Chapter Nineteen

By the time Anton returned to the room, Fakir had come to his decision. When he heard the door open he sat up more, pushing himself against the soft pillow. His head was still hurting, but not as badly. He told himself to ignore it.

Anton looked at him in approval, shutting the door behind him. "You're feeling somewhat better, I take it," he said.

"I'd feel even better if I could get something to eat," Fakir retorted.

"Of course," Anton nodded. "I will have something light brought in to you."

"But there's something else I want to say first," Fakir added quickly.

Anton watched him carefully. "And what is that?"

"I want to see Ahiru."

Anton's eyes flickered slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You heard her on the tape cassette," he said. "She isn't in good condition."

"Yeah, I figured." Fakir glared at him. "Who could be, after what you were doing?" He gripped the comforter. "I want to see Ahiru and talk with her."

"She isn't being held in Hamburg," Anton said. "It would be too inconvenient to fly her in. And even if we did, there's no guarantee that she would last the journey." He crossed his arms. "Do you want to be directly responsible for another loved one's death just because of a selfish desire?"

Fakir clenched his teeth. "I can't say for sure that the girl on that tape is Ahiru," he said. "Her voice doesn't sound right. If you can't bring me proof that you have Ahiru, I can say for sure that I won't help you."

Now he was certain that the faint emotion in Anton's eyes was anger. He had hit a nerve. Either Anton was just furious that Fakir was still defying him . . . or he did not have Ahiru.

"Do you honestly think that after enduring the torment we put her through, she would sound the same?" Anton said. "I don't know that she will ever have the voice you remember."

Fakir fought back his own anger at the very thought of Ahiru really being tortured that badly. "If you won't bring her here, then let me talk to her on the phone," he said, barely restraining himself from lunging at the monster in front of him. "Even if her voice is different, I'll know then if it's her."

Anton gave him a searching look before nodding abruptly. "That can be arranged," he said. "When I send for your food, I will call the associates of mine who are holding her prisoner."

"Good," Fakir said. "You do that."

With nothing more to discuss, Anton swiftly departed. Fakir leaned back against the headboard, a deep frown on his features.

If they really did not have Ahiru, the only way they could keep Fakir from figuring it out would be to keep the conversation short. He would have to think of several innocent-sounding things he could say to her that the gang would not pick up on and that only the real Ahiru would answer correctly.

He thought and plotted and pondered until the door opened again and a woman he did not know entered with a tray.

"Here's your food," she said brusquely, setting it across his lap. "And Mr. Anton has a message for you—you can talk to your little friend tonight at eight."

Fakir glanced at the clock. It was almost six. "You can tell Anton I'll be ready," he said.

She hmphed. "He'll know you will be," she said. "And you'd better be; I won't tend to you any more." With that she walked out of the room.

Fakir shook his head. He would not have been surprised if he had seen her fly out the window on a broom.

xxxx

The food was good and nourishing and stayed down, much to his relief. He had been unsure whether his body would even let him eat. When he tried to get up afterwards he felt weak and wobbly, but not terribly dizzy. A small bit of dizziness was probably normal after his experience, he decided. He was lucky it had not been worse.

The time before eight dragged almost unbearably. Would the girl he talked with actually be Ahiru, battered and beaten and tortured? Or would it be another victim, forced to pretend she was Ahiru at the threat of her life? Maybe she would even be someone who had not been hurt at all, an actress working with the gang to fool Fakir.

Well, he did not intend to let himself be fooled. He would figure out if the girl was Ahiru.

And then what? If he determined she was not, should he tell that to Anton? Or should he play along for the time being? If he could get the gang's trust again, even a small portion, maybe he would be able to find a way to get another message to the police about the third robbery. Then he would have another chance to get them all arrested and to get free himself.

On the other hand, if he knew the girl was not Ahiru and he said so, who knew what might happen to him then. He had no idea how patient Anton was going to be with him. Even though he was Ambrosius's son, and even though Anton would surely not want to end the life of someone so powerful, he probably would in a heartbeat if Fakir continued to not be of use to him. This might even be Fakir's last chance.

The door opened, bringing Fakir out of his thoughts. It was one minute of eight. Anton entered the room, holding his cellphone.

"I have young Ahiru on the line," he said. "You may speak with her now." He handed Fakir the device.

Fakir took it, hoping his hands were not shaking. "Ahiru?" he spoke. He half-feared what he would hear in return.

The voice was weak and rasping. "Fakir! You're okay! I've been so worried!"

Fakir's eyes narrowed. If it was Ahiru, she was very sick. "Idiot," he said, now not sure his voice was steady, either. "You're being tortured and you're worrying about me?"

