The Eagle's Covenant (16 page)

Breggie had just finished chopping some red peppers when she heard Joseph’s step. She put the knife down and reached up to an open shelf for the pasta storage jar. As she lifted the heavy glass container down, she turned to Joseph and was about to say something when she saw the gun in his hand.

In that fleeting moment, Breggie saw the heartache in his eyes and the words in his mouth.

“I’m sorry Breggie my love,” he cried, and pulled the trigger.

Breggie screamed the moment the gun fired. The noise was nothing more than a champagne cork exploding from the bottle. In that instant, she flinched and turned away from the shot. The heavy glass jar shattered in her hand throwing shards of glass and pasta everywhere. The punch to her wrist was like being hit with a brick. For what seemed an eternity, but was no more than a second, they both stared at each other. Breggie knew that if she waited a moment longer, she would die.

Fortunately for her, she reacted quicker than Joseph. He had expected to see her collapse to the floor otherwise he would have pulled the trigger a second time before she had a chance to move. But what he saw was Breggie hurling a saucepan towards him, its contents spreading out like a bow wave.

The boiling water hit him and with it the pain. He screamed out and clutched at his face, reeling back instinctively. One reflex action was to fire another shot towards her, but because he was unsighted, the bullet went wildly astray. Breggie picked up the knife she had been using and lunged at him. The point went into his chest, skidding off a rib bone and into his heart.

Joseph didn’t draw another breath. His eyes opened wide just inches from hers as his hand fell away. The pain in them was not physical but instead, a tormented, emotive pain. Breggie watched him slip to the ground and she instinctively grabbed him, but his dead weight brought her crashing down on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs in one last sigh.

She lay there for a moment, her mind plundered of all reason. Beneath her lay the man she had cared for and almost learned to love; the man who had tried to kill her and whom she had killed in self-defence. Why?

She pushed herself away and remained sitting on the floor, her back against a kitchen unit. She began to cry, softly at first. Then she started sobbing and the tears fell unashamedly down her face. She kept rubbing her cheeks and eyes with her hands until there were no more tears to cry. And she looked down at the sorry figure of Joseph through inflamed eyes and with a tortured mind, and kept asking the same question.

Why?

*

Hoffman made good time to Schiller’s place, but not before the Press latched on to the fact that something big was going down. The speed of the media grapevine never failed to impress Hoffman, despite his years in the police game. How this had leaked out, he had no idea. He could only surmise that some of the Press boys were paying Schiller’s staff some kind of retainer. It wasn’t illegal, so it wasn’t a problem. But avoiding their probing questions as he tried to gain access through the crush at the gate was.

Hoffman found Schiller’s doctor was with him. The look on the medical man’s face was bad enough to give rise for concern. Before Hoffman spoke to Schiller, the doctor took him to one side.

“He has had an enormous shock, Herr Hoffmann. I have given him something to calm him down, so you mustn’t tax him too much.”

Hoffman’s face was expressionless. “Does he have a heart problem, doctor?”

The doctor nodded. “I’m afraid so. You really must be careful.” He took Hoffman by the elbow and told him he would have to remain during any interview. Hoffman had no choice but to agree.

Schiller was in his bedroom. The room which seemed to be inordinately big, but for a man of Schiller’s wealth the question of a room’s size would be a triviality. He looked dwarfed in the king size bed, but his pallor did convey the reality of the shock he had received.

“Good morning, Herr Schiller.” Hoffman sat beside the bed. Schiller didn’t answer him. Hoffman ignored the man’s omission of civility and continued.

“Would you tell me what happened?” he asked.

“You know what happened. A package arrived with the baby’s finger in it.”

“Do you know who delivered it?”

“Don’t be stupid, Hoffman. I don’t receive the mail directly. My secretary does.” He took a deep breath. “The Bundespost I should think.”

