Hostile Intent by Michael Walsh Read Free Book Online

arrived?”
    Instinctively, Pilier took three respectful steps backward. “Yes, sir, in the antechamber.”
    “Show them in, please.”
    As he awaited his board members, Skorzeny roamed around the room, making sure everything was in its exact place. The furniture, the rugs, and, most important of all, his peerless collection of the art of William Blake that adorned the walls—the finest collection in private hands in the world. Unlike many men of his wealth and taste, Skorzeny was not an indiscriminate buyer; he knew what he liked and what he wanted and he was prepared to pay whatever it took to get it.
    Take, for example, the work of Blake’s that caught his eye now, his favorite. The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. Not the one made famous from that sensational novel in which the psychopath ate it. That painting was still hanging in the Brooklyn Museum: The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun. Different title, different work.
    True, his painting was only on loan from the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC. And the number of chits he had had to call in to get it was almost higher than he was willing to pay. But when it came to Blake, there was almost no such thing as almost. Because Blake understood, as no one else did until Emanuel Skorzeny came along, the misery and mystery of man. That was why his temporary acquisition of it had made headlines around the world. It also reminded people how rich and powerful he was.
    Regretfully, his gaze traveled from Blake’s masterpiece, out the window and over the mountain-ringed city. Skorzeny International occupied the top three floors of the Tiefen-thaler building, which Skorzeny himself owned via one of his many subsidiary companies, and boasted a spectacular view of the Alps in every direction. The boardroom was on the penultimate floor, a state-of-the-art conference chamber from which Skorzeny could rule his vast multinational financial and philanthropic empire. Below were the staff offices. Skorzeny’s personal chambers were on the top floor, the penthouse, where only he and a few selected guests were ever allowed entré.
    Skorzeny moved the short distance from his desk to the chairman’s seat, at the head of the mahogany table, which also boasted a crystal vase of white roses—refilled daily, like all the others—as its centerpiece. The table had been a gift from the Sultan of Brunei, in gratitude for some particularly astute investment advice Skorzeny had given him. The rest of the gifts, including the women, Skorzeny had parceled out among his lieutenants: his appetites generally ran to less earthy pleasures.
    The board members trooped in and took their seats. No one said a word.
    Skorzeny let the silence speak for him. It was, he knew, a subtle but telling way to exercise and display power. No one could speak until he spoke; no one could speak unless spoken to; and every conversation began and ended with Emanuel Skorzeny.
    “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. As you know, there’s been an incident in America that I believe will affect all of us. It will certainly affect the Skorzeny Foundation, as the New York Stock Exchange is quite sensitive to these sorts of dislocations, especially these days. Monsieur Pilier?”
    Pilier snapped on the huge flat-screen television, which instantly divided into multiple quadrants, broadcasting news networks from around the world: CNN, Fox, SKY, BBC1, ARD, ZDF, and others.
    “A representative sample,” noted Skorzeny who, from time to time glanced at a laptop and tapped a few keys. “Pick one, please.”
    Pilier turned up the volume on CNN, where the female reporter was busy interviewing some of the parents of the children. Worried, anxious, well-fed midwestern faces filled the screen, their braying American accents falling harshly upon the ears of the sophisticated Europeans watching from thousands of miles away.
    Skorzeny gestured to Pilier. The sound was muted.
    Skorzeny spoke, “This is