"They wouldn't tell me anything, except that you'd been hurt bad!" the girl retorted. "I didn't even know if you were awake until just now!"

"Sorry." Fakir thought over the questions and comments he had planned. They could be cut off at any time. He should go for something that would tell him without a doubt right away.

"They have another job for me," he said. "If I go through with it, I'm going to see if they'll let you go."

"No!" she protested. "Fakir, you can't. You're not a bad person like these people are! Please don't worry about me. Please don't help them with anything!"

Fakir felt his blood chilling. Why would someone who was not Ahiru try to convince him to not help the gang? Were they just trying to be as accurate as possible? Surely they would know there was a chance that Fakir would change his mind because of Ahiru's pleading. And they wanted to influence him to help them, not to refuse.

He ran his tongue over his lips. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Look, we're going to get out of this somehow. And when we do . . ." He paused. If this was Ahiru, she would start screaming bloody murder at him for what he was about to say. But hopefully she would forgive him when he explained later. ". . . We'll have a nice duck dinner to celebrate," he finished.

"That sounds nice," she told him. "I'll be looking forward to it."

Suddenly there was a cruel slap and a cry. "Okay, that's enough," an unfamiliar voice growled. "Come on."

The phone went dead.

Fakir gripped it as it slipped almost out of his grasp. His palms were clammy, his heart racing.

It was not Ahiru. He had led the unknown girl into a trap that she never could have guessed. Neither she nor the gang would know that Ahiru had been a duck and would never dream of eating duck because of that.

There was a possibility that the gang could have had Ahiru captive and that she had died, necessitating this fraud. But Fakir would not consider that. He would focus on the idea that she had never been captured in the first place. They had lost track of her, as Fakir had thought before.

But he would not let on that he knew the girl was a fake. Once again he would play along with Anton's game, praying all the while that he would be able to foil the gang for good.

Anton pried the cellphone away from Fakir's fingers. "Well?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Fakir looked up at him. "You're worse than any storybook monster I ever read about as a kid," he snarled. "I'd even say you're worse than the Raven."

"How quaint." Anton pocketed the phone, unruffled. "Then you're convinced of the girl's identity."

"Yeah," Fakir said. In response to the phrasing Anton had chosen, it was not even a lie. At least, he was convinced of who she was not.

"I trust that you are planning to follow through with the proposal I made," Anton said.

"I don't even have a guarantee that you'll let her go if I do," Fakir said. "You might decide to keep her around as insurance."

"Unfortunately, you are in no position to question it. Neither is she." Anton gave him a steely look. "And do you think she will last much longer under these conditions?"

Fakir averted his gaze. "You've made your point," he said. "Yeah, I'll go through with your 'proposal.'"

"Good." Anton turned to go, then paused. "And you had better follow through this time, Fakir. I will not be lenient about any further disappointments."

"I know," Fakir retorted.

He looked up again as Anton left and the door closed. Now, he thought to himself, if I can just find another way to get a message out without me being found out.

xxxx

Ahiru was hopeful again. On the flight to Hamburg Kirsch had explained in further detail what was going on. Now all of them were desperately hoping that it was true. If so, there was a good chance of finding Fakir another time. And silently, each of them vowed that this time would have to be the time they brought down the gang and got Fakir back with them.

"I knew we should have come to Hamburg instead of waiting in Frankfurt!" Autor exclaimed. "That sniper supposedly received a driver's license there."

"Did the police ever learn more about that?" Charon asked, looking to Kirsch.

"There is a record of it," Kirsch said. "But when the police went to the address listed on it, it was a vacant building no one's lived in for years."

"And he was living there?" Ahiru said, her eyes wide.

"He probably just gave the address without living there at all," Charon said.

Kirsch nodded. "So that's a dead end. And the sniper himself doesn't seem to know much of what's going on, unless he just isn't talking. He claims he was just hired to shoot at all of you and that he saw your pictures, but didn't know anything about any of you."

"I suppose that could be true," Autor said.

The sight out the window then caught his eye and he stared out, amazed and awestruck. "Is that Hamburg down there?" he exclaimed.

Kirsch looked out his own window. "It should be," he said. "We've been flying long enough."

Apparently it was, as the pilot began to lower the plane further to allow them a better view.

Ahiru leaned over Autor to peer outside. "It's incredible!" she breathed, gazing at the twinkling lights and buildings and at the reflected light in the water.

"It's the second-largest city in Germany," Autor declared. "And the Port of Hamburg is the third-largest port in Europe."

"There's so much water," Ahiru said. Now her voice had taken on a dreamy tone. "I've never seen so much in one place."

Autor glanced at her. "Do you miss the water?" he asked, speaking quietly.

