Chapter Eighteen

The trail had gone cold.

In eight days there had been no further information about Fakir and the remainder of Anton's gang at all.

For the first couple of days after the second robbery, Ahiru and the rest had tried to hold out hope that there would be some further communication from Fakir, since Fakir had managed to send out two messages so soon after the first heist. But there had been absolutely nothing. No one had called to report new and odd wall carvings or other unusual notices; no one had spoken to Fakir and felt the need to inform the police of it. Of course, maybe the gang was simply doing something different this time, or maybe Fakir just had not had a chance to leave any messages, or maybe he had and they just had not been found yet. Still, all things considered, it was a definite worry.

The police were relieved to have some of Anton's gang behind bars after so many failed attempts. But the men were completely unwilling to assist the investigation and tell the police anything they knew of where Anton might have gone and taken Fakir. If they did know, more than one of them had sneered during interrogation, they would not say.

"They're entirely unreasonable!" Kirsch fumed. "Even the promise of reduced sentences won't make them cooperate. Do they really think Anton will get them out of jail?"

"No," Charon said. "I've spoken to some of them and I don't pick up on any such notions. Nor do I think they're afraid that Anton will find a way to kill them if they talk." His eyes narrowed. "I think they're behaving like this completely out of spite."

The police felt likewise. They were looking into every possible contact on the criminals' records in the hopes of finding someone else who might be in the gang. So far they had not had any luck—only dead ends—but they refused to give up.

Unsure of whether to wait or to move on, Charon and the others had remained in Frankfurt. Autor believed they should try other large cities, perhaps Cologne or Hamburg, but the police had requested them to stay for the time being in case any leads turned up in Frankfurt. The police were looking through the other large cities, as well as everywhere else in Germany. And so, reluctantly, the group had lingered.

With each day that went by without news, Ahiru sank further into despair and depression. The others were helpless to know what to do for her. Autor had seen in her eyes more often than not the growing fear that Fakir was dead. But she did not want to talk about it. Instead she tried to smile and say she was fine—although she could no longer say that she was sure they would hear from Fakir. She could lie about how she was feeling, but by now her fears were too great to be able to even fully convince herself that Fakir was alright.

Autor and Charon tried to get her mind off of things by suggesting sites they could see in the city. She went with them and tried to be enthusiastic, but it was clear that her heart was elsewhere. More often than not she roamed the hotel, restless, going from one level to another. Often she went to the observatory on the top floor and stayed there for hours, just staring at the Frankfurt skyline and falling deep into her thoughts.

Autor, Charon, and even sometimes Kirsch checked on her repeatedly throughout each day. But it was only on the evening of the seventh day that she was at last willing to talk.

She looked up with a start at the sound of footsteps entering the otherwise-empty observatory. "Autor," she said softly in acknowledgment of her friend. He was always a welcome sight. Even when she did not feel like talking, he was ready and willing to be there for whatever she needed at the moment—even if that meant just waiting for her to feel that she could open up to him.

Autor came and sat next to her on the soft, floral-pattern cushions that ran the length of the room, underneath the large glass windows. "Ahiru, I know you're hurting," he said. "All of us are. Fakir is dear to me and to Charon as well as to you. But . . ." He hesitated, pushing up his glasses.

What he wanted to say now was something he felt had to be said. However, he wished he could find the way to phrase it that would hurt her the least. Especially since she had been trying to think of him and the others.

At last he determined to simply take the plunge. "Ahiru, don't you realize that we can see through your masks?" he blurted. "We know you're not fine, no matter how much you say you are. And when you distance yourself and wander off like this, it only hurts us more. We're worried about you and we don't know how to get through to you."

Ahiru's face crumpled and she looked down at her lap. "I know," she said softly. "I've been thinking about that a lot. I feel like I've been awful and selfish lately—not just now, but before, way back when the first robbery happened, and maybe even before that." She looked up at him sadly. "I feel like maybe deep down I've been thinking that I'm the most worried about Fakir and I've been kind of forgetting about everyone else's feelings."

Autor stiffened in stunned shock. "Ahiru, that isn't true!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea you've been thinking something like that. Even now, you've been struggling to think about our feelings. That's why you say you're fine when you aren't. You don't have pride, like I do. You just don't want to hurt us by showing how upset you really are."

Ahiru sniffled. "So it's just pride with you?" she said. "That's why you always say that you're fine?"

Autor cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "In the past, yes. I didn't believe people really cared about me, and I didn't want to be vulnerable, so I would tell them I was fine no matter what."

