The Schliemann Legacy (13 page)

Martin leaned over the keyboard and called up the handicapping program. He wondered if he should mention the report he had received just before entering Mardinaud's inner sanctum. He knew the fat man had resources Martin had no control over. Should he mention the shadowy inquiries being made about Kadner? Would revealing the message throw off suspicion or accentuate it? Best to remain true to form.

"There have been inquiries made regarding Kadner," Martin said slowly.

"Inquiries?"

"By persons unknown."

"I do not enjoy hearing the word 'unknown' uttered in my presence."

"We are investigating."

"See to it. I do not appreciate uninvited guests. Find them and eliminate them."

Martin jumped and glanced nervously out the window as a bolt of lightening brightened the sky.

Mardinaud sat back in his chair, a huge smile creasing his fat cheeks. "Forget this storm, Martin. The true storm is gathering in Colombia."

Chapter 14 - SUNDAES AND SNIPERS

Duman stepped from the shower and vigorously dried himself with one of the oversized blue towels. He padded back into the bedroom of the suite and sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. He lightly ran his fingers down Helene's naked back and over the swell of her buttocks. Even asleep, she raised her hips when he slipped his fingers between her legs. Like the night before, she was incredibly sensitive.

When they had returned to the room last night, Helene had showered and changed into a tight pink teddy. The lacey transparent material clung to every curve of her body. She strolled over to him and gave him a deep kiss while her hands roamed over his body. Soon she'd removed his clothes and he was lying on the bed with strict instructions not to touch her. She answered the discreet knock on the door without bothering to put on a robe. She took the tray of sweet sauces from the waiter, smiling her thanks.

"Good evening, Miss," the waiter nodded. From the strained sound of his voice, the outfit had the same effect on the waiter as it had Duman.

Helene set the tray on a bedside table and smiled at Duman. She began by covering his lips with honey, then passionately kissing the sweet, sticky material off, poured honey over his nipples and licked his chest clean. Then she announced the
piece d' resistance
. Leaving a trail of chocolate down his abdomen, she had covered him with chocolate and marshmallow sauce, whipped cream, and a cherry. Finally, she had devoured her "sundae." Unable to resist, Duman had grabbed her and, ripped the teddy down the middle. For the next two hours, they had feasted on one another.

Duman was surprised at his stamina, but he understood how much Helene was responsible. Her acrobatics and imagination were unbelievable. Unafraid to try anything, her single desire was to please. When total exhaustion forced Duman to rest, the insatiable girl brought herself to multiple orgasms with a variety of methods - including three pieces of furniture in the suite. Then, before he thought it possible, she had aroused him again and they continued. Finally, they had fallen asleep in each other's arms.

Now, her nubile body beckoned to him again. He considered waking her, but knew he would not escape the room until late afternoon if he did. He gently removed his hand, slipped from the bedroom, and dressed in the outer room.

The front desk had a message for him from the man watching the Greek. Kontoravdis was on the move once again. Duman went to a pay phone down the street from the hotel and called a relay number. A woman with a heavy accent answered.

"Harry told me you'd be calling," she said.

Originally from Australia, Harry was now a member of M19, the most spectacular of Colombia's half dozen terrorist groups. The organization of white collar professionals had formed after General Rojas Pinilla lost the 1970 elections, supposedly due to the combined pressure and deceit from both the conservative and liberal parties. They christened themselves Movement of April 19 after the date of the election but shortened the name to M19 for publicity reasons. So much was about the sound bite on the evening news.

At first Duman had infiltrated the group by providing weapons. Soon he became more entrenched and involved himself in the planning stages of operations. Once the terrorists fully appreciated his expertise, he used his influence to tailor their activities around his personal dream.

Now, M19 spent more time battling Colombia's drug smuggling organization than harassing the government. The Medellín Cartel controlled the government more and more every day. Though Duman supported the drug trade in smaller countries like Jamaica, he despised the Cartel, which fed off the weaknesses of the people. He would be happy to see the business end in Colombia.

