Sturm looked out across the crowded ballroom, filled with the elite of Europe—bankers, industrialists, diplomats, and politicians, each dressed much like Sturm, but none of them pulling it off with quite the same perfection. The occasion was a fund-raising ball for Berlin’s Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. To Sturm, the mistresses and young second wives here tonight provided a more splendid impression, sparkling like diamonds in their color-splashed evening gowns, standing out against the sea of black coats—all ripe for seduction. For Sturm was a predator and, on any other night, they would be his prey. But not tonight.
A tall raven haired beauty named Juliette stood at the far end of the ballroom, her sleek backless red dress stretching across her small taut breasts. She had been his prey the evening before and was the mistress of his prey tonight—Pierre Reynaud, the silver-haired arms dealer with the long Gallic nose to whose arm she clung, a clear look of boredom the only sign of her independence.
From the other end of the ballroom, Sturm made eye-contact with Juliette and her eyes lit up with excitement. He could see that she was making excuses to her consort and began to glide her way through the crowd, sliding her thin body between guests, moving with haste to reach Sturm at the other end of the ballroom. Before she could reach him, Sturm turned and made his way to the back of the ballroom. Once in the corridor, he made his way to an unused kitchen where they had agreed to meet.
Inside the empty kitchen, he turned to greet her, but she was already pressing her long lithe body against his and he allowed her to push him back against the stainless steel countertop of the kitchen. She kissed him fiercely and he kissed her back, spreading his hands across her bare back as her breasts stiffened in anticipation. She reached her hand down to his groin, and he felt himself begin to stir, causing Juliette to smile.
“There he is,” she said in French, with a lazy grin. “I’ve been missing him all day.”
Sturm pushed her away gently. “There’s no time, mon amie,” he answered back in his slightly accented French. “You must get back to him before he suspects anything.”
“To hell with him,” she said, reaching to unbutton his pants. “He is not my husband. Fuck me again, right here.”
Sturm seized her hand and quickly spun it around behind her back, causing the length of her body to rest firmly against his. She purred in delight at his suddenly rough turn. “But you are his mistress and he will notice your absence.”
“I’ll make it quick,” she whispered.
Sturm smiled, “‘Quick’ is not what I have planned for you.”
“You won’t have any choice in the matter,” she said.
“You’ve said that before,” he said. She leaned to kiss him, but Sturm pushed her away firmly. “No. I have much more in store for you and nothing about it could be described as ‘quick.’ When can you free yourself from him?”
She sighed and sagged back into his arms. “He expects me to fuck him after these events. Once he’s finished, he sends me away and orders room service for himself. That’s how you found me in the hotel bar last night.”
Reynaud’s voracious appetite was well known and Sturm had discovered his habit of ordering a post-coital meal during his early reconnaissance of the Frenchman. Vintage Bordeaux and a wedge of Roquefort were his room service order of preference. “Then my staff will alert me when Monsieur Reynaud makes his order and I will find you in the hotel bar, just as the night before,” he said. Juliette had been given the false impression that Sturm was heir to the aging owner of the hotel she was staying in, the Bayerische Hof. Good looks and a tailored tuxedo can go a long way.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “The room won’t be under his name. Pierre never uses his real name when he travels outside of France—especially in Germany. He says there are people here who want him dead. He even brings a pair of bodyguards with him. They stand outside his room every night.”
“Then tell me your room number.”
“He’d kill me if he knew I told you,” she said.
“He’d have you killed if he knew what you have been doing with me,” Sturm said, pulling her closer to him, his strong hands pressed firmly against the small of her back. “He’d have us both killed.”
She turned her face up to his and sighed, her lips nearly touching. “Suite 803,” she whispered and Kurt von Sturm kissed her deeply before pushing her away.
Juliette left him alone in the kitchen and he remained, gathering his thoughts, slowing his heart-rate, regaining his self-control. Then he left the kitchen and was soon walking down the night streets of Munich towards the Bayerische Hof. Sturm knew that his self-control was not complete. Last summer, a woman had nearly cost him his life. She too had been prey but, during the chase, she had stolen the hunter’s heart.