He sighed and looked away. "Unless it was my parents asking," he said. "I knew they cared, and I didn't want to worry them and hurt them by showing them that I wasn't fine. Pride was there then too, but there was the additional element of being concerned about their feelings."

He looked back to her. "Now that I know I have friends . . . more family, even . . . I don't want to hurt them. And I don't want to be vulnerable. I suppose both reasons for my behavior are still present."

Ahiru smiled a bit. "I don't really get the not wanting to be vulnerable thing," she said, "but I know you really do care about us and about Fakir. You're a great friend. I just wish . . ." She looked down again. "I wish I could give you strength like you've given me. Instead I just make you and everyone worry."

"That isn't true, either," Autor frowned. "I've long admired your strength and courage. To manage to smile and act cheerful when your soul is breaking into thousands of fragments is something very few people can do."

"I guess." Ahiru finally raised her gaze to meet his again. Desperately she searched his caring brown eyes for the firm assurance she needed.

"Autor . . . what do you think happened to Fakir?" she whispered.

Autor drew a deep breath. He had known this question was coming. He had tried to prepare himself for it. But in the end he doubted he had done a good job of it.

"I don't know," he said. "It's not the answer you want, Ahiru, and it's not the one I want to give, but it's the only truthful one I have."

Ahiru nodded sadly. "I don't want you to make up stuff," she said. "It wouldn't really sound believable anyway."

She wrung her hands in her lap. "Do you . . . think he's alive?" she asked, her voice even more hushed.

"I don't know," Autor said, quiet as well. "I want to believe so, but I don't know at all."

Ahiru looked at the floor. After a moment she slid her hand over, laying it on top of Autor's. "At least . . . we can want to believe together," she said.

Autor blinked in surprise. Then he smiled, resting his other hand on hers. "Of course," he said. "We can do that."

xxxx

"Fakir, Fakir, Fakir!"

He grunted, throwing the covers over his head. "Be quiet, idiot," he muttered. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Fakir!" Ahiru jumped on the bed, rocking it from side to side. "You've been in bed for ages! Come on, it's time to get up!" She grabbed his arm and pulled.

Fakir pulled it away. "Cut it out!" he snapped.

"Really, Fakir." Now Autor was getting into the act. And from the tone of his voice, he was smirking. "You're behaving like a child."

Fakir threw back the covers. "Look, I'm hurt, okay? Leave me alone."

"If you don't get up, you're not going to be able to get better!" Ahiru replied. She hopped to the floor and again grabbed his arm.

To Fakir's surprise, Autor took hold of his other one. "We don't intend to let you leave us," he said. "You've already been gone far too long."

At last Fakir smiled. "Okay, you guys win."

He let them pull him up.

Green eyes slowly opened to the world around them. At the same time, a calm and unconcerned tick-tock filled their owner's awareness. There was a clock somewhere in here.

Wherever here happened to be.

The pain wanted to make itself known as well. With one hand he reached up, touching the throbbing bump under his hair.

What the heck happened?

It was all so vague in his mind. He remembered something about crooks, and a robbery, and a rock . . . but what about Ahiru and Autor? Where were they?

Almost as soon as he wondered, it all came back to him. He swore aloud, turning his head to the side. Ahiru and Autor were not here. They had only been a dream. He wanted to believe that the gangsters were the dream, something that would disappear upon awakening. But they were not. They were the reason he had been . . . whatever he had been. The last thing he even remembered was being hit in the head with the rock.

"You are awake at long last, young Fakir."

He froze at the unwelcome voice. "Anton," he hissed. Now he could see that the gang leader was sitting in a chair next to the bed. The man's arms were crossed and he seemed very nonchalant and unconcerned about the whole matter, as usual.

"You've been a lot of trouble, you know." Anton studied him, his observant gaze traveling over every inch of Fakir's body. "You've been unconscious for a week."

"A week?" Fakir regarded his enemy in disbelief. "What happened? Where are we?"

"I took you far away," Anton said. "I didn't want to chance us being found. We're at a house I own in Hamburg."

"Hamburg," Fakir muttered in derision. That figured. He was all the way at the other end of Germany.

Who knew where Ahiru and Charon were by now. He never had been able to figure out if Anton had been lying about torturing Ahiru and shooting Charon. If it was true, was there any possible chance that Ahiru was alive? It seemed doubtful that they would have let her live so long. And Charon . . . well, there was no way to know.

Autor was already dead. Fakir remembered that all too well now.

That had been a nice dream, though—with both Autor and Ahiru trying to get Fakir out of bed.

