Chapter Sixteen

Frankfurt was filled with banks.

At least, that was Fakir's immediate first impression of the city as he walked through the financial district with his two new guards. The skyscrapers towered above them, casting long, dark shadows across the roads and sidewalks. A lot of the tall buildings seemed to be banks' headquarters.

And people were everywhere—crossing the street, driving cars, and going into and coming out of buildings. Some of them bumped into Fakir. They apologized the first couple of times, but after a couple more Fakir wanted to growl, "Watch it!" Only the desire to not call attention to himself and his escorts stayed his tongue.

At least his injuries from the beating would not attract curious eyes. The cut on his head was just superficial; it had soon stopped bleeding and Fakir had managed to wash the crimson out of his hair. The wound was bandaged now, and hidden by the thick hair that hung over his forehead.

His ribs, too, were not presenting a serious problem. His right side felt quite sore, but as long as he was careful in his movements and did not jar it, he could manage alright and not reveal that he had been hurt.

His clothes mostly hid the rest of his assorted bruises, bumps, and cuts, save for one red mark on his left hand. It was not an extreme problem, as long as he did not accidentally hit it and start it throbbing again. If it turned black-and-blue, then he might have a dilemma.

Of course, it might actually be a good thing for him if his wounds were noticed and someone started wondering if something was amiss. But he did not know that he wanted to leave his rescue up to someone else; he wanted to take an active part in trying to determine how it would come about. If possible, he wanted to ensure all of the gang's capture in the process, not just that of some of the members. In particular he hoped to see Anton arrested. And figuring out how to accomplish that was going to take some definite doing.

Actually, he was surprised that he had been allowed outside at all after what had happened in Munich. But he supposed that Anton had decided that with two guards to watch him, there was no way anything could go wrong. And if someone happened to recognize him, the thugs would probably find a way to force him to write that the person would forget or simply not recognize him anymore. Maybe this was supposed to be some kind of a test. He should probably prepare himself for anything.

"So what's the job Anton wants pulled here?" he asked when they were away from a determined crowd.

"The owner of one of these banks went into business with us," replied the first. "But then he double-crossed us. Anton doesn't like it when that happens."

"So this guy's a crook too?" Fakir frowned.

"If you want to put it cheap like that," the man said.

"It's not my fault if you're all pathetic," Fakir said. "Anton has some legitimate businesses. Maybe you should all work on those."

"Anton has people working in those branches," said the second. "Our job is the more colorful stuff."

"I'd love to be working in one of the 'dull' departments right now," Fakir muttered.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was still trying to figure out what he could possibly do to bring about the gang's downfall. He had barely gotten any sleep on the flight, too upset and worried about the very real possibility of Ahiru being tortured and Charon on death's door. If he could just get word to the police about the robbery, and if they could apprehend the gang, then maybe Ahiru, at least, would be safe. And maybe there would be a medical miracle and Charon would pull through. He was hoping desperately that Anton was lying to him, but he could not count on that. He had to treat the horrible news as though it were the absolute truth.

"Is it going to be at midnight again?" he said.

"Midnight," confirmed the first. "At our 'friend's house." He sneered. "Erwin Loewe, the unfortunate bank president."

"And member of a rival gang?" Fakir said.

"He's not in a gang," said the second. "He just has a small group, with him and his board of directors."

"And Anton found out about it," Fakir said.

"He makes it his business to know a little bit about everything," the first told him. "At least when it's something that involves him somehow."

"That's nice for him," Fakir grunted. "And a mess for everyone else."

The thugs stopped walking and glanced upward. Frowning, Fakir followed suit. They were standing in front of a restaurant. It seemed to be what the creeps were looking for, as they turned their attention back to Fakir and prodded him towards the door.

"Now we eat," announced the second.

"You guys like to pick food places close by your jobs, don't you," Fakir remarked.

"Erwin Loewe's house isn't near here," said the first. He pulled open the door, gesturing for Fakir to go in ahead of them.

"But his business is," Fakir retorted. He walked past the man and into the lobby, wishing he could just keep on walking and get away.

