by Eddy Shah
He never saw Adam come out of room 1591, slip silently from the empty bedroom which he had broken into so that he could overhear the conversation between the two men.
Fifteen minutes later Tucker had contacted the DDA at his Georgetown home and relayed a full report to his superior.
Twenty minutes after that, Nowak's bleeper went off with a message to ring the DDA.
'Where the hell are you at this time of the morning?' asked the DDA. 'I tried your house and the office.'
'In a poker game. With some friends. I was just about to leave.' replied Nowak.
'Okay. Don't respond. But I want you to get out of there when I've finished and pass this on to our friends. Understood ?'
'Understood.' Nowak knew he meant the Russians. He listened attentively while the DDA went through Tucker's report of the two scientists' conversation. When he had finished Nowak said, 'I'll pass that on right away.'
After he hung up, he leant back on the hotel sofa and ran his hand over his penis, stretching it as he did so. He was almost naked, apart from his socks, one shoe and his shirt.
'Two jacks,' said Sorge, holding up his cards. He,too, was in a state of undress.
Mary Monicker giggled and threw her cards on the table. 'A pair of deuces,' she said as she stood up and started to take her bra off.
'Hey, you ain't see my hand,' yelled Nowak.
'The only place I want to see your hand is up my fanny.'
The men laughed.
'That was the Company. They want me to contact you.' Nowak told Sorge. 'Things have moved on.'
'Can it wait?' asked Sorge.
'Of course. When this game's over.'
'Good. What was your hand, anyway?'
Nowak stopped stroking himself and picked up the cards beside him. He turned them over and threw them, face up, on the table.
'Three kings. You win,' said Sorge.
'No. In this game, everyone wins.'
Ch. 41
Frankfurter Daily News offices
Frankfurt
Germany.
The news editor was winding up his morning conference when the call came in.
'Mickler's on the line,' said his secretary, buzzing through on the intercom. 'Another terrorist attack. Bomb's gone off at the Gravenbruch Kempinski in Neu Isenburg.'
'Shit!' swore the news editor, picking up the receiver. 'Put him through.' He cupped the phone in his hand and spoke to the others in the room. 'Put everything on hold. And be ready to change all the pages.' He uncupped the receiver and barked into it. 'What's going on there?'
'There's been a big explosion in Neu Isenburg. Extra fire engines are being called out from the city centre, so it must be big. My contact there rang me and told me that he believed it was a bomb. Also something about Stars of David and other slogans being painted on the walls.'
'Where are you now?'
'In the car. On my way.'
'Photographer?'
'With me.'
'How long before you get there?'
'Twenty minutes. I was lucky. We were on our way to a police briefing when I got...'
'Call back as soon as you're there. And then keep me updated as you go along.'
'Okay.'
But the news editor had already slammed the phone down and was on his way out of the office to see the editor.
'Could be a bomb,' he said to his subordinates as he left the room. 'Put a back up team on with Mickler. And leave one communications line open exclusively for him. Otherwise just chase everything else we discussed this morning.'
The editor was in a meeting with a local politician when his secretary rang through and said the news editor needed to see him urgently. He put down the phone, excused himself and came into the ante-room. He was a big man, more fat than muscle, a roly-poly shaped man with large waddling hips on short legs. He hadn't been a great journalist, an even worse editor, but he did as his proprietor told him. He was, as most people said, a tenacious arse crawler who used his editorship shamelessly to his own ends.
'Sorry to pull you out,' said the news editor.
'I'm glad you did. He's driving me crazy. Politicians, all they ever do is moan.' He enjoyed that, flexing his power in front of his subordinates.
'We think a bomb's gone off in Neu Isenburg. Swastikas painted on walls.'
'Hamburg all over again.'
'Possibly. We're getting feedback on some East Germans who want to see a communist state again. Apparently they've picked up a lot of support from others, including the Red Brigade.'
'Any neo Nazi activity?'
'No. Apart from the usual nuts.'
