The Klimt Connection: Esther Brookstone Art Detective, #8

By Steven M. Moore

After a bomb destroys their flat, Esther Brookstone, ex-MI6 spy and ex-Scotland Yard Inspector in the Art and Antiques Division, and Bastiann van Coevorden, her husband, ex-Interpol agent, and current MI5 consultant, are forced to stay in an MI5 safehouse along with others who are threatened by the bomber and his accomplices. The hunt for the domestic terrorists is UK- and EU-wide and leads to the discovery of a nationwide conspiracy, all financed by the far right and designed to purge the UK of perceived invaders, migrants and refugees who are accused of wanting to "replace" the white majority.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Mar 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201375294

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

Preface

In my role as Dr. Watson to Esther Brookstone's Holmes, I take great pleasure in offering readers more adventures involving Esther Brookstone and her husband, Bastiann van Coevorden.

Wags in the Yard, especially in my Art and Antiques Division, often called her Miss Marple, but I can assure you that this twenty-first century sleuth is quite able to defend herself if needs must. I have also come to respect her husband whom those same wags often called Hercule Poirot, although he is Dutch and not Belgian and only looks like one of the actors who played Poirot.

In this complex tale of far-right violence and skullduggery, the twists and turns even kept me wondering about how good people like Esther and Bastiann will be able to continue to stand up against the forces of evil fascism. There's no clarity on this matter, the way I see it. These forces seem to be eroding many of the world's democracies. As Esther states towards the end of this tale, we must persevere as best we can. There is no other option!

As is customary in these chronicles, I've taken the liberty to fill in scenes that I've only heard about anecdotally from the major players in the drama. Moreover, I've edited out certain details I'm privy to, either because of confidentiality or because including them would slow the pace of the story.

George Langston

London

Prologue

NYC's JFK Airport

How far is it from here to Niagara? Esther said to Bastiann as he was about to return for another suitcase after leaving the first one recovered with her to guard.

He halted, turned, and smiled at her. Why are you asking that, Luv?

I'd love to see the falls. We'd have to leave Pam and Rollie and go off on our own, of course, but we could go there for a few days.

They were finally going to pay a visit to New York City and their US counterparts, even though NYPD homicide detective Rolando Castilblanco and his TV news reporter Pam Stuart were somewhat younger. The four had shared some adventures together, and Esther and Bastiann had just finished playing host to them not that long ago in London.

I guess we could manage that. There are no real time constraints for this trip. We don't even have return reservations. And we won't be distracted from our socializing by a military conference either.

He was referring to the time over the holidays when Castilblanco had teamed up with FBI and MI5 agents, including Bastiann, to thwart a Chinese spy ring. Their Christmas had been an unusual one, to say the least. But now they would be visiting their American friends and seeing a bit of New York City and the area around the five boroughs.

I have to grab the other suitcases. I shall return.

Esther watched her husband dive into the crowd again surrounding the luggage carousel. She had met Bastiann when he was an Interpol agent, working mostly out of Lyon. As an international policeman, he'd been a sleuth who participated in a variety of cases, a jack-of-all-trades working with local and international law enforcement agencies to bring criminals to justice. He was a barrel of a man, his most impressive feature a broad mustache that often reminded people of Dame Agatha's Hercule Poirot as portrayed in movies and on the telly. He was just as urbane as Poirot, a true gentleman who had won her heart late in life.

When she was in the Art and Antiques Division of Scotland Yard, people often called her Miss Marple, but rarely to her face. She was a lot more agile than that Christie character, somewhat younger but still nearly a decade older than her husband. She was as tall as her husband, lean and fit, and modesty aside, not a bad sleuth in her own right. She could still be as charming and seductive as she'd been as a spy for MI6 during the Cold War, but she could also parry verbal thrusts with a skill that left powerful men tongue-tied.  

They had exited the jetway into the new JFK airport terminal. The glitzy building that had been in service for a few years now made Esther remember how drab some of Europe's airport terminals had become, including the venerable Heathrow. The Yanks sure know how to create shiny, new things when they put their minds to it.

She worried about their closest ally, though. The US politicians couldn't seem to come together to get anything done anymore. That situation had become worse with time. What was occurring in the US Congress seemed to make Parliament look tame and efficient, a description she'd never felt like making during her entire life before.