He frowned deeper. The dream had been what had brought him back to his senses. There was not any chance that . . . that both of them were dead now and they had been there trying to revive Fakir?

He gripped a handful of quilt. But they had said that they did not want Fakir to leave them. If they were dead, and Fakir died, then they would all be together. But they would not want Fakir to die to be with them, and . . .

Oh, nothing made sense. What was he even doing, trying to analyze a dream? It was just a product of his subconscious, longing for things to be simple again and to be back with his friends. It would not come true.

"What are you planning to do with me?" he asked now.

"That's a good question," Anton said. "There has been some suspicion among us as to how the police learned about the planned robbery in Frankfurt." He peered at Fakir. "Unless one of my men is a traitor, that leaves you."

"When would I have had a chance to do anything?" Fakir retorted.

"I would be very curious to know," Anton said. "But in any case, I wouldn't put it past you. You are clever and cunning, like your father was. If you were determined, you would find a way."

He leaned back. "I have been planning to take some of the wares of certain people at the harbor," he said. "It's a large-scale operation, much moreso than taking from Siegfried von Schroeder's warehouses. I don't want it to fail. I would like to have the assurance that you would help make it a success. Unfortunately, you have so far proved more of a hindrance than a help.

"You asked me after the first robbery if I remembered what was at stake. I wondered if you did. I wondered even more after the second robbery. Despite what I told you about your other loved ones, you still defied us. You defied me."

"I don't even know that you really have Ahiru," Fakir said. "I saw Autor lying on the ground after he fell. He looked dead, so it was easy to believe it when you said he really was. You showed me that picture of Charon talking to the police, so I know that was true too. But I've just got your word that Ahiru is being tortured and Charon was shot." His eyes narrowed. "And that's not good enough."

Anton nodded as though he had expected this. "You're right of course, Fakir. I knew we would be having this discussion, so I took the liberty of recording something for you to hear." He placed a small tape recorder on the nightstand by the bed and pressed the Play button.

The horrible, unreal sounds of heavy objects connecting with a body, as well as the sizzles of electricity, filled the air. Fakir rose up on one elbow and stared at the tape, chalk-white.

"No!" a voice wailed. "No, stop it!" Unintelligible screaming pierced his ears. "Fakir! Autor! . . . Help. . . ."

The sounds of the torture continued. The screams eventually dwindled to whimpers and then to nothing. Not even another jolt of electricity brought a response.

"That's enough for this round," came Anton's voice. "Leave her be for now."

The tape ended. Anton hit the Stop button, saying nothing. Instead he watched Fakir, attempting to determine how this was affecting him.

Fakir was clutching the comforter, his hand shaking uncontrollably. Hearing all of that, really processing that anyone could treat someone else that way, was a horrible lesson that he wished he had never had to learn. Those sounds would stay with him for a long time.

And yet . . . he was not sure that the girl screaming was Ahiru. It had certainly sounded like her at some points, such as when she had cried their names, but other times it had not sounded exactly right. Still, with so much going on, it seemed logical enough that the nature of the torment could have changed her voice.

He ran his tongue over his lips. "Is she still alive?" he rasped.

"For now, yes," Anton said. "She's only useful to us as a way of keeping you in check. I had the hope that when you realized she actually was in danger, you would become more useful also."

Fakir shut his eyes tight, slumping back against the pillow. He was starting to feel ill again.

What do I do? Oh God, what do I do? Is that really Ahiru on the tape? Even if it is, should I do what they want? What will really help her? God, please, tell me what to do. I don't know any more what's right.

"You have a great deal on your mind now," Anton broke into his frantic prayer. "I will leave you to think it over. But I trust you will make the smart decision in the end."

Fakir could hear him getting up and walking out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Fakir grit his teeth in anguish, not even trying to stop the agonized tears that had been locked up for days and now were sliding from his eyes.

I want to make the smart decision, he said to himself and to God. But what is it?

xxxx

Leonhard von Schroeder was very concerned about the Anton Schuster case. It was not just that the man had stolen from Leonhard's brother, but that Leonhard had seen that kidnapped guy and had not been able to be of more help.

The police had contacted Siegfried with a list of the names of the gang members they had arrested in Frankfurt. They had wanted him to go over it in the hopes that he would remember someone on the list as having a connection to someone in the company, but so far neither he nor Leonhard had had any success.

"What are we going to do, Siegfried?" Leonhard exclaimed from where he was sitting Indian-style on the couch in Siegfried's office. "We can't go around asking the employees if they've heard of these people. Any one of them might be another inside person!"

