by Walter Wager
“Don’t you trust me, George?” Merlin demanded harshly.
“Of course I do,” Lomas answered a moment before he wedged a cigarette into a stubby holder and groped for his lighter. “Just thought I’d come along to see how the big boys do things. Never too late to learn.”
“You don’t lie as well as you used to.”
Lomas found his slim silver torch, touched the flame to the cigarette, inhaled—and coughed.
“Those summer colds can kill you, George.”
The man in the darkness with the shotgun snickered.
“Easy on the melodrama,” advised the security chief. “We’re going to do it your way. You’re in charge. Don’t get nasty—please.”
It was difficult, but Lomas repressed his impulse to ask about Victor. That would only make Merlin more angry and suspicious, more dangerous.
“Sit down,” Merlin finally said and pointed toward the middle of the orchestra section. The men wandered down from the stage, straggled into the eighth and ninth rows of the center block.
“Could you spare a cigar?” asked the black man, who shared Merlin’s affection for fine Canary Island coronas. The man who found people pulled two Don Diegos from inside his jacket, and handed one to Roosevelt Allison with a sigh.
“That’s about ten, twelve cigars I owe you,” Allison noted as he bit off the end, spat it out and lit up contentedly.
“At least.”
They liked each other. The cigar number was one of their running routines.
“Merl, what’s this all about?” Luther Lartensen asked as he loosened his collar and dropped into a nearby seat. “Hear it’s somethin’ personal.”
“Start the movie,” joked the shotgun specialist.
“It is something personal,” Merlin confirmed, “and we’ll start the film in just a second when—aha, here they are.”
There were eight noncommissioned officers and a captain, mostly in their late twenties or early thirties. Some were tall and others short, but they all carried gun cases that plainly held rifles. Lomas stood up, stared.
“Mr. Wasserman?” the captain asked.
“Come join the party,” Merlin invited.
“Sorry we’re late. Got lost trying to find this place.”
Merlin looked at the nameplate on the captain’s tunic, idly wondered what the “J” in J. Rodriguez was. The sharpshooter in the balcony answered the unspoken question a moment later.
“Hey, Joe,” he shouted.
The captain turned, looked up and waved. “Country? Whatcha doing here?”
Now Merlin picked up the faint traces of some Hispanic and southern accent, tried to decide whether Jose Rodriguez was a Texican or perhaps one of the Cuban exiles who’d settled in Miami. Whatever he was, Rodriguez was a dead shot and so were his men. They were the elite marksmen of the U.S. forces in Europe, the army team that shot in competitions. Country had been a member of this unit four years earlier.
“Nobody tol’ me,” laughed the man in the balcony.
Lomas loathed surprises, and one of the things he liked least about Merlin was that the son of a bitch always had at least two in reserve. The furious CIA security chief shuffled-stumbled across a dozen seats, livid because nobody tol’ him either.
“Who are these men?” he whispered angrily.
Merlin gestured, and somebody dimmed the lights.
“Who are they, dammit?”
Merlin ignored him, but Roosevelt Allison was more humane.
“Shooters.”
“What?”
“Snipers,” Merlin announced and blew smoke that curled into the chubby executive’s face.
The theater was dark.
“Snipers? What do they do?” Lomas demanded.
“They snipe,” Merlin replied, and the first frames of the film on the Martians flickered onto the screen…
There were several seconds of silence when it was over, and then Merlin spoke in the blackness.
“Any questions?”
Lomas had several, but he held back out of pride and caution. After all, he was a senior official and he was supposed to know just about everything.
Roosevelt Allison had fewer ego problems. “This crowd, Merl—Lietzen and the rest—you want us to take ’em or burn ’em?”
It wasn’t fair. The director had sworn to Congress and the press that the agency wouldn’t even consider killing anymore, and now Merlin and his friends were forcing the CIA security chief to listen to their cold-blooded dialog on death.
“What do you say, George?” Merlin challenged.
