Into the Lions’ Den
Dieter Schwarz
Don’t be Dieter Schwarz,
the stalwart Clausewitz to Wulfram’s Duke of Brunswick.
Be Raphael, the fallen angel,
because you have to lie to him
again.
Dieter signed for the breakfast tray from room service, showered and dressed, convinced Wulfram that they needed to meet in Pierre’s suite so Dieter could investigate the scene or some shit like that, and called Magnus Jensen, one of his commanding officers in Rogue Security.
Magnus arrived a few minutes later, striding into the living room of Dieter’s suite. He had been an operator with the Dutch special forces unit, theKorps Commandotroepen,before Dieter had enticed him away with promises of more money and adventure with Rogue Security. Magnus’s hair was dark, almost black, but his pale skin and ice blue eyes gave away his Scandinavian roots. “Yes, Schwarz. I’m here.”
“I want you to sit right here, in my living room, while I’m away. It shouldn’t be longer than an hour.”
Magnus glanced around the empty living room. “Is there coffee?”
“On the breakfast cart.” He gestured at the cart, where only a few bites of the toast, egg whites, and fruit remained on the single plate.
“Is it hot?”
“Should be. Don’t open the door for anyone except me, no matter what,” Dieter said. “Not housekeeping, not even if the damn police want in. And stay out of the bedroom.”
Magnus sniffed the mug that Flicka had managed a few swallows of coffee from, shrugged, and filled the cup from a coffee carafe. “Got it.”
“Do you need a sidearm or other weapon?”
Magnus set the steaming cup on the coffee table and reached around to the small of his back. He removed a handgun, laying it beside the cup. Another small pistol, three knives, a garrote wire, a kubotan, a Taser, and an expandable steel baton clattered into a pile. “Am I going to need more than that?”
“Probably not.” Especially since Magnus Jensen’s hands were his most dangerous weapons. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Magnus began concealing his weapons in his sleeves, pant legs, and waistband again.
Dieter had known that Magnus would be the right guy to call. Magnus knew when not to ask questions.
On his way to Pierre Grimaldi’s suite, Dieter returned texts for a few operators with questions about mopping up the end of the security operation for Wulfram von Hannover’s wedding. The operation was continuing, he told them, but he didn’t tell them why. He shouldn’t have enough information to make that decision yet, so he didn’t let on that he had far more information about Flicka’s whereabouts than anyone else.
At Pierre’s suite, he knocked and made sure to be studying his phone when the door opened.
Wulfram von Hannover, Flicka’s older brother who had raised her like a father, stood with his hand on the doorknob. He wore worry lines around his bright blue eyes and a dark suit. “Dieter.”
“Durchlaucht.”Dieter strode in, surveying where everyone was sitting.
Pierre Grimaldi, Prince of Monaco, sat on the couch, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his spread knees. He wore suit trousers and a white dress shirt, but his collar was unbuttoned. When Wulfram shut the door, Pierre didn’t even lift his head.
Quentin Sault, Pierre’s Secret Service colonel, leaned against the back wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He also studied the carpet.
Dieter hoped that Sault was damned ashamed of himself. He was supposed to be a security professional, not an accomplice to rape.
However, Dieter surveyed the room with no emotion, no anger, just as if he were analyzing one of the last places the person of interest had been seen. “When was the last time we have a confirmed sighting of Flicka?”
Wulfram sat in a chair near Pierre and gestured toward another one where Dieter could sit. “At the reception last night, she danced with you for a few songs—”
The memory of her soft, lithe form in Dieter’s arms last night, back when she was merely angry at Pierre for deceiving her about his reasons for marrying her, made Dieter want to pace the room to burn off the rage.
