Drake exited the museum among an assortment of government personnel. They were setting up a staging post outside the Central Park West entrance, which he deliberately ignored when he spotted Ben sitting on a bench opposite. The kid was crying uncontrollably. What now? Kennedy sprinted beside him across the stretch of grass.
“It’s Karin,” Ben’s eyes were overflowing like Niagara Falls. “I e-mailed her to ask how she’d gotten on with the Valkyries and got… got this MPEG in… in reply.”
He spun his laptop around so they could see. The screen showed a tiny video file playing on repeat. The clip lasted about thirty seconds.
In black-and-white stop-motion it showed fuzzy images of Ben’s sister, Karin, hanging limply in the grip of two heavily-set masked men. Dark patches that could only be blood were smeared around her forehead and mouth. A third man had his face up to the camera, shouting in a thick German accent.
“She put up a fight, the little minx, but rest assured, we’ll be teaching her how stupid that is over the next few weeks!” The man wagged his finger, spit spraying from his mouth. “Stop helping them, little boy. Stop assss… isss… ting them. If you do, you’ll get her back in one piece—” a nasty laugh. “More or less.”
The fragment began to repeat itself.
“She’s a second Dan,” Ben was babbling. “Wants to open her own martial arts school. I didn’t think anyone could b-b-beat her, my — my big sister.”
Drake put an arm around Ben as his young friend broke down. His gaze, seen by, but not meant for Kennedy, was pure battlefield hatred.
TWENTY
Abel Frey, world renowned fashion designer, multi-millionaire, and owner of the infamous 24-hour Party-Chateau — La Verein sat backstage at Madison Square Garden and watched his minions scuttle about like the free-loading vermin they really were.
During solstice or periods of hiatus, he provided for them in the confines of his extensive home in the Alps — everything from world-famous models, all the way down to lighting techs and security staff — the parties never stopped for weeks on end. But when the tour was on, and the name of Frey graced the spotlight, they scurried and worried and catered to his every whim.
The stage was taking shape. The cat-walk was half erected. His Lighting Designer was interfacing with the Garden’s crew, trying to come up with a mutually respectful Magic Sheet: a synchronised light and sound schedule — for the two hour long show.
Frey intended to hate it and make the bastards sweat and start again.
Supermodels strutted back and forth in varying stages of undress. Backstage at a fashion show was the opposite of a stage show — you needed less material rather than more — and these models — at least the ones who lived with him at La Verein — knew he’d seen it all before anyway.
He encouraged exhibitionism. In truth, he demanded it. Fear reined them in, these cattle. Fear and greed and gluttony, and all the other wonderful common sins that chained ordinary men and women to holders of power and wealth — from the Victoria’s Secret candy-stripers to the East European ice sculptures and the rest of his fortunate staff — every last snivelling bloodsucker.
Frey saw Milo threading through the nubile bodies. Saw the models shying away from the violent brute. Smiled inwardly at their obvious tell.
Milo didn’t look pleased. “Back there!” He nodded towards Frey’s makeshift travelling office.
Frey’s face hardened as they sat in private. “What happened?”
“What didn’t? We lost the chopper. I squeaked out of there with two guys. They had SWAT, the SGG, that fucker Drake, and some bitch. It was hell in there, man.” Milo’s American inflections literally wounded Frey’s more cultured ears. The brute had just addressed him as ‘man’.
“The Piece?”
“Lost to that bareback whore, Myles.” Milo was grinning.
“The Canadians got it?” Frey gripped the arms of his chair in anger, causing them to distort.
Milo pretended not to notice, betraying an inner unease. Frey’s ego made his chest swell. “Fucking useless bastards!” He screamed so loudly Milo flinched. “You useless bastards lost out to a bunch of fuck-shit Mounties!”
Spittle flew from Frey’s lips, spattering the table that separated them. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment? This time? Do you?”
Unable to control himself, he slapped the American Special Forces man across the face. Milo’s head whipped around and his cheek coloured, but he gave no other reaction.
Frey forced a superior cocoon of calm to envelop him. “My life,” he said with a supreme effort that he knew only those with high-breeding could pull off, “has been dedicated — no devoted — to finding this Tomb… this Tomb of the Gods. I will transport it — piece by piece — to my Chateau. I am a ruler—” he said waving a hand towards the door, “and I do not mean a ruler of those idiots. I can force five supermodels to fuck my lowliest guard, just because I had the idea. I can force a good man to fight to the death in my Battle Arena, but that doesn’t make me a ruler. Do you understand?”
Frey’s voice dripped with intellectual superiority. Milo nodded, but his eyes were blank. Frey read it as stupidity. He sighed.
“Well, what else do you have for me?”
“This.” Milo stood up, and tapped for a few seconds on the keyboard of Frey’s laptop. A live feed came up, focused closely on an area near the National History Museum.
“We have men posing as a TV crew. They have eyes on Drake, the woman, and the boy — Ben Blake. Also SWAT and whatever SGG remain and, look, I believe that- ” he tapped the screen lightly, leaving unwanted smears of sweat and God knew what else behind, “is an SAS team.”
“You believe…” Frey said. “You’re trying to tell me that we now have a multi-international race on our hands? And we no longer have the greatest resources.” He sighed. “Not that it’s helped us this far.”
Milo shared a secret smile with his boss. “You know it has.”
“Yes. Your girlfriend. She is our best placed asset, and her time is approaching. Well, let us hope she remembers who she answers to.”
“It’s more the money she’ll remember,” Milo said, with great vision.
Frey’s eyes lit up, and a depraved light entered his eyes. “Hmm. I’ll not forget that.”
“We also have Ben Blake’s sister. A wildcat by all accounts.”
“Good. Send her to the Chateau. We will return there soon.” He paused. “Wait… wait… that woman with Drake. Who is she?”
Milo studied the face and shrugged. “No clue.”
“Well, find out!”
Milo placed a call to the ‘TV crew’. “Use the facial recognition software on Drake’s woman,” he growled.
Four silent minutes later he received an answer. “Kennedy Moore,” he told Frey. “New York cop.”
“Yes. Yes. I never forget a depravity. Move aside, Milo. Let me work.”
Frey Googled the name and followed a few links. In less than ten minutes he knew everything, and his smile grew broad and even more twisted. The beginnings of a superlative idea grew past puberty in his mind.
“Kennedy Moore,” he couldn’t resist explaining to the grunt, “was one of New York’s finest finest. She is currently on forced leave. She arrested a dirty cop and got him sent to prison. His conviction led to the release of some of the people he’d helped convict, something to do with a broken chain of evidence.” Frey paused. “What kind of backwards country would implement a system like that, Milo?”