It was strange; he had never really stopped to think that she might miss swimming and being in the water as a duck. He had mainly always thought about how she had been introduced to humanity and that she could never really be just a duck after that.

Ahiru shrugged. "It's just kind of fascinating," she said. "I remember it was always really calming to be on the water." She smiled. "But I like being who I am right now even better than being on the water."

Autor nodded, pleased.

"Anyway, I can still swim and stuff," Ahiru said. "Fakir says I'm pretty good!"

That was true. Ahiru had trouble coordinating herself in dance class, but in the water she was quite different, even graceful. Autor had seen her swimming in the lake a couple of times and had been impressed.

Charon was still talking with Kirsch. "If the gang actually is here, do you think they're just going to lay low for a while?"

Autor and Ahiru came to attention, waiting to hear the answer.

Kirsch frowned, considering the matter. "I guess it's possible," he said, "but with so much wealth in the harbor, I wouldn't be surprised if they go after some of it before long. Anton has his finger in so many pies, so to speak, that there's probably someone in Hamburg whom he would say owes him something."

Charon nodded. It was nothing he would not have expected. He was concerned, but part of him wanted there to be another chance to have the gang in the open. If they tried committing another robbery, maybe the police would be able to arrest them and Fakir would be free.

"Are the police prepared for that?" he asked.

Kirsch sighed. "We need more evidence that the gang really came here," he said. "This theory that we have to go on is intriguing, but it still hasn't been proven true. They said they'd try to check in at the port, but they can't spare men very often just for a theory."

Ahiru threw up her hands. "Then how do we prove it?" she cried.

"The state police are doing everything they can," Kirsch said. "But until they can find something that actually connects this person with the gang, they don't have any reason to try to obtain search warrants for the locations he owns."

Autor frowned. "Can you obtain a list of those places?" he asked.

Kirsch gave him a look. "I think so, yes," he said. "But what is it you have in mind?"

"There wouldn't be any harm going to those places and looking to see if there's any sign of the gang members or Fakir," Autor said.

Kirsch nodded, not surprised. "And then trying to move in for a closer look," he said flatly.

"If it's possible," Autor said. "We would do it on our own time. You wouldn't have to come."

He glanced to Ahiru and Charon for confirmation. Ahiru gave a firm nod. Charon looked just as eager to have something to do on the case. This was not something he would ordinarily condone, but he was desperate to get his son back and desperate to find some way to get the gang convicted. If they could prove something crooked was going on in one of those locations, it would certainly help.

"You shouldn't go it by yourselves," Kirsch said. "Technically, I'm on my own time too."

"Then you'll help us?" Ahiru exclaimed.

"I shouldn't," Kirsch said. "But yes, I will." His eyes narrowed. "If Fakir is in Hamburg, we'll get him back this time."

xxxx

Fakir had been up off and on for the past few hours, trying to regain his strength by walking around the room. Apparently he was not going to be allowed out for a while—maybe not even until the time of the heist. There was a connecting bathroom, but no other rooms that he had access to from here.

He moved to the door, trying the knob again. It was still locked. And he would not be surprised if there was also a guard right outside to prevent him from going anywhere if he got the thing open.

Anton had never trusted him very much. After the last two robbery attempts, any trust he had had was likely gone. Fakir would almost certainly have a more difficult time leaving any messages about the third job.

The gang had not succeeded in taking as much as they wanted in the first one, and they had not even been able to take anything at all in the second one, to Fakir's knowledge—unless there had been members in Erwin Loewe's house who had located what they wanted and escaped through the fabled secret passages. Anton had not said one way or another, and Fakir did not particularly care. Erwin was a crook too; what he had was probably already stolen from someone else. Fakir had tried to contact the police about that robbery not because he had really been concerned about Erwin, but because it was the right thing to do . . . and more because he had hoped so desperately that the gang would be caught and Ahiru would be found if she was a prisoner.

Now he knew Ahiru was not being held hostage. He did not even know that the girl he had spoken to was in danger at all. And he was determined more than ever to fight this.

He glanced up at the walls and ceiling. Could there be hidden security cameras watching him? It would not surprise him in the least if Anton decided to pull something like that. He would have to be extra careful.

Crossing the room, he eased open the bathroom door and peered inside again. He had already studied the place several times, but he kept longing to find something he had missed or for a new idea to come to him that would be a help.

He stepped inside, flipping on the light. The central air whirred to life, as it did whenever the bathroom was lit. That was fine with him; it would muffle any noise he might make while searching.

He opened the mirror, examining the medicine cabinet. It was bare. They did not want him getting hold of any kinds of pills, it looked like. But to not have anything at all? Did they think he would try to write his way out of this with a tube of toothpaste?

