the lair of a count.
My captor gently patted his caramelized hair. I stood up, carefully. “I said
The name caught him off-guard for a second, and he gave me a puzzled look. Then it dawned on him. “Ah, you noticed the handkerchief. Excellent. Identifies me as a thoroughbred, don’t you agree? Although my father would take exception, damn his rectilinear, blue-blooded soul. Oh, don’t fuss, she’s not going anywhere,” he said, nodding toward the door Mobright had exited through. “Although I do suspect she’ll be coming to before very long. The latest central-nervous-system depressant. Extraordinarily effective. Twelve syllables or so. Don’t ask me to pronounce it.”
I made my way over to the door and turned the round brass knob. Locked. I listened. Nothing. I turned back to Mr. B, leaning against the wall for support. “Who the hell are you?”
He flicked an undetectable piece of lint from his sharply creased slacks and ignored the question. “If I do say so myself, Reb, you handled yourself quite well out in the Adriatic. I regret that we were unable to be of any assistance. Failed to anticipate your boat ride. I can say with certainty,” he continued, “that Mr. Tecci will actively seek retribution for being bested. Deliciously nefarious fellow, that one. Would you like to know his history? I found it quite fascinating.”
“Who
“Why, an unnamed Englishman, of course,” he laughed. “Oxford man. So,” he plowed ahead. “Nolo Tecci. Born 1955 in Brooklyn Heights, New York. His father was Bruno Tecci, an executioner for one Nicky Arno until they both met their early demise in a steak house in Queens in 1968. Young Nolo turned juvenile delinquent as soon as he turned juvenile, and at the tender age of twenty was invited to Attica State Prison for five years for assaulting a bartender with an ice pick.”
Mobright reentered the room carrying a silver tray with a small teapot, matching sugar bowl with tongs, and a china cup and saucer. He closed the door behind him and set the tray down on a small cherrywood table next to Mr. B, accidentally kicking one of the table legs. “Sorry sir,” he said. “Here you are.” He eyed me. “Is he giving you any trouble, sir?”
“None, Mobright. Be a good chap and leave us now, would you?”
“Yes,” I copied, “be a good chap, Mo-dim.”
He glowered at me, then faced his boss. “Yes, sir,” he said, turning on his heel.
Mr. B called to him, “Oh, Mobright . . . do check in with Pendelton about our other guest. That methoxy et cetera et cetera should be wearing off presently.”
“Yes, sir,” Mobright repeated, shooting me one more look before leaving the room.
Mr. B picked up the tongs. “I told him to sugar the tea, did I not? And no spoon, to boot. Ah, well,” he sighed, pouring the tea, “bunglers all.” He removed a pill organizer from his pocket, opened a compartment, and popped half a dozen multicolored capsules in his mouth. He gulped some tea, knocked them back, and grimaced as he swallowed. He snapped the organizer shut and returned it to his pocket. “There,” he said disdainfully. “They don’t help, but at least they’re expensive.”
I peered around the room impatiently, looking for my guns.
Mr. B cleared his throat. “Now, while Tecci was in prison, he was suspected of killing fellow inmates on several occasions. Each of them had his throat cut in the shape of an ‘N.’ Nolo’s signature, not unlike Zorro. Gruesome, but one must express oneself to the fullest, I suppose. The authorities knew he had committed the murders, but none of the inmates were willing to inform on him. Two months after Nolo’s release, the pub in which he’d committed the initial assault was set afire, along with the bartender.”
AB continued. “The only witness met his untimely demise before he could testify. He was found stabbed, the initial ‘N’ carved in the nape of his neck with a tiny surgeon’s laser. Tecci surfaced in Las Vegas, an enforcer for the Carbone family, but his disregard for authority and inability to play by the rules—even mob rules—made him a poor fit. So he moved on.”
“Who the hell are you guys?” I interrupted.
“Tut tut, Reb, language,” Mr. B chided, waving his ringed hand at me. He pressed on with his lecture. “Nolo Tecci is a sociopath. Devious, remorseless, clever, and very dangerous, as I think you’d agree, although I have it on good authority that he can be quite a charmer when he wants to be. He’s been implicated in half a dozen international murders in the last five years, although there has never been enough evidence to convict him.”
He returned the teacup and saucer to the silver tray. “Tecci issuspected of being a paid assassin for Werner Krell, an interesting if irksome man of deep pocket and shallow soul of whom you may or may not have heard. Krell shared an interest in Leonardo da Vinci with his father—a striking resemblance to your family situation, albeit with opposing motivations. Art versus power, if you will. Uneven parallel bars. One black, one white.”
The effect of the drug had now waned, and was replaced by anger. “What do you know about my family?”
“Not much,” B said casually. “But to continue, Krell has spent a lifetime in the munitions business. Recently, however, he shifted his focus to satellite communications. That is, he’s building satellites. Through his old KGB connections, he’s arranged to have the Russian Space Agency deliver his satellites into orbit.”
“So?”
“It’s a suspicious move from someone we believe has for some time been designing a new weapons system to use against a few of the more powerful English-speaking countries.”
“Why would Krell do that?”
“Oh, certainly profit, but also individual and family history, personal associations, psychological profile, genetics. Mother had a frightful case of borderline personality disorder with paranoid schizophrenic tendencies. Werner was suckled too long at a tattered tit, I would say. Mother died in an Allied bomb raid, and Father, whose fanatic footsteps Werner followed into the munitions industry, died an early, angry death.” B paused for a moment, then added, “Effectively, young Werner was orphaned at an impressionable age. Ironic.”
I savored my growing anger, locked eyes with him.