It’s probably the communists?'
'Could be. I’ve got Mickler on his way. We’ll get a clearer picture by the time he gets there.'
'Okay. Try and get something from the New Forum and the other radical groups. Run with them trying to divide a unified Germany. Put that in the leader. I'll do it myself.' The Editor paused. 'Damn. I've got this politician here.'
'I'll arrange it, sir.' The news editor was used to the buck being passed. 'I'll get Korda on to it.' He mentioned the senior leader writer. Korda was a safe bet; he always followed the proprietor's line. 'We've plenty on these terrorist groups. What about the Nazi factions?'
'No. Let's not drag up the past. This isn't a right wing effort, and they're a harmless bunch anyway.
'I'll report back as soon as I've something more concrete.'
An hour later the worst was known.
Seven people had died in the explosion.
The bomb had ripped the conference room of the hotel to shreds. The Gravenbruch Kempinski, was an exclusive conference hotel in its own private 37 acre park on the outskirts of Frankfurt. The Euro-Israeli Trade Conference was such a group, where the delegates could stay in the hotel and attend the conference without leaving the premises. Perfect for security.
It was later found the bomb had been planted in the air conditioning some time earlier.
When the firemen had brought the blaze under control they found the Star of David painted on the outside walls in white with a red hammer and sickle daubed over it. 'Death to Jews and Israel' was another slogan painted on the garage wall at the rear of the building.
Nobody had noticed the slim man with the raw scar on his left cheek. He had left the scene of devastation two hours before the explosion.
It was considered fortunate that only seven had died. Of the other forty-two delegates, three were still critically ill in hospital while the rest had minor injuries.
Of the seven dead, three were Israeli, one was an Irish Jew, one Italian and two German.
One of the Germans was identified as Grob Mitzer, a leading industrialist.
He was the last to be identified.
Ch. 42
Washington
District of Columbia.
'Things're moving too fast.'
Traffic jams are the same the world over. Moscow and Washington, for all their difference in styles and distance, suffered from the same traffic congestion. The whole thing was made worse by the thawing snow, the dirt grey slush and the drip drip of the water that fell everywhere. It was winter at its most boring.
The black government limousine, a Lincoln Town Car, was beached between a 1964 Toyota Corolla and a 1990 Ford Turbo Mustang. The drivers of both cars, one a seedy long haired college student in a torn T-shirt and leather jacket, the other a dark suited woman business executive, both stared into the limousine, trying to make out who was inside.
The DDA, on his way to brief the Executive Director on the latest developments, ignored them both. He was a tidy man with a liking for tidy things. The Trimmler affair wasn't only untidy, it was rapidly going out of control. That is, if it ever had been in control.
'Just too damn fast,' he repeated.
The student, the driver of the Mustang, leant towards the Town Car and tapped on the window. The DDA ignored him. If this had been Russia, he would probably have had him lined up against the nearest
wall and shot. He supposed there were some advantages his counterparts in the KGB enjoyed. Not a lot, but some.
The student knocked again, then turned and shouted something obscene to the woman in the Toyota. She shrugged and turned away. In frustration she banged her horn and added to the general cacophony of the stilled traffic; tempers were rising as rapidly as was the heat in the automobile engines.
The DDA, through his darkened glass, saw the student turn away and go back to picking his nose, obviously something he enjoyed from the enthusiastic and aggressive way he went about his task.
'Little shit,' said the DDI, sitting next to him. 'You notice how everyone in parked cars always ends up picking their noses. Shitty habit, that.'
'And who the hell are the Lucy Ghosts?' snapped the DDA, wanting to change the subject.
'Code name, I guess. That is if the English guy heard right.'
'His report to Tucker was pretty thorough. He definitely heard the words, Lucy Ghosts.'
'And Frick?'
'Haven't traced that one yet.'
The traffic edged forward and stopped again.
'Have we passed it on to the Russians?'
