Chapter 31
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Flint drove the rented Mercedes along the entrance road toward the guardhouse at the front gate of Kessler’s bunker.
“As expected, cameras are watching you as you drive in. They’re tracking the sedan the entire length of the lane,” Gaspar said in his ear through the comms.
Flint said nothing because the operating assumption was they had ears on the vehicle now.
The lane curved and the front gate came into view. A chain link fence ran east and west around the perimeter of the property. The steel paneled gate spanned the entrance. A guardhouse stood behind the gate and beside the fence.
A man in a dark suit came out, checked Flint’s face against an image on his tablet, stepped back, and waved Flint through. The motorized gate slid open and began to close behind the Mercedes when the sedan cleared it.
“Drake’s in position on a ridge south of the property. He can cover the parking lot and the gate from there,” Gaspar said. “The moment you come back outside, he’ll see you.”
Past the gate, the lane ran another two hundred yards through open pasture. A landscaped lawn surrounded two modern buildings ahead on a low rise. Two stories each, concrete and glass, flat-roofed, resembling a country house. A few trees were scattered nearby.
From the road, nothing about the property suggested the Soviet-built bunker underground. The only way in or out was the hydraulic ramp on the south side, which sloped down from ground level into the hillside and ended at a heavy steel door set into a concrete wall.
Three vehicles sat in the flat lot. Flint parked beside them and sat a moment with his hands on the wheel so the guards could see and relax.
This is the entrance Kessler and his guests used to get into the underground bunker. It had heavy security, biometric locks, and blast doors. The last time Flint had been here, he’d avoided this entrance because it was too well guarded. He’d broken in through the back instead.
Flint picked up the slim leather case from the passenger seat, left the Mercedes, and walked to the steel door at the foot of the concrete wall. A guard opened the door wearing a dark suit. A handgun showed under his jacket.
“Mr. Blau. You’re expected. We’ll need to scan you. House rule.”
Flint nodded and the guard gestured him through.
The door opened into a small concrete room with a walk-through metal detector. Flint set his phone and his watch in the plastic tray. The earpiece stayed deep in his ear canal where the scanner wouldn’t find it.
The case went through on its own. The scanner showed the ring inside. Flint opened the case at the counter. The guard glanced at his tablet, glanced at the ring, and waved Flint through.
Flint closed the case and followed the guard through a door at the back of the scanner room. The private elevator waited beyond it. He stepped in, the guard stepped in with him, and the doors closed.
The elevator dropped a slow and silent sixty feet down. It settled easily at the bottom like landing on a cloud.
The doors opened onto extreme luxury. Wide-plank oak floors, sixteen-foot vaulted ceilings, and cool filtered air with a faint trace of natural cedar. The gallery was lit in warm pools and the museum-quality paintings hung exactly where he’d seen them when he’d walked past the last time.
The escort led him east, past the lounge and a dark conference room. A tall door stood open at the end of the hall. Beyond it, a library with book-lined walls.
Herr Berger was waiting inside, seated in one of the deep leather chairs angled to face the door. A book was open on the chair’s arm under his right hand. A heavy crystal tumbler rested on the small table beside him, half full of something amber.
Flint scanned the room. A Persian carpet covered the stone floor. A rolling ladder with brass rails poised to move along the south wall of bookshelves. Two leather chairs faced each other across a small table set for chess. No windows. Only one way in and out.
The door latch settled behind him when the guard left.
“Mr. Blau.” Berger spoke softly, with a faint European accent Flint couldn’t quite place. “Please, sit down. Thank you for coming. I confess you’ve made me curious. Have we met before?”
“People often say I look familiar. I have one of those faces,” Flint shrugged and took the chair across from him. “Thank you for seeing me. I have to say, your home is extraordinary. I’ve been in collectors’ homes across Europe. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Berger smiled. “It is one of a kind. Werner Kessler is a friend and a man of unusual taste. He saw the possibility in the place. I’ve been fortunate to live here while I pursue my own collecting.”