Let the headquarters executives get a taste of what it was actually like out in the real cloak-and-dagger world, far from their computers and committees and staple guns. George Lomas would be angry, for he didn’t want to hear any of this.
Good.
Let him sweat.
“I say we blow them away,” the shotgun specialist volunteered, “unless you need them for something, Merl. Why take chances with a bunch of mothers who’ve burned twenty or thirty cops and a gang of other people?”
“Save the taxpayers a piss pot of money,” Budge agreed.
“We’ll play it by ear,” Merlin said—and everyone in the theater understood that the terrorists whose faces they’d seen on the screen were now targets.
“Any more questions?”
“Mr. Wasserman?” It was the sharpshooter captain, a careful man.
“Yes?”
“Could you please roll that film again?”
Lomas felt a little better, a trifle less bitter. It was reassuring to think that the marksmen would shoot only the right people. Killing the wrong ones might reflect poorly on the agency.
33
“Yes, Comrade General,” Duslov said.
“Of course, Comrade General,” he agreed into the phone when the torrent next subsided. “You know, Comrade General, we have an excellent connection. Direct land line.”
“And what the hell does that mean?” Zimchenko roared.
“It really isn’t necessary to shout, Comrade General.”
“One of our best sources badly wounded and lying in one of their hospitals, you moron, and you tell me not to shout? Are you out of your mind, Duslov? Don’t you realize how important Victor is, you imbecile?”
Duslov was holding the telephone a full two inches from his ear, but the noise was still jarring.
“I do, Comrade General.”
“And stop that Comrade General shit, you effete hypoerite. I know you hate my guts, Duslov. Well, I’m not too crazy about yours—and I’m in command. Keep that in your sophisticated mind, art lover.”
Most of the insults left Duslov unmoved, but “effete” was certainly uncalled for. He’d have to bring that up sometime—after this crisis.
“I appreciate your frankness, general. To return to the current situation, there’s no evidence that either the Amerikanski or the Maoists know anything about Victor. I’m convinced that the Maoists were after the Yankee station officer, and since they’re prone to casual violence—”
“You said all that, Duslov. Now pay attention to what I’m saying. I want you to do three things. First, get someone into that hospital and check on Victor. Are they treating him like a friend or an enemy?”
“I’ve already started on that.”
“Finish it, and report immediately. Second, I want that Lietzen-Stoller mob wiped out. Pull out all the stops. I’ve got enough problems here with wheelers and dealers without worrying about some cheap thugs injuring our operation in Germany.”
Duslov had heard the rumors about the son of a Central Committee member maneuvering for Zimchenko’s job, guessed that the political infighting was contributing to the KGB general’s rage.
“And third?” the man in the East Berlin cellar asked.
“Bury that clever Wasserman or whatever his name is. I’m fed up with him too. You got that?”
“Of course, general. For the record, that will not be simple. We will do it, but—for the record—the price m
ay be high.”
The phrase “for the record” was carefully chosen.
Zimchenko’s phone had a tape attachment and Duslov was reminding him that a similar device was working here at the KGB bunker in East Berlin. Shrewd, quick and lucky, Merlin had outlived a number of agents—including three of China’s best—who’d tried it in the past. If the liquidation of Merlin cost many lives, the responsibility would be the Comrade General’s.
“Are you afraid of him, Duslov?”
The stupidity of the question was depressing.
Only a fool—or an arrogant general—could ignore Merlin’s savage skills and achievements. Maybe Zimchenko was getting too old for the job after all.
“No, general. Anything else?”
“Get moving.”
Duslov promised to report daily, and when the conversation was over he ordered a duplicate of the tape for his personal file. After that he began to select his assault team. If Victor had been discovered, an armed attack on the hospital to rescue him might be necessary.
