12 Drummers Drumming

by Diana Deverell

  Erika said, “I’m sure you can find a way.”

  Van Hoof’s voice was full of regret. “The combination of money and a safe haven in America has likely become most attractive to Krüger.”

  “No one else can make him the appropriate offer,” Erika said. “For that, we need you.”

  “All I want to do is clear my name and go home,” I said. “I’m not going to try to deal with Major Reinhardt Krüger. I’d go to hell first.”

  But, of course, hell was where I’d ended up.

  14

  The altar candles wavered. Cold air moved across my face, the room so vast it had its own wind currents, unrelated to any predawn breezes swirling about beyond the stone walls. Unrepentant and nonconfessing, I lurked in a side chapel of the largest Gothic church in the Low Countries, waiting to keep the bargain I’d struck with Erika and van Hoof. Waiting for Stefan to give me his reading on what was happening.

  Never mind the Herculean efforts they’d both expended to keep me and Stefan apart. They were so desperate to overcome my objections, they’d decided to hazard our meeting.

  Their idea, not mine. I’d told them further talk was futile. Sure, I wanted to prevent the next bombing. I wanted that information as much as van Hoof and Erika did. But I couldn’t get it. I’d played the deal-maker to draw Krüger’s attention away from Stefan. I’d hoped to come out of it with enough hard information to clear my name with the FBI. It hadn’t worked out that way. There was nothing more I could do to help them.

  But van Hoof and Erika insisted on the meet with Stefan. I didn’t know why they thought he’d aid their cause. He’d been adamantly opposed to my involvement earlier. Yet Erika had huddled with van Hoof, and finally they demanded I listen to Stefan’s version of events.

  I didn’t know how to refuse. I didn’t want to see him. I’d thought that he was dead. And then, after eight days, he reappeared, still alive. He’d carefully avoided explaining where he’d been for a week and a day. I hadn’t asked. Why make him tell me he’d gone to Erika? Stefan and I never voiced promises of sexual fidelity to each other. But like a thousand foolish humans before me, I’d assumed that because I had no other lovers, neither did he.

  I’d trusted him and he’d broken the faith with casual indifference. I felt like I was bleeding inside, pain threatening to overwhelm me. Seeing Stefan again could only make it worse.

  But I couldn’t use that excuse. Not to Erika, not to anyone. I had to go.

  At five, I’d left the café and cut through the red-light district. I saw no one following me. It could be true, that Krüger had called off the surveillance.

  I avoided the ruins of The 21 Club, but from three blocks away the smell of damp ashes was strong. The streets were littered with firecracker debris.

  By five-thirty, I was beneath the soaring spire of Onze Lieve-Vrouwe Kerk, Church of Our Lady, the site of worshipful construction, fiery devastation, opulent restoration and furious iconoclastic plundering since 1352. It was still so dark, I had difficulty spotting the wasplike tail of a battered Vespa a hundred feet to the right of the entrance.

  Indoors, I stood in the side chapel, inhaling air made oily by the combination of cool moisture and dust. Next to me was a stained-glass rendering of the Last Supper. I thought of what had followed. The thin-lipped farewell kiss, the thirty pieces of silver. Easy betrayal. As old as time. The shimmering glass became a smear of murky colors, like a blurred memory.

  I turned my back on it. I couldn’t let myself wallow in self-pity. Stefan was one of my passions. I was also committed to preventing horrors like the explosion of Global Flight 500. I wouldn’t have been drawn to him so forcefully if we hadn’t shared that passion. Whatever else Erika might be to Stefan, she’d been crucial to continuing his mission. He needed her help to stop the terrorists from blowing up a second plane. And much as I disliked her, I no longer doubted she shared that goal.

  Through Erika, Stefan had found van Hoof, a man with a most personal reason for joining them. They’d defined a common interest in Reinhardt Krüger, the former major in the East German Stasi who’d put a price on Stefan’s head. Krüger was our target. I had to focus on getting information out of him.

