent over, causing her pendant to dangle freely. She didn't dare look at Neal for his reaction but knelt to search for the spoon.
"Let me help," Neal said in German. He crouched beside her, his eyes flicking to her pendant.
"Thank you." She answered in German but botched her pronunciation, hoping it sounded like a Hungarian accent. With her hand, she continued to feel under the skirt of the sofa.
His hand reached under the sofa, his slim fingertips pressing into her hand for a moment. "I found it." Giving her the spoon, he stood up. "No harm done."
She nodded, lowering her eyes and smoothing her dress. She wished she could linger but it'd be far too risky.
"Please tell the kitchen that I'd like more of the plum preserve for breakfast tomorrow." His lips breathed another word at the end.
"I'm sorry. My German is not good. Please repeat."
When he did, he breathed the same word, river. It must be code for something. Peter would know.
Notes: Rolf, Klaus, Marta, and Jacek have all worn disguises. In the next chapter, the tables will be turned, and Mozzie and Sara won't be the only ones wearing them.