He hardly listened as the crooks talked with the maitre d' about a table. Instead his gaze wandered over the entryway and to what he could make out of the main room from his position.

The restaurant itself looked highly crowded. Most tables had every seat taken. People were eating, laughing, and talking—thankfully not all at the same time. But it was loud and noisy and annoying.

One conspicuous table near the back had only one occupant—a businessman, judging from his briefcase on the chair next to him and the laptop he had on the table. Maybe, Fakir thought, they would end up stuck with him.

The only other person in the lobby was a woman talking on a cellphone. He heard snatches of her side of the conversation, but he did not care and stepped closer to the maitre d', who was unhooking the velvet barrier to lead him and the crooks into the restaurant.

"You are lucky that there is a table where you can have your privacy," the host was saying. "There is a very nice, secluded spot right over here." He led them past the businessman's table and to one diagonally across from it in a corner by the window.

The guards seemed pleased with it. "Thank you," said the first. "This is just fine." He pulled up the first chair, while the second began to herd Fakir to the one next to it. Apparently they wanted him to be in the middle.

The maitre d' nodded. "The waiter will come shortly to take your orders," he said. "Please let me know if you need anything else."

Fakir was not pleased at being sandwiched between the two gangsters. He had half a mind to tell the maitre d' that he wanted a different seating arrangement. But of course that would look ridiculous and not get him anywhere. Anyway, if he was going to try to find some way to put a plan into action he could not do anything suspicious right now.

From where he was sitting, he could look directly over at that businessman. The tycoon was closing the laptop and setting it aside in the briefcase, then lifting out a stack of papers. Was he waiting for someone he was meeting or just waiting for his food? Not that it mattered. Fakir averted his gaze, picking up the menu instead.

His guards were apparently unconcerned with the guy. He was probably not anyone important to them or they would be pointing him out to Fakir the way the original guard had indicated Siegfried von Schroeder.

Fakir's mind continued to churn as their orders were taken and then were delivered. Considering that he could not escape from the sentries' watch for so much as a minute, how could he possibly get any message out to the police—or to anyone else, for that matter? He placed a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, half-automatically, as he pondered.

Across the way, the businessman was finishing his own meal. After wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin he stood and walked parallel to the wall until he came to the restrooms. A moment later he had pushed open the door and disappeared inside.

If only it was that simple. Fakir was followed everywhere. Anton was familiar with the trick of going into a restroom and then trying to escape. In a public establishment the previous guard—whose fate Fakir still did not know—had either gone inside with Fakir or else waited outside the door and managed to look inconspicuous somehow. With two guards, they would probably do something similar.

Fakir cut off a piece of pork and stabbed it with the knife, biting into the meat. This was good food. He wished he could really, fully enjoy it. He chewed thoughtfully, casting a glance at the thugs. One of them was diving into his share, eating like there was no tomorrow.

That was giving him an idea. A vague, crazy, and probably hopeless idea, but an idea nevertheless. He started to eat faster.

Suddenly he dropped the fork with a gasp and grabbed for the napkin, choking and coughing. The gangsters looked up immediately, their eyes narrowed. Fakir snatched the glass of ice water with his other hand, still coughing as he brought it to his lips. But instead of the liquid helping, he only seemed to cough worse.

Now they were attracting attention. One of the men leaped up, annoyed and frustrated. "Hey!" he cried. "What's the matter with you?"

Fakir shook his head, gulping down more water. He coughed violently, forced to set the glass aside. As a waiter hurried over he was putting the napkin back to his mouth.

"What's going on?" the waiter gasped. "Are you alright?"

Fakir coughed into the napkin. "Swallowed something wrong," he choked out.

The waiter looked at a bit of a loss. "Is it serious?" he exclaimed. People from several tables were turning to look.

Fakir took the napkin away. "No," he rasped. "If I could just . . ." He coughed. " . . . Get away a minute . . ."

The thugs' frowns deepened, but the waiter was oblivious to their stormy expressions. He reached out to Fakir. "I could escort you to the restroom," he offered.