  I turned to survey the room again. A rumpled figure stepped out from behind the pulpit, neck craned as though to study the ornate carving. Startled, I caught my breath. A shaft of light touched her hair then, and I saw Danièle’s trademark ducktail. Good. Erika’s team was in place. I checked my watch. Five forty-five. I tucked my chin into my collar and tried to look devout as I moved slowly past the choir stalls and slipped into the confessional. I leaned closer to the square opening in the partition and began, “Bless me Father—”

  “Sto lat,” Stefan’s voice interrupted. May you live a hundred years. New Year’s greeting in Polish, the language he murmured when we made love.

  A tremor went through me. I’d break down if I let those memories surface. I said quickly, “Godt Nytaar.” Happy New Year, in Danish. The language Stefan spoke on the job. Strictly business. That was the only way I’d get through this. I added, “Van Hoof wants me to go talk to Krüger.”

  “No. I told Hans. You have too little experience in the field. It’s far too dangerous for you. But you told him the same thing.”

  No. I hadn’t stressed danger. I’d said I had too little chance of success. But it wasn’t worth debating. “How much time do we have before the next bomb?” I asked.

  “I estimate no more than a week.”

  A week. Not enough time to get another agent in place. It had to be one of us. “So who does that leave? Van Hoof?”

  Stefan muttered a negative. “He would have been the logical choice. But not now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too unstable.”

  My mind again flashed the image of Erika consoling van Hoof earlier. “Has something happened?”

  “His wife died yesterday morning.”

  “Died? How?”

  “Drug overdose.”

  “Suicide?”

  Stefan grunted.

  I rubbed my palm across my scalp, the bristles still sharp against my skin. “Did she leave a note?”

  “Yes. Her daughter a withering shell. Her husband obsessed. Her life unbearable. What you might expect.”

  I imagined a young woman comatose, wasting away. I shuddered. “My God . . .”

  “Yes. We cannot use him for this.”

  I stared at the opening in the partition between me and Stefan. All I could see was the rough black sleeve of a cassock. “Erika thinks Krüger is eager to hear about a safe haven.”

  “I’m sure he’s more than eager. That news photo was published widely in November. Eventually someone else will recognize his face in it. The Germans are prosecuting several men who committed similar crimes. And besides . . .”

  His voice trailed off. Another secret he didn’t want to reveal?

  “And besides what?” I asked. “Is there more I need to know about Krüger?”

  “The Israelis have also discovered Gunter Storch’s true identity. The man must find a refuge. Yesterday, the Mossad nearly caught up with him.”

  How had he learned so quickly what the Israelis had attempted? Easy. He’d spoken with one. Erika.

  Suddenly, it was so obvious. Daughter of a diamond merchant. And Antwerp’s diamond market was controlled by Jews. Recruitment of local Jewish citizens was standard practice for Israeli intelligence. They’d found Erika. She’d identified van Hoof as someone useful. Then she’d played on his feelings for his daughter, to gain his trust. I remembered van Hoof’s haggard face, Erika’s solicitous posture. Now I understood why that scene had made me think of my father, why it had brought back the misery of loss. I’d stood in the identical position Erika had taken with van Hoof, consoling my father after my mother’s death. Somehow, Erika had replaced van Hoof’s daughter in his affections. I remembered my outraged reaction when I’d seen them together. As if Erika had stolen my father from me.


  So cold-blooded, using that ploy to draw van Hoof into an Israeli scheme. I let my disgust color my voice. “She told van Hoof she’d survived a terrorist attack on Jewish children. She said she lost her sister.”

  “She did. And as soon as she turned eighteen, she offered her services to the Israelis. They saw at once the value of grooming her to infiltrate the illegal weapons traffic in Antwerp.”

  “I thought you disliked cooperating with the Israelis. You told me the Mossad uses everyone and everything it can for its own purposes. I agreed with you, remember?”

  He said, “You’re suggesting they will use Erika to exploit us all?”