"It doesn't seem to me that there's much we can do," Siegfried answered as he typed on his laptop. "We don't recognize the names. What can be done?"

Leonhard frowned. "There must be something," he said. "Hey, Siegfried, are all of our employees accounted for?"

Siegfried blinked in surprise, his hands paused over the keyboard. "As far as I know, yes," he said. "Except for the technician Albert Heimbrecht, in whose home they found the message from the kidnapped boy."

Leonhard nodded. "Didn't he just get back from a business trip and then disappear again?" He got up, going to Siegfried's desk.

Siegfried frowned. "That was somewhat odd, wasn't it," he mused. "The records show that he requested an extended sabbatical and it was granted. But if I remember correctly, it didn't say why he wanted it or who approved it."

"Or where he was going," Leonhard groaned. "We don't know if he went with the gang or tried to get away from them or was killed or anything!"

"The police have been trying to find him," Siegfried said, "as have I. We've all been through his home and through his belongings here at the company, without success. It appears he did not keep anything suspicious any place where it could be discovered."

"Maybe we should look again," Leonhard said. "Maybe even his business trips weren't completely legal! He could have got with the gang during some of those!"

"I have thought of that, as have the police," Siegfried said. "They've been looking into the details of his last business trip before he vanished. If there is anything to find, I'm certain they will."

Leonhard sighed, his shoulders slumping. "So there really isn't anything we can do," he said.

"No, I do not believe there is." Siegfried saved his document and pushed back his chair. "We should leave; we're going to be late for lunch with Mr. Schuhmacher."

Leonhard frowned. "You're really going through with that business deal, Siegfried?" he moaned.

"I know he is not the most pleasant person in the world," Siegfried answered as he stood. "In fact, he's really quite exasperating. But I see no reason not to go through with the deal. It will be very profitable to our company." He brushed his hair over his shoulder.

"I don't like the way he treated Mr. Charon," Leonhard said flatly. "I wouldn't want to do business with him after that."

"You didn't like him before that," Siegfried said.

"I know, but seeing how he acted with Mr. Charon made it even worse," Leonhard said.

"Well, it isn't as though he was not speaking the truth. Mr. Charon was dressed most inappropriately for the location." Siegfried headed to the door. "Are you coming, Leonhard?"

"Yeah," Leonhard mumbled. "But Mr. Schuhmacher will probably keep us waiting again." He started to walk forward, then stopped, his eyes wide. "Schuhmacher," he gasped. "No, it can't be!"

Siegfried frowned in confusion. "What is it now?" he asked.

Leonhard ran over to him. "You're not going to believe it, Siegfried," he said. "I'm not sure I do, either. Maybe I'm even wrong, but . . ."

"For goodness sake, tell me what is on your mind," Siegfried exclaimed.

The theory Leonhard expounded stunned the young CEO. He listened with narrowed eyes, mulling over the possibility of its truth. When the boy had finished, Siegfried came back to the desk and lifted the telephone receiver.

"What are you doing?" Leonhard cried in surprise.

"Calling someone else who would like to hear of this," Siegfried said. "Your idea may only be a wild goose chase, Leonhard, but in a case of this magnitude it should be mentioned anyway."

He spoke into the telephone. "Armina, get me the police."

His secretary's voice answered him. "Right away, sir."

xxxx

It was late that night when Kirsch received a call, the contents of which he could scarcely believe. He asked the officer to repeat it, not certain he had heard right. When he hung up, a new hope shone in his eyes. Immediately he went to tell Charon and the kids of what he had learned.

Despite the hour, all of them were still awake in Charon and Autor's room, trying to come up with something they could do to further the investigation. At the sudden, frantic knock on the door they jumped a mile.

"What's that?" Ahiru exclaimed.

"It might be news," Charon said, hoping against hope as he stood and went to the door.

"None of us ordered room service," Autor mused in agreement. "No one should be coming except the detective."

As soon as Charon began to open the door Kirsch hurried inside, his visage displaying his urgency. Charon regarded him in surprise. Autor and Ahiru leaped to their feet.

"Has something happened?" Charon asked.

"Yes!" Kirsch said with a firm nod. "There's been a new development in the case. It may be nothing, but on the other hand it may be the break we needed."

"What is it?" Ahiru cried.

"Has there been any possible message from Fakir?" Autor added.

"No," Kirsch said, "but there's a chance the gang has moved on. And we have an idea where to go to look.

"Pack quickly!" he continued. "We're catching the first possible flight to Hamburg!"