Hoffman already knew that the package had been delivered at the gatehouse by taxi. Naturally the taxi didn’t wait. Neither did the security guard on duty think to ask the taxi driver to wait. There was no reason why he should. But Hoffman needed to ask the question in case there had been a message inside the package, which he knew, was not the case. But for his own reasons, he didn’t trust Schiller.

“You believe the finger has been cut from your grandson’s hand, don’t you?”

Schiller gave him a withering look. “Where else could it come from?”

“Until we have conducted tests, we have to keep an open mind on that.”

He turned to the doctor and mouthed the words: ‘Where’s the finger?’ The doctor put his hand up in a way that signified the finger was still in the house and in a safe place. He turned his attention back to Schiller.

“What do they want?”

“What does who want?” There was no trace of feeling in the question. It sounded almost rhetorical.

“The people who kidnapped your grandson. You must know what they want, otherwise they would not have put pressure on you by sending that package.”

Schiller looked almost bored. “Oh, you policemen can be so bloody tiresome. It’s a week now and you are no closer to finding the people who kidnapped my grandson than you were at the beginning. And now you’re asking me what they want. I don’t know; it’s as simple as that.” He looked away.

“You’re lying to me.”

The doctor protested immediately at Hoffman’s accusation and stood up in a show of contained rage.

“What on earth do you mean by that? I told you Herr Schiller is not to be troubled.”

Hoffman glanced at the doctor but kept his eye on Schiller. “If that finger belongs to his grandson, then I suggest Herr Schiller is not going through anything like the pain and anguish the baby is.”

“That’s not fair,” Schiller protested.

“Nor would you be going through the same pain as Frau Schiller,” Hoffman put in before Schiller could continue. “If you do not tell me what they are demanding, and if you still insist they have not contacted you, nor have they contacted Frau Schiller, I can only assume they have no intention of returning the baby.”

The doctor blustered again but Hoffman ignored him.

“I presume you have told the baby’s mother?”

“No,” was Schiller’s answer, which was shouted almost with fear in his voice.

“She has a right to know,” Hoffman reminded him. “More than you do. If you won’t tell her, then we will have to.”

Schiller had been laying semi prone in bed, his back supported by several pillows. He struggled upright, his thin frame looking even frailer now.

“When you have completed the tests on the finger, and I presume you mean blood tests?” Hoffman nodded. A DNA test would also be carried out if the hospital had a tissue sample from the baby. “Then I will tell my daughter-in-law if the test proves it is our little Manny’s finger. Otherwise I see no reason to upset her further.”

Hoffman agreed. “Very well Herr Schiller, I’ll go along with that.” He stood up. “Before I leave I will ask you again. But I want you to think very carefully before answering. Have the kidnappers been in touch with you? And, do you know what they want in return for your grandson?”

Schiller answered immediately, and he was quite adamant. “I have no need to think carefully, Oberkommissar. The answer is no on both counts. Now go away and find them. And find them quickly before they take another limb off my poor grandson.”

*

The door to the cellar opened suddenly, throwing a shaft of light into the darkness. Conor jumped and turned his face away from the light. Footsteps rattled on the stairs as someone came down into the dank basement. Conor squinted through half open lids, not letting the brightness dazzle him too much. He made no attempt to look at the person who had just come down the stairs, but used the moment to cast his half-closed eyes around the room, identifying anything that might help him, and trying to retain a snapshot in his memory of the layout.

The cellar was, like so many cellars are, no more than a dumping ground for unwanted furniture, impedimenta, packing cases, old cast-offs and the like. Conor was sitting on a chair against one of the packing cases. He was facing the centre of the room. Occupying the centre now, beneath an unlit light bulb, was one of the Dutchman’s gorillas. He was pointing a gun at Conor and beckoning him to stand up.

Conor did as he was told and stood. The gorilla, wisely, kept his distance, and waved the gun in the direction of the cellar door. Conor turned and began climbing the stairs. Any thoughts he may have had of trying to make a run for it were quickly dispelled by the silhouette of the second gorilla standing in the passageway outside.

