The Colossus (10 page)

Aaron West was perched on a small, uncomfortable chair in the lobby of the Little Tower Hotel.

He saw Lars coming down the stairs.

“I hope your guest likes her room,” the receptionist said.

“Oh yes, thank you,” Lars said. “She’s quite jet lagged from her flight. She’s probably already fallen asleep!”

The receptionist smiled.

Aaron suppressed a grin. Lars had just saved him the trouble of finding out what Max was doing. Lars didn’t even glance at him, despite the matchbox size of the lobby. But then, few ever noticed Aaron. It was a gift in his profession. And for his trip to London, he made sure he looked like the average broke, affable American student tourist—from his ragged jeans and faded blue T-shirt to his nondescript gray backpack.

Lars left the hotel. Since Max was resting, Aaron could keep an eye on him. He gave Lars a minute’s lead. A surge of adrenaline ran through Aaron’s veins as he got up and followed.

*
*     *

Lars walked with short, brisk steps. His breath was ragged, not wholly from exertion. He walked by a bustling café. It looked warm and inviting. He found a table in a quiet corner.

“A cup of Earl Grey, please,” he called to a passing waiter. Lars picked up a newspaper from the chair next to his, unfolded it, and distractedly folded it back up again.

He thought of Max sleeping a few doors down and her palpable disappointment that he was no longer interested in helping her with a problem he had dragged her into in the first place. If only he had spoken to a psychiatrist to deal with the remorse he felt about ignoring Hiram’s plea. Instead, he’d gotten impulsive and rushed off to Chicago, only to be attacked. His home had been broken into, his fragile sense of peace violated. Now Max was here. And of course, there was the small matter of his disease. Could things get any worse?

He grabbed his tea before the waiter could place it on the table. It was excellent. He stared out into the street and was jerked out of his reverie by a flash of bleached blond hair disappearing into the crowd. Lars strained to get a better look. He stood up. Now there was no one. He looked around. Where did the beast go? Or had he imagined it?

Lars sat down with a frown. If that German attacked him a second time, his aim would be more precise, wasn’t that what he had said? He would tell the blond that he was done, that the whole thing was over. He no longer had any papers. Again he saw the flash of yellow hair.

Something snapped inside of Lars.

He jumped up. “You!” he shouted, “What do you want from me?”

*
*     *

Aaron was seated a few tables away, his face buried inside the pages of a book. At Lars’s shout, Aaron jerked his head up. But Lars wasn’t looking in his direction.

Perhaps the “someone else” he had been warned about was here.

Aaron slunk out of the café. Even if he hadn’t been spotted, Lars was on the alert now.

Aaron walked briskly toward Lars’s home—he had studied the maps and memorized all relevant addresses and the areas around them. On the way, he knew, was the patisserie Lars owned.

He tried the door. It was locked, but the lock was an easy pick. He glanced around. The street was deserted. Things had gone well so far. Why not look around while he had the chance? He took out a small wallet filled with surgical-like instruments. Geoff had given him his best tools and several hours of instruction.

The lock clicked open. Aaron went in, found Lars’s office in the back, and began looking for anything resembling research papers.

*
*     *

At the café, Lars’s exclamation had caused a small stir. A fork clattered out of the hand of an older woman sitting next to him.

“Sorry,” Lars said, not looking at her. She muttered something about chivalry being dead.

Lars felt his heartbeat quicken. He felt light-headed and wondered if he had his nitroglycerin pills with him.

Was it the German who had called this morning? He clutched his teacup so hard, the handle broke. The cup fell to the table with a clatter.

Lars threw some money on the table and walked away. In the distance he saw a butter-yellow head bobbing in the crowd. That same large, square, leather-covered back. The man was built like a bus. It
was
his assailant. One part of Lars wanted to chase after him and confront him, another wanted to turn back the clock and shrink into someplace safe. He stood still, torn by both desires, and watched the man stroll away.

