“Oh, yeah,” Donicht said. “Schmidt called from Linz. He found where Herr Albrecht had been staying in Steyr. A gasthaus along the river.”
“Does he have Albrecht?”
Donicht hesitated and then said, “No, sir. The gasthaus clerk was beaten by three men. The men took Albrecht.”
Great. Martini lit another cigarette from the last and leaned back in the seat. This was getting more and more complex, he thought. Maybe he should have stayed in Tirol. Get the surgery and then move back to Innsbruck. Sounded like a plan.
20
Doctor Wilhelm Altenstein’s airplane was almost diverted at the last minute because of the snow falling at the St. Johann in Tirol airport. He had flown first from Dresden to Salzburg and then, on that tiny plane, the final leg to the ski resort town. His nerves were shaken. What if his plane had crashed? Sure someone else might be able to pick up on his research, but none would do so with as much enthusiasm as him. He was on the verge of major breakthroughs and had to be careful.
Standing at the only luggage carousel at the arrivals area of the airport, Altenstein waited for his small bag to drop down. He had a metal case with padded lining in his left hand and a laptop computer slung over his shoulders — both far too valuable to let some underpaid baggage handler throw about like a sack of rags. His clothes, on the other hand, did not matter. That was evident by the worn jeans he wore, the shirt half hanging out of his pants, and the winter down jacket, unzipped and snapped closed partially out of alignment. His hair stuck up like he had been electrocuted. Finally he grabbed his bag and then a man appeared at his side.
“I can take that for you, Herr Doctor,” the man said.
Altenstein startled with one look at the man. His jaw was chiseled and unshaved, with a scar that ran up his face on one side.
“I’m Mikolas Krupjak,” he said. “But you can call me Miko.” He tried a smile. The man was missing a molar, and his breath smelled like rotten cabbage.
“Thank you. Herr Conrad said he would send someone. How far is it to his place?”
Miko shifted his head. “Not far. But we should get going. The snow is expected to get worse.”
The drive took only twenty minutes, but Altenstein guessed it would have taken much less without the slippery roads. When he saw the castle, there was no other word for it, he was speechless for a moment, thinking it must be a mistake. He knew Conrad was rich, but this was hard to believe.
“What is this place?” Altenstein asked.
Miko pulled the Skoda to a parking area where a few more cars had parked since he left for the airport, and he shut down the engine. “Used to be a monastery years ago,” Miko said. “Conrad found it after it had been sitting idle for a few years. The last owner had tried to make it into a hotel, but they weren’t very good with management. And it was too far away from the ski slopes. So they failed. But, as I’m sure you know, Conrad has not failed at anything in his life.”
“I’m starting to understand that, Miko.”
They got out, Miko carrying his clothes bag, and they trudged through a few inches of snow toward the double wooden doors of the main entrance.
“How did you two meet?” Altenstein asked.
“See that scar,” Miko said, running his finger along his face.
Altenstein nodded.
“Conrad did that with a hockey stick.”
“My God.”
Miko shook his head. “No, it was an accident. That was before masks were worn for international competition. I checked Conrad into the boards and his stick jammed up into my face.”
“I heard Conrad was on the German national team. You played for the Czech Republic?”
“Well, it was Czechoslovakia at the time,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his words. “But I am Czech. Come on. Let’s get you to your room.”
They went through the massive front door. The ceiling in the foyer had to be ten meters high, accented by stained glass windows on two sides, and hanging from the center of the room a grand tiered crystal chandelier lit the space. The floors were white marble with swirls of gray, and a spiral marble staircase, lit by white candles in gilded holders, rose up along the left wall to an overlook. There were paintings in oil and watercolor on every wall, but the furnishings were sparse. A few chairs and plants.
Upstairs was less elaborate but more cozy. The hallway floors were the same marble, but the ceilings were lower and lit by candle-shaped lights.
Miko stopped at a door and opened it for Altenstein. “The room at the end of the hall is Herr Conrad’s.”
“Is he here yet?”
“No. He called on his cell a while ago to remind me to pick you up, and they were still about an hour out. The snow has slowed them.”
Altenstein entered the room and said, “They?”
“He has a lady with him. A friend from Vienna.”
“I see.” Altenstein looked around the room. It was like a suite in an expensive hotel, which he had only rarely seen in his less than extensive travels. The bed had a canopy held up by swirling dark wood. A gas fire burned in what had once been a real fireplace.
“Dinner is at eight,” Miko said at the door. “I’ll let you get unpacked. There is a small staff here. Cooks and putzfraus. A grounds keeper. But we’re mostly on our own here. The phones don’t work yet. We have cell service here, though.”
“Thanks,” Altenstein said, setting his laptop on the bed and his metal case gently to the floor.
Miko nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
Standing before French windows, Altenstein gazed out onto a back garden, covered now with falling snow. Two men were chasing each other, throwing snowballs at one another. Finally one man tackled the other and they both slid to the snow. Then they started making snow angels like children. He turned and looked at the room again. This was more than he expected. But maybe, just maybe, this was how he would start living. If his discoveries lived up to his hope and desires, how else could it be?
Three doors down the hallway, Gustav Albrecht, the grand master of the Teutonic Order, sat on his bed looking out on the garden and the forest below. Look at them, he thought, seeing those idiots Jiri and Grago making snow angels. One minute they’re punching him and taping his mouth shut, and the next they’re playing like kinder. Moments ago he had heard a door open and close down the hall, and thought maybe they were coming for him. But if they had wanted to kill him, why bring him to this grand place? Why not just shoot him in the back of the head and dump his body in that river in Steyr?
That’s what had been fumbling in his mind for the past day. The doubt and wonder. First they had tried to kill him at the Donau Bar in Vienna. Now, although not treating him like a guest, they kidnap him and bring him to this beautiful castle. What did it all mean?
He also wondered about Jake Adams. Jake had told him to stay in his room except to go down to the gasthaus bar for food. Yet, he had done something so stupid he was kicking himself for his idiocy. Using his visa. And that’s how that man Miko had said they had found him. A simple and unconscious mistake. Something he does every day. Yet this time it had been worse. They had found him, and now he could be killed. But why? What did these men really want with him? Too many questions.
He lay back on his bed, his hands behind his head, and wondered what would happen next. The door was securely locked. He had tried it many times. There was no escape. He would have to cooperate. That was the only way to survive.
The snow was coming down now in fluffy flakes as big as one Euro coins. Toni Contardo sat in her Alfa Romeo a kilometer down the road from the castle at the end of the long drive, a view of the place through the trees. Sitting in the passenger seat, his laptop computer on and typing away, was Kurt Lamar.