"Has Harry called?" Duman asked the woman on the phone.

"About a half hour ago. She spent the night at the Bacata."

"She didn't change hotels in the night?"

"No."

Duman could not understand why the Greek had not tried to cover her tracks. Still, it was good for him. Kontoravdis would not change her plans this late in the game. She would remain at the Bacata. "Is she there now?" he asked.

"No," the woman replied. "She's been out shopping all day. Leading my Harry a wild chase that one is. He said she's been stopping at outdoor stores. Seems as though she is going on a little trip of some sort. She bought maps for an area in the jungle about fifty miles north of here."

"And the other man?" Duman asked.

"Still following along."

"Has the other man seen Harry?"

"My Harry? You must be joking. If Harry doesn't wanna be seen, you better bloody well believe he ain't gonna be seen. The cheek! Harry said he'll call in every half hour, if he can."

"Tell him to break off surveillance when the Greek is within two blocks of the Bacata."

"Within two blocks. Sure."

Duman replaced the receiver. Regardless of what Harry's wife had said, he suspected the Jew had seen the operative. Morritt still had a price on his head and was too professional not to be checking for a tail, if only out of habit. Therefore, the Jew was obviously content to let the man follow or he would have disposed of Harry long ago. All of which was logical. The Jew preferred a known enemy. That would only help Duman.

* * * * *

Duman headed along
Avenida
19 into the south end of Bogotá, an area comprised of industrial plants and blue-collar neighborhoods. It was also the home of Bogotá's criminal element. He pulled his car through an open gate in a chain link fence surrounding a group of privately owned warehouses and slowly drove along the row of narrow, cement block buildings. The fourth building displayed no name and looked deserted. Parking his car and locking it, Duman crunched across the gravel to the small entrance. A middle aged man with spectacles answered the door and stepped back to let him enter. The man's eyes blinked behind his lenses as he nervously peered out and checked to the right and left. Seeing no one, he quickly closed and bolted the door.

Lathes and drill presses crowded the front half of the shop. On the right wall hung an empty gun rack. A vise on the workbench held the barrel of a disassembled rifle. Duman breathed deeply. He loved the heavy odor of oil and cordite.

"Gunther, I trust you are well?" he asked.

The small, precise man nodded his head and shook hands with Duman. His Belgian accent was heavy, even years after leaving Europe. "I am well," he replied.

Duman turned immediately to business. "I need your special services."

The gunsmith led him through a doorway on the left and into a small office. He always enjoyed working with Duman. As an expert marksman, Duman could appreciate Gunther's skill, his craftsmanship, his art. Most of his customers here in Colombia simply required a gun altered to full automatic or the serial numbers removed. The drug dealers and thugs possessed no class, no style. They sprayed bullets, hoping to hit something. But Duman! An artist himself, Duman understood the devotion the gunsmith poured into each of his creations.

Duman sat in a creaking chair but refused the offered drink of
Aguardiente
. "I don't have much time," he said. "I need a rifle with a sniper scope."

"What are the specifications?" Gunther pulled a pad and pencil in front of him.

"No more than a three hundred yard shot, I think. Has to break down into a compact case. I may have to leave it, as well."

"Daylight?"

"Yes."

"I only have a bolt action available. In a day or two..." Gunther shrugged.

Duman considered for a moment. A bolt-action rifle dismantled into a smaller package, but the first shot would warn the second target. That would require speed. He could load a bolt action and aim with deadly accuracy in under two seconds. He calculated the average reaction time of an agent with Morritt's experience and the time required to find cover. Two seconds was enough. With the ensuing panic, the Jew would not have time. Duman was confident he could still guarantee two kills. "Yes, that should suffice," he said. "I'll need it immediately."

Gunther raised his eyebrows. Duman usually requested a personal fitting which entailed a return visit. "I do have the one. Untraceable and it has a scope. Not top of the line. Nothing I would normally consider for you. However, given your skill, I would guarantee the accuracy up to five hundred yards. That will give you the leeway you might require."

