“I am disappointed, Huzel. I asked you here to negotiate a fortune, and you attempt to do business with two petty thieves.” The way he sat in the chair, slightly forward, his hands on the armrests, made him look like a predator.
“You mean Perrez and Raffini, of course.”
“Yes.”
“I do business wherever there is business. There is always the chance I would lose the bid here, so I thought I might pick up a few baubles from those two for my trouble.”
Bolivar accepted this with a scowl. “That brings us to something else. What happened to Bourlein? I know you had something to do with it.”
Carter lit a cigarette and let the smoke slide slowly from each nostril. “I had everything to do with it. He offered me a deal. I turned it down.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“A five-million buyout, and I go away. When I refused the deal, he paid to have me hospitalized so I couldn’t be here to bid. Really, I think his three hired thugs would have tried to break me up even if I had agreed to the deal. As it turned out, I told him to go away.”
“That, too, is interesting,” Bolivar said. “Ravel Bourlein is a hard man, ruthless. He doesn’t give up easily. How did you convince him?”
Carter glanced at Grossman to make sure he was listening. “I stuck a Beretta down his throat and told him if he showed up here, I would kill him.”
“Just a threat like that, and he went away?” Bolivar scoffed.
Carter leaned forward, set his jaw, and lowered his voice. “He knew I meant it. Now, since I am the only bidder, suppose we get on with it. I have to get back to Amsterdam.”
Bolivar’s eyebrows shot up. “The only bidder...?”
“The Rashkin bitch doesn’t have the financing for the entire collection. She wants to rig the bid with me and take half.”
From the look on the old man’s face, Carter knew Bolivar had not done his homework. It was also a pretty good bet that Bourlein had. Bolivar tried to bluff it through.
“There are other brokers,” he said, and shrugged.
“Bullshit,” Carter growled, “not for the kind of merchandise you have.” From the corner of his eye he saw Grossman take a step forward. He whirled on Bolivar. “Tell your personal goon that if he takes another step I’ll rip off his arm and shove it up his ass.”
Grossman puffed up like an adder. Bolivar held up a hand to calm him, and then leaned back in his chair, suddenly relaxed. He even smiled, something Carter was sure he did rarely.
“You live up to your reputation, Herr Huzel. I admire a man who has no qualms about achieving his ends. Tell me, would you have actually killed Bourlein?”
“Without a thought.”
The black eyes narrowed. “Yes, I believe you would. How much are you prepared to pay?”
“I’ll make an offer when I see the collection.”
“Fair enough.” Bolivar struggled to his feet, using the stick. He commented on it. “Would you believe? Arthritis. I never thought I would grow old.”
“Is that why you surround yourself with youth?”
Bolivar’s hard eyes bored into Carter’s. “Yes, that is part of it. I am a very rich man. But like so many Europeans in South America, I cannot venture too far from this fortress I’ve built.”
“You mean, prison?”
Again Bolivar smiled, but, like the clown, the corners of his mouth turned down. “A way of putting it. So I bring the world to me. The buffet should be served by now. Shall we?”
“Fine,” Carter said. “Will I be able to see the collection tomorrow?”
“Perhaps.”
They moved into the hall. Just before they entered the room, Bolivar paused.
“By the way, in your travels, have you come across a man named Goldolph... Otto Goldolph? He has a daughter named Magda. She is an older woman, I’m told quite beautiful still.”
“No, I’ve never heard the name.”
“What about Bittrich... Erwin Bittrich?”
Carter stopped, forcing his face into a mask of stone. “I would think that you, of all people, would know that name.”
Bolivar matched Carter’s look. His hand came up like a claw and grasped the Killmaster’s lapel with surprising strength. “Why, Huzel? Why should I know that name?”
Carter became flustered. “Why, because...”
“Why?”
“I assume, mein Herr,” Carter said, “because of the old days, the glory days.”
Bolivar got hold of himself. Vinnick had been right. The man, without stating anything specific, had passed himself off in the South American German community as one of them.
“Yes, the old days, of course. But what of Bittrich?”
“I deal with a great many people,” Carter replied. “As you know, discretion is imperative.”
“But you know who is who?”
“Yes.”
“About Bittrich. Tell me about him. I would consider it a great favor.”
Carter gave him a quick rundown of Erwin Bittrich’s Nazi career, and ended with, “...his last command was the Twenty-first Panzers, stationed in Romania.”
If it was possible with his sun-burnished skin, Bolivar’s face became flushed and then seemed to lose all color. He swayed slightly on his stick until Grossman grabbed his elbow.
Carter knew why.
Graf von Wassner was intelligence security for the Twenty-first Panzers. As such, he would have reported directly to General Erwin Bittrich.
The ball was rolling, and soon it would gather speed.
Twelve
The sound of the helicopter warming up awakened Carter. Early-morning sun slanted through the windows, already preparing the room for the day’s heat.
He moved off the bed, a bit creakily. Unidentifiable muscles and joints creaked and cracked. His feet hit the floor, and cursing Ravel Bourlein, he shot himself into an upright position and moved across to the windows.
He was just in time to see Bolivar hurry across the grass. Grossman awaited him and gave him a hand into the chopper. The moment the hatch was closed behind the security chief, the machine rose into the air. The tail twisted around and the helicopter headed southwest as it gained altitude.
Not in the direction of Rio or São Paolo, Carter observed, but toward Uruguay, or Argentina.
Bolivar had probably been on the horn all night trying to contact all the old Nazis he had attempted to befriend through the years.
Would they have the word yet that Otto was looking for von Wassner?
What would Bolivar tell them? He couldn’t tell them the truth. He certainly couldn’t tell them that he wasn’t the real SS Gruppenführer Graf von Wassner. And if he continued with the lie that he had come to South America because of his Nazi ties, the old guard would start to insist on him telling them just what those ties were.
Carter smiled to himself. Bolivar was going to have a very busy day.
He punched the button on the house intercom and ordered coffee. Then he moved into the bathroom. The shower blasted warm and then cold needles through his body, and he felt alive again when he emerged.
Still wet, he climbed into a pair of swim trunks and a thick pool robe he found behind the door.
He found a tray with coffee and croissants on the balcony table. There was also a note on plain but expensive stationery: Huzeclass="underline" I have been called away on an important matter. Please forgive me. We will conclude our business tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Carter thought. Did that mean Bolivar and his chief of security would be gone overnight? He hoped so.
He was on his second cup of coffee and his first cigarette when his bedroom door was thrown open so hard that the inner knob crashed into the wall.
A very irate Verna Rashkin stormed into the room. She wore the same nightie he had seen the previous night. The difference in appearance between then and now was in the flesh beneath and around the nightie. There were bruises on her arms and shoulders as well as her hips and thighs.