Sturm knocked carefully in a pre-specified pattern on the back door to the staff quarters of the Bayerische Hof. The door opened to reveal a tall man with close-cropped light brown hair. Sturm’s protégé, Bruno Kordt.
“It’s about time you showed up,” Bruno said, smiling. “I was beginning to think all the dancing and fucking had gone to your head.”
“Juliette wanted me to take her right there in the kitchen,” Sturm said. “I can see why you keep asking to take my role in these operations.”
“And I can see why you keep saying, ‘No.’”
Sturm shrugged. “Women find me irresistible. God has blessed you with other gifts.”
Bruno laughed and stepped aside to let him into the staff quarters of the Bayerische Hof. His entire team, or “staff” as he had described them to Juliette, were there, dressed as waiters.
REYNAUD’S order came in two hours later, settling for an assortment of cheeses in lieu of his favored Roquefort. The room service cart rolled down the corridor to Suite 803, under Sturm’s gentle pressure. He was dressed in the red-trimmed white tunic of the Bayerische Hof staff which had replaced his black dinner jacket. He didn’t need to look at room numbers to see Suite 803. Only one room had two large men in gray suits standing outside it and they both had stared at him from his first step out of the elevator.
As expected, they searched every inch of the room service cart before moving on to a search of Sturm’s own body, hands brushing over the spot by his right ankle where he normally kept a knife hidden. But not tonight. They were thorough, forcing him to open the bottle of wine outside the room before taking the corkscrew from him. Finally, they nodded their approval and knocked on the door. From within, they heard the permission to enter and opened the door. Sturm was about to push his cart and his weapon into the Frenchman’s room, but one of the guards suddenly seized his arm. Sturm’s muscles tensed automatically to make the counterstrike that would break the man’s arm, but he was able to control his instincts and remain outwardly calm instead.
“Hold it,” the guard said in French. “Did you think I would let you in with this?” He held up a razor sharp, perforated cheese knife.
“But that is for the hard cheeses,” Sturm protested.
“He can use this while you are here,” he said, gesturing to a small butter knife. “I will bring the other to him after you leave. Now go. Be quick about it.”
Sturm nodded his assent, watching the guard pocket the sharp knife. He pushed the cart into the expansive corner suite, his back to the guards, and began pouring a glass of wine. He could hear one of the guards follow him into the room, while the other one presumably stood watch outside, the door remaining open. At this very moment, Sturm knew the guard outside would be tense and occupied watching the tall man with close-cropped light brown hair—Bruno —walking down the hallway towards their door. But Sturm waited patiently, moving the plate of cheeses, laying out the bread and the small plate of butter alongside it.
The Frenchman entered from the bedroom wearing a loose silk robe and slippers, a cigarette in one hand, a strand of his sleek silver hair hanging loosely over his forehead. “It’s about time you arrived,” he said. “I ordered this twenty minutes ago.” He w
alked closer to the cart, pointing at the bread. “I don’t recall ordering a baguette.”
“No Sir,” Sturm said. “Compliments of the house with all orders of our special cheese selection.”
Finally, Sturm heard the bell of the elevator ring as its doors opened onto the eighth floor and he knew exactly what would happen outside in the hallway as though he were there watching it like a spectator. A man on Sturm’s team would walk onto the floor, his silenced Mauser pistol in plain sight of the guard still in the hallway, whose head would spin instinctively towards the sound. The sight of the gun would grab his attention long enough for Bruno to take an uncontested shot, eliminating the first threat with a bullet in the back of his head.
Just as Sturm saw the action playing out in his mind, he heard the muffled retort from Bruno’s pistol. He reached for the butter knife resting harmlessly next to the bread, swiftly jabbed upwards with the knife at the Frenchman’s throat and punctured his neck. Reynaud gave a choking cry as Sturm jerked free with his right hand, tearing through the carotid artery. He brought a thick napkin up with his left hand to absorb the blood pouring out of the Frenchman’s body as he let him drop to the floor.
