The Differt, a traditional Amsterdam broodjeswinkel, or café, was located at 15 Herengracht. Through its spotlessly clean front windows there was an excellent view of number 12.
Otto von Krumm pushed his plate away with a sigh and patted his belly. “A fine meal.”
Carter sipped his second cup of coffee and nodded. “Every new day should be started with a good meal.”
Suddenly a fierce light shone in Otto von Krumm’s eyes and his lips parted in a leering grin.
“My, oh my.”
“Something?”
“The time for joy has come, my friend. Just take a quick glance over your left shoulder.”
Casually Carter turned his head.
The woman was taken down the steps of number 12 first. Her face was white with fear, and even at such a distance the Killmaster could see her lips tremble. A uniformed police officer was on each side of her, and her wrists were manacled together in front of her body.
Seconds later Fabian Huzel appeared, also with an officer on each side of him. The second party moved a little more slowly than the first. This was because Huzel’s ankles, as well as his wrists, were cuffed.
His clothes were torn and in disarray. Thunder as well as a large, purplish bruise was on his glowering face.
“Looks like our boy gave them a bit of a tussle,” Otto smirked.
“It would appear so,” Carter agreed. “Hope they got some good licks in before he gave up.”
“I do think they did,” Otto replied. “From the looks of his face I’d say he’ll have a great deal of trouble chewing his food for quite some time.”
“I’d say that.”
“Pity.”
They watched until the pair were placed in separate cars and were driven away. In only a few minutes the curious dispersed and the quiet neighborhood returned to normal.
The two then took their time finishing their coffee. Carter paid, leaving a large tip, and they walked the two blocks to the waiting Mercedes.
The Killmaster checked his watch as he slid into the passenger side seat.
“I should just make the one-ten flight to Vienna without too boring a wait.”
Otto pulled from the curb into the light noonday traffic. He was whistling softly. “How long do you think he’ll get?”
Carter frowned in concentration. “I’d say thirty years, give or take.”
Otto laughed. “With the thieves he’ll take with him I’ll give you ten to one he won’t last five years.”
Carter leaned back in the seat with a broad smile on his face. “I don’t take sucker bets, you know that, Otto.”
Seventeen
The plane landed at Vienna’s airport just past four in the afternoon. Carter cabbed to the hotel and checked in with his own name and passport.
In his room he built a drink and moved to the window to stare out at the city.
The elation of nailing Fabian Huzel had passed by now. He didn’t look forward to the coming evening, the meeting he had agreed to make, and the rehashing of the whole mess that would be expected of him.
He would rather forget it, catch a plane down to Nice, and lay on the beach for a week.
A week, hell, he thought — better a month.
But there was the list.
The goddamned list.
He had already code telexed his report back to Washington. He knew Hawk and the whole section would be elated.
Elated?
They were probably frothing at the mouth in anticipation. A lot of bodies would fall when he sent in the list. He wondered how many would be buried where they fell.
He napped for a couple of hours and then took a long shower. By the time he was dressed and on the street it was dark and-a wind had come up.
Since it was only a few blocks and he was a bit early, he walked. The sky was clear. It would be cold and crisp tomorrow, but the sun would probably come out.
Café Josef was a small, quiet place with imitation black leather walls, comfortable furniture, and discreet lighting. It was about half full when Carter entered.
“One, sir?”
“I’m expecting a friend.”
“Of course. This way.”
Carter followed him to a front table that looked out on the boulevard. He ordered a scotch, neat, and sipped it as he waited.
He did not have to wait long. Hardly five minutes had passed when he saw her striding across the street with her determined walk. Gone were the corduroy slacks and the leather jacket. She wore a stylish raincoat that flapped open now and then to reveal a figure-fitting black skirt and a frilly white blouse.
If one didn’t know better, he thought, one would suppose that she was an actual flesh-and-blood woman.
It was hard for Carter.
He remembered too well the blonde’s face when the bullet had struck her in the back and the ease with which Ilse Beddick had guided the burial in the frozen earth.
Inside, she stood for a moment looking over the room. When she spotted Carter she headed directly for the table.
As she approached, Carter stood up. Then he remembered himself and sat down as the waiter approached to seat her. She ordered wine and shrugged out of her coat.
Silence.
It was as if neither of them knew how to start.
“Congratulations,” Carter said at last, “on getting out.”
“Vadim set it up beforehand,” she replied. “It was done with very little effort. Have you heard?”
Carter nodded. “Washington informed me.”
“He died very quietly, in his sleep.”
“Wonderful,” Carter said.
She either ignored or had not caught the sarcasm in his voice. “I wish I could have given him the details but...”
She shrugged, truly sad.
The waiter set a glass of wine in front of her and left.
“But don’t worry. I have what you want right in here.”
She patted a slim clutch bag and then took a cloisonné case from it and extracted a cigarette. As Carter flicked his lighter he didn’t try to hide the wince on his face he felt from her words.
“Is something troubling you?”
“A little. It was very messy.”
She leaned forward. “I want to hear about it, every word, every detail.”
Carter winced again. He signaled the waiter for another drink. When it came he took a deep breath and began in a voice barely above a whisper.
He talked for nearly an hour with Ilse Beddick’s face not once changing expression. When he finished she seemed in deep thought for several minutes.
“And Lorena?”
“She is in a clinic near Wilhelmshaven in Germany. Here is the address.” He passed a note across the table which she folded and placed in her purse without even glancing at it.
“She is being taken care of?”
“Quite. A man named Otto von Krumm thinks that he may well be in love with her. He’ll take care of her. Perhaps Otto is even more wealthy than she is even after her... windfall.”
Ilse thought this over and nodded again. “Good. You said she went a little mad. How mad?”
Killing mad, crazy mad, revenge mad, he thought.
“In my opinion?” he asked.
“I have no one else to ask.”
“In my opinion,” Carter said, rubbing his temples hard, “I think she is quite insane and will stay that way.” He didn’t add that she had her brother’s lust for revenge to thank for it.
“You carried out every bit of our half of the contract. Here is your half.”
Carter opened the envelope and pulled out three neatly typed pages. It was complete: names, addresses, telephone numbers, even current occupations. He slipped it into his jacket pocket.
“Satisfactory?” she asked.
“Very,” Carter replied.
She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat.
“Where will you go?”