Fakir glanced back at the crooks, as if to get their permission. From their faces, they did not want to give it. But with so many people looking their way, and their desire to not be a spectacle, they did not have much choice.

"You'd better go," said the first.

"We'll come if you need us," said the second. He started to get up.

Fakir stumbled up from the chair, gripping the napkin. "It'll just . . . take a minute," he said. "I think it's . . . almost out." He coughed, holding the cloth over his mouth as he stepped away from the table and over to the waiter. Not waiting for either the waiter or the thug, he hurried ahead, weaving around tables and plants until he was through the door at last.

He straightened, looking around the brightly lit room. The businessman was standing at a sink, peering into the mirror as he combed his hair. Fakir wasted no time in stepping over to him.

"Listen up," he said, keeping his voice low.

The man turned, his eyes widening in utter surprise. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Fakir. I was kidnapped from Kinkan Town in Bavaria." Fakir's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a joke; it's the truth."

The businessman frowned, not certain what to believe. But the message was unusual and serious, and the boy's eyes held urgency, so he listened.

"I've only got a minute," Fakir said. "When I go out, I need you to call the police. Tell them Anton Schuster's gang is going to rob Erwin Loewe at midnight at his house. Tell them the kidnapped guy Fakir told you at this restaurant, and describe me."

Behind them the door swung open. Fakir stepped back, coughing into the napkin.

"Is everything alright?" the concerned waiter asked.

Fakir nodded. "Yeah. I got it out." He held up the napkin, revealing a small object in its depths. "Pork bone." He walked past the waiter and out into the restaurant. Shaking his head, the waiter followed.

The businessman watched as they departed. Abandoning his grooming, he left the restroom and returned to his table. As he gathered his belongings, he glanced at the table diagonal to his. The rough-looking characters the boy was with were demanding to know what had happened. But when Fakir apparently showed them the pork bone, they seemed mollified.

A slight smirk crept over the tycoon's features. The kid was smart.

Once he had paid his bill and gotten into his limousine, he took out his cellphone and dialed the state police.

xxxx

There was not much that Charon and the teens could do at the present time. While the police pored over Siegfried von Schroeder's employee list, Fakir's loved ones could only try in some small way to find where the boy had been taken. For hours they roamed the city, searching for any sign of him and asking people if they remembered seeing him. The answer was always negative. By the time they returned to the hotel, they were thoroughly exhausted and discouraged.

"They might lay low for the time being, since the police have been alerted to them," Autor said as Charon opened the door to their room.

Ahiru went in with them and flopped on Autor's bed. "Maybe they're not even here!" she wailed. "They could've gone somewhere else."

"Yes, but where?" Charon said, unable to hide his anguish and worry.

"Maybe another large city?" Autor suggested. "We came here on a whim. We might have to check other cities likewise, even Hamburg."

"We don't have the money to wander aimlessly all over the nation," Charon said, shaking his head. "We came here because it was close by and we hoped the gang might have planned to come here in order to throw us off the trail. We got lucky. What are the odds it would happen again?"

"Hasn't there been any word from Kirsch at all?" Autor asked. There was no point in denying Charon's statement. Autor was of the same mind as he.

"Nothing," Charon said. "There were no messages at the front desk."

"Maybe you should go to his room and talk to him!" Ahiru said as she looked over at him.

"If something happened, he would surely try to get in touch with us," Charon said. But he headed for the door again anyway. "I'm going to see if he's in."

He nearly plowed into Kirsch hurrying towards him from the other direction. The other man was ecstatic, his eyes wide and filled with news.

"The desk clerk said you'd just gotten in," he said.

"What's happened?" Charon exclaimed. "Have they found a connection?"

"This is even better than what they were hoping for," Kirsch said. He looked to Autor and Ahiru through the open doorway. The kids were both coming over, bewildered and hopeful.

"For Heaven's sake, what is it?" Charon demanded.