Conor was propelled towards the Dutchman’s office and bundled inside to an empty chair facing the gargantuan man. The Dutchman was leaning against his large desk, resplendent in a silk dressing gown. He was smoking a massive cigar which was dwarfed by his own enormous fingers. When he was satisfied that Conor was sitting and his own men were suitably positioned, he spoke.

“What are we to do with you, Lenihan?”

“I want a piss.”

The Dutchman roared with laughter. “I expect you do, but you’ll have to wait.”

Conor thought the man was grotesque. His flesh wobbled obscenely. The gorillas laughed as well. Eventually the laughing subsided.

“Why did you contact me after you killed Oscar and Jurgen? What did you want?”

“I didn’t kill them. I told you that.”

The Dutchman nodded at the man standing behind Conor. He heard the movement and felt the sudden slap across the back of his head. The pain was bearable to a man like Conor, but the humiliation made him extremely angry. He kept his cool. He lifted his head and looked at the fat man.

“I want a piss.”

The Dutchman ignored the statement and this time he didn’t laugh. “What did you want? You killed them and then.... what?” He leaned forward. “Were you going to kill me? Is that it?”

Conor ignored him.

“Well?”

When no answer was forthcoming, the Dutchman nodded at the gorilla and Conor felt the stinging slap across the back of his head.

“We could go on like this all day if you want, Lenihan. We can all slap you about. Look.”

With a sudden swiftness that belied his incredible bulk, the Dutchman swung his open hand and caught Conor on the side of his face. The blow was so fierce, and delivered with such astonishing strength, that Conor was thrown from the chair and crashed up against the wall. All he could feel was an acute pain inside his ear canal from the pressure of the blow, and a stupendous numbness all down the side of his head and into his shoulder. He could hear a piercing, ringing tone inside his skull, but beyond that, he could hear nothing else.

He lay on the floor in immense pain for some time, curled up in the foetal position expecting to be kicked, and tensing his body should it happen. When, eventually, nothing had occurred like that, he struggled up into a sitting position. He feigned weakness, wanting to impress his captors with their physical and psychological strength, that they could so easily intimidate him.

One of the gorillas took hold of Conor by his shirt collar and hauled him to his feet. He dragged him across to the chair and threw him on to it. Conor slumped forward, his head down. He could hear the Dutchman moving and tensed himself for another blow. Instead, he felt the tip of a finger beneath his chin, forcing his head up.

“Why did you contact me?”

Conor gagged, dribbling copiously. The Dutchman quickly pulled his finger away.

“I wanted work,” he lied.

The Dutchman nodded to one of the gorillas and Conor felt the slap across the back of his head. Compared to the previous blow, it had little effect, but he made a show of suffering pain.

“Please,” Conor said, putting a plaintiff lilt to his voice. “I’m telling you the truth. All I wanted to do was find work.”

The Dutchman hit Conor on the other side of the head which sent him flying across the room. Like the first blow from the fat man, this one was just as powerful and just as excruciatingly painful. Conor’s involuntary cry was not affected; it was a genuine cry of pain.

He rolled across the carpeted floor, fetching up against the opposite wall and allowed himself to collapse slowly into what looked like unconsciousness. He heard the ringing in his ears and felt the numbing pain, but he drew on all his mental resources to still the screams that threatened to erupt from his throat, and kill the urge to fling himself at the three men in a violent reprisal. Not that it would have achieved anything because his hands were still tied and two of the men in the room were armed.

Suddenly the Dutchman uttered an oath and waddled back to his chair behind the desk.

“It’s not even sport.” He gestured to the prone figure of Conor. “There’s no profit in prolonging this. We’ll kill him.” He looked up at the two gorillas to issue his next order when the phone rang. He picked it up and listened for a while. He made one reply and put the phone back on the rest.