Many others were interested in the kidnapped woman and the man who’d been shot, but that was hardly surprising since it was on page one of every paper in the Federal Republic. The story got more space than the concert-riot of Torn Knickers, the famed British rock group whose Hamburg fans had half-destroyed an outdoor stadium the previous night. The press reports didn’t mention the CIA, but a number of people in West Germany knew, and wanted to help. Merlin had never received so many offers of assistance in his life. It was extraordinary, and he managed not to laugh at any of them.
Karl Grad was the first. He was waiting in Merlin’s hotel room when the American returned from the movie-theater briefing, all gray and all politeness as usual.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” he said, “but I thought we ought to talk.”
“Good thinking. Have my fine friends of the BND any leads?”
“Not yet, but the terrorists are still in West Berlin. We sealed off the city five minutes after your associate telephoned, and we’ve moved in a special detachment to press the search. Every policeman in the town—and every border guard—has her picture, and it’s on all the television news broadcasts.”
Merlin didn’t ask how the BND had secured a photo. It didn’t matter. He was concentrating on his plan, the scheme he hadn’t discussed with anyone.
“We’d like to cooperate fully,” Grad continued.
Translation: What’s your plan?
“Sure. Once we get her back—”
“You’ll pay the ransom?”
“What else can we do?”
Grad didn’t believe it for a minute. Paying the money was, theoretically, the safest move, but Merlin never did the logical thing. He always did his own thing, and while Karl Grad found that disturbing he couldn’t help but admit that Merlin’s odd thing usually worked.
“We’re counting on your people, Karl. After we’ve made the exchange and she’s safe, we’re relying on the BND to nail them. It’s your turf, and we know you can do it.”
Was he lying—again?
Probably.
It was true that a U.S. diplomatic courier had reached West Berlin with a pouch containing $1 million in used tens and twenties as the kidnappers had demanded, but Grad couldn’t accept the idea that the tricky and ruthless man who faced him would deal on the terrorists’ terms. Maybe the decision had been made in Washington. Yes, the higher-ups there would be more sensible.
“I’ve been authorized to promise—that’s an official commitment—any help that you may require,” Grad announced stiffly.
“I’ll let you know when we get delivery instructions,” Merlin promised. “We’ll need six or eight of your best men to convoy the money to the exchange.”
“A dozen if you want.”
Grad gave him the telephone number of the local West German intelligence center, and five minutes after the competent BND executive left, Merlin descended to find a street telephone to call Cavaliere at the hospital. As he stepped out of the Hilton, someone tugged at his sleeve. It was one of those huge woman wrestlers who worked for Blue Bernard.
“He said to tell you that the admiral’s widow wants to see you,” she declared as she handed him a slip of paper. Merlin glanced at it, saw the address was one in a fashionable neighborhood two miles away.
She looked better without the mud, but she was still a vast woman.
“Are you the math teacher or the other one?”
“The other one,” she replied in a sweet, shy voice. “I’m studying at night to be a dental technician. Uncle Bernard wants me to make something of myself.”
“He’s your uncle?”
“How else could I get a good job like this?”
She liked the mud, and whatever else Blue Bernard dreamed up for her. Right, he’d called her kinky.
Merlin thanked her. But he didn’t get to the house for almost forty minutes. It took that long to shake the two followers, one probably Grad’s and the other a faithful retainer of either Lomas or the Sovs.
The house was a house. To be more precise, it was a cat house/house of prostitution/brothel/bordel/crib. It was not a house of ill repute. Among local bankers, television stars, brokers, politicians, industrialists, corporation lawyers and proctologists, it had a wonderful repute as one of the finest sex parlors in the nation.