'Yes. But nothing's come back yet,' the DDA responded. 'They drew a blank on Mitzer. And Goodenache was one of their top people on their space programme. Was, being the operative word. He's seen more as a figurehead now. They couldn't find any link between him and Mitzer, or with Trimmler. But Goodenache's file was in the room that caught fire.'
'Was it destroyed?'
'Didn't say.'
'We getting anywhere with this virus thing?'
'No. But it points to Mitzer. It was easy for one of his teams to introduce a virus into the system. They've been working with us for over twenty years.’
'So why go at our asset base?'
'That's what doesn't fit in. Maybe there just was a big network there, something beyond Fuchs and the atom ring. Just like the Brits had people left behind when Philby escaped to Moscow. Shit, we could be sitting on the biggest spy ring in history, right to the top, and it's taken us working with the Russians to dig it out.'
‘So whose spy ring is it, if it isn't theirs?'
'I think it's to do with these damn scientists. We're getting a breakdown of Goodenache's career. Maybe we'll find a link there.'
The DDI shook his head. 'It's crazy. Us having to protect war criminals as if they're heroes. Stupid. We shoulda got everything we wanted out of Trimmler and his cronies after the War, then turned them in.'
'Well we didn't. And we got to the moon. They're our responsibility now. Hell, can you imagine what would happen if all this got out.'
'That reminds me. I gotta stay with the Exec after this meeting. My car's picking me up, so no need to wait.'
'What’s up?'
'Oh, nothing. The President's trip to Berlin. Just briefing them on the situation over there. With all this trouble on the streets we need to make sure there's no problems.'
'You seeing the President?' It was something the DDA rarely did. He hoped the DDI didn't sense the envy in his question.
'Yeah. I think so.' The DDI didn't know whether or not he would be seeing the President, but it didn't do any harm for the others to think he was.
The carphone warbled and the driver picked it up.
'It's your office, sir,' he said to the DDA.
The DDA took the phone. 'Yes,' he said, then listened. When his secretary had finished he spoke again. 'Okay. If anything else comes through get me straight away.'
He put the phone down and slowly blew the air out of his lungs as he gathered himself. 'Fucking traffic!' he said.
'What's wrong?' asked the DDI, sensing that the news affected them both.
The DDA paused before replying. He would have preferred to wait until he got to the Exec Director's office.
'There's been an explosion in Germany. According to Associated Press, one of those killed was Grob Mitzer.'
'Shit!' swore the DDI. 'Fucking traffic!' he added.
The student in the turbo Mustang, bored with excavating his nose with his index finger, turned back and once again stared into the limousine.
'Shit to them all,' said the DDA.
Ch. 43
Hilton Hotel
New Orleans
Louisiana.
The conference had started well.
Billie was on morning shift. She sat at the back of the conference room where she could keep an eye on both Trimmler and Goodenache. She tried to follow the gist of the conference, but lost interest.
Goodenache enthusiastically applauded each speaker when he had finished. Trimmler seemed strangely quiet and had positioned himself in a dark corner away from the rest.
Adam slipped into the empty chair next to her just before lunch.
'You really can do without sleep, can't you?' she remarked.
He grinned. 'Trick of the trade. How's it going?'
She told him about Trimmler's lack-lustre interest. 'Probably tired after his late night.'
'I'll take over. You grab some lunch. Give yourself a couple of hours.'
'All right. I'll be back before then.'
The conference broke for lunch twenty minutes later and Adam followed Trimmler into the lobby where he was joined by Goodenache. They huddled together, away from the main group, and Trimmler excitedly jabbed his finger at his companion as he made his point. Goodenache tried to answer, but Trimmler wouldn't be interrupted. It soon took on the look of a heated argument and Trimmler suddenly walked away. Adam followed him into the lift. Trimmler stared angrily at the Englishman, but Adam ignored him as they swished up to the eighteenth floor. The scientist stormed down the hallway to his suite. When he'd slammed the door, Adam went into his own room, left the door ajar and waited for the scientist.
