by Leon, Judith
“No.” Her voice was still lazy with the drug of relaxation. Actually she knew Wagner was one of Earth Alliance’s major financial backers and a prime suspect.
“He’s one of our most prominent industrialists. I’ve arranged for you to come. You and Joe. I am sorry, but I will be there with my wife. Will that bother you?”
Thinking how to reply, she said, “This feels wonderful.” Jean Paul waited, his hands kneading her flesh. She continued. “I haven’t had to see you and your wife together. I’m not sure how I’ll feel. I try not to think of your wife, Jean Paul, because when I do, I feel like someone sticks a dull knife in me.”
His hands halted. “I am so sorry to hurt you even this much.” He paused a moment. “I feel bad about Ilse. I truly believe in fidelity. But we married too young, in my case mostly at my mother’s insistence. I was young and a fool, and I don’t think Ilse knew me, either. The ecology movement has become my life. And until you, it was sufficient.”
“I’m beginning to understand that,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you ask me to do.”
“I don’t want to ask anything that will hurt you.”
“Perhaps it isn’t necessary for me to attend.”
“I’d like you to, though. Especially now that you will be doing the article. All the people will be supporters of my campaign or of Earth Alliance. I want you to meet them. Especially Helmut Hass. A great man. He’s one of my staunchest financial backers.”
Nova rolled onto her back and looked up at him. The CIA’s files contained no report of any person named Hass. Somehow the contributions of this important donor had been disguised. Cupid would relish this bit of information, a genuine fresh bone for the intelligence dogs to worry. “I want to go, then.”
He moved off her and sat cross-legged again. “The reception will be formal. The red gown you wore the evening we first met would be fine.”
“I use all special occasions as an excuse to spend money. I’ll surprise you.”
A soft knock on the door interrupted. She scrambled for her robe and fled to the bathroom. Jean Paul let the serving man in. She waited in the bathroom until the food had been laid out, the man tipped and the door closed.
They sat at the table. Jean Paul poured the wine, Zellarschwartzekatz. The chicken, spiced with dill, was cooked to tender perfection.
“I also have some bad news, at least for us,” he said, buttering a roll. “Peter and I have been invited by Helmut Hass to be houseguests for a week in August. He has a secluded home seventy miles outside Munich. He wants to discuss strategy for my campaign and for Earth Alliance. He insists there be no distractions, so I won’t be taking Ilse. So, it certainly wouldn’t be wise to take you, either.”
Using a sip of the wine, she calmly washed down the bite of roll suddenly jammed in her throat. No way was Jean Paul going to get out of her sight for an entire week. “How can you leave the campaign—and me—for a week?”
“Because he has asked me. He is a critical supporter. I simply can’t say no. Peter agrees we are early enough in the campaign that my being away will pose no problem.”
“Jean Paul—”
“Actually, this invitation is an honor. Helmut’s home is beautiful. He’s entertained some of the most important people in the world, Nova. EC leaders, United Nations representatives, any number of your own legislators and media executives. And he argued, perhaps correctly, that I could use some relaxation.”
But Jean Paul thrived on a schedule that would kill an ordinary man. There had to be more here. And the Company knew nothing about any connection between this man and Jean Paul.
“A week is too much, Jean Paul. Please.”
He placed his fork on his plate and seemed to shrink two inches. “I don’t want to be away from you. I did suggest that two or three days would be better. But Hass insisted. And frankly, when I tried to back out, Peter very nearly had a heart attack.”
“Then take me, too.”
He shook his head. “We can’t successfully use your work on the campaign as a cover for our affair in the man’s own home. He will know, Nova.”
A prickling fear swept under her skin. The stakes in this mission of seduction had suddenly skyrocketed. She couldn’t let him be away from her that long. She had to push. That was her duty.
“If you truly love me,” she said, “and we’re going to be together after the campaign, you may as well tell him the truth now. Tell him you feel you must be honest because you respect him. You’re a great persuader. You can make him understand.”