There wasn’t time to waste. He turned, butter knife in hand, and saw that the guard was completely focused on him, his gun almost out of his holster. Sturm lunged forward with the knife, aiming for the same spot on his neck, but the guard’s head exploded in a shower of blood and bone before he could reach him. His body crumpled lifelessly to the ground and Sturm found himself staring at Bruno Kordt, his silenced Mauser pistol held in both hands.
Sturm had not expected Bruno would be able to reach him so quickly, certainly not with enough time to take out the second guard. That was why they had planned for Sturm to take out the second guard. But Bruno had timed it flawlessly and was much faster than Sturm had anticipated. He took note of Bruno’s progress. He would be aware of it the next time they worked together.
Outwardly, Sturm conveyed an appearance of mild irritation. “A Mauser at point-blank range is not a clean affair, Bruno.” Sturm gestured to the mess left against the wall and tiled floor of the entrance — not to mention the specks on his white coat. “That is why I had you take out the guard outside, because the distance would be enough to keep the bullet inside the skull, killing cleanly and efficiently.”
“I understand,” Bruno said. “But the second guard had his weapon drawn and I had to make certain the result was not in doubt.”
“The result was never in doubt, Bruno. You know that. You must trust your team to carry out their function,” Sturm said. “Still, it was good, quick work. An acceptable improvisation. Nevertheless, you must clean up this mess and dispose of the bodies.”
“And what will you be doing?” Bruno asked, displaying curiosity rather than resentment.
“Me?” Sturm took off his waiter’s jacket as one of his men approached, holding out his black evening jacket from earlier. Sturm put his arms through the sleeves and adjusted the cuffs to display a hint of his onyx cufflinks. He smiled. “I’m late for my date with Juliette.”
5.
A Fine Nordic Specimen
Hollywood, California
Monday, 9 May 1932
NANCY Anne Neumann was naked; she had been born naked; she had been naked last night on his hotel room bed; and—the man checked his watch—in precisely twenty-four minutes and fifteen seconds, she would die naked.
The man ran a hand through his prematurely silver hair as he raised the ophthalmoscope to a dark blue eye that seemed almost violet. He brought his eye in close to examine each of hers, a lighter blue. Like an unclouded summer sky. Yes, he thought, they would do nicely. They both were fine specimens. The rest of her presented a fine Nordic specimen as well from the top of her pretty blonde head past plump, pink-tipped breasts down to long, well-formed legs, all of which had been placed in service the previous night for “sperm migration studies”. The speculum-aided examination he had performed moments ago, the results recorded in his precise handwriting, was the first but by no means the last of the scientific contributions the lovely Nancy would make to the next generation.
The man stared impassively at the woman lying flat on the metal surgical table. She attempted to move her head but a soft leather band pulled tightly over her forehead kept her from doing so. A cotton cloth tied around her mouth meant that any sound, including the inevitable screams, would be muffled through several layers. She struggled in vain to move her arms and legs but her wrists and ankles were firmly bound in soft leather restraints as well.
Nancy wanted to be an actress. Didn’t they all? When he told her his name was “Victor Volbrecht” and that he produced films for UFA, he could tell from the look on her face that was all the aphrodisiac she needed. A trip to his penthouse suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel was a foregone conclusion. Besides, he consoled himself as he placed a large syringe and scalpel on the tray beside the metal table, she wouldn’t have been a particularly good actress, not if her feigned orgasms the night before were any indication.
No, not much of a loss to humanity, especially when she had so much more to contribute this morning. After aligning the syringe and scalpel, he walked to the telephone in the corner of the room and placed a long distance call to Denver. Once the call came through, he waited until he recognized the voice on the other end. “Are you ready to begin?” he asked. “Yes, Josef, everything is ready here as well.” He chuckled. “Of course. The migration study results have been recorded. Let’s synchronize our watches. On my mark,” he said and paused. “Seven-ten a.m. I’ll telephone you when it’s over. You keep careful notes as well.”