Of course, elected governments came and went in a democracy, as fickle voters caused a country to ride the teeter-totter of power politics every so often. Maybe that uncertainty was a good thing? It was better than having fascists in charge so that you knew exactly where you stood, namely in deep shite.

She turned off the firehose of political ruminations in her mind as her husband appeared with the remaining suitcases, one more for her and his only one. They made their way to the airport's baggage control exit and on to immigration and customs. As they exited into the main terminal, a young woman with a sign that said Brookstone waved to them.

That's strange, Esther said. Where are Pam and Rollie?

She'd expected to see the detective and his wife. Cecilia Castilblanco, that American couple's adopted daughter, answered her question after effusive greetings and hugs. Mom was called in to sub for a sick news anchor, and Dad's still in court testifying. I'm your designated driver.

Not long ago, the young woman had suffered some head trauma caused by a fleeing gang member as she went about her forensics work for a case. The CSI, or US Crime Scene Investigator, which was equivalent to a British SOCO, or Scene of Crime Officer, had opted for that part of crime investigation but had proved it wasn't without its danger. She was a thin and perky young woman with blue eyes, hardly the stereotype most people had for a Latina.

It appears that you're well recovered, Ceci, Esther said, and the svelte woman nodded. Are you back at your forensics job?

Yes, for a while now, but I have the day off. We should get on the road ASAP. The BQE can turn into a parking lot any time of day.

Where understatement is characteristic of the British, thought Esther, the use of acronyms is characteristic of the Yanks.

They rolled their suitcases out to the curb where Esther and Bastiann waited for Ceci to bring her car around. They tossed the carry-ons and suitcases into the boot and then drove off on the expressway, eventually ending up in heavy local street traffic on the way to Ceci's parents' flat.

***

Castilblanco arrived soon after they did and gave both Esther and Bastiann a big bear-hug as a greeting. Ceci handed her father a glass of shiraz to match Bastiann's; Esther continued to nurse her white, a pleasant pinot grigio.

I assume Ceci told you about Pam?

Esther nodded, eyeing him over the edge of her wineglass. She'd have to remember the red wine. She'd always thought of him as an ale-or-lager chap. He looked at his watch.

Turn on the TV, Ceci. We can catch Pam's newscast.

In a sense, the homicide copper was a bigger version of Bastiann, a barrel-shaped large man, fit for his age, and always with a Latino twinkle in his eye for people he considered to be his friends. As an ex-SEAL, Esther figured he could still hold his own in a fight. His rugger-like build meant that his service weapon was only for emergency situations, despite the run-away gun culture in the States where even the city's juveniles could acquire guns coming into the city via the iron pipeline. Ceci's recent encounter with a gang member would have been handled differently by her father; that gang member wouldn't have managed to push Castilblanco to the ground.

Esther refocused on Pam Stuart and the news on the telly, deciding that she handled herself well in front of a camera. Although the woman was still a stunner, Esther was also happy to note that her station had no problem using older women to read the news. She thought that might not be an easy task, though, whether young or old, knowing you were being watched by millions in the tristate's viewing area.

When they cut to commercials, Esther said, That poor woman will be knackered when she arrives and unable to even boil water. Shouldn't we plan to eat out?

It's all in the fridge, Ceci said. I'll put it into the oven to heat, timing it to be served for a bit after she arrives.

Castilblanco laughed. We've done this before, Esther, many times. But our son Pedro, he's questionable. He'll try and make it, though. He's interrogating someone as we speak, so he might be late. But he'll be here if he can. He's always wanted to meet both you and Bastiann.

Esther winked at Bastiann. All in the family. And that will give us the opportunity to correct any misconceptions you've created about the adventures we've shared.

That turned the conversation to those adventures, beginning with Bastiann's first involvement with Pam and Rollie in saving some European aristocrats from terrorists. Esther's mind wandered a bit, either from the influence of the wine or travel exhaustion. She was happy, though. Happy to be off the plane with a long but comfortable flight behind them—they'd flown business class—and eager to finally see more of the US than they had with their brief stopover on their way to Peru several years earlier. The US was such a major actor on the world stage and such a large country that she thought it was time for them to see a bit more than that.

She decided to shelve the discussion about Niagara, though. Who knew what the Castilblanco family had planned for them?

***

Esther couldn't sleep. She looked at the clock. It was only three a.m. in New York. She'd felt the cold hand of Death on her cheek, awaking her with a start. Although she wrote it all off as due to a long trip and sleeping in a strange place, that didn't end her insomnia.