The blue eyes fixed on hers. “I love you. More than my life.”
Did he mean it? Every fiber of her being told her he meant it, but he was undeniably a very great persuader. But so was she. “And I love you.”
Chapter 16
Munich
The Mercedes-Benz taxi wove its way along Königin-strasse with the English Garden on their right. Nova’s attention wandered to the filigreed beauty of streetlight flooding through the shadowy trees. She and Cardone had spent days preparing for this evening, and in a few minutes, when they arrived at the Wagners’ home, she would face high stress again. The taxi passed the American consulate and turned into a neighborhood of stately old mansions.
The mid-July summit on deforestation had occurred and the votes had not gone as The Founder had ordered. Nova stewed, every minute, in a kind of slow agony. Any show of frivolity or gaiety, especially with Jean Paul, required impressive acting. A punishment for the “incorrect vote” would soon fall, and once again Nova could do nothing.
Worst of all, Peter Grund was dead set against her going to Hass’s Bavarian home. So far, none of her arguments had moved Jean Paul.
The cabbie swung right into a drive. Two armed guards stood at a wrought-iron gate. The German chancellor was expected to attend the reception, which explained the heavy-duty security. She and Joe showed invitations; the guards waved the taxi through.
Manfred Wagner’s home was a two-story affair crafted from gray stone blocks. Light flooded into the darkness from all the downstairs windows. The front sat back a hundred feet from a ten-foot wall that separated the spacious grounds from the public world, and old oaks gave the mansion shelter from the street traffic.
Joe paid the fare. A breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees. The August evening lingered softly on her shoulders, left bare by the low cut of the white silk gown, a body-hugging eye-catcher slit to the knee on one side.
Cardone took her arm, gave her a conspiratorial smile, and they proceeded up the steps. Two more guards waited, one with a hand-held metal detector. She opened her small evening bag for inspection. Joe fetched out then retrieved the contents of his pockets. They passed the scrutiny of the metal detector, innocent as lambs when it came to any heavy metal. She carried only a small tape recorder designed to function as a pen. Joe’s miniature camera was built into a pocket currency converter.
Their host and hostess waited not far inside. After the customary exchange of pleasantries, Manfred Wagner introduced them to the next arriving couple.
Wealth was on display everywhere: from chandeliers to vases to rugs to furniture. Two spectacular bird paintings faced each other on the foyer walls. Manfred Wagner, the house said, was a very wealthy man.
Cardone’s target was Ilse König. Jean Paul’s wife rarely attended public functions, preferring an exceptionally private life revolving around her children, her show horses and select friends. The evening offered an uncommon opportunity to question her. Having danced with her once before, Cardone would start from that shared encounter. Nova would chat with Manfred Wagner and meet Helmut Hass.
This morning Jean Paul had assured her that Hass spoke English, which of course she already knew. “You’re going to be very surprised,” he’d also said. She knew Jean Paul expected her to be surprised that Hass was an albino.
The foyer bisected the house and ran straight from the entry to a stairway that offered curved steps, left and right, to the second floor. The light e
legance of Mozart reached them from somewhere at the other end of the mansion. She said, “Let’s find a drink.”
Cardone steered her toward the dining room, detouring them deftly around the chatting social clusters of elegantly dressed people. She forced herself to smile at Peter Grund and his wife. While the bartender poured their drinks, she searched for Jean Paul. Cupid had provided a sketch of the house interior layout with details of the ground floor, but a smart spy always does her own verification. “Let’s do a little on-site recon before we split up,” she suggested.
“Roger that.”
She led and they backtracked. Directly across the foyer lay the living room, also packed with people. The music grew louder. Still no Jean Paul or Ilsa.
Beyond, at the far end of the east wing, lay a room with a curved and glassed-in outer wall. An honest-to-god music room. A gilded baby-grand piano, looking very Louis XV, graced one end. In a semicircle sat the tuxedo-clad string quartet now playing Handel’s Water Music.
