Blood of the Albatross Read online

  Kepella’s right fist was clenched. “The usual, Georgie.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Roy.” Georgie’s hands worked beneath the bar and produced a drink for Kepella.

  Kepella smelled the man before he felt him lean across his shoulder. Fu always smelled bitter, like lemon juice. Old lemon juice. Kepella said, “How’s it going, Fu?”

  “Just fine, Mr. Roy.” He moved closer and whispered, though no other patron was within earshot, “You will join us today?” Fu tended toward the dramatic. Kepella could never tell what the old goat was thinking.

  “Could be.”

  “You win real big last night,” Fu stated.

  “If I didn’t win now and then, Fu, I wouldn’t keep coming back.”

  Georgie was leaning against the bar, sharing in all of this, his acceptance of Kepella obvious. All three men laughed.

  ***

  Iben Holst sat in a rented luxury car with white walls and nice comfortable seats. Kepella’s old beater was parked nearby. Holst knew all about Roy Kepella. He had been tailing him, off and on, for several weeks. These latest news stories were what he had been waiting for. Kepella was going down, and Holst, like a circling vulture, was waiting to pick the meat off the carcass. He felt like he had all the time in the world. In truth he had but a few more weeks.

  Holst sat, quietly, wondering if the old Chinaman was doing his bit. Holst had paid handsomely for results; now it was simply a question of whether or not the Chinaman could deliver.

  An agonizing ninety minutes later, Holst entered Fu Won’s. Kepella wasn’t at the bar. That meant they had to be in the back room, for Holst knew Kepella had not left. A fireplug of an Oriental guarded the door to the back room. He was short and had a ruddy complexion and dull black eyes tightly hidden inside folds of tawny skin. He wore an ill-fitting T-shirt advertising the Summer Olympic Games. On his right forearm, a tattoo of a mushroom cloud erupted into his elbow. Beneath it, a set of Chinese characters spelled out what roughly translated as “Peace Brother.” It was what everyone at Fu’s called him, though he appeared anything but peaceful. In the past few weeks, Holst had come to know him well. Peace Brother opened the door as Holst approached. Like Fu Won, he was on Iben Holst’s payroll.

  “Ah, welcome, Mr. Holst.” Fu’s scar, in the shape of a horse hoof, stretched from just below his nose to his right ear. His teeth, yellowed from constant smoking, clamped a non-filter cigarette, a permanent fixture in his lips. The Camel bobbed up and down, continually dropping ashes on his lap.

  The room was small, filled with smoke, and dark except for the strong glare from the light above the green felt poker table. Kepella was there. A respectable-looking Chinaman in a business suit, whom Holst had never met, sat next to Fu, his brow knitted, his concentration fixed on the hand he was holding. Patsy sat next to this man, drinking her dark drink, testing her horsehair wig to make sure it hadn’t slipped. Patsy and Holst knew each other. A young man named Kim sat to Fu’s left. He wore a black leather jacket, as did Holst. Holst sat next to the boy. The chair creaked. Smoke swirled beneath the lamp.

  Fu said, “I think you know everyone but Mr. Lu and Mr. Kepella,” pointing to each. “Mr. Holst.”

  Lu nodded without taking his eyes off his cards. Kepella looked over and offered his hand. “Roy Kepella.”

  “Please call me Iben.” Holst spoke with a strong German accent. He had bright turquoise eyes, short flaxen hair, and hard, imposing features. His light eyebrows, like brushstrokes, pointed sharply in the direction of his lobeless ears. His lips were nearly purple. His teeth were as white as polished porcelain. The leather jacket fitted his muscular body snugly. “The name Kepella sounds familiar to me.”

  Fu interrupted, as planned. “An unfortunate coincidence, Mr. Holst. You are thinking perhaps of the recent news, the FBI agent by the name of Kepella?”

  This drew businessman Lu’s attention. He looked at everyone at the table.

  Kepella said, “No relation.”

