through the window as the bird put its head down and drank, concentric circles rippling out from where its beak broke the surface. While he watched, he saw a reflection in the window of someone walking in the room behind him and heard, almost instantly, an angry shout from Smettering.
Jeremy spun around.
A man wearing a black wool mask pointed a snub-nose revolver at Smettering’s chest.
“Stay where you are,” he snarled at Jeremy. “Don’t move away from the window.”
When Jeremy hunted for Torahs he always carried an Austrian-made Glock 17A that right now was locked in the glove compartment of his car outside in the driveway. Why hadn’t he brought it inside? He had to do something. Quickly. Estimating the distance between where he stood and the desk, he judged whether or not he could reach the man and force the gun out of his hand without risking Smettering’s safety.
Then, miraculously he heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. Footsteps coming closer. The man threatening Smettering didn’t seem to notice. Maybe this would be the distraction Jeremy needed. Once the man turned to see the intruder, Jeremy could rush him and wrest the gun from him.
“There’s nothing here of any great value,” Smettering stammered, lying, Jeremy thought, unconvincingly. “There are some books…there…that pile…first editions. Take them.”
The man in the mask eyed the parchment on the desk. “What’s that?”
Smettering didn’t answer.
Pushing the gun deeper into the elderly man’s chest, the gunman repeated his question. “What is that?”
Despite the gun, Smettering put his hand down on the Beethoven letter.
The footsteps were coming closer. Whoever it was was almost there.
“Let him take it, Karl,” Jeremy said. His friend was old and frail and he was worried for him.
Smettering didn’t lift his hand.
“Karl! Let go.”
But Smettering didn’t release the letter.
The footsteps finally reached the door. Jeremy watched, ready to shout out a warning that hopefully would also be a cry for help. His heart raced. The man stepped over the threshold—damn. Jeremy should have anticipated this possibility. Damn his optimism. This second man was also wearing a black wool ski mask and he too held a gun that he pointed at Jeremy while the man at the desk used his revolver to force Smettering’s hand up. The Beethoven letter, streaking like a lightning bolt in a zigzag across the tabletop, was the last thing that Jeremy saw.
Chapter 12
Vienna, Austria
Saturday, April 26 th —10:36 a.m.
I nspector Fiske, who had sad, basset-hound eyes and a full mustache, asked Meer yet more questions she couldn’t answer. One after the other. No, she didn’t know where her father was, and no, she didn’t know the woman whom she’d found in the kitchen. No, she didn’t know if anything was missing. No, she’d never been at the house before; she’d never been in Vienna before.
Finally he gave up and left her in her father’s living room. She sat there for a minute, not sure what she should do next while she watched police swarming through the rooms, making their way around the small house; taking photographs, dusting for fingerprints, peering into corners, closets and behind doors. It seemed an intrusion her father would have resented but she couldn’t stop them.
“I just talked to the inspector. He said you’re free to go.”
Meer looked up. It was the man she’d opened the front door for right after she’d found the woman on the floor.
“She has no pulse. I don’t know what to do” was all she’d said to him, and he’d taken over, calling an ambulance and then starting CPR and sticking with it until the paramedics arrived. Maybe it was Meer’s fault the woman had died. If she’d started CPR in those critical seconds when she first found the woman perhaps she’d still be alive.
“It was too late even by the time you found her,” the man said to her now.
He was an uncomfortable paradox: a
Jeremy spun around.
A man wearing a black wool mask pointed a snub-nose revolver at Smettering’s chest.
“Stay where you are,” he snarled at Jeremy. “Don’t move away from the window.”
When Jeremy hunted for Torahs he always carried an Austrian-made Glock 17A that right now was locked in the glove compartment of his car outside in the driveway. Why hadn’t he brought it inside? He had to do something. Quickly. Estimating the distance between where he stood and the desk, he judged whether or not he could reach the man and force the gun out of his hand without risking Smettering’s safety.
Then, miraculously he heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. Footsteps coming closer. The man threatening Smettering didn’t seem to notice. Maybe this would be the distraction Jeremy needed. Once the man turned to see the intruder, Jeremy could rush him and wrest the gun from him.
“There’s nothing here of any great value,” Smettering stammered, lying, Jeremy thought, unconvincingly. “There are some books…there…that pile…first editions. Take them.”
The man in the mask eyed the parchment on the desk. “What’s that?”
Smettering didn’t answer.
Pushing the gun deeper into the elderly man’s chest, the gunman repeated his question. “What is that?”
Despite the gun, Smettering put his hand down on the Beethoven letter.
The footsteps were coming closer. Whoever it was was almost there.
“Let him take it, Karl,” Jeremy said. His friend was old and frail and he was worried for him.
Smettering didn’t lift his hand.
“Karl! Let go.”
But Smettering didn’t release the letter.
The footsteps finally reached the door. Jeremy watched, ready to shout out a warning that hopefully would also be a cry for help. His heart raced. The man stepped over the threshold—damn. Jeremy should have anticipated this possibility. Damn his optimism. This second man was also wearing a black wool ski mask and he too held a gun that he pointed at Jeremy while the man at the desk used his revolver to force Smettering’s hand up. The Beethoven letter, streaking like a lightning bolt in a zigzag across the tabletop, was the last thing that Jeremy saw.
Chapter 12
Vienna, Austria
Saturday, April 26 th —10:36 a.m.
I nspector Fiske, who had sad, basset-hound eyes and a full mustache, asked Meer yet more questions she couldn’t answer. One after the other. No, she didn’t know where her father was, and no, she didn’t know the woman whom she’d found in the kitchen. No, she didn’t know if anything was missing. No, she’d never been at the house before; she’d never been in Vienna before.
Finally he gave up and left her in her father’s living room. She sat there for a minute, not sure what she should do next while she watched police swarming through the rooms, making their way around the small house; taking photographs, dusting for fingerprints, peering into corners, closets and behind doors. It seemed an intrusion her father would have resented but she couldn’t stop them.
“I just talked to the inspector. He said you’re free to go.”
Meer looked up. It was the man she’d opened the front door for right after she’d found the woman on the floor.
“She has no pulse. I don’t know what to do” was all she’d said to him, and he’d taken over, calling an ambulance and then starting CPR and sticking with it until the paramedics arrived. Maybe it was Meer’s fault the woman had died. If she’d started CPR in those critical seconds when she first found the woman perhaps she’d still be alive.
“It was too late even by the time you found her,” the man said to her now.
He was an uncomfortable paradox: a
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