Gerhard Meindl was waiting on the other side of customs in the International Arrivals terminal at Kennedy Airport. When he saw them coming, he adjusted his somber gray tie. Then he took a deep breath and strode toward them.
"Welcome to America, Your Highnesses," he said in German. "I trust your flight was pleasant?"
"It was dreadful," sniffed Princess Sofia. "Nowadays they let anyone aboard a commercial plane! Even in first class you find yourself seated next to the most horrid people. The most hideous young couple was across the aisle. Both with rings through their lips and noses and eyebrows. Disgusting!" She threw up her hands. "It really does make one yearn for the good old days. Isn't that right, Erwein?"
"Ja, Sofia," he said, with weary resignation. He was just behind her, carrying her jewelry and cosmetics cases. Behind him, three porters were wheeling mountains of vintage Vuitton luggage.
"Next time," Sofia added, "we're taking the family jet."
Gerhard Meindl nodded sympathetically; he knew why they hadn't this time—Sofia didn't wish to forewarn her brother of her arrival.
"The car is this way," he said smoothly, and gesturing with one hand, led the entourage toward the automatic glass doors and out into the sunshine. "Ah, there it is."
Sofia eyed the silver gray stretch limousine with disgust. What an abomination! she thought, comparing it to her own stately old Daimler. It was like everything else here in America. The few times she had visited this country, the sheer crassness of everything had simply overwhelmed her. Now it was overwhelming her again—and she hadn't even left the airport!
She glared at the porters who were depositing her luggage none-too- gently in the trunk.
"Tip them, Erwein," she snapped. "But not too much?" She raised her eyebrows.
"Nein, Sofia."
She ducked into the car and waited for it to be loaded up. Extracted a gold compact from her handbag and dusted her face with powder.
"You made our reservations?" she asked, once they were rolling.
Gerhard Meindl, seated on the jump seat, nodded his head. "Yes, Your Highness," he assured her. "A two-bedroom suite at the Carlyle, just as you requested. I inspected it personally. I think you will find it quite satisfactory."
"If I do not, you and the management will hear of it."
I'm sure we will, he thought.
She eyed Erwein, who was seated beside her, with mounting irritation. He had both of her cases on his lap, as though clutching them from invisible thieves.
"Oh, do put them down!" she snapped.
He did; at once.
"Did you decide how long you would be staying in New York, Your Highness?" Gerhard Meindl asked solicitously.
"We came for the auction," Sofia said, "but we will stay until the child is born. That way, I can rest assured that nothing about the birth is shady or contrary to family law."
It was a direct insult to the Meindls, a deliberate slap in the face, but Gerhard kept his emotions carefully in check. "And the old prince? How is His Highness, if I may ask?"
"You may, and he is not at all well," Sofia said, her lips settling into a satisfied expression. "He had another stroke last week."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yes," said Sofia slowly, "I don't doubt that you are."
Dina marched to the entrance of Burghley's, Gaby half a step behind. All that was missing were drums and trumpets to announce their arrival—to Gaby, it would have sounded like the lead-in accompanying a Twentieth Century Fox film logo.
"Morning, Mrs. Goldsmith." The doorman.
"Good morning, Raoul."
"Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Why ..." Dina stopped in the doorway and turned around, looking up at the sky in surprise. "Why, yes, Raoul. I suppose it is!"
And in she swept, Gaby in tow.
"Damn brownnoser," Gaby mumbled under her breath, spiking him with a glare.
Raoul grinned and touched his visor. "And a nice day to you, too, Ms. Morton."
Gaby scowled. "That and two quarters buys you a cuppa coffee."
"Good morning, Mrs. Goldsmith," the security guard greeted.
"Good morning, Carmine. I see you're looking sharp."
Passing him, Gaby pointed at his shoes. When he looked down, she quickly tweaked his cheek.
On they marched, to the sound of Gaby's silent drum and trumpet flourishes.
First on Dina's agenda: The showroom galleries, where the last exhibit before the Becky V auction—Impressionist and Modern Paintings, Drawings, Watercolors and Sculpture—was being taken down.
Next stop: The auction gallery proper, where the theaterlike red velvet seats, which she had insisted upon last October (A year? Can it really have been that long?) curved in elegant amphitheater-type rows.
A vast improvement over those cheap metal folding chairs, Dina thought, even if I say so myself.
