The Medusa Amulet

Chapter 28

When Escher came up out of the Metro at the Pigalle station, he was more than satisfied with his day’s work.

Breaking into the suite at the Crillon had been no trouble at all, and although David had taken his precious valise with him, both he and Olivia had done him the great favor of leaving their laptops in the room. Ernst had spent so many hours opening, downloading, and transmitting their various files that he had had to order up some room service. He’d had lobster, champagne, and a perfect lemon souffle. Why not?

But what a strange haul it had been. Franco’s files included everything from a gallery of Bronzino’s portraits to treatises on ancient glassblowing techniques. And the woman’s? Hers were even crazier, ranging from mythology to mesmerism, Egyptian burial practices to Nazi training manuals. Just like the bookshelves at her apartment. For Escher, who was usually forced to operate on a strictly need-to-know basis, it was nice to get a glimpse, however inscrutable, of what his quarry was up to, and what it was that Schillinger and his mysterious overseers might be after. He always liked to know more than his employers thought he did.

As he crossed the alleyway, he glanced up to see lights on in his room. Jantzen must be back. But when he came through the doors, the concierge furtively waved him over. She had just been eating candy, and her fingers were sticky with caramel. “You have visitors upstairs,” she muttered.

“How many?”

“I’m not sure. There were three, but I think a couple left.”

Escher certainly wasn’t expecting anyone, and he asked the old lady to wait five minutes and then go upstairs to offer a turn-down service. Going back around the alley, he climbed the fire escape as quietly as he could. When he got to the top floor, he crept to the window and looked inside through a part in the curtains.

There was no sign of Julius, but a man in white shirtsleeves and a red necktie was sitting in a chair right between the beds. A man he didn’t know, holding Escher’s own gun in his hands.

God damn it. Escher, knowing it would have been confiscated at the Louvre security desk, had left the gun behind.

There was a knock on the door and the man stood up silently, holding the weapon steady, with both hands, in front of him. This was no amateur.

The concierge unlocked the door, and with fresh towels in her arms, came in. The man hastily slipped the gun under the bedclothes, and Escher could hear the old lady apologizing for the intrusion. While the gunman was distracted, claiming to be waiting for his friends to return, Escher slipped his fingers under the window and raised the frame a foot or more.

When the old lady left, the man tossed the towels on the bed and resumed his vigil.

Escher no longer had to guess what the others had left him behind to do.

It was only a matter of minutes before the gunman noticed the draft in the room, and the curtain billowing out. Escher could see him debating whether or not to get up, but then, putting the gun on the bed, he got up, stretched and rolled his neck. Escher flattened himself against the brick wall of the hotel and waited. A few seconds later, the curtain was pulled back, but instead of trying to close the window, the guy did Escher a favor and opened it wider. Escher’s hand shot out and snagged his necktie, then yanked his head out the window. With his other hand, he clubbed him in the face. The man’s hands groped at his assailant, but Escher twisted the necktie tighter. The guy was halfway out and already strangling when Escher shoved the window down on his shoulder blades.

The wind went out of him, and Escher used the moment to stand up and stamp on the back of his neck. There was a nasty crunch, and Escher stamped again. The body was twitching when Escher dragged it all the way out and rolled it, like a heavy bag of laundry, over the edge of the fire escape. It plummeted onto an array of trash cans, making an enormous crash, before slumping out of sight behind them. Escher held his breath, waiting for any reaction from a neighboring window or passerby, but it was a cold night, windows were closed, and in this neighborhood people knew better than to stick their nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

Bending double, he slipped into the room, and quickly retrieved his Glock 9mm. The ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, one of those flavored Eastern brands, Samsun or Maltepe. He looked all around the room, and then, with his gun cocked, moved toward the bathroom door. It was ajar, and Escher could hear the drip of the faucet in the tub.

With one finger, he pushed the door open. The shower curtain was drawn, but even before he pulled it back, he knew what he was going to find.

Julius, his face scrunched up like a rabbit’s, was lying in the water, fully dressed, with a sliver of white soap bobbing around his chin. His skin was blue.

Escher felt insulted. Not because he’d particularly liked Jantzen, or even trusted him. But it was an affront to him as a professional. Your partner, however incompetent, was not supposed to die.

Escher swiftly packed up his own things, along with anything that might identify Jantzen’s body-most notably his cell phone and PDA. Who knew what kind of information-marketable information-might be on those? Then he climbed back out the window and down the fire escape. The body behind the trash cans had already attracted some curious rodents.

On the street, he drew no notice, and as he walked away from the hotel, he reminded himself to send the concierge, along with a few hundred euros, a box of her favorite caramels.