An hour later Trimmler emerged and went back to the conference hall, Adam once more following. The German totally ignored Adam.
The afternoon watch was taken over by Tucker. While Tucker stayed in the conference hall, Billie and Adam went up to the gym where Adam once again set about his rigorous exercises. It reminded her of Gary and excused herself while she went to call him.
Still no answer. She ignored the panic in her stomach, and then she rang her lawyers. There had been no further response from Peter with regard to the divorce and they advised her to sit and wait it out. She slammed the phone down, her emotions now at a raw edge, and immediately dialed Peter to shout at him. No answer... Damn it. She decided to stop thinking at that stage, showered and went down to wait for Adam in the lobby.
Things broke after the conference had ended for the day.
'You call this a serious occupation?' growled Trimmler as Adam took over from Tucker. The scientist had turned to confront his watcher. 'This is not a job,' he went on, 'this is baby-sitting.'
Adam said nothing, pleased that the pressure was getting to Trimmler. Over the scientist's shoulder he saw Tucker disappear down the moving stairway to the lobby, on his way to buy presents for Jean and the kids.
Trimmler spun away and walked rapidly towards the lifts. Adam followed at a safe distance, not wanting to inflame the situation. They both climbed into the lift together; there were no other passengers.
'You're my baby sitter,' Trimmler was sulking. 'You know which floor. Press the button.'
Adam pushed the button for the eighteenth floor. The lift started its upward journey.
'You're not American. Why are you here?' questioned Trimmler.
'To protect you.'
'Rubbish. I'm in no danger.'
'People think otherwise.'
'People. What people? Schmucks. Secret agents. They're not people. They belong in the comic books.'
'Shouting at me isn't going to get me off your tail. I'll go when I'm ordered to.'
'Baby-sitter. A joke.'
Billie stepped out of her room as Trimmler slammed his door.
'Problem?' she asked Adam.
'No. Just a tantrum.'
'Are y
ou on all night again?'
'Of course.'
'Then let me watch him now.'
'No.' It was an instinctive answer, and as he said it he knew that he needed to be on his own. Danger, its bitter taste, was ever present and he needed his own space. 'No. I'll be fine. You take it easy and I'll catch up with you later.'
He took her arm and propelled her gently back into her room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Almost immediately Trimmler came out into the hallway, his topcoat over his arm and his hat rammed onto his head.
'My wife...' he declared loudly, '…has gone shopping. I am going into the French Quarter. Instead of following like a dog behind, I will let you walk next to me.'
They rode down to street level in silence and out onto Canal Street. Adam saw Frankie parked and waved him over. The white Cadillac lurched forward and slid in front of another cab that had pulled up for them.
'Heya. What you doing?' yelled the cab driver at Frankie.
Adam opened the back door for Trimmler and slid in after him.
'French Quarter,' he instructed Frankie. 'Anywhere special?' he asked Trimmler.
'I want something to eat. And somewhere quiet.'
'Okay?' Adam asked Frankie.
'I know a place,' said Frankie as he swung the car up Canal Street followed by a torrent of abuse by the other cab driver.
They drove to Chartres Street where Frankie pulled up outside K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen. 'Best Cajun meals in the city,' he said, but Trimmler was already out of the car and on his way into the restaurant. 'Maybe I should’a said an ice cream parlour. Cool him down, eh?'
'Don't go too far,' instructed Adam as he followed Trimmler.
'Do I ever? Hell, do I ever?'
Trimmler had found a corner table. Trimmler signalled Adam to sit down as the waiter approached.
'Heya all. Welcome to K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen,' he chirruped as he put two glasses of iced water on the table. 'This establishment is named after the greatest Cajun chef Paul Prudhomme and his wife Kay. And we got the best cajun cooking any side of Louisiana.' He put the menus on the table. 'Now you just cast your eyes over them and I'll be back soon as I can to get your orders.'