Two blocks away, a tall, slender figure in black leather sat astride a Triumph motorcycle between two parked trucks. The eyes behind the tinted shield of the helmet watched the Opal pull away.
Only after it had made a turn did the rider start the machine and follow.
Count Otto von Krumm’s flat was the penthouse of a seven-story building overlooking the Herbertstrasse, the famous “Street of Harlots.”
“It warms me,” he said, “to be able to look down at any hour of the day or night and see all that sin.”
It was a cheerful apartment, with three guest rooms, a master bedroom suite, a dining room, and living room.
They came into the living room, and Otto dismissed the girl with a kiss on the forehead and a pat on the bottom. When she had gone, he turned to Carter and laughed, as if ashamed of himself.
“What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thanks. You want me coherent, after all.”
“Precisely. How do you expect to order your thoughts without a drink? Scotch?”
“Thank you.”
“A sober man is a depressing man.” Von Krumm walked to the bar and mixed it quickly. Then he produced four bottles with strange shapes and unfamiliar labels. “I’m off scotch, myself. Too dull. Slivovitz with a shot of absinthe. Gets the blood running.” He poured and moved back to Carter with the glasses, handing Carter the scotch. “To money and sin.”
Carter grinned and drank.
“Now, then,” von Krumm said, easing into the plush sofa, “let’s have it. I must warn you that my finances are in an excellent state, so whatever you propose must have aesthetic qualities as well as huge financial gain.”
“First, is the castle at Bundesdorg suitable for guests?”
“Above the first floor, or the dungeon?” von Krumm chuckled.
“The dungeon, actually. One, maybe two, for at least a week.”
“It can be arranged. Will you need a keeper?”
Carter shook his head. “I’ll bring my own.”
“’Nuf said. Consider it done. What else?”
“Your father’s old SS files. I want you to find a Nazi who is dead but could be alive. He must be a man who had access to vast loot and could have fled to South America.”
“That shouldn’t be any problem. Then what?”
“You become that man.”
Von Krumm started. “Oh, dear. He would have to be close to seventy. All that makeup—”
“Otto,” Carter interrupted, “let me explain...”
For the next hour Carter outlined his plan and what they were going after, leaving out only Vadim Vinnick’s name. The more he talked, the more von Krumm became interested. By the time the Killmaster was through, the count was smiling like a cat eating cream, and filling in details of his own.
“Lovely, lovely, Nicholas, a true tour de force! I’ll leave for the castle in the morning.”
Carter stood. He placed the wallet, credentials case, revolver, and car keys he had taken from the Hamburg cop on the table. Von Krumm leaned forward and flipped open the credentials case.
“The reason for your delay?”
Carter nodded. “He does odd jobs for a Berlin source. It’s probably a central number for all the East bloc agencies who want surveillance done but don’t have a man of their own in place.”
Von Krumm chuckled. “Certainly not in Hamburg. I think the last man they had here fornicated himself to death. What do you need?”
“I think I put the fear of hell in him, but it wouldn’t hurt to add an exclamation point to it.”
“No problem,” Otto said. “I have a couple of friends who can return all this to the gentleman and cause him great distress at the same time. Anything else?”
“Yes. I was going to fly to Amsterdam tonight, but they have another watcher at the airport. If you can get me a clean car I’ll drive over. Also, have someone drop my rental at the airport.”
Von Krumm grabbed the phone and dialed. It was answered at once. Less than a minute later he hung up and turned to Carter. “Do you know the Hansa Theatre on Steindamm?”
“Yes.”
“The doorman’s name is Kurt. Trade keys with him. He’ll point his car out to you.”
Suddenly the blonde, completely naked, appeared in the doorway. “Otto, when do you come to bed?”
“Now, my dear,” von Krumm replied, and traded glances with Carter. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“A true gem.”
“Sure you won’t join us?”
“Otto, you have no morals.”
The count was laughing as he moved to the bedroom door. “Absolutely none, my friend. Absolutely none!”
Seven
At noon Carter descended to the lobby. The desk clerk caught his eye and beckoned him over. It was a message from Lorena: Room 712, the Americain.
Carter went to a phone booth, called the hotel, and asked for room 712.
“Yes?”
“How about lunch?”
“Sounds marvelous,” she replied.
“The Papeneiland is near you.”
“Twenty minutes,” she said breathlessly, and hung up.
Carter dialed a second number and waited several rings before it was answered. There was no vocal response from the other end of the line, just silence.
“I would like to speak to Mortimer, please.”
“Who wants him?” came the gravelly reply.
“Nick.”
“A minute.”
It was almost five before the familiar voice came on the line. “Mr. Carter, is it?”
“It is, Mortimer. How goes it?”
“The usual aches and pains but I manage to get around. What can I do fer ya?”
“I have a job. It starts here and goes over the frontier. Probably take a couple of weeks. Want to talk about it?”
“Love to. Business has been terrible, it has, what with this AIDS problem. All me girls are thinkin’ of becomin’ secretaries, they are.”
“At the place around six. Be dark by then.”
“That’ll be dandy, Mr. Carter. We’ll have us a pint.”
“Cheers, mate,” Carter said, and hung up.
He walked to the main canal and turned up Prinsengracht to number Two. He passed the tunnel entrance to the café’s cellar that once led under the canal and was used by seventeenth-century Catholics as a secret way of getting together for worship. The Papeneiland claimed to be the oldest café in Amsterdam, tracing its history back to its first coffin-maker owner who served drinks on the side when business was slow.
“One, sir?”
“Two, for lunch,” Carter replied.
He was shown to a table in the depths that needed the candle on the wall to read the menu.
Lorena appeared right on time, looking a bit frumpy in a scarf, a loose-fitting tweed coat, and knee-high boots.
“Welcome to Amsterdam,” she said, brushing his lips with her own and taking the opposite chair.
“I’m having beer.”
“Fine,” she said with a nod.
The waiter brought a second beer and two newspaper-sized menus. Lorena waited until he was gone before she spoke.
“Thank you for taking this on.”
“I didn’t have much choice. A very hard lady named Ilse let me know that if I didn’t, she was going to make a corpse out of me.”
“Ilse tends to exaggerate.”
“Oh?” Carter said. “How well do you know her?”
“Not very well, but she is devoted to my brother.”
“I know. And I don’t think she was exaggerating.”
“You’re mad at me.”
“A little,” Carter admitted, “but I’ll get over it. The stakes are too high not to.”
“How does he look?”
Carter decided to be blunt. “Like any dying man with the wolves nipping at his heels.”
Lorena took it without blinking. “You had problems?”