The Schliemann Legacy (12 page)

Chapter 13 - NEWS FROM MUNICH

Duman cursed at the television and turned up the sound. The German satellite news report was about a bizarre murder in Munich. A maid had discovered a body in a hotel room. Someone had snapped the man's neck. Although the police had not yet identified the corpse, Duman recognized the description of the small man and immediately made several calls to Germany.

His suspicions were confirmed. The Mouse had not been seen. Contacts in the police department itself said they were still searching for the woman who had been occupying the room. Their leads were few and they feared she had fled the country. The description of the unknown woman left no doubt in Duman's mind; Katrina Kontoravdis and the mystery woman were the same.

Obviously, he thought, the Greek agent was better than he had anticipated. To have broken the Mouse's neck was a surprising feat. Duman knew he should have killed the Greek himself and vowed not pass up the next opportunity. Next time, he told himself, he would not underestimate the woman.

The pledge did little to quell the terrorist's anger at his own miscalculation. He arranged to have a man watch all flights arriving from Germany. The police might not know where she was, but Duman was sure the Greek would waste no time leaving Germany. She would eventually appear in Colombia and he would be waiting. As soon as possible, he also took up a position in the parking lot opposite the airport entrance.

When the Greek walked out of the terminal a short time later, Duman crouched down in his car and watched her. She was even more beautiful in person than in her photograph. She moved across the sidewalk with a dancer's grace and confidence. He could imagine her tall, well proportioned body engaged in the deadly battle with the Mouse. Duman thought it almost sad to destroy something that added such beauty to the world, especially without the opportunity to taste her delights. However, he took more pleasure in the act of killing than any act of sex.

She walked straight to a taxi and Duman started to straighten up behind the steering wheel. He stopped short when he saw a man slip out of the terminal after her. For a moment, he could not believe whom he was seeing, but his mind reluctantly accepted the truth. The man was grayer, older, but the same man.
The
man. Unexpectedly, the Mouse's failure thrilled the terrorist.

Duman watched as David Morritt climbed into the taxi behind the Greek's. Still reeling from the apparition, Duman pulled out of the parking lot, keeping several cars between himself and the taxis ahead of him. He followed them to the Bacata hotel and made certain his operative was in position. Then, he turned the car around and hurried back to the airport.

Duman could not believe his luck. At the time of their meeting, he had been sure Mardinaud was withholding information. While tossing in the tidbit of the Greek, the Frenchman had not mentioned the Mossad. Duman should have expected Israel's involvement, considering Kadner's past. Still, even if Henri had told him of the Jews, Duman would not have expected David Morritt.

For years, the terrorist's life had been tied to the Mossad agent's. Either Morritt had been frustrating him or Duman had been trying to eliminate the agent. The Israelis, particularly Morritt, were responsible for thwarting several of Duman's important operations. The stubborn Jew foolishly viewed all terrorist acts as equal, Duman thought. Morritt did not understand that, unlike the Arabs and their Jihad, Duman labored for the good of all people. The killing done in his name would benefit everyone.

As far as Duman knew, David Morritt had retired years ago. The Jew was well over fifty. Too old to be in the field, Morritt should have given up years ago and stayed in Israel. Duman promised himself to teach the Jew not to allow an over inflated ego to cloud better judgment. In one fell swoop, he would kill his two birds.

And Henri Mardinaud, Duman thought as he sat down in the airport waiting area. He should have told him about the Israelis and David Morritt. The Frenchman would regret that minor omission. Though not a mistake worthy of death, Duman would consider breaking the man's jaw. Duman grinned at the thought of the huge man with his gluttonous mouth wired shut. Drinking his dinners through a straw was just the diet the obscene man needed.

* * * * *

An announcement erupted from the crackling speaker and Duman turned toward the arrival gate to watch the passengers arriving on the flight from Miami. He compared the small picture in his hand to one of the female passengers and smiled.