Further along, the hall spilled into a long, narrow room, also filled with people. Jean Paul dominated its center. With him were the German chancellor, Wilhelm Gottfried, Earth Alliance’s Detlev Kleitman and a tall, pale man with white hair. Surely, Hass.
Cardone gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll keep looking for the missus.” He drifted away.
Jean Paul should pick the time and circumstances for introductions. To occupy herself, Nova studied the room. More bird paintings covered its walls. Hung nearest to her was a brilliant cluster of six small works. The birds’ iridescent feathers leaped off the canvas: blues, greens, yellows and reds. She leaned in close. A David Andrews had done the little beauties.
She checked Jean Paul again. He smiled and he beckoned. She straightened her shoulders. Things were about to get interesting.
The chancellor was speaking in German. This short man with the world-famous bulbous nose radiated sincerity. Even in an age of the television image, power still sometimes came in small, odd packages. “My visit to Prague is coming up soon, Detlev,” the chancellor said. “I am quite sure a meeting with at least one environmental delegation has been scheduled. But check with my office.” His eyes swiveled to Nova.
Jean Paul spoke in English. “Nova Blair, I would like you to meet several gentlemen. Gentlemen, Miss Blair is a photographer. You may have seen some of her work on our campaign recently in Der Stern.”
She shifted her drink to her left hand.
Jean Paul looked first to Wilhelm Gottfried. “Chancellor Gottfried.”
The chancellor peered at her over his famous glasses and nose. “My pleasure, Miss Blair. I hope you are enjoying Bavarian hospitality and Germany in general.”
“Thoroughly, Mr. Chancellor.”
After lifting her hand to deliver a continental kiss, he said, “It is a quite uncommon first name, is it not? Nova?”
“Yes. I think so.”
The chancellor swept his eyes around their circle and said, “You must excuse me. I’m afraid I have another engagement and I ought to speak to our hostess.” He warmed Nova with another smile. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Nova Blair.”
The men nodded an acknowledgment and the chancellor headed for the foyer. Two heavies wearing earpieces unstuck themselves from the wall to follow him.
Jean Paul completed the introductions. “Of course you have already met Detlev Kleitman.” Kleitman nodded but did not extend his hand.
“And this is Helmut Hass, a highly valued friend.”
The albino extended his hand. His black tuxedo underscored his pale skin. He was attractive: his face had good strong lines and his starkly white hair waved back from a tall forehead. Nevertheless, she felt a cold shock wave come off the tall, spindly figure. He didn’t seem real, but from another species. A white praying mantis.
“Delighted to meet such a lovely woman,” Hass said. A cold blue-and-pink gaze seemed to slice under her skin. “Jean Paul tells me you and your partner will be doing an article on the Earth Alliance. I applaud your efforts.”
As the four of them exchanged pleasantries, she couldn’t help thinking that the oddly attractive albino certainly bore an unfortunate name. After all, in German the word “hass” meant hate.
Finally the White Praying Mantis said, “Please excuse me. I should talk with several other people whom I will not see again for some months. I shall look forward to seeing you and Peter in Bavaria, Jean Paul.” He nodded his head on his slender neck, then, accompanied by Detlev Kleitman, moved with giraffe-like grace to a group standing near the door leading into the foyer.
I absolutely must go with Jean Paul to Hass’s home, she decided.
According to Cupid, Hass was an extremely wealthy pharmaceutical manufacturer who was, in most respects, a recluse. Not that he didn’t come out of his big complex in the countryside now and then.
Suddenly Jean Paul bent close. “You are especially lovely this evening,” he said. “And the dress—extraordinaire.”
“Be careful, Jean Paul. We shouldn’t even be seen standing here alone. Go on and socialize. I’ll have you to myself later.”
She started to move away. He caught her arm. “Wait. You always have a pen. I need to borrow it.” He took her evening bag and opened it. “And the notepad, too? I’ll have them back to you within the hour.”
