Page 1 of Red Line

Prologue

Hans Klein

With the slam of a car door, Hans turned his attention toward the towering window bank. The late afternoon sun did its best to shoot light into the dim reception area, but decades of accumulated city grime veiled the glass, creating a privacy curtain.

Another car door banged shut. The reverberations echoed off the stone facades of the Munich city buildings, most of them empty with “for rent” signs displayed on the stoops.

Two car doors, that was typical.

Hans’s clients usually showed up with some form of security at their heels, especially in this neighborhood.

This had been a suitable locale in Hans’s younger days, vibrant and bustling. But this part of town was now out of fashion. His wife begged him to move somewhere closer to their house or at least to a less run-down area. Somewhere safer. But at seventy years old, the life force necessary to organize such a change had drained away. With forty-five years of collected reference books, equipment, and memories, it was simply easier to stay.

Hans turned to the clock. Six minutes until four.

By the time the client climbed the three flights of stairs, the knock at his office door would be perfectly timed.Respectful,Hans thought as he shifted his weight, placing his hands on the arms of his chair, preparing for the process of standing.

Cracked with dry rot, the red leather of his armchair had peeled away in patches, exposing the tan suede underneath. It was an ugly chair. An uncomfortable chair. The cushions sankunder the weight of his arthritic hips, sending bright streaks of pain up Hans’s spine, where it swirled and pressed against his lower back.

Hans refused to get rid of this chair. Even through the pain, there was a sense of familiarity that he liked. It was polished with a patina of sentimentality, a gift from his wife so many decades ago when he’d set up his business conducting artifact appraisals related to gemology. He was not a local jeweler. He held a Ph.D. in conserving and restoring objects containing precious gemstones. His opinions, when it came to authentication, were authoritative and much sought after.

Through this work, Hans had proudly provided a quiet, comfortable life for himself, his wife, and her cats.

A third, then a fourth, door banged outside.

Four doors? That was unusual, Hans thought as he pressed into the rounded arms to push himself up.

With a glance back at the chair, Hans mused that his wife was now equally lumpy and cracked. Equally, she was a pain in his backside.

At the window, Hans peered out. Through squinted eyes, he could make out the silhouettes of five men advancing toward his entrance.

Five? This had never happened before. What could they be bringing for him to look at?

He rubbed his hands with greedy anticipation and waited for their knock.

Hans didn’t know who was mounting the stairs. A stranger with a Slavic accent had called earlier in the morning, saying he needed information about a ring. Hans had rebuffed him, explaining that his role was to work with rare pieces. Pieces, for example, that a museum was interested in having appraised and described. He worked with the private collections of the hyper-wealthy. He’d worked for royals, both Europeanand Asian. Many from the Middle East. Rare artifacts, priceless objects. He didn’t look at family jewelry for insurance purposes. His fee was too pricey for the unexceptional.

Hans didn’t intend to be elitist or dismissive; he’d explained cordially and then offered the names of three honest appraisers who did good work.

When the man on the phone responded, his voice glimmered with amusement. He simply said, “This is a piece that you’ll want to see, Dr. Klein. I’ll be there at four this evening.” They’d set the appointment even though the man had avoided offering a name.

Curiosity had tickled over Hans’s nervous system. A mystery was afoot. Very intriguing. He’d called his wife to tell her not to expect him until late. He’d hung up on her as she complained about his safety. It was always the same from her. Her doomsday fears were without foundation. What did he have that anyone could possibly want? The only thing of value here was the knowledge Hans held between his ears.

The group moved up the steps, their footfalls reverberating in the stairwell. There was no chatter along the way.

With a stir of excitement, Hans pulled the door wide.

Three men, wearing tailored suits with thick-soled black boots, swarmed into the office space.

Hans stuck his head into the hallway, where a fourth man stood at attention just to the side of the door. The fifth man was not to be seen. Hans thought he was probably standing guard at the door downstairs. Towering over Hans’s stooped frame, the hallway man reached for the knob and tugged the door shut, forcing Hans to quickly pull his head back out of the way.

Now, one man stood in the center of the reception area, depositing a sleek, black leather briefcase on the small wooden desk where Hans liked to draft his reports. Hans noticed thehandcuff that secured the case to the man’s wrist. Yet another thing that had never happened in Hans’s experience.

His excitement shifted to something wary.

The other two men made themselves welcome, moving throughout the office—into the bathroom, opening the closets, into the laboratory with its specialized equipment—returning to stand like soldiers on the side wall. The shorter one, the one with mean eyes, pronounced, “All clear.”

Only then did the man with the briefcase turn to face Hans. “Dr. Klein?”

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