Lars walked with brisk steps. He wondered if he was safer at the patisserie or at home. There were people around the patisserie. And he had intended to check on a few things there before meeting Max. He unlocked the door.

People were strolling outside. There was an air of gaiety. Lars’s breathing became easier. He didn’t want to go over boring business papers. He needed the calm satisfaction of baking. A quick American special. Lars opened a bag of flour and started a batch of thick, chewy chocolate chip cookies. He decided to add some
pistachio paste to make them interesting. He began pulling out the ingredients.

*
*     *

Aaron was in the back, in Lars’s tiny office. He surveyed the mess he had made. Nothing here. Lars was well organized. There was no safe—just a desk with a couple drawers and a filing cabinet. Most papers were bills, business documents, and letters, some recipe notes. Aaron continued to rummage through a drawer and found a flash drive. He put it in his pocket. He should probably leave. If he had missed something, he’d just grab it when Lars handed it to Max.

At the very least, ransacking this office would scare Lars into handing over the documents to Max. Aaron got the feeling that Lars wasn’t very brave. He started to leave when he heard a clatter of tins. He peered outside.

Shit. Lars was here. Now what? The only way out was through the front door. He’d have to walk by Lars to get there. Aaron began picking at a pimple on his chin as he watched Lars.

*
*     *

Lars put the tray of unbaked cookie dough balls in the oven and turned the timer on. He then collected his mail from the box outside his shop and began looking through it.

An uneasy feeling gripped at him followed by a wave of nausea. Those damn drugs. They would kill him before the cancer did! He took a sip of water and tried to steady himself.

There was a small noise close by, and Lars turned to find a young man trying to sneak out of the store. “Hey, hey, who are you!” he called angrily.

The young man was empty handed. Did that mean he was here not to steal but for the sole purpose of harming him? Lars reached for a serrated bread knife sitting on the counter.

At that moment, the blond stepped into the store. So he
had
been followed. Lars felt his heartbeat quicken. His nausea returned.

The blond was smiling at the young man. But the young man was looking at him with a befuddled expression. What did that mean?

Lars start ed shaking. Acid flooded his already weak stomach. His dizziness worsened. He clutched at his chest, and a shooting pain went up his arm. Whom should he attack? The blond hadn’t drawn his gun yet.

The young man stood closer. Without another thought, Lars rushed toward him with the knife.

*
*     *

If Aaron waited a second longer, the knife would rip through his stomach. Here was a situation where he had to inflict violence on someone, and it was abhorrent to him. Lars had clearly become unhinged, but that short, heavy-set blond with the icy expression at the door was frightening Aaron even more. For some reason though, Blondie wasn’t making any move. He seemed content to just watch.

Lars’s knife was an inch away. He was clutching at his chest and letting out a loud cry like a deranged warrior. Aaron raised his backpack and brought it down hard on Lars’s head. The clank of skull against the bag’s steel buckles was sickening. Lars staggered back in shock. His knife clattered to the floor, and he sank down in a heap. Aaron felt his heart hammer inside him. Had he killed him? He looked up, expecting the blond to attack him now, but the man didn’t move. Was he a cop? A customer? Why was he just standing there looking so damn pleased?

Aaron made a quick dash for the door past the blond who stretched an arm to stop him. He managed to push aside Blondie’s beefy arm with strength he didn’t know he possessed and ran out.

“
Schiese, schiese!
” He heard Blondie curse.

Aaron hesitated for a few seconds outside the patisserie before breaking into a run.

The blond was quick. He dashed outside and was able to keep Aaron in sight. Aaron started running helter-skelter, disappearing into side lanes and re-appearing again. He found himself in a narrow alleyway filled with trash cans. While the blond searched a nearby alley, Aaron managed to squeeze himself between two large trash containers and under a black tarp. A giant rodent began gnawing on his foot. He tried to ignore it. He could hear the blond closing in now, kicking trash cans, letting out a stream of curses in German. Aaron held his breath.

