Page 26 of The 9th Man

And she pointed to an invoice with a key taped to it. “This is what I told you about. It’s for unit 214 at something called Fetschenhof Stockag. In Michelau, Luxembourg.”

“Let’s see what we can learn.” And he started a search on his phone. “It’s a self-storage company twenty-five miles north of Luxembourg City.”

“The invoice is dated ten months ago,” she said. “He paid a year’s rent in advance.”

“Did your grandfather ever mention Luxembourg? Or Michelau?”

She shook her head. “Not a word during his ramblings.”

“Obviously, there are things he considered important enough to keep locked up far away from his house.”

“Like a rifle?”

He nodded.

He knew her mind was also working. Why else would she be awake in the middle of the night pondering over things her grandfather had so deliberately hidden away?Things that might have led to the old man being killed before the cancer had done its worst. Which begged a question. Why kill Benji? He was going to die anyway. Whoever ordered that hit had gone to a lot of trouble. Which could only have happened for one reason. He, she, or they were afraid the old man would reveal something before he died.

But what?

“If we leave early in the morning, we can be there by noon,” he said. “Luxembourg is not that far away. What do you say? Road trip?”

11

Starlings Island, Maryland

Wednesday — March 25 — 5:30A.M.

TOM ROWLAND WAS ENJOYING A BREAKFAST OF POACHED EGGS ANDblue crab cakes, the shellfish caught yesterday out in the Bay. His chef had worked for him a long time and knew exactly how he preferred his food without an array of overpowering salt, pepper, or spices. Just plain and simple, he liked to say. He lived alone, having never married, which had spawned repeated rumors about his sexuality that he did nothing to dissuade.

Keep them guessing.

His motto.

“Sir, Mr. Persik is on the phone,” his chamberlain said.

The third call since midnight.

He laid down his fork and napkin and stood from the table. Inside his study, with the door closed, he sat at his desk and lifted the receiver for the landline. He listened as Persik explained what happened a few hours ago at Benjamin Stein’s house.

“The men I hired,” Persik said, “are low-level earners for the Harpaz crime family, an Israeli gang trying to make inroads in Brussels. The job was unsanctioned by their bosses. Our only connection to them is a call forwarding exchange that no longer exists. They were to be paid after the job, in cash. If they located the rifle a bonus was mentioned. The good news is that with this latest incident at Stein’s house no police were involved and the two men, though injured, are gone from the country. Given what a spectacle the previous Genappe incident has become, even if caught, the Belgian DGJ will be only too happy to seize the organized crime angle.”

A valid point. He knew the Israelis were looking for a way to tighten the screws on the Harpaz bosses in Tel Aviv, and the Belgians had been begging for intelligence on local ISIS cells. One hand washed the other. Still—

“Major, this is the second time you’ve failed in as many days.”

“I still have eyes on Jillian Stein.”

“You should have led with that.”

“I decided to deliver the bad news first.”

He allowed the impertinence to pass considering what was at stake. “Tell me.”

And he listened. When Persik finished he said, “Excellent work. How long until we have the situation contained?”

“A matter of hours.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Now was not the time for negativity. “Forget about Genappe. It doesn’t concern us any longer. Focus on Stein’s granddaughter. Whatever brought her back to that house is now in her possession. The rifle, Major. Focus on that.”