Actually, if he had one, that was not a bad idea. But they had tried to make sure that there was nothing for him to write with.

He turned away and ran his hand over the window at the back of the room. It was locked, of course. According to the sticker in the corner, the alarm would go off if he tried to unlock it. And with the glass frosted, he could not even tell what it looked like outside.

He left the bathroom but kept the light on as he again wandered the room he had been put in. There was not much in there other than his bed, the nightstand, and the chair. And the nightstand's drawers were empty. He had checked.

There was a window here, as well—also sporting an alarm notification sticker. He pulled back the curtain, looking out at the lonely night. A fog was rolling in, probably from the docks. Aside from that, he could see the large hedge that seemed to run the length of the property. And behind that was a brick wall. Anton was determined to keep people out.

The sudden roar of an engine made Fakir start and then fall back in surprise. It was too loud to be a car just driving past. Actually, when he thought of it, he had not even heard any going by all day. It must be a quiet road. And right now, someone must be deliberately coming here.

He let the curtain fall back into place and returned to the door. Maybe if he pressed himself against it he would be able to hear something. He had no idea where this room was relative to the rest of the house. For all he knew it was at the very back.

Somewhere a door was opening. Footsteps echoed through what must be a large hall. He frowned, pressing himself harder into the door. Right now he could only hear that people were talking, without being able to make out words. He willed himself to be patient.

At last something was becoming audible, if he strained to hear.

"What did you say was wrong? You took your time getting here." It was Anton speaking. And for once he did not sound aggravatingly calm. He actually sounded annoyed.

"You know how the traffic is around here," a more jovial, unfamiliar voice replied.

"I know that you've been gone days longer than you were supposed to have been." Now the calm tone was back, but there was definite danger in Anton's voice. "You were supposed to come as soon as I informed you of the disaster in Frankfurt."

"I had business to tidy up. There was a follow-up meeting with von Schroeder today."

Fakir's eyes widened. Von Schroeder? Who was this guy?

"And how did that go?" The voices were holding steady; they must have stopped somewhere in the hall. Fakir was grateful that they were in hearing distance.

"He didn't suspect a thing. This is going much more smoothly than your previous attempt to do business with him—the failed attempt that you used as your reasoning for the robbery in Munich."

"I don't need you to remind me what I did. My memory is flawless."

"Whatever you say.

"You mentioned that the boy has revived at last."

"Yes, and seven days later than he should have. At least the one who put him into that state paid for it."

The unconcerned tone sent a chill up Fakir's spine. The man had no conscience.

"And do you have the boy back in your tight grasp?"

"I do. He only needed to know about his young friend and he at last gave in."

"Then you really think he will help us when we go after the port?"

"If he doesn't, and believes this can go on indefinitely, he is very mistaken."

"Ah. The third chance is his last?"

"Most likely. Either that or he will wish it had been."

"That's what I like about you, brother. You're completely ruthless."

Brother! Fakir was stunned. He had no idea that Anton had any family members around. But he supposed it should not be a surprise that his sibling was a crook too. Although it sounded like the guy was at least pretending to have a legitimate front as a businessman.

"And you aren't careful enough. I don't care that you wanted to close your deal with von Schroeder; you should have come back when I said so."

Suddenly the more jolly voice became dead serious. "I'll come back when I say so, Anton. Maybe you technically own this house, but I earned my right to live in it and the papers are in my name."

For a moment there was silence. Anton was responding with a glare, Fakir supposed. But then the leader came back with a tone of ice.

"If you go against my wishes, you forfeit that right." A gun clicked. "Do I make myself clear, Bernhard?"

Another brief silence. "Yes, you have, Anton."

"Good. I'd hate to rid myself of you now, since you have been useful in some ways." Anton took several steps forward. "We will converge on the docks tomorrow night."

"What do you want me to do, brother?"

"Stay here and wait for us to return with the first load. We'll be storing it here."

"All of it?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not if there's enough room. And if it's divided up that night, as planned."

"Everything is going to go according to plan. Including that boy's assignment. I don't want there to be any leeway for him to get out of writing tomorrow night."

"Then maybe the only solution is to hold onto him yourself. The guards haven't done any good."

"I intend to. I'll keep a gun against his head the entire time."

"Guns always make the best intimidation?"

"Not always. But they're convenient insurance.

"Come into the study and I'll show you the plans in detail."

The footsteps faded. Fakir leaned back, reeling from the information.

This was going to make everything harder. He had been able to outsmart the guards, but could he go up against Anton himself and still manage to not write?

Could he manage to not write and still stay alive?

He clenched a fist. Somehow, he had to find a way.