  Holst nodded. “What a coincidence. I’ve never heard that name before.”

  “It’s fairly common in this area,” Kepella said, looking Fu in the eye, thankful the man had some degree of character. He appreciated a businessman who knew how to protect his clients.

  Fu dealt.

  7

  Sharon Johnson found sanctuary. The priest offered her a small room in a stone building behind the church. A number of canvas cots had been stored in the catacombs years before as part of a civil defense plan. The priest set one up for her, supplied her with bedding, and even bought her a toothbrush. She spent two days and nights there, frightened, wondering how to get her passport. Hidden in the passport, in code, was a phone number: the conduit. The priest brought her picnic meals of hot soups, cheese, bread, apples, red wine. Late the second evening, over a game of cards, they talked. Death had touched her, and no pious solicitude could tame its horrible impression. The fear on Brian’s face haunted her with the same persistence as the dank odors haunted the halls of the stone building.

  The tall, thick-lipped man returned the first morning, looking for his “cousin.” He questioned a deacon but learned nothing.

  On the second morning she ventured into the streets, a scarf about her head. She wore an olive green skirt and white cotton blouse that the priest had given her, claiming to have borrowed them from a friend. She knew, in fact, he had purchased them, because he had neglected to remove the price tags.

  She wanted her own clothing badly but, more importantly, had to have the passport and money. But her luggage and passport remained in her hotel room. Knowing that someone—if not many people—might be watching for her, she knew she couldn’t just waltz inside and go upstairs to her room.

  A café across from the Hotel Regensburg seemed a good place to collect her thoughts and form a plan. The waitress, a bosomy blonde with large hips and hands, brought her a cup of strong coffee, which Sharon paid for using one of the five deutsche marks that the priest had loaned her. She stirred two heaping teaspoons of sugar into the espresso and drank it. The café’s five tables were crammed together, each no larger than a large tray. The leaded windows’ colorful curtains were tied back and framed the glass like festive bunting. A few customers came and went; most came and stayed. Within an hour, all the chairs were filled and the noise level had increased considerably.

  Sharon finally spotted three of the hotel’s chambermaids, still in uniform, walking down the sidewalk across the street. One of them, an attractive red-haired girl, crossed the cobbled street and stood near the café, apparently waiting for a ride. Sharon stepped outside and approached her. She spoke in English. “Hello?”

  “Yes?” The girl answered nervously, shying away. She had lovely gray eyes, a flat chest, and tiny wrists.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but aren’t you a chambermaid from the hotel?”

  “The Hotel Regensburg, yes.” Spoken beautifully.

  “I wonder…” Sharon hesitated. “I have a favor to ask you. I can pay you, actually.”

  “Yes?” Curiosity.

  “I am a guest at the Hotel Regensburg—was a guest. Room Three-twenty-one. I’ve had a terrible falling-out with my husband, you see.” She performed well, knitting her brow painfully. “Another woman.”

  The chambermaid’s face expressed sympathy.

  Sharon went on. “I ran away, you see. However, I left all my belongings in my room. My husband has left town… on to Bonn. With her.” She frowned. “But I’m quite sure he’s having the lobby watched. Possibly even the room, though I doubt that.”

  “And you need your belongings?”

  “I’d like them very much. Would you?”

  “I shouldn’t. It is not allowed.”

  “I can pay you thirty U.S. dollars, or the equivalent in deutsche marks. You’ll have to pack for me. My wallet is in my purse, in the room.” She glanced at the hotel and then back to the young woman. “There’s plenty of cash. I’ll have to trust you. Please pay the hotel bill. Tell the
desk you found the payment in my room. I owe for three nights. No other charges. A bellboy can take the bags and bring them to the front door. I’ll wait in a taxi. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Here is my ride.”

  A small car pulled alongside. It had tiny wheels and room for two. The chambermaid opened the door, stooped down, and talked briskly in German. The driver, another young woman, listened and then nodded. The car drove away. The chambermaid stood and said, “I will do this for you.”

