Chapter 52

 

Frank woke with a pounding head and his scratchy throat was worse this morning. He’d slept badly, worrying over the fact that he’d left his computer behind at the other hotel. Everything had a sense of unreality after yesterday’s bizarre turn.

From his lavish suite at the Grand Cayman Regent to this small motorway hotel room with bland gray walls, a lumpy mattress and inadequate duvet, his accommodations had decidedly gone downhill. The upside to the uncomfortable room was he had no desire to linger in bed. He needed to get back to Zurich, retrieve his computer and meet with Anton van der Went at noon. Once he sold the necklace he would hop on the next flight back to Vegas and start enjoying the money he’d banked there. In his book, this particular adventure had overstayed its welcome.

He showered and put on the only clothes he had with him. Not wanting to do anything memorable, he quietly checked out and walked the two blocks to Pfäffikon Station. The only thing offered for breakfast was a hard roll and some cheese. He made do with that and a large cup of coffee. Frank finished the snack and kicked back on one of the benches in the waiting area, wanting to catch a crowded train where he would be hard to spot in the rush-hour throng. They ran frequently this time of morning so he wasn’t worried about getting to his meeting on time; mainly he wanted to be calm, collected and thinking clearly before facing the diamond cutter.

He didn’t need the extra cash, exactly, but pride wouldn’t allow him to give the other man the better deal. He decided on a second cup of coffee, taking his mobile phone out to see how his battery was holding up while the purple-haired girl whipped the espresso.

He spotted a new message from Anton. Shit. It must have come through while he was in the shower. Meeting time changed …

His heart raced. A glance at the station’s huge overhead clock told him he would barely make it to Zurich by nine-thirty, and he still had to find the damn meeting place. He texted back: Where the hell is clock museum?

Dammit! He’d planned to get there early, stake out the place. He hated not being in control. It was the secret to every great con—the master ran the show. Only the mooches didn’t know what was going on.

“Forget the coffee,” he called over his shoulder to the barista. She shot him the evil eye.

He snatched a tourist map from a rack beside the coffee place and raced through the station, found the platform where the next train for Zurich was already boarding, walked too quickly through the security screening and had to do it over. Damn the Swiss and their pride of precision timing. He barely made the train before the doors slid shut.

With nothing else to do during the thirty-minute ride, he spread his map and stared at the lengthy Germanic names until his head began to pound. He couldn’t spot any word resembling ‘clock’ or ‘museum.’ He crumpled the map and threw it on the floor, drawing attention from the otherwise-bored morning commuters.

Okay, Frankie, not smart.

He took a deep breath and talked himself down from his agitated state. He had the necklace. He was in control. No way would he let this Dutchman and his screwy moves dictate to him. He would arrive on time, but certainly not early. He would name his price. Screw the guy. He began to breathe easier, forcing his hands to be still, his expression bland.

He’d planned to walk to the clock museum and leisurely scope out the area, but that was out. He pushed to the front of the line and took the first cab, ignoring muttered comments about the rudeness of Americans. At least the driver knew where this silly museum was. Frank ignored the man’s attempts at chit-chat along the way.

When they pulled to a stop in front of yet another tall gray building, this one with white trim, Frank said, “It looks like a jewelry store.”

“Ja, it is. Museum is on the lower level inside.”

Frank paid his fare and got out, blatantly ignoring the shop front as he strolled past a row of benches under some trees along the sidewalk. A coffee shop across the street would have made the perfect lookout spot but he was running late enough now, odds were good van der Went was already inside, watching for his arrival. Damn—he hated when things didn’t go his way.

He rounded the corner, pretended to browse the displays of jewelry, turned and strolled back, again taking his time to observe reflections in the glass while he pretended an interest in watches.

A female voice interrupted his thoughts, a young woman in shop girl attire who stood at the open front door. “Excuse me, sir? Are you Mr. Morrell?”

Frank didn’t have time to form a response. Who wanted to know, he wondered.

The girl stepped forward with something in her hand. “This note was left for you.” She handed it over and turned back to her job before he could ask where she’d gotten this.

The slip of paper was folded in on itself, forming its own little envelope of sorts. His real name was written across the outside. He unfolded the sheet, which was about six inches square.

Museum too crowded with tours this morning. Come to lobby of Carlton Hotel. 10:15. Anton

“What is this shit?” Frank muttered. Was the guy going to play games all day?

He studied the handwriting, not that it would help. He’d never seen anything handwritten by Anton. This was a firm hand, slightly slanted. Well, hell. He had twenty minutes to get to this new place and there wasn’t a cab in sight.

He leaned into the jewelry store and caught the attention of the clerk who’d handed him the note.

“Where is the Carlton Hotel?”

“Em, not far.” She gave directions—two blocks up this same street and one block to the left. He would see it on the right. “It’s not a large place. You’ll see a blue awning.”

He rushed out, hoping her directions were accurate. There was no time to get lost and do it over.