The Holy Lance - Chapter 7 Part III

The old man leaned back and paused for breath. “You must forgive me. I am an old man and get tired easily. How long are you staying in Vienna?”

“The police have told me not to leave for a day or two, so I thought I’d do a bit of sight-seeing. There are some interesting collections in the museum I’d like to see. Collections of the non-legendary sort I mean”

“Excellent. If you will allow me to impose, I will send my driver to pick you up tomorrow at 10. We can tour the museum together, it would be a treat to get an expert’s guide to the Roman collection. And we can talk more. Is that agreeable?”

There was almost a hint of vulnerability there, an old man needing to escape his burdens, and Simon relented. “Of course. Ten o’clock would be fine.”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I must head home. By the way, please call me Richard. That is my name, Richard zu Stahlberg. I hope you can forgive the Schmidt nonsense, but I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course Richard, I’m sure in your position, I would do something similar.”

The bill was swiftly dispatched and the two headed to the lobby where their coats were waiting. Simon might have been embarrassed by the contrast between his coat and Richard’s loden, but something about the old man made such comparisons irrelevant. Or maybe it was the wine. Walking down the long hall way, the temperature dropped steadily until they entered the raw chill of the cloudless night.

“Allow me to drop you at your hotel, no need for a taxi.” The old man turned and waved at a large black Mercedes, parked just up the road on the other side of the quiet street. The only other vehicle was a courier motorbike, doubtless dropping off some urgent package, and the only pedestrians a tall man muffled in black against the cold. Vienna had obviously shut down for the evening.

The man started to move across the street, causing the Mercedes to slow before it picked them up. The man, well over six feet by the look of him, raised his hand as he crossed, as if in greeting.

But his hand stopped halfway. His hand which ended in a long, narrow metal object. A gun.

Phut. The supressed Glock 22 coughed, smoke billowing from the chamber, like breath, on this freezing evening.

Simon heard no cry, but felt Richard’s blood spattering his cheek as the old man wobbled then began to sink to the ground.

Turning now, the gunman looked directly at Simon, his gun still raised.

A sudden noise caused both to look to their right. Past the Mercedes which was braking quickly at the sight of its dead owner, the courier sped on his motorbike, driving right at the assassin. The killer tried to adjust his aim, to take out the new threat, but the closing speed was too fast. The motorcyclist knocked the gun out of his hand almost like a mediaeval jouster. Slowing the bike in a skid, the rescuer revved the engine, aiming again for the murderer like a bull for a torredor. The man ran, back on the pavement and round a corner. The motorcyclist decided not give chase, turned again and roared off down the street.

Turning to Richard, his chauffeur now running to help, Simon supported him under his neck. The wound went straight through the middle of the old man’s forehead. He was dead.