Suddenly she stopped walking and stood there, frozen. "What the hell?" she said softly.
Then, charging up and down the center aisle, she pointed an accusing finger left and right in outrage. There and there and there ... there, there there ... The upholstery of fifteen red velvet fold-down seats had been slashed open, exposing the white stuffing and springs.
"Vandals!" Dina exclaimed. "My God! Vandals in Burghley's! What is the world coming to?"
She marched furiously back out, her face grim, and sought out the nearest security guard.
"Ma'am?"
"Who permitted someone to vandalize the seats in the auction gallery?" Dina snapped.
"Beg your pardon, ma'am?"
"Call the head of Security. Tell him to meet me in Sheldon D. Fairey's office. Now."
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Gaby?"
"Right here."
"See that the damaged seats are removed and reupholstered. At once."
"Will do."
"Make sure the fabric matches!"
"Right."
"And call those two detectives. You know the ones. I want this reported at once."
He watched the slashed seats being loaded into the panel truck, CHANTILLY & CIE CUSTOM UPHOLSTERERS was emblazoned on the sides of the vehicle, along with a Long Island City address and a 718 phone number. He memorized both.
It was so ludicrously simple. Child's play, really. Just one of many security gaps, and not even a highly original one at that.
People would do well to remember the classics, he thought. It was the story of the Trojan Horse all over again, but with a slight variation. When the seats returned, they would be stuffed with goodies. Explosives, semi- automatics, handguns, ammo.
So simple.
So ancient.
So beautiful.
So deadly.
He could hardly wait.
Near Wilmington, Delaware, November 7
"Ninety-four hours and eighteen minutes until zero hour."
The hooded figure's electronically distorted voice echoed eerily in cavernous space.
The old pesticide packaging plant on the banks of the stagnant, polluted canal—like the idle buildings surrounding it—was a relic of a reckless past, and thus ideal. This was the fourth industrial space they had occupied since Long Island City.
There was survival in unpredictability, safety in staying on the move.
As usual, all the lights save one had been doused for his arrival. The single naked bulb glared, swinging in an arc from its overhead wire, and threw shadow monsters against pitted cinderblock walls.
From between the slit in his convex lenses, he eyed his handpicked crew. With Kildare out of the way, that left eight men and one woman.
"Everything is in readiness?"
"Everything." The former Israeli commando.
"Weapons? Explosives?"
"Already in place." The ex-navy SEAL. "Piece of cake."
"Getaway?"
"All prepared." The French daredevil.
"Appropriate attire?"
"Black tie for the men." The woman. "No labels to trace the purchases."
"Invitations?"
"In hand." The Japanese. "Hacking into their computer was child's play. All I had to do was put our false names on the list. The invitations were waiting in the various post office boxes."
"Everyone familiar with the layout?"
"Familiar enough to find our way around that place in the dark." The Libyan.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The hooded man's breathing was amplified, like a horror movie's soundtrack.
"Any last-minute qualms?"
Laughter. The Colombian brothers.
"Remember! I want no senseless killing! Only take out whoever's necessary. Is that understood?"
"Sure, amigo." The shorter of the two Colombians. "We comprende."
His sibling chuckled.
"You better comprende!"
The Colombian's laugh died in his throat.
"This has taken over a year of planning! Any of you fuck up—you're dead! You comprende that?"
There was silence. Nine heads nodded somberly.
"Last chance for questions. Anyone have any?"
No one did.
"Don't worry." The German. "They'll never know what hit them."
"They'd better not!"
On that note, the hooded figure moved balletically, seemingly without weight or substance, a mere shadow melting into the dark. A minute later, there was the sound of a car door slamming. Then a souped-up engine roared to life.
The German pressed a remote control device. It activated a hidden video camera, fitted with an infrared lens, over in the loading dock.
They waited until the car had driven off. Then the German went to collect the tape. Upon his return, he fed it into the VCR, switched on the monitor, and hit the play button.
On the screen, a New York license plate was barely visible—but visible all the same.
He hit freeze frame.
"You have it?"
"Got it."
The Japanese already had his computer booted up; within half a minute, he'd hacked his way into the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles.
"Now we'll find out who our boss is," he said.
The other eight crowded closely around, eyes on the glowing monitor as his fingers tapped the license number on the keyboard. Within seconds, the information jumped onto the screen:
FERRARO, CHARLES, G
7 JONES STREET
NEW YORK NY 10O14