Kirsch advanced, stepping further into the room while Charon and the teens moved back. "The police got a call from some lady who works for a technician at SchroederCorp," he said. "A man named Heimbrecht. She said he never came home last night. Then today, she was cleaning through the rooms and found something carved into a wall, near the woodwork." He paused. "It said 'Fakir. Frankfurt.'"

There was a collective gasp.

"Fakir?" Ahiru burst out.

"Frankfurt?" Autor echoed.

The hope began to well in Charon's heart. "What does this mean?" he asked.

"It looks like it means Fakir left a message," Kirsch said. "The state police are out looking at it right now. They said I could bring you to see it too."

"Then let's go!" Ahiru cheered, running to the door. Autor hurried after her.

Charon lingered to pull the door shut as he and Kirsch stepped into the hall. "Have the police in Frankfurt been called?" he wanted to know.

"Yes," Kirsch said. "They should be being told right now."

They started to walk down the corridor to the elevator, where Ahiru and Autor were waiting.

Charon was still trying to fully process this news. "This woman didn't see anything suspicious yesterday?" he queried.

"Nothing," Kirsch said. "She said Heimbrecht had just gotten back from a trip and she hadn't expected he would be going on another one. Although she also said that sort of thing happens frequently. Apparently he's very busy at the company."

"And maybe with other things too," Charon frowned. "He must be part of Anton's gang."

Kirsch nodded. "It's starting to look that way. His name isn't familiar to you at all, is it?"

"No." Charon sighed. "I really didn't know them by name. I knew them more by face.

"But what about getting to Frankfurt?" he said now. "Are we going to be able to go there?"

"I'll arrange everything," Kirsch said. "We can probably fly up with a private pilot and save on the time and money of going by commercial jet."

"That's wonderful," Charon said. He could feel his voice growing a bit thick. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble at all," Kirsch said.

As they reached the elevator doors, Charon could see the same hope and joy in Autor's and Ahiru's eyes as he was sure was in his own. Now they knew that Fakir had been alright at some point after the robbery. He had even left a message in an attempt to be found.

Maybe Frankfurt would be the charm. Maybe that was where Fakir would come back to them.

xxxx

Heimbrecht's home was a three-story mansion in one of Munich's wealthiest residential districts. Ahiru and Autor could not help but stare up at it in awe as they got out of the car and headed up the walkway.

"Just imagine, Fakir being in a house like this!" Ahiru said. She frowned, sobering. "Having to be here with the gang would take all the fun out of it."

Autor nodded. "I wonder how he managed to carve that into the wall without them noticing," he mused. "If he had that much time to himself, maybe he should have tried to write something else instead—something that would have ended all of this."

"He probably didn't have his pen and paper and stuff," Ahiru said. "I mean, if he did, why would he have carved the message right into the wall?"

"Because it would be the least likely to be noticed by the gang," Autor said. "Paper would certainly be seen, as would dark ink on the wall. However . . ." He frowned as well. "You're probably right. They probably don't even let him have his writing materials unless they want him to do something for them. Which makes me wonder again what he used to inscribe his message."

Ahiru shuddered. "Poor Fakir," she whispered.

As they reached the porch, a police officer looked down at them. "Are you the friends of the kidnapped boy?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Ahiru exclaimed. "And Charon's his father."

Kirsch stepped forward, showing his badge. "I'm a friend of the family from Kinkan Town," he said. "I was told I could bring them here to see the wall."

The officer nodded. "Go right in," he said. "It's a small room at the back of the house. You'll be shown the way if you can't find it."

"I'm sure we'll find it without any problems," Kirsch said.

With that they walked up the stairs and through the open doorway into a spacious parlor. Ahiru looked around at the expensive furniture and designer clocks, her mouth open wide.

"This is so amazing," she said. "I wish this wasn't a crook's house and we could explore all through it with Fakir."

"We don't know for sure that Heimbrecht is a criminal," Autor said. "For all we know, he could be in the same plight as Fakir, dragged into this against his will."

Ahiru frowned. "Oh. Yeah, I guess you're right." She let out a sad sigh. "That would be awful. I can't imagine how terrible Fakir must feel right now."