Big potted plants, deep Oriental rugs, Tiffany lamps, brass-topped tables, flocked red velvet wallpaper and dramatic silk drapes all testified that someone—with a lot of money—had chosen to re-create an elegant Berlin brothel of the 1920s. The women who sat reading in the salon—a meaty blonde who looked Dutch, a splendidly curved black whose features were Ethiopian, two Japanese who might be twin sisters, a leggy redheaded Texan much admired by Arab gentlemen, a strapping Welsh lass who’d picked up enough Spanish to chat with Latin American diplomats, and a sensible Bavarian brunette who’d played clarinet in a jazz band until she discovered how these talents could earn more—were all dressed in simple expensive gowns. The liveried footman-butler who let Merlin in went nicely with the period decor, and even his glass left eye seemed appropriate.
The two men mounted a carpeted marble staircase to the next floor, and Merlin smiled as he noted that each room had its female occupant’s name engraved on a brass plate attached to the dark wooden door. There was one portal without such a sign, and the butler rapped on that one—three times.
“How good of you to come, Herr Wasserman,” the chicly dressed madam said as she waved him to a pink love-seat. The elegant sheath, perfect makeup and erect posture made her look like a very attractive forty-eight or fifty, instead of the sixty-one she was. She probably exercised every morning, had a daily massage, took lots of vitamins and hormones, and screwed her brains out, Merlin guessed.
He was right.
“How kind of you to invite me,” Merlin replied as his eyes swept the room. It was furnished in the same lush style, aside from a large color TV set and a stereo-tape-phonograph rig that cost more than $2000.
“The television? One of my amusements,” she explained with a girlish giggle. “There are concealed cameras in the bed chambers, and when I’m bored I—peek. Naughty, I’m afraid.”
“I can’t imagine that you’re bored very often.”
He was really quite charming for an American who was heterosexual. She gestured with the jeweled holder, and the scent of the marijuana reached Merlin.
“May I offer you some grass, or a spoon of coke, perhaps?”
She was the perfect hostess. Merlin sensed that if neither of those drugs appealed to him, he could have a glass of sherry or a pair of human ears or a nine-year-old Finnish virgin. He made his choice.
“Sherry, please?”
How nice.
A gentleman—an old-fashioned gentleman.
She poured the Amontillado into cut crystal glasses, and then she got down to business.
“I’d like to help you, Mr. Wasserman, and I think I can. Are you still looking for
that Karla Lange woman, the terrorist whose pictures you showed?”
“Very much so,” Merlin replied. “Excellent sherry, Frau Admiral,” he added truthfully.
“Thank you. You may be amused to hear that I think I know where she is. There’s a doctor—he examines my ladies each week. He’s quite popular with several of Bernard’s friends.”
An underworld physician.
Karla Lange was the woman Merlin had wounded during the kidnapping.
It figured.
“Please go on, Frau Admiral.”
“Call me Lotte. All my friends do, and I’m sure we’re going to be friends. Well, my doctor was called to treat a woman who had burn scars—just like Fraulein Lange. Burn scars and a fresh bullet wound in her hip—a big hole caused by a large-caliber bullet.”
She paused to sip at her sherry, and then she took a powerful “hit” of that costly Thai stick—class grass.
“She may be left with a permanent limp,” the madam announced casually.
“How unfortunate.”
“Not really. There are men who find limping women especially attractive. Now where do you think this Lange woman is?”
“Where?”
She picked up a pair of bejeweled opera glasses, giggled again. “Right there!”
She pointed out a window. There was a passage between the two buildings behind hers, and through that opening Merlin could see a four-story gray stone private residence. She handed him the binoculars, and he raised them to his eyes.
“The others are with her. I’ve been peeking with my glasses, and I’ve seen two of them today. The big fellow who blows up things, and another one—the Falkenhausen woman.”
“Number fifty-three, is that it?”
She laughed and nodded toward her four-poster bed. “You can stay here if you want, and watch them,” she invited slyly.
“I’ll be back. I’ve got to talk to some friends, and I’ll bring the fifty thousand marks.”
She walked to the bed, sat on the edge smiling. “Pleasure’s more important than money. Remember that, liebchen. Come back soon.”
“I will By the way, does Bernard know?”
“Only you, liebchen. You’re my kind of gentleman.”