Her fingers itched to snatch the pen, an act tantamount to announcing she had something to hide. She hesitated, momentarily paralyzed. He didn’t wait for her reply, just smiled and squeezed her arm as he returned her bag then turned to the man behind him, a face she didn’t recognize. To cover her confusion, she headed for the foyer, passing Kleitman and Hass and two others.
Just outside the “bird room” door, a florid-faced young man intercepted her, saying in German, “Please, do you have the time?”
She shook her head. “Keine Deutsch,” she replied in a dreadful accent.
“Excuse me,” he said, again in German, then disappeared into the room behind her.
Wyczek came down the hall. He, too, nodded but didn’t smile as he passed and followed the young man into the bird room. She heard his rough voice say, “Excuse me, sir. The meeting will be in fifteen minutes. In the library.”
A meeting? Jean Paul hadn’t mentioned a meeting. Maybe that’s why he’d wanted the pen and pad. Certainly the potential for something significant was great because most of these people were Earth Alliance supporters, from all over Germany. Her favorite suspect, Grund, was even here.
The reception provided perfect cover for an insider get-together. She flicked open her evening bag and checked her watch. Ten-thirty.
She stared at the open bag, now bereft of the tape recorder disguised as pen. This could be a tremendous opportunity. She snapped the bag closed.
Wyczek had said “the library.” The library was somewhere on the second floor. The stairway lay to her right. Maybe she could retrieve the pen and plant it. She glanced back into the room, searching for either Jean Paul or Cardone. She found neither. Wyczek had said “fifteen minutes.” Time was short. She should try to find the library.
She sat her glass on a credenza, lifted the hem of her gown and climbed the staircase, affecting an “I know what I’m doing” air. A wide hallway bisected the upstairs. Nova opened the door to the first room on the northwest side. “Just admiring the decor,” she’d claim if someone caught her. The room was dark. She flicked on the light. An unoccupied guest bedroom. She flicked the light off and moved on.
Next, a bathroom connecting the first room with another bedroom. The last room was yet another, smaller bedroom. At its far end she glimpsed a door opening into another bathroom. Definitely not a library.
She turned to the other side of the hall. Two floor lamps lit the room in the southwest corner with warm light. One mullioned window of four panels would let in daylight. In the room’s center two rectangular tables sat parallel to each other with four chairs around them, and the walls had hundreds of built-in drawers reminiscent of map
cases. A strange room, with a slightly oily petroleum smell. But still no library.
The next room she hit paydirt. Bookcases lined three of the walls. On the fourth were two four-paneled windows. On the room’s left side was a mahogany partner’s desk and in the room’s center were four wing-backed chairs surrounding a coffee table. Side chairs stood in the corners.
The room provided no place to hide. She checked the hall again. No one. No sounds. She entered, closed the door and ran to the windows. They were shut.
They appeared to be of the same age as the house, but weren’t. The mansion had been remodeled: the windows were double-paned thermal glass. The panels opened outward with a crank. Outside and slightly below the window ran a narrow ledge.
I just might be able to do it.
She unlatched the window panel farthest to the right and cranked it slightly open, then scurried back to the door. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door boldly, and stepped into the hall. Still deserted.
She sprinted back to the odd little room and shut the door behind her. The door had a lock. She snapped it closed.
She turned toward the windows. If she turned the lights off, one of the guards at the front door or gate might notice. On the other hand, leave them on and she could be seen at the window and would have to abandon her plan. With no further hesitation, she clicked off the floor lamps, hurried to the window, unlocked it and cranked open the far left pane. The window swung out to the left, so even if she were to climb onto the ledge, she was going to have to close the pane almost shut again to maneuver past it.
She looked for the guards. They were gone, presumably with the chancellor.
She checked the ledge again and cold fingers tightened on her stomach. The ledge wasn’t more than eight or nine inches wide. Leaning out she could see that about twenty-five feet to her left, light from the library flooded into the darkness. But three-quarters of the way to the library window, a decorative granite slab protruded outward several inches from the building face. I’d have to work around it.