The gunsmith got up and walked into the main work area where he removed a long cloth wrapped package. He untied a ribbon and slid off the cloth to reveal a rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. With another rag, he lovingly wiped the gun down and handed it to Duman. The Turk quickly broke it down into its constituent parts. After checking each piece, he reassembled the rifle, loaded it, and sighted through the scope at the far end of the warehouse where a man sized target leaned against bales of hay.

Duman stepped up to a line marking a hundred and fifty feet from the target and fired. The first shot was wide of the heart by four inches. Gunther looked at the target through binoculars, took the rifle from him, and used a small screwdriver to adjust the anchor screws on the sight. Duman's second shot was wide by an inch. After another adjustment, the third bullet struck squarely in the center of the heart.

Loading one bullet and setting another on the bench, Duman took a deep breath and sighted. He shot, reloaded, and shot again - in less than two seconds. Then he gently laid the rifle down.

He and Gunther walked the length of the room to the bales of hay. Two jagged bullet holes marked the target's eyes. Duman smiled and clapped the gunsmith on his back.

* * * * *

The Turk parked his car in an underground garage on
Calle
19 and strolled down the narrow street. After walking down both sides twice, he stood at the corner and determined his best angle. Paying particular attention to a tall office building on the left side, he watched the movements along the street. Traffic into the building was light and erratic. With no doorman or reception desk, he was certain he could enter without being noticed. After familiarizing himself with the various shops and alleys, he returned to the car for the gun case and a pair of binoculars.

He walked back to the six-story building and casually entered. He toured the ground floor, noting the exits and memorizing his escape routes. Satisfied, he trotted up the steps to the roof, picked the padlock on the door, and stepped onto the searing pebble and tar surface. Crouching, he ran to a low wall at the street side edge. He sat on his heels with his back against the wall as he unpacked and assembled the rifle.

Something wet dribbled down his neck and under his shirt. Looking behind him, he saw pigeons sidestepping along the wall, their heads bobbing with every step. He pulled a knife from his pocket, reached up, and snatched a pigeon from the wall. A dozen birds scattered as he slit its throat and rubbed the dead bird's blood along the top of the wall. He grabbed another bird and repeated the process. He set the two dead pigeons on the wall, one at each end of the three-foot smear of blood. The remaining birds instinctively avoided the area.

Once he finished with the pigeons, the terrorist rocked on the balls of his feet and watched the entrance of the Bacata Hotel.

Chapter 15 - DEATH IN NEW YORK

Katrina was beginning to think she would spend her first mission in years touring foreign cities. She had spent most of the morning shopping in Bogotá, not for the usual tourist bargains, but for the equipment necessary to infiltrate Kadner's compound. The inventory, printed only in her memory, read like a prop list from a Hollywood war movie.

Unfortunately, the Greek Intelligence Service did not have a station in Bogotá. Before this operation, the Greeks had never operated in Colombia. The embassy had been no help, no doubt because of Stefandis' influence. Katrina had to locate her own equipment and her absence from the field had left her lacking practical ideas. The supplies for the hike through the jungle had been easy to attain and were now safely locked in the trunk of her rental car. The firearms were another matter.

She had drafted a plan during the flight and decided on the weapons necessary for breaching Kadner's security. A frontal attack was suicidal for one person. Her plan entailed stealth and concealment, thus requiring weapons that were compact, high caliber, and silenced. Precisely the type of weapons outlawed in a country determined to wipe out illicit drug and emerald smuggling.

Without the usual intelligence contacts, Katrina turned to the criminal element. She had visited a wealthy Greek in the northern edge of town where, amid the large homes and state residences, they had discussed the
attirail de la guerre
in an excruciatingly civilized manner. Other than information, his practical contribution had been a single automatic. For the rest of her list, he had recommended an acquaintance, a member of the most well connected criminals in the country - the Medellín Cartel.

She had spent the rest of the morning working through several middlemen to set up the purchase. The trail eventually led to an abandoned factory at the western edge of
Carrera
3.