“This must be a remarkable place to work from,” Flint said without pretense.
“It has its compensations.” Berger’s eyes moved to the case in Flint’s hand as he gestured toward a sideboard. “Whiskey? I have a single malt I’m rather proud of.”
Berger rose and poured, set a glass on the small table at Flint’s elbow, and returned to his chair. “Thank you for making the journey. Your references are excellent. And the ring’s provenance is, as you said, unusually well-documented.”
When he was settled, Flint opened the case. “Let me show you the ring.”
The signet ring was heavy gold. The bezel had been worn smooth. The engraved arms of the House of Hohenberg were cut deeply, allowing a man to press it into a wax seal.
“King Johann the Third,” Berger said as he leaned forward, allowing his gaze to rest on the ring.
“You weren’t certain from the documents we provided?” Flint asked, feigning surprise as he pushed the box closer.
“This ring and other Hohenberg pieces have been missing for decades. Where did you find it?” Berger lifted the ring with two fingers and turned it slowly in the lamplight. He pressed the pad of his thumb to examine the engraving.
“The ring was recovered from a private collection. The owner won’t notice it’s missing for a while,” Flint said with a slight grin. “He doesn’t catalog his treasures carefully.”
Berger slid the ring onto the little finger of his left hand. He held the hand out and looked at the ring on his finger. Then he removed the ring and placed it on the velvet.
“It’s a fine piece. I’m pleased to add it to my collection.” Berger used his phone to authorize the transfer. “The money will be in your account momentarily.”
Flint snagged the burner phone he’d allowed Berger’s people to run through the scanner. Gaspar had set it up to receive payment. He opened it to view the dummy account.
Almost instantly, Gaspar said in his ear, “We have the payment. The full amount has cleared. Updating your screen now.”
He showed the screen to Berger, who said, “Then we’re done.”
Flint put the phone away. “Not yet. First, I need information from you.”
Berger smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not in the information business, Mr. Blau.”
Flint leaned forward, plucked the ring off the velvet, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “Then I’ll take this back.”
Berger set his glass down on the table. His hand went into his jacket and came out with a small black pistol. He held it aimed at Flint. “You’ve stolen my property. Return it at once.”
Flint lunged across the small table. He knocked the gun aside, caught Berger’s wrist, twisted, and grabbed the pistol. He stepped away with the gun.
Berger sat back in the chair, breathing hard, fuming.
Flint aimed the pistol now. Berger watched the gun as if he might actually get the chance to reverse the play.
“This room is soundproofed, correct?” Flint asked.
Berger clenched his jaw in response.
“You know it is. There are no cameras running because you turn them off in your private rooms,” Flint said. “Which means I can shoot you and no one will come running.”
Berger gripped the chair arm as if he might leap out of it otherwise. He relaxed one hand and reached for the tumbler without taking his eyes off Flint. He took a slow sip and set the glass down, insultingly calm.
“Let’s cut to the point. Your real name is Prince Maximilian Hohenberg. Two years ago you faked your death, pretending to die skiing in the Alps. Your funeral was broadcast around the world. Everyone watched. Everyone mourned.”
Berger’s cold, hard stare promised retribution, but he didn’t move.
“Suppose I tell them you’re alive?”
Berger gave him a contemptuous shrug.
“You’re not worried because you don’t believe I can make that happen.” Flint gave him a smirk. “You think you’re bulletproof. Which means either federal witness protection or a private operator is covering you, preventing exposure, cleaning up the mess when it inevitably happens.”
Berger shrugged again.
“Government or private?” Flint moved the gun as a reminder. “Which is it?”
A long pause while Berger glared at the pistol. A vein pulsed in his temple. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Private.”
“Give me the name.”
“Wallace. Or something close to it,” Berger replied. “It wasn’t his real name. He said he was Canadian, too. That wasn’t true either.”