She found her robe, slippers, and mobile; left Bastiann to his soft snoring, barely audible above the street noise from outside the flat that made her feel right at home; and made her way to the living room, where she began to review her text messages. She soon focused on one from Declan O'Hara but was only just beginning to read its attachment when Pam Stuart appeared, rubbing her eyes.

Even without makeup and hair a bit awry, the woman was a stunner. Esther wondered if she'd looked that good at Pam's age. As a young woman, Esther could make Stasi agents salivate, but that was donkey's years ago in an era when East German men, especially members of the Stasi, the secret police, had to repress their lusty feelings because young German frauleins mostly found them odious.

Time change bothering you? Castilblanco's wife said.

Um, you have a point. My old body says it's nine a.m., not three.

Can I offer you an herbal tea? That often helps me get back to sleep.

That would be nice. I'll be ready for a lie-in then.

While the hospitable woman prepared their beverages, Esther returned to Declan's attachment:

Some monks looked east from where the Briton now called Patrick had come. Others, including Brendan, looked west, wondering what stranger lands might exist across the great waters. They must be farther away, he thought. Fishermen had never seen them, and they ranged far and wide to cast their nets. But Brendan knew that God's creation couldn't be so limited.

Pam handed her cup and saucer. A long message?

A long attachment to a message from a good Irish friend, Declan O'Hara. Esther then had to explain who Declan was and how he'd been involved in some recent events the past months.

So...he's sent you the beginning of a new novel?

About St. Brendan. Esther figured Pam didn't need an explanation of who that was; she was Catholic, after all. He wants me to beta-read the first chapter, whatever that means, to see if it provides a good hook, whatever that means. Would you also like to read it? He's a good writer, although historical fiction isn't his usual genre.

You know some interesting people, Esther. Of course, I'd like to read it. St. Brendan is one of my favorite saints. Some say he discovered America before anyone else, long before that Viking fellow or Columbus.

Is that Declan's motivation for writing the novel? Esther thought. Irish pride? She smiled. Why not?

It wasn't clear what contribution Li-Mei, Declan's young collaborator who wanted to be a writer, had made to that sample chapter, if any, but that had nothing to do with what Declan had asked for, whatever that was. Perhaps a discussion with Pam would help? Esther knew that Pam had written scripts and produced some of her station's documentaries. That took writing skills, didn't it?

The two women discussed the novel's long first chapter in some detail after they both read it, and then cooking and serving breakfast became a necessity because the men awoke and sought sustenance. Ta-ta, lie-in!

Later that day, on a trip to the 9/11 Memorial, they learned that Esther and Bastiann's flat in London had been bombed. The subsequent fire had destroyed everything and compromised the structure of the building. The bombing had occurred at three a.m., New York time.

Chapter One

Heathrow Pickup

Where are you taking us? Bastiann asked.

Robert Winston turned around from the passenger seat of the SUV to face its two passengers in the rear seat. A new safehouse, old stick. You and Esther will be quite comfortable there, I assure you.

I hope it's safer than MI5's previous ones, Esther said, glaring at the Scotsman. She disliked Robert and often showed it. She tended to feel that way about people who almost got her or Bastiann killed. And is all this really necessary? What do you think, Eric? She wanted another opinion because Winston's was generally questionable.

Eric Adams was their driver. He laughed. I just go where they tell me, madam.

We've met before, haven't we?

Yes, during a certain beach adventure we both shared. You have a good eye, madam. I was dressed in body armor at the time. Usually an effective disguise, I dare say, especially during the night. This gig should be a lot less stressful for you.

They were talking about previous action at a small beach near Bristol where Winston had indirectly put her in danger as a hostage of two spies for the Chinese. She had survived that incident a lot better than their lovely little flat and its building in the London suburbs.

And therefore boring.  Robert, with whom can I lodge a complaint? Jeremy Brand? Freddie March? The Home Secretary?

Do you know the Home Secretary? Winston said.

No, but he probably knows about me; and he'll know, just like Jeremy and Freddie, that I can be an annoying pest if I put my mind to it. And I dare say the secretary is probably a lot more likely to listen to my protest than any of you three. I have a gallery to run, you know.

That's nearer to the safehouse now, Bastiann said.

So, dear husband, you're in on this?