A second later, a foot came within an inch of Aaron’s own. He could see the polished tip of a shoe, hear the man’s heavy breathing. Blondie’s foot was about to touch Aaron’s when the rodent that had been gnawing on his foot grabbed the blond’s. Blondie let out an angry roar and turned away.

Aaron stayed in his hiding place for several minutes more. Everything became quiet. Aaron waited until his heart rate had returned to normal and only then crept out.

Having lost his quarry, Hans returned to the patisserie, pulled down the blinds on the doors and windows, and hung out the closed sign.

He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and checked Lars’s pulse. It was slowing. He was near death. There was a trickle of blood running down Lars’s head, and his eyes were starting to glaze over.

Hans had followed Lars from the café, hoping he would lead him to the papers now that the Rosen girl was in town. Instead, the idiot had decided to bake and now lay here dying.

Besides, there was this new fly in the ointment, the young intruder. Hans was livid at himself for having lost him. No matter. He knew what he looked like. If he was an adversary, he would return. If he was just a common thief, good riddance.

Hans watched Lars take his last breaths. Had this been a result of the blow, or had the man just suffered a heart attack? Hopefully, the question would baffle the police, too. He checked Lars’s pulse once more. It was almost gone. A few seconds later, Lars’s body was absolutely still. Hans wondered if he should move the body behind the pastry counter. Moving it would point to foul play.

He thought for a moment or two more, dragged the body around the corner, and left.

Max awoke with a start. Her temples were throbbing. She glanced at the clock by her bedside. It was past 1:00 p.m. Lars had said to meet him at 2:00 at his apartment.

Despite the gravity of her circumstances and the thick veneer of unease that had enveloped her entire being since this whole business had begun, the prospect of a delicious meal at the end of the day gave her goosebumps of pleasure. She put on a simple day-to-night sleeveless indigo dress that stopped at her knees, smeared on pink lipstick, and grabbed a pink and gold stole and her handbag.

She arrived at Lars’s apartment and tried his doorbell a few times. No answer. Perhaps he had gone to the patisserie. Max walked that direction.

She peered in through the glass door of Lars’s patisserie and tried it. It was open. “Hello?” she called.

No answer.

She really needed to eat. She should have raided the mini bar and eaten the minuscule bags of peanuts and cashews while she had the chance.

She inhaled—the smell of overdone cookies wafted toward her. Max checked the oven. There were cookies on a baking sheet inside.

Where was Lars?

The pastry counter beckoned. Surely Lars wouldn’t mind her sampling one thing. Or two. Fruit tarts! How luscious those raspberries
looked. She felt a sharp, sweet sensation in her mouth. There were the heavenly
religieuses
—brown for chocolate, lilac ones, lavender flavored most likely, and pink—raspberry or rose, perhaps. Choux pastry filled with flavored cream, topped off with a thin layer of fondant. She leaned forward to pick one of them. She’d have the lavender.

She raised her eyes a little.

Behind the counter, Lars lay on the floor. His face was frozen. Magazines and letters were scattered around him. With a cry, Max went to him. He didn’t look at all well. He looked…he was…was he? He couldn’t be.

Numbly, she pulled out her cell. 911 wasn’t the number in London. She ran out. An elderly man was bicycling by. She almost pulled him off his bike.

“Oi, watch it!” he cried angrily.

“I need to call an ambulance, please!”

The man pulled out a phone. Max ran back to Lars. And she saw it. A trickle of dried blood formed a line from his temple to his cheek. Lars was dead! She staggered back and fell.

Clutching at the pastry case, Max screamed. Minutes later, an ambulance arrived. Paramedics rushed in. Questions were fired at her. The police were called.

There were people everywhere. Two police cars had arrived shortly after the ambulance. They had put that ominous yellow tape outside the patisserie.

“Who found him?” a voice was asking urgently.

