He approached the Chapel of Saint Thomas. An interesting label, since it was not only the name of an Augustinian monk who founded a nearby monastery seven centuries ago, but also the first name of old Martin Fellner's head steward.
He shoved the heavy oak door inward.
She was standing in the center aisle, just beyond a gilded grille that separated the foyer from six oak pews. Incandescent fixtures illuminated a black-and-gold rococo altar beyond and cast her in shadows. The bottle-glass and bull's-eye windows left and right were dark. The stained-glass heraldic signs of castle knights loomed unimpressive, awaiting revivement by the morning sun. Little worship occurred here. The chapel was now a display room for gilded reliquaries--Fellner's collection, one of the most extensive in the world, rivaled most European cathedrals.
He smiled at his host.
Monika Fellner was thirty-four and the eldest daughter of his employer. The skin that covered her tall, svelte frame carried the swarthy tint of her mother's, who'd been a Lebanese her father passionately loved forty years before. But old Martin had not been impressed with his son's choice of wife and eventually forced a divorce, sending her back to Lebanon, leaving two children behind. He often thought Monika's cool, tailored, almost untouchable air the result of her mother's rejection. But that wasn't something she would ever voice or he would ever ask. She stood proud, like always, her tangled dark curls falling in carefree wisps. A flick of a smile creased her lips. She wore a taupe brocade jacket over a tight chiffon skirt, the slit rising all the way up to thin supple thighs. She was the sole heir to the Fellner fortune, thanks to the untimely death of her older brother two years ago. Her name meant 'devout to God.' Yet she was anything but.
'Lock it,' she said.
He snapped the lever down.
She strutted toward him, her heels clicking off the ancient marble floor. He met her at the open gate in the grille. Immediately below her was the grave of her grandfather, MARTIN FELLNER 1868-1941 etched into the smooth gray marble. The old man's last wish was that he be buried in the castle he so loved. No wife accompanied him in death. The elder Fellner's head steward lay beside him, more letters carved in stone marking that grave.
She noticed his gaze down to the floor.
'Poor grandfather. To be so strong in business, yet so weak in spirit. Must have been a bitch to be queer back then.'
'Maybe it's genetic?'
'Hardly. Though I have to say, a woman can sometimes provide an interesting diversion.'
'Your father wouldn't want to hear that.'
'I don't think he'd care right now. It's you he's rather upset with. He has a copy of the Rome newspaper. There's a front-page story on the death of Pietro Caproni.'
'But he also has the match case.'
She smiled. 'You think success smooths anything?'
'I've found it to be the best insurance for job security.'
'You didn't mention killing Caproni in your note yesterday.'
'It seemed an unimportant detail.'
'Only you would consider a knife in the chest unimportant. Father wants to talk with you. He's waiting.'
'I expected that.'
'You don't seem concerned.'
'Should I be?'
She stared hard. 'You're a hard bastard, Christian.'
He realized that she possessed none of her father's sophisticated air, but in two ways they were much alike--both were cold and driven. Newspapers linked her with man after man, wondering who might eventually snag her and the resulting fortune, but he knew that no one would ever control her. Fellner had been meticulously grooming her the past few years, readying her for the day when she'd take over his communications empire along with his passion for collecting, a day that would surely soon arrive. She'd been educated outside Germany in England and the United States, adopting an even sharper tongue and brassy attitude along the way. But being rich and spoiled hadn't helped her personality either.
She reached out and patted his right sleeve. 'No stiletto tonight?'
'Do I need it?'
She pressed close. 'I can be quite dangerous.'
Her arms went around him. Their mouths fused, her tongue searching with excitement. He enjoyed her taste and savored the passion she freely offered. When she withdrew, she bit his lower lip hard on the way. He tasted blood.
'Yes, you can.' He dabbed the wound with a handkerchief.
She reached out and unzipped his trousers.
'I thought you said Herr Fellner was waiting.'
'There's plenty of time.' She pushed him down on the floor, directly atop her grandfather's grave. 'And I didn't wear any underwear.'
TEN
Knoll followed Monika across the castle's ground floor to the collection hall. The space consumed the better part of the northwest tower and was divided into a public room, where Fellner displayed his notable and legal items, and the secret room, where only he, Fellner, and Monika ventured.
They entered the public hall and Monika locked the heavy wooden doors behind them. Lighted cases stood in rows like soldiers at attention and displayed a variety of precious objects. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls. Frescoes adorned the ceiling with images depicting Moses giving laws to the people, the building of Babel, and the translation of the Septuagint.
Fellner's private study was off the north wall. They entered, and Monika strolled across the parquet to a row of bookcases, all inlaid oak and gilded in heavy baroque style. He knew the volumes were all collectibles. Fellner loved books. His ninth-century Beda Venerabilis was the oldest and most valuable he possessed, Knoll had been lucky enough to find a stash in a French parish rectory a few years back, the priest more than willing to part with them in return for a modest contribution to both the church and himself.
Monika withdrew a black controller from her jacket pocket and clicked the button. The center bookcase slowly revolved on its axis. White light spilled from a room beyond. Franz Fellner was standing amidst a long windowless space, the gallery cleverly hidden between the junction of two grand halls. High-pitched ceilings and the castle's oblong shape provided more architectural camouflage. Its thick stone walls were all soundproofed and a special handler filtered the air.
More collection cases stood in staggered rows, each illuminated by carefully placed halogen lights. Knoll wove a path through the cases, noticing some of the acquisitions. A jade sculpture he'd stolen from a private collection in Mexico, not a problem since the supposed owner had likewise stolen it from the Jalapa City Museum. A number of ancient African, Eskimo, and Japanese figurines retrieved from an apartment in Belgium, war loot thought long destroyed. He was especially proud of the Gauguin sculpture off to the left, an exquisite piece he'd liberated from a thief in Paris.
Paintings adorned the walls. A Picasso self-portrait. Correggio's
The remaining stone wall was draped in two enormous Gobelin tapestries, looted by Hermann Goring during the war, recovered from another supposed owner two decades ago, and still hotly sought by the Austrian government.
Fellner stood beside a glass case containing a thirteenth-century mosaic depicting Pope Alexander IV. He knew it to be one of the old man's favorites. Beside him was the enclosure with the Faberge match case. A tiny halogen light illuminated the strawberry-red enamel. Fellner had obviously polished the piece. He knew how his