The silver-haired man picked up the large syringe. He swabbed the inside of Nancy’s right arm and then injected the needle into a vein, her blue eyes growing wide, as he began to draw her blood into the syringe. Once full, he replaced it with an empty syringe. He repeated the process ten times more until, at last, she lost consciousness. He smiled. She had already contributed more than her proportion to the next generation and now she was ready to make her final contribution. He opened her left eyelid and reached for the stainless steel scalpel, its silver surface flashing once in the overhead light before it moved down to Nancy’s eye.
6.
I Prefer Vodka With My Caviar
Carnegie Hall
New York City
Monday, 9 May 1932
IF Cockran had been surprised by Waterman’s clumsy threat, he was not surprised to find two full bars set up in the reception area. Prohibition was on its last legs and, in New York at least, the police no longer bothered. Now that good gin was again being imported from Canada as opposed to the bathtub variety, Cockran had ordered a dry Gordon’s martini with two olives and looked out over the crowd, hoping to spot Ingrid Waterman.
Cockran began to circulate, carefully avoiding the small knots of conversation as he walked through the room, taking an occasional sip from his martini. He disliked cocktail parties and polite conversation. Five minutes later, he felt a warm presence behind him and a soft, seductive voice was whispering in his ear. He liked this a lot better.
“Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would, but I want you to know I appreciate it.”
Cockran turned and there before him, in a form-fitting strapless royal blue silk dress, was the blonde Nordic vision that was Ingrid Waterman, every bit as beautiful as the woman he remembered meeting nearly a year ago in the rotunda of the state appellate court on East 26th Street.
Cockran put out his hand and she extended hers. “Mrs. Waterman, how nice to see you once more.”
“Please, Mr. Cockran. Call me Ingrid,” she said and smiled.
Cockran smiled back. “And I’m Bourke.”
“So that’s how you pronounce your name? “Burke”? The “o” is silent?”
“That’s what my father told me. It’s the same as that Fortune photographer, Margaret Bourke-White. I think we’re distantly related.”
“I feel
silly asking you to meet me like this, but I was afraid if we talked on the telephone you might not remember me.”
Cockran smiled. “I don’t think there was ever any danger of that. I have an excellent memory when it comes to beautiful women.”
Ingrid returned the smile. “Some of my girlfriends told me the same thing about you.”
Cockran took a sip of his martini rather than reply. He knew she and her husband had a place on Long Island’s north shore and they undoubtedly moved in the same circles as some of Cockran’s former married lovers. He didn’t believe that comparing mutual female acquaintances with Ingrid Waterman would be a wise exercise.
Before he met Mattie in the summer of 1929, his love life had consisted of dating a number of attractive married women, mostly from the north shore of Long Island where he had grown up. The Gold Coast. Why he had done so was complicated but logical. After the tragic death of his young wife Nora in the Irish Civil War in 1922, he determined not to remarry and to raise their two year old son Patrick by himself. Nora’s widowed mother had come back with him to America to help. After breaking the hearts of a few single women, he decided that romancing married women out for revenge on their husbands posed less of a danger to his continued bachelorhood. He had started with an old high school sweetheart whose Episcopal parents hadn’t wanted their daughter dating a Catholic. Once she moved on to the local tennis pro, Cockran’s reputation had quietly spread among other dissatisfied North Shore wives who were in no short supply. No strings for Cockran. None for them. Life was good. Then along came Mattie who changed his world forever.
“As I said in my note, I wish to consult you professionally.”
Ingrid appeared more nervous to Cockran than the self-assured young woman who a year ago had gently mocked her husband to his face about being “Best in Show” at the American Breeders Association annual convention. Also she was wearing more make-up now than before.
The Gemini Agenda Page 4