  “Doesn’t that seem likely?” I asked. “You told me what the Israelis call the Danish Defense Intelligence Service. Fertsalach. ‘Little fart’ in Hebrew. You help them and they mock you for being an easy mark.”

  “But we want them to underestimate us. Just as we want them to believe that Erika is loyal to them.”

  Skepticism made my tone acid. “She’s not?”

  “She has found that her interests coincide more closely with ours.”

  Did he believe that? I said, “Then why not use her? Obviously she communicates often with Krüger. She’s confident of her attraction for men. Surely Krüger could be persuaded to meet with her.”

  “Perhaps. But Erika has no experience with interrogation. On her own, she could not extract the information we need.”

  On her own. Something quivered in the pit of my stomach. Whoever went after Krüger would be working alone. He’d been attacked. He’d avoid any situation which made him vulnerable. There’d be no opportunity to burst in and take him prisoner. I said, “He has to be drawn off his turf, away from his protection.”

  “And Erika has no credible way to do that.”

  “She can’t offer what he’s interested in—money and a safe haven in the U.S.” I shook my head. “You can’t use Erika. Van Hoof is sidelined. Has Holger got anyone you can use?”

  “Other than me? No.”

  “And you can’t do it. You’re completely blown as far as Krüger goes.” Then, the finality in his tone got through to me. “But you’ll try anyway.”

  Beyond the opening the sleeve moved, but he said nothing. Now I knew why he’d been terse and secretive. He had his own plan and he didn’t want me to challenge it. He was out of luck there. “Mr. Noble Hero going to His Death.” I got louder—I couldn’t help it. “What, you’re so good, you can get Krüger alone, make him talk? Forget that. I can find out more about the next bombing than you can.”

  His retort was swift. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Offering him resettlement in the U.S. is a better plan. I can make that offer.”

  “You can’t deceive a man like him,” Stefan said.

  “Deception was exactly what I did in Poland. You described me as ‘a natural.’ ”

  “You were working with me. That will not be the case this time.”

  “I’ll have Erika and her pals. And there’s Bert and van Hoof.”

  His silent pause stretched to thirty seconds. At last he said, “But at some point you’ll be alone with Krüger and his bodyguards.”

  I shivered, suddenly chilled. On my own. I wrapped my arms around my body and willed the fear out of my voice. “Better me than you. Krüger never put a contract out on my life.”

  His voice grew more intense. “The whole thing may be only a bluff. He’ll put you in danger, expecting that then I’ll come to your aid.”

  A needy voice inside me cried out, And would you come? I spoke louder to drown it out. “Then how can it possibly be better for you to attempt this on your own? I have to take that chance.”

  He spoke without pause now. “You can’t communicate with your own government. How will you convince anyone you can keep your side of the bargain?”

  “I’ve got friends I trust. Harry Martin, for one. He’s good and he’s quick. We’ll have to find a surreptitious way to contact him. But he’ll do it. He’ll make it work.”

  “Suddenly you have a solution for every problem.” His words came out clipped. “You came here determined to do this.”

  He was right. I hadn’t realized it. But on some subconscious level, I’d figured it out. Lousy as my odds were, they were the best odds anyone was going to get. I was the only one who could get close enough to Krüger to find out what he was planning. And I had another, more personal reason.

  “I told you I wanted to go home. But you’ve done nothing to help me clear my name. It’s all up to me.” I was breathing too fast. I forced myself to slow down. “What makes my offer to Krüger so compelling is that there’s so much truth in it. I am wanted by the FBI. My career is ruined—unless I can pull off something of this magnitude. If I want to stay out of jail, I have to make sure that next bomb never goes off.”

  “Foiling a single plot won’t clear your name.”

  “No?”

  “You must bring the man out, to people who can force from him all of the information he’s got.”

  “Well, of course that’s the plan—”

  “One far too difficult for you to execute with the resources available.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “Never. I have never underestimated you.”

  “Erika and van Hoof think it can be done.”

  He swore, a Polish curse ringing with vengeful malediction. “They don’t understand what they’re asking you to do.”

  “And you do?”