  ***

  Nearly an hour later, with a dull sky the color of dirty snow covering the city, Sharon made a phone call. A woman on the other end gave her another number and hung up. She dialed this number a dozen times. No one answered. She decided to take a train.

  The train station, beneath a giant translucent green canopy, was mostly empty. She walked briskly to the ticket counter and, using an Agency credit card, bought a one-way to Bonn, departure in seventy minutes.

  She noticed the two when she turned around. They were staring at her. Neither looked familiar, but even so, she evidently looked familiar to them. She wondered what to do, her training evaporating, replaced by sudden panic. What did they intend to do? What could they do?

  Kill you, her mind answered immediately. Just like Brian.

  They approached slowly, casually. Professional killers, she thought. She picked up the two bags, her purse slung over her shoulder, ticket in hand. She moved quickly toward the door marked DAMEN. Her heels clicked against the stone floor. The two walked silently behind her, closing the distance.

  She pushed through the door, into a small room with wash bowls and a mirror on the right-hand wall. An inner door took her on into the toilet room. She realized suddenly that it was empty. Even the toilet-maid was gone, probably on a break. But she had left behind a pair of shoes and a smock. Would they dare? She quickly put down her bags and hurried over to the small wooden cabinet below where the smock hung. In the second drawer down she found a wicker basket containing sewing materials, including a small pair of scissors, which she seized.

  She heard the outer door open noisily on its hinges. She rushed toward the inner door, slipped, and fell to her hands and knees as she reached it. The inner door swung open. She saw a long, thin blade jutting from the man’s right hand. He stopped, sensing her behind him. Before he could turn she drew the scissors over her head and brought them down hard, sinking them into his back. The two of them screamed simultaneously, the volume magnified by the tiled walls. The stiletto fell from his hand. She kicked it and then stepped back, biting the knuckles of her right hand, wondering what to do.

  The man was not dead. He wasn’t even unconscious, though he appeared to be in shock. He had fallen onto his back—onto the scissors—puncturing a lung, and now lay on the floor, his arms and legs flailing like he was a turtle flipped onto its shell. He tried to speak, but no sound came out.

  She edged around him and reached for her most important bag, her purse still slung over her shoulder. She heard the groan of the outer door opening again. Could it be…? She found the stiletto, grabbed it, and scooted to the right of the door, where she squatted. The door swung open. A man’s trouser leg. She plunged the knife into the man’s thigh. He yelled, doubled over in pain, and fell forward onto the other man.

  She fled through the doors and ran from the station. It had begun to rain.

  8

  Jay spotted her across the room, alone at a small table, a tall glass of iced tea in front of her. She was resting with her chin on her palm, staring out the window, her green eyes unfocused it seemed, gazing nowhere, seeing nothing. He believed in serendipity, and although he had stumbled in here to buy an ice cream cone, it did not shock him to see her here. She didn’t see him at first: she continued to stare, her sad, green eyes frozen in her head like the eyes of a marble statue. She wore white shorts, a madras blouse, and flip-flops on her large feet. Her toenails were painted red, her fingernails not at all. She had her hair pulled back and held with a terry cloth headband, which made her look like a professional tennis player with the wrong shoes on. He ordered two chocolate cones and approached her table. He stood there until the chocolate was running down his hand. Finally, he cleared his throat and she turned to look at him. He pushed the cone toward her. “Chocolate,” he said, grinning.

  She appeared confused. “The lesson is not for another hour. You said one o’clock.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Chocolate. I said, ‘chocolate.’ I bought you a cone.”

  “No, thank you,” she replied.

  “It’s dripping all over my hand,” He paused. “Please?”

  She took it from him, carefully avoiding contact with him. “Thank you,” she said lifelessly.

  “May I?” He hooked a leg of an empty chair across from her.

  She shrugged and licked at the scoop of chocolate.

  “Ah, you’re a licker,” he said.