What if Lars had been murdered, Max thought? She felt herself shudder as a man walked up to her. Dressed in a plain black suit, white shirt, and striped tie, his entire being screamed detective.

“Did you discover the body?” he said.

Max looked up at him. He had a lazy smile on his lips, but his eyes were alert. She nodded.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

“Huh?” She glanced at the case behind which poor Lars lay. “How did he die?” she asked.

“We’re not sure yet. Did you know him, miss?” He was watching her closely, she knew.

Max had regained some control of her emotions. She made a decision. “Oh, no,” she said as glibly as she could. “I just stopped by for some pastries.”

She didn’t look the detective squarely in the eye. Awful liars averted their eyes, poor liars stared too hard, she had heard in some movie. Good liars did neither. She glanced at the detective, held his eye for a second or two, then turned to look inside the bakery.

The detective glowered at her for a bit. He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head. He sat her down on a nearby bench and asked her a few questions about her stay, her plans, and how she had found Lars. She was a chef, she said, taking a holiday in London. She was looking for a nice place to eat. She had heard good things about the Butler’s Wharf Chop House, she offered with last minute inspiration based on the directions Lars had given her. Seeing the pastry shop open, and overcome with hunger, she had stepped in. She did a brilliant job, she thought, of keeping the tone light and yet suitably horrified.

“Very well,” the detective said. “Do you need someone to take you where you’re staying?”

“Please,” she said.

“We may need to speak to you again.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Let me get you an escort.” He signaled with his hand.

A woman approached. “Excuse me for a second,” the detective said to Max.

He turned to his colleague, who said softly, “Heart attack. He possibly hit his head on the pastry counter causing the wound to his temple. The body was moved…but why, and by whom?” She shrugged.

Max caught the woman’s quick but obvious look in her direction.

The detective shook his head. “Maybe a customer found him and got scared. If it’s only a heart attack, lets wrap this up quickly. I’ll dig up his relatives. You drop her off at her hotel. Take a copy of her passport, just in case. And make sure she isn’t suffering from shock.”

The detective thanked Max and handed her over to his colleague. Max’s escort left her at her hotel room and gave her the number of a hospital to contact if she felt unwell. She took a copy of her passport and left.

Max bolted her door and collapsed on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She was trembling. She kept picking up the phone, but wasn’t sure whom to call.

Claiming not to know Lars had been deceitful and disloyal. But if she had said she knew him, she would have had to reveal so much more. What did one do in a time like this? She really needed to talk to someone.
Uncle Ernst…should I call you?
He’d be worried sick if she told him. Besides, he’d insist that she come back home. She had come too far now to return empty-handed. Friends? There weren’t any she was close enough to for this kind of news. She dug her fists into her eyes.
Just admit it.

You want to call one person.

He did say to call if she needed help. Hopefully he had meant it.

Max stared at the phone for a while more before dialing room service. “I’d like two scones and two sticky buns, clotted cream, jam and butter, some orange juice and coffee. Please.”

Max stayed in bed and turned on the TV. She watched
Die Hard
in French. It was fascinating to watch a film she knew backwards and forwards when she could not understand a word that was spoken.

Her food arrived.

She turned off the TV and stared at the blank screen, wondering what she might cook for Bruce Willis if he accepted an invitation to dinner. Eventually, she slipped into an agitated sleep.

At first light, she glanced outside her window. A fog had seized the city in a dense grip. The Thames flowed in tranquil peace, but in the distance she could see the Tower of London, the place where Anne Boleyn and many others had been beheaded. Death seemed to loom everywhere.

But she had made her decision.

She dialed Julian. Their conversation was brief.

Max went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Like a million tiny needles, she felt its force massaging some relief into her tense muscles.

“Lars is dead,” she had spluttered to Julian. “Please come. Please. Please. Please.”

And he had said only three words of immeasurable sweetness.

“I’ll be there.”