The young blonde clad in a T shirt and unbelievably tight jeans stood in line waiting to go through customs. In the chill of the air-conditioned terminal, Duman could see her large nipples protruding through the thin material of her top. Her intricately strapped sandals with their two inch heels accented her shapely legs that met in a fleshy, inverted "V" between her thighs. Turning to face the customs worker, she presented a profile that was as impressive as the front view. Her pert, round ass stuck out invitingly and balanced the firm breasts bulging in front. Straightening the tie of his immaculate white suit, Duman rose to his full six feet one inch and walked toward her.

He stood half-hidden behind a pillar, listening as she used her abundant charms on the customs official. The overwhelmed man returned her stamped passport without searching her luggage and with only a cursory look at her papers. She gave him a devastating smile of thanks, then turned and dragged her large suitcase across the tiled floor while she struggled with her carry on and purse. Duman fell in step behind the girl. A young man she had graced with a glance started to help her but disappeared after taking one look at Duman's cold eyes. Sensing someone behind her, Helene angrily whirled to face him.

"Please, allow me." Duman reached down and grasped the handle of her large bag, his hand gently covering hers.

Helene stared at him, her anger replaced with blatant interest. She looked longingly, without shame, into the deep blue eyes of the most debonair man she thought she had ever seen.

Duman returned the stare. Her tanned skin was smooth and her freckled, pug nose gave her the look of a little girl. A look that belied the body beneath. The overdone makeup of the file picture was gone, replaced by a sexier, more mature application.

She smiled, showing even white teeth. Never had Duman experienced such a combination of innocence and brazen lust in a single smile. He wondered how long she had practiced the look, and how many unsuspecting men - and women, apparently - had fallen prey to it.

"That would be very kind," she said, slipping her hand from under his. "Thank you. My name is Helene Kadner."

"Richard Wakefield," he replied in his cultured British accent. "Are you going into the city?"

"Yes, I am. Would you care to share a taxi?"

"I have a car. May I drive you in?"

"Please."

Duman motioned toward the door. "After you," he said.

Helene nervously scanned the area as they stepped onto the sidewalk and he led her to his car. She glanced over her shoulder before getting in.

As soon as she sat in the car, Helene removed her sandals and slumped in the passenger seat with her bare feet on the dashboard. As she flexed her tiny toes, Duman pulled out of the parking area, silently blessing Mardinaud for his information about the horny young girl. An animated speaker, she was also a toucher. She emphasized every sentence by placing her hand on Duman's leg and giving him a sensuous squeeze. As they drove into Bogotá, her hand moved farther up his leg. The gentle touch had the desired effect as he felt himself becoming aroused.

Halfway through the trip, she complained about being hot. Duman turned up the ineffective air conditioning, but she was not satisfied. She reached into her bag in the back seat and pulled out a pair of cutoff shorts.

"Do you want me to pull over?" he asked.

"Don't be silly."

With that, she wiggled and squirmed out of her tight jeans and directed the air conditioner vent between her legs. Duman could see the tuft of blonde hair crushed beneath the lace of her bikini panties. Then she pulled the cutoffs up, glancing slyly at him. "Eyes on the road. You can look at me later," she promised.

Duman allowed himself to be seduced. He talked sparingly of himself, claiming to be on a business trip from London. Helene, on the other hand, kept up a steady stream of chatter, mostly about herself.

"I was due to arrive in another day. At least, that's what my grandfather thinks. He'd never let me to stay in the city alone. He's a strict old bastard. Thinks I can't look after myself. He always sends Viktor, his main asshole, to look after me. When you came up behind me in the airport, that's who I thought you were - Viktor, I mean. My grandfather still thinks I'm a child. You don't think I'm a child, do you?"

Almost breathless from listening, Duman replied slowly. "Not at all. In fact, you strike me as a very mature woman. I would trust your judgment."

Helene cooed her thanks and ran her fingers down the crease between his thigh and groin. As he turned into the driveway of the Bogotá Hilton, she pulled her hand away and sat up straight in the seat. "You're staying here?" she asked.

"I always stay here. Do you want to have a dinner with me?"

"I'll have to change first." Helene looked down at her T shirt and cutoffs, wishing she had worn something more dignified. "Can I use your room?"

"Of course."