"But he has been defying this gang," Charon spoke up as they journeyed down the long hall towards the back of the house. "In some ways that makes me feel better."

Autor knew what Charon meant by some ways. It was a relief to know that at least the police would surely not be able to charge Fakir with any crimes. And as a matter of principle, it was good that Fakir had not let them rule him like that. But it was also a great worry. The more Fakir defied them, the angrier they would get. And if they decided that beating him was not enough . . . well, Autor did not want to think about that.

Of course, the problem was that he did anyway. It was impossible not to think about it. Both he and Charon knew that well. And Autor was certain that Ahiru had never forgotten what Kirsch had said about that very subject. She did not want to talk about it aloud, but sometimes in her eyes there was a worry that could only come from knowing that a precious loved one's life was in grave danger.

More police met them as they came to the back of the house. A woman detective standing outside a room and writing on a notepad looked up.

"You can go on in," she said. "The carving is on the back wall."

Charon nodded. "Thank you."

Ahiru ran ahead of them as they were ushered inside. Two policemen were bending on either side of a section of wall, snapping pictures of something near the bottom. It did not take much more for Ahiru to be close enough to make out the inscription.

"That's what Fakir wrote!" she cried.

One of the officers started and looked over at her. "That's what it looks like," he said. "Do you know Fakir?"

Ahiru gave a vigorous nod. "He's my best friend!" she said. "Well, he and Autor both are. And we want him to come home safe and sound!"

"We want that too," the man replied. "We're going to do everything we can to make sure it happens."

By now Charon, Autor, and Kirsch had caught up and were also studying the wall. Autor bent down for a closer look.

"What do you think he used to engrave this?" he asked.

"We're not sure," the officer said. "It would have to be something tough enough to dig into the paint and plaster. And it would likely have to be something he had right with him, unless this room had furniture before he was taken away and he could have found something there."

"I don't see any indentations in the carpet where furniture could have stood," Autor said. He straightened. "Did the maid act like anything was here?"

"No," the policeman told him. "She acted like this room was normal, except for the writing. When asked why it was empty, she said she didn't know. Heimbrecht had apparently wanted it that way. She had asked him several times about furnishings, but he objected."

Out in the hall, the detective's phone rang. She answered, stepping away from the door.

Charon was frustrated. "I still don't understand how all of the servants could have heard and saw absolutely nothing strange last night," he said. "Are you sure no one has been lying?"

"The maid says she was the only one in last night," was the response. "And she was mostly organizing things in the basement."

"There's a helicopter pad in the backyard," the second policeman added. "We wondered if they could have left by helicopter, but I don't know how the maid would not hear that even if she was downstairs."

"Maybe she had a really loud vacuum," Ahiru said. Her eyes were wide. "You think they could have gone all the way to Frankfurt in a helicopter?"

"No," the policeman said. "But they could have taken it somewhere else. The fastest way to Frankfurt would be to fly. We're looking into all known airfields around here, both public and private. They probably wouldn't have tried for the international airport after the robbery, so it's more likely that they hired a private pilot."

At that moment the woman detective entered the room, her expression grave. Everyone turned to look at her in surprise.

"Is something wrong?" Kirsch asked.

"That was headquarters," she said. "They just received a call from the Frankfurt police. Apparently a businessman called them not too long ago. He claimed to have spoken in a restaurant with a teenage boy who identified himself as Fakir, kidnapped from Kinkan Town."

Ahiru's mouth dropped open. "Is he okay?" she cried. "What did he say?"

"According to the businessman, Fakir told him that the gang is going to rob Erwin Loewe at his house tonight at midnight." She frowned more. "Erwin Loewe owns a large bank in Frankfurt."

"Did he say anything else?" Autor asked, stunned and amazed by this report.

"Only for the businessman to tell the police about the meeting and to describe the boy. And the description matches Fakir exactly." The detective gave a contemplative nod. "If this checks out, Anton Schuster's gang may be going down tonight."