“Describe him.”
Berger reached for the tumbler again, slower this time. He drank and set the glass down with the same insulting precision.
“I don’t have all day,” Flint said.
“Caucasian. Six foot two. Lean. Early fifties. Dark hair with silver at the temples. Strong features. He could have served on the board of any respectable institution.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Bangkok. In a hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
Berger shrugged. “I don’t remember. I was not myself in those days.”
Flint watched him a long moment. Berger waited.
Then the contemptuous smile came back. “You are a walking dead man, Mr. Blau. The Canadian will find you. He always does.” His hand darted toward the intercom on the bookshelf at his elbow before he’d finished the sentence.
He slammed his palm down on the call button.
An alarm sounded somewhere in the bunker. Flint went through the door.
The escort was already turning from the wall, hand coming up to his ear, mouth opening to speak as he reached for his weapon.
Flint fired one shot, center mass, at close range. The escort went down. He retrieved the escort’s pistol and took the spare magazine. He sprinted toward the exit.
“Got you on the CCTV,” Gaspar’s voice spoke in his earpiece. “Head to the stairwell from the lower level.”
Flint came out of the corridor into the gallery. A guard was already on the top step, weapon drawn. The rest of his team followed behind him down the stairs.
Flint put two rounds into the guard’s chest, and he went down across the top step. The men behind him stopped because the stairwell narrowed to impassible because of the body.
Flint ran low along the eastern wall through the gallery, past the lounge, and the conference room. Boots pounded the hardwood floors behind him. Flint dropped to one knee, turned and shot the guard twice. The man’s gun skidded along the polished wood and stopped against the baseboard.
“Elevator’s waiting for you,” Gaspar said. “I’m holding it on your floor. The doors at the top are open so it’ll go straight up.”
He reached the brushed steel doors and stepped into the elevator. The car climbed.
“When the doors open, you’ll be back in the scanner room,” Gaspar said in his ear. “One guard inside at the scanner. Another outside, facing the lot with his back to you.”
The elevator doors opened and Flint shot the man at the scanner screen. He rushed to the outer door.
“The guard’s three feet from the door. Facing away from you,” Gaspar said.
“Copy that,” Flint said. “Drake, are you ready?”
“Open the door. I’ll take him,” Drake replied.
Flint pulled the door open.
The ramp guard had begun to turn toward Flint when Drake’s rifle fired. His aim was as true as ever.
Another lot guard was running for the corner of the surface building with a radio at his mouth. Drake shot again from the south ridge and the guard pitched forward into the gravel. His radio bounced onto the gravel.
“Lot’s clear,” Drake said. “I’ll take the gate guard when you’re close.”
Flint jumped into the Mercedes and started the engine before he closed the door. He turned hard onto the lane and floored it.
“Gaspar. Open the gate.”
“Opening it now. I’ve cut the cameras, the guard’s radio, and the intercom. He doesn’t know anything went wrong inside.”
The lane ran straight for two hundred yards toward the gate. The gate guard dashed out of the guardhouse, hand at his hip, radio not working.
Drake’s rifle fired from the south ridge. The gate guard went down at the threshold of his own guardhouse.
“Meet you at the road,” Drake said.
The Mercedes went through the gap as the gate opened. Flint turned left at the county road.
A hundred yards on, Drake stepped out of the trees with a long rifle slung and a backpack. Flint slowed for Drake to reach the passenger side, put the pack in the back, and get in. Flint accelerated before Drake closed the door.
The Mercedes ran the county road at a speed the rental agreement had not contemplated.
Drake gave directions at the intersections until they reached the aircraft sitting on a strip of mowed grass between two pastures. They boarded the plane. Drake piloted the Cessna through takeoff and then banked east, away from the bunker.
Flint watched the Czech countryside tilt under the small window.
“Where to now?” Drake asked.
Flint replied, “Bangkok.”