"For as long as I want?" she asked, smiling her sweetly lustful smile.

* * * * *

An hour later, they sat close together at a booth in the hotel restaurant. Helene had changed into an off the shoulder red dress that fell in ruffles to just above the knees. A lace crinoline, the latest style at her school, finished the effect. In a sudden burst of modesty, she had not allowed Duman to watch her change. He had used the time to check the hiding places of the weapons he had purchased earlier. As Duman finished a cryptic telephone call, Helene proudly presented herself. She twirled to flare the skirt, reminding Duman of a child dressing for her first day at school. They had left for dinner hand in hand.

During the meal, Helene chewed each mouthful sensuously. They talked little and looked down at the swimmers through the glass roof of the pool. A tropical conservatory surrounded the clear water. Beautiful men and women in colorful bathing suits lounged in the green jungle terrain or dove into the warm water.

Duman refilled his wineglass and turned to Helene. She stroked the gray at his temples. Though Richard Wakefield, supposedly a man in his late twenties, was not gray in his passport picture, Helene's file had told of her penchant for older men. Duman was now an indistinguishable thirty to forty years old.

"Would you like to have dessert sent to the room?" Helene asked with a hopeful look on her face.

Duman considered his schedule. He had already contacted the man watching the Greek. According to the latest report, Katrina Kontoravdis had settled for the night at the Bacata. Morritt was not at the hotel. The Jew's absence meant that Kontoravdis would not move until morning. Duman knew Morritt did not make mistakes in surveillance. He was confident he had time to solidify his relationship with the girl before the Greek left for Kadner's compound.

At a wave from Helene, their waiter approached the table. "Would you care for dessert?"

Duman nodded and Helene turned to the waiter. "Please have whipped cream, honey, chocolate sauce, marshmallow sauce, and cherries sent to Suite 1470."

"The makings for the ice cream sundae. And the flavors of ice cream?" asked the waiter.

"No ice cream," she said firmly.

The waiter allowed himself the slightest raised eyebrow at Duman before turning away.

* * * * *

"Come in. Come in, my dear Martin. A glorious day."

Martin Erhart looked past Henri Mardinaud to the window of the hotel suite. A cold rain swept across Munich, as it had for the past day. Nothing about the day was glorious.

Mardinaud saw his assistant's doubtful look. "Ignore the weather," the fat man said. "The rain is not important. True happiness comes from the heart, not the weather."

Erhart handed him a file folder. Mardinaud set the papers aside without looking at them. "Talk to me, Martin. I want to the words. Let the joyous news tickle my ears with delight. Tell me, how fare my players across the sea?"

"They have all arrived in Bogotá, Monsieur."

"So bland, Martin. Give me details. Give me nuances. Paint portraits with your words. Explain the fears and doubts of the players. It is all so exciting. Speak to me of my young lady. She has arrived in Bogotá after her daring brush with death?"

"Duman's operative was unsuccessful," Martin said.

Henri ignored his assistant's displeasure, taking his words as an amusing understatement instead. "Unsuccessful! Very good, Martin. I like that. She dispatched Duman's thug with such finesse. I am as proud of my dear lady as I am surprised."

"The local police have issued a warrant for her arrest," Erhart pointed out.

"Not to worry. The police know nothing about her. She is only a name and a false one at that. They have been convinced she is unimportant, for now. I worry about our pretty Greek, though. She remains at the Bacata?"

"According to our latest intelligence, she has settled for the night."

Henri clucked his tongue. "A careless move. I thought she would have learned something from her ordeal. What about our eager Jew?"

"Morritt is following her. Your assessment seems to be correct. He's using her to get to Duman."

"Exactly what I would do. Don't judge that one by his age," Mardinaud cautioned. "Or, rather, do judge him by his age. He has survived much longer than most. Duman knows how good Morritt is. How good do you think they are? Who do you think will win?"

"I couldn't begin to guess, Monsieur."

"You aren't much fun today." The information broker thrust a fat hand toward the computer console. "Set up that program, the one that works such miracles with odds. Give me the best prediction of the outcome from your miracle machine. Then I'll tell you what is really going to happen."