No, I just know where the new safehouse is. MI5's decision to take us there is as much a surprise for me as it is for you.

Robert, what do you expect me to do? Have Eric and his fellow commandos guard me at the gallery? That should be a marvelous way to bring the customers in!

Yes, something like that. You'll have a security detail always accompanying you, but they'll be invisible. Right, Eric?

Just call me the 'invisible man,' sir.

Bollocks!

While Bastiann had read the famous sci-fi tale that gave rise to Eric's comment and heartily agreed with Esther's colorful opinion about the promised security detail, which he assumed would be neither invisible to Esther nor terrorists, he continued to other matters. So, we'll have the whole safehouse to ourselves? What about the others who were on or connected to the task force?

The task force had been after a domestic terrorist group and succeeded in putting their two leaders in jail. MI5 suspected that the man who took over the group's leadership, Randall Cummings, was responsible for the bombing of their flat.

Maggie Bent and Declan O'Hara will be there to accompany you, along with Jeremy and me. Plus staff, of course. Ambreesh and his family aren't considered to be in danger. He's never out among the public because he's always staring at a computer screen.

Esther glared at Robert again. And we'll be in that damn safehouse until we're either killed by Cummings or we capture him and his cronies!

Forget about the 'we.' Others will go after Cummings and the remainder of his far-right gang of domestic terrorists. We're out of it, Esther, because we're the ones with bounties on our heads.

Who put up that money? Bastiann said.

Um, I don't know if bitcoin can actually be considered money, but to your question: If we knew who's financing the bounties, we'd be able to act on that information and shut down the whole movement, because we believe that the same sources are financing the entire organization, which is a lot bigger than Cummings's command cell. And we'd get him as well.

Good thing the PM's party won the last election then, Esther said, if only because voters gave him a pass for a slightly improving economy.

How does winning the election matter for your safety?

She laughed, mostly at Winston's pretended ignorance. If the economy had taken more of a nosedive, election win or not, Cummings and his donors could have recruited a lot more people to create more chaos as well as go after us.

Robert smiled. You have a point. He slapped Eric on the shoulder. We have a roadblock!

I see them, sir. Just blues and twos. They'll let us get by. Have your ID ready.

No, they're not coppers! Esther said. They're aiming weapons at us!

Reverse, reverse! Winston said, but Eric had already braked. You two get down! Winston pulled out his service weapon as bullets from the automatic rifles pounded into the car's bulletproof windscreen, which was not likely to withstand such a barrage of high-powered military rounds for long. It was already nearly impossible to see in the forward direction.

Eric's training took hold. He backed up at high speed, using the rear camera's wide-angle view of the street along with the rearview and wing mirrors, until he spotted other terrorists moving into position to block their backwards progress. Hold on! He made a sharp left turn and moved forward again, accelerating into a narrow alleyway and clipping a few trash bins at the sides because it was hard to see his way.

Other end's blocked too, Robert said, his side of the windscreen less starred. One car, one driver. Stop!

Eric slammed on the brakes again, and Winston jumped out. He took aim and shot the driver of the blocking vehicle through his ordinary windscreen. Winston jumped back in.

Threat removed. You've got an SUV, Eric. That car's a sedan. Push it aside and let's scarper!

Works for me, Eric said.

As they continued on their journey, Bastiann observed, Nice piece of driving, Eric.

And my shooting? Robert said.

That was barely acceptable, Esther said. I would have gone after the petrol tank as well. A nice explosion would have saved on cremation costs that the government will surely have to pay for, that is, the taxpayers.

***

Once they arrived at the safehouse and were sipping hot tea accompanied by fresh scones, Esther and Bastiann had time to finally gather their wits. Esther's color had returned; recovery for her meant revisiting her anger directed at Robert Winston.

Eric and Robert had met them at Heathrow and hustled them into the SUV, along with their baggage. The pair had returned early to London from the trip to visit Castilblanco and his family in New York City because Cummings or his henchmen had bombed their flat. The subsequent fire had destroyed everything. They weren't even allowed time to inspect the ruins because MI5 was in such a hurry to get them to safety. The ambush had showed the wisdom in their decision, but Esther didn't see it that way.

I expect MI5 to finance the rebuilding of our flat, Esther told Robert, who was sitting across the table from her and Bastiann, sipping his tea and appearing far too relaxed, considering what had just occurred. "You're really the one responsible for the destruction of our