[Note from Steve:  Here is an excerpt from Aristocrats and Assassins, Copyright 2014, by Steven M. Moore.  Detective Castilblanco and the American Mossad agent Epstein, who pretends to be a reporter, are searching a house in the Munich suburbs, looking for Castilblanco’s wife, who has been kidnapped.  The ebook will be released in the first quarter of 2014.]

***

I hammered on the door with a doorknocker that reminded me of Dickens’ The Christmas Carol—I expected Marley’s ghost to open the heavy oak door or filter like fog through the wood.  Two steps led up from the pavers.  Except for our dress and a VW that negotiated the bumpy streets, we could have time-traveled back to the eighteen hundreds.

“Check the address,” I said to Epstein.

“I don’t need to,” she said.  “We’re in the right place.  You don’t expect the terrorists to come to the door and invite us in for tea, do you?”

“No, I expect the terrorists to be long gone, but hope we can find some clues.”

“Move and let me try.”  I stepped down, she stepped up, and, with some tools she took out of her purse, she picked the lock.  “Piece of cake,” she said.

“Why am I thinking you’ve done that many times?” I said, following her inside.

“Reporters don’t have to worry about search warrants.”

“Until someone shoots them for trespassing.”

“You run that risk even with a search warrant.  Stop!”  I froze as I was about to leave the entrance hall and enter what might be a living room.  “Tripwire.”

I saw it then, rather the part of it that reflected some light.  It was nylon fishing leader about knee high off the ground.  “Think we can step over it?”  I peered at the floor.  She took a small flashlight from her purse and examined the old floorboards.

“Just for safety, can you step over the wire and the first two boards?  If you don’t go boom, you can lift me over.”

“It would be overkill to rig both the tripwire and a pressure bomb, don’t you think?”

“Poor choice of words, but you’re probably right.  Go for it, big guy.”  I stepped over and across, sweating and muttering.  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.  Sounded like you were praying.  I thought you were now a Buddhist.”

“Can’t hurt to hedge my bets,” I said, lifting her over.  She smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek.

***

            We were careful in the rest of the house, but it was deserted and there were no more booby-traps.  We ended up on the second floor.

“The SOBs are gone,” said Epstein, “and I’ve seen nothing useful.”

“Let’s check bedrooms again.”

The house had two floors and a basement.  The small bedrooms were confined to the second floor—five of them.  Just one bathroom for all of them.  I looked at the bathroom mirror.

“Probably no message,” she said, guessing my intention, “not if they were all sharing the same bathroom.  All bedrooms have single beds, two in two and one in the other.  I’d bet Pam was in the one with the single bed.”  Entered that room, looked around.  Nothing obvious.  Began tearing apart the bed.  “What are you looking for?”

“No other place to leave a message.”

“Understood.”  She helped me examine the piece of furniture.  “Here.”  She held up a rough wooden slat and pointed to what looked like scratches.

But they weren’t scratches.  Stuart had somehow carved a message.  “Maybe with a fork,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter how,” said Epstein.  “What does it say?”

“BB + U860 6/1944,” I read.  “What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s a bit less obvious than her first message, if it’s from her.  For all you know, it could be from some earlier occupant of this house.  Maybe during the war.”

“Looks fresh,” I said.  She nodded.  “Have to act on it.”

“Can’t if we don’t know what it means.”

I thought a bit.  “Something I should know, but—” I stopped when she put a finger to her lips.  I heard the creak from that old oak entrance door too and pointed toward the closet.

It was not a comfortable hiding place.  Epstein had enough room to remove her gun from her purse and hold it at thigh level.  She was facing out and I was behind her.  I was certain Stuart might not like the proximity.  Probably not the peck on the cheek either.  Hadn’t been that close to another woman for a while.  Nice perfume—Stuart’s was better.  Leonard had good taste.

Four ears tried to detect the least little sound, but we didn’t have to strain.  We both heard the steps on the stairs.  That was not good because it meant that the person had avoided the tripwire too.  That would be easy if he was the one who set it.

Someone stopped at the entrance of the bedroom.  Probably wondering about the disassembled bed.  The person approached the closet.

“I’ll give you my count to three and then I’m firing my gun,” said the person, the voice muffled by the wooden door.  “One, two—”

Epstein readied the gun.

“No!” I said, reaching over her and opening the door.

Both Chen and Epstein lowered their guns.

 

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