  For the next few seconds it was silent in the booth. “He murdered my informant.”

  “His right-hand man, I take it.”

  “And his oldest friend since earliest childhood.” Stefan’s voice was so tight the words fell between us like stones. “He killed him without hesitation.”

  My mouth was dry. I forced myself to speak. “This is business. I’ll make it work.”

  “Maybe you are more eager to take this monumental risk because I am so unequivocally opposed to your doing so.”

  “That would be childish of me.”

  “Perhaps you are too angry with me to hear the truth in my words.”

  I wasn’t going to listen to what he seemed ready to admit. I understood now why Erika had sent me to Stefan. She wanted me to know that if I didn’t go after Krüger, Stefan would. She’d accurately guessed how I’d react. Known me better than Stefan seemed to. He wanted to talk about why I was angry with him. As if telling me that he and Erika were lovers would stop me. As if then I’d refuse to save his damn life.

  Standing, I said, “Being angry with you has nothing to do with my decision. Going to Krüger isn’t some kind of payback. I’m the only person who can do the job.” I turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Stefan said, his tone urgent. “There’s something I must tell you. You have to know about me and—”

  “No,” I said, cutting him off as I moved away from the sound of his voice. “Not now. I won’t hear your confession.” And then I was out of the booth, hurrying toward the exit, trying to outrun my pain.

  15

  It took two precious days to set things up the way I wanted. Erika did her part swiftly. Within hours we knew that Reinhardt Krüger was willing to meet me on the southern outskirts of Berlin at an undisclosed location—I wouldn’t learn the specifics until after I’d begun traveling toward him.

  Van Hoof and Bert left Antwerp immediately so they could work out of our new headquarters in Berlin. Erika and I remained in Belgium until Friday afternoon, hammering the last crucial nail into our carefully constructed plan.

  Reinhardt Krüger was no amateur. He’d situated our meeting on his turf, building in safeguards along the way that gave him all the advantage. He expected deception and he was ready to expose it. Our negotiations had to be as real as I could make them. I had to have somebody working for me Stateside.

  My first choice for that role was Harry Martin. His State Department job in INR gave him all the right connections. Plus, we’d been friends ever since we fi
rst served together in San Salvador. He wouldn’t automatically turn me in to the FBI— not without first hearing me out. But that had to be done in person and in Europe. I’d need to push all of Harry’s hot buttons if I wanted him to imperil his career to save mine. If I couldn’t convince Harry to play by our rules, we’d bench him until the game was over. I wasn’t giving another of my old pals the chance to do an end run around me.

  Erika knew instantly how to proceed. We’d go through Holger Sorensen, of course. She said she could communicate with him securely and we wouldn’t have to waste time briefing him on our activities.

  I agreed immediately, as if I weren’t surprised to learn that someone in Antwerp was transmitting regular reports to Holger. I hadn’t guessed that he was involved in this operation. Heavily involved, I realized after Erika had edited my message down to one cryptic sentence: Bring Harry Martin to Berlin ASAP.

  According to Erika, her Mossad connections delivered my message to Holger Sorensen at noon. Within four hours we had confirmation back: We will join you no later than 0800 on 3 January.

  Erika and I left for Berlin, driving the Jetta in shifts through the night. She didn’t need a false passport for this part of the operation. The businesswoman Erika Berger could travel openly in Germany whenever she pleased. Kathryn Collins was not as fortunate, so I used Fräulein Keck’s identity to register at an anonymous Novotel a block from Tegel Airport. Slept, washed and waited in my room for Holger and Harry.

  Holger was as efficient as Erika. Late on New Year’s Day, Harry received a telegram purporting to be from a contact he’d cultivated when based in Spain. As requested, Harry rushed to Málaga, where Holger shanghaied him onto a Danair charter returning holiday revelers to Berlin after package tours along the Costa del Sol. They checked into the hotel early Sunday morning, the third of January.

  Holger conferred hurriedly with me. Then we confronted Harry in his room. I spoke first, laying out what I wanted him to do.