  She looked curiously at him, her tongue halfway out of her mouth.

  He explained, “Some people nibble at their cones, others lick. You’re a licker.”

  She drew her tongue back into her mouth and nibbled.

  “Nothing wrong with lickers.” He winked.

  She smiled, covering her open mouth with her hand. “It is good,” she acknowledged.

  He nodded. “They make a bunch of the flavors right here. Homemade. Best in the city.”

  She nodded and returned to licking.

  “Did you enjoy yesterday?”

  “Yes. I particularly liked to steer it. It is a good boat, is it not?”

  “Yes and no,” he replied truthfully. “It’s not a racer, Marlene. We won’t stand a chance in the regatta. Not in The Lady Fine. She’s too broad in the beam and low in the water. We’ll have fun, but we won’t win.”

  “Who is to say? Maybe The Lady Fine will be lucky.” She purposely avoided using “we” and Jay didn’t miss it. No one had asked him to race the boat with her. Only the dockmaster had mentioned it and who could trust him?

  She licked, he nibbled. Their ice cream cones shrank. She said nothing and he began to feel in the way. “Am I interrupting?”

  The question clearly broke her train of thought. She shook her head. She had chocolate stains on both sides of her lips, making her twenty-some-odd years seem more like twelve. She licked away the stains. “No,” she told him, “I am just missing my home, I think.”

  “Germany?”

  She nodded. When she bit into the sugar cone it crunched; some crumbs fell to the table, along with a drop of chocolate.

  Jay felt foolish; she obviously didn’t feel like talking. “Well,” he said, rising from his chair, “see you in a little while.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “I interrupted. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Stay.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Please.”

  Boom, boom, boom. He sat back down. They both started talking at the same time. The result was gibberish. Jay stopped and smiled. She crunched into her cone. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I was going to say to you that you are very nice to buy this ice cream for me. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How do you think we can make The Lady Fine faster? Is there a way, or is this not possible?”

  Jay thought a minute. “Anything’s possible—” She laughed before he could continue. He asked, “Why do you laugh?”

  “I am sorry. It was funny… ‘anything is possible.’ This is very American, I think. Yes, very American. We think differently, you and I.”

  Jay didn’t like the idea. He wanted to think the same. “You don’t believe it?”

  “That anything is possible?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I do not. It is foolish. Some things are possible, yes. Anything? Of course not. Some things simply are as they are. They cannot be changed. I am a scientist. Scientists know there are limits. You are a sailor.” She s
miled. “Sailors think there is paradise just over the horizon.”

  “Scientists once thought the world was flat.”

  “I am not defending science.”

  “Sailors proved them wrong.” He let her think about this while he finished his cone. “What kind of scientist?” he asked after a moment, and not without a tinge of humor in his voice.

  “An electrical engineer,” she replied formally.

  “Computers?”

  “Not exactly computers, but I understand them. Why?”

  “What then? What kind of electronics?”

  She noticed an American flag flapping on one of the moored boats. “My work is boring. I would rather not discuss it.” Changing subjects, she asked, “Will we use the spinnaker today?”

  He glanced out at the flag, noting the direction of the wind. “We could on our way in, if this wind holds. You didn’t answer my question.”

  She studied his face. A long, intriguing silence passed as the two locked eyes. Marlene finally said, “I feel as if you are reading my mind.”

  Still staring, he said, “No,” and paused before adding, “I wish I could.”

  “Do you?” she asked skeptically.

  “Yes, I do.” His eyes were blurring, beginning to burn, but he would not flinch, would not look away from her. “You’re hiding something.”

  She blanched. “Why do you say that?”

  “I can tell when a person is hiding something.”

  “Then you do read minds.” She looked back out at the flag, breaking their eye contact, and pushed the remainder of the sugar cone into her mouth. “You’re a musician,” she said after a moment.

  “Yes. Yes, but my work is boring. I’d rather not discuss it.”

  She grinned. “I thought musicians always like to talk about themselves.”