The Schliemann Legacy (18 page)

The three men stood as the red coated servant seated Helene. She delivered another smile to Duman, then feigned shyness by staring at her plate while the servants brought in platters of cheese and large green salads. Kadner tasted the offered wine and nodded. The servants poured and Duman sniffed deeply at the dry white burgundy. He inclined his glass to his host before taking a small sip.

Kadner picked delicately at the salad. "Helene tells me that you are a businessman, Herr Wakefield. What business are you in?"

Duman looked into Kadner's eyes. The old German didn't bother to conceal his suspicion. "People," Duman replied.

"People? Explain."

Duman stiffened at the man's tone. The ex soldier was still used to giving orders and, Duman suspected, having them obeyed without question. "I recruit talent.
Headhunter
is the term most often applied to my profession. I find candidates for particular positions."

Kadner nodded, pushing his almost untouched salad aside. The servants immediately served
Homard aux Aromates
. "Sounds as though it might be lucrative."

Duman tasted the steamed lobster before replying. "I survive."

"I have no doubt that you survive, Herr Wakefield. What are your intentions toward my granddaughter?"

Helene dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. "Grandfather! I will not have my guest interrogated."

"And I will not have you speak to me that way, young lady."

"Helene," Duman said soothingly, "it's all right." Blue storms swirled deep beneath the surface of his eyes as he turned his stare back to Kadner. He felt Bitkowski tense at the other end of the table. He kept his voice soft and jovial as he answered. "My intentions are honorable, I assure you. I should warn you," he added with a broad smile, "I do intend to steal her away from you."

Duman then turned his attention to a painting on the wall behind his host and inquired about the artist. Though hesitant at first, Kadner quickly warmed to the topic and the rest of the dinner progressed on a lighter tone. Yet, beneath the civilities, Duman could feel both Kadner and Viktor watching him. Neither had accepted his story.

* * * * *

Duman was stretched out on the bed when he heard the soft tap on the door. Helene came in without waiting for permission and silently turned the lock. Walking to the edge of the bed, she let her satin robe slither off her smooth shoulders to reveal a Merry Widow, silk stockings, and high heeled slippers. She bounced onto the bed, shook her long hair loose and kissed Duman full on the lips.

"Are you ready to play?"

Duman pushed her back and gently held her shoulders. He could tell she was still high from the wine. "We must talk first so I can explain things. You have to listen."

Catching the serious edge in his voice, Helene pouted. She moved back on the bed and sat propped against the headboard. "What is it?"

"Sweetheart, I don't want to hurt you. You know I love you."

Helene instantly rocked to her knees and held both his hands. "You aren't going to leave, are you? I don't want you to leave. Grandfather didn't say anything to you, did he? He didn't threaten you, or scare you?"

Duman almost smiled at the thought. He smoothed her hair and gently lowered her onto the pillows. "Of course not. How could I ever leave you? No, what I have to tell you concerns your grandfather. It may not be easy to hear."

"Oh, hell. I don't care about him." She slumped her shoulders and relaxed. "He just gives me money and sends me off to school. I hardly ever see him."

"Then, I'll just tell you straight out. I'm not in Colombia to recruit some bank executive. I am here because of your grandfather and who he really is. I'm here because of treasure."

At the mention of treasure, Helene perked up and her eyes went wide.

"Your grandfather is not who he might seem," Duman went on. "He is a…"

"I know," Helene interrupted casually. "He's really a Nazi who escaped Germany during the war."

Duman tensed, then looked over at the door to make sure she had actually turned the lock. He searched Helene's eyes, wondering if her invitation had been a trap. He only saw the same innocence, now mixed with boredom. "How do you know?" he demanded. "Did he tell you?"

"Don't be silly," Helene said. "Of course, he didn't. I'm not as stupid as you think, you know. Long ago, I recognized the paintings you were admiring tonight. I learned all about them in school. I remember the day we studied the Renoir in the library. When my teacher said it was destroyed, I told her 'no it wasn't.' I was going to say where it was when my teacher corrected herself. She said the painting might have been stolen during World War Two by the Nazis. After that, I started looking around and found more pieces that had disappeared during the war. I just put two and two together."

Duman was impressed by the little blonde perched on his bed. As she said, she wasn't as stupid as she looked. He realized she might still be useful to him.

"I figure Viktor must have served with Grandfather," she said and Duman noticed her shudder when she mentioned Bitkowski. "He almost salutes every time Grandfather tells him to do something. But I don't care about all that. That happened so long ago. After all, nobody really cares what the Nazis did any more, do they? What I want is this treasure! Do you mean the artwork? I thought about taking some, but I didn't know what to do with it even if I could get it out of here."

"No," Duman smiled. "I don't mean any of the works on display in the house. This collection is special."

Briefly, he described Schliemann's treasure. Explaining that the artifacts would require a sizable room, he asked if she had any idea where they might be. "I haven't seen any sign of them since I've been here. Your grandfather must hide them somewhere," he prodded. "Although I can't understand why. He displays everything else openly."

Helene thought for a moment, then proudly nodded her head. "That must be what he goes to look at every night."

Duman raised his eyebrows and she continued. "Every night, Grandfather disappears down into the piano room. He has done it as long as I can remember. I've followed him a few times. He plays a tune on the piano and then he moves the piano out of the way." Her eyes widened again. "Underneath is a staircase. I couldn't see down very well, but there was a big vault door. The treasure must be there."

"I think you're right." Duman kissed her on the mouth. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Helene beamed with pride and Duman smiled back at her. He was equally proud of himself; by having her reveal information Mardinaud had already provided, he solidified her involvement. Not surprisingly, she stood over him on the bed, placing her fists on her hips. "If I help you, you have to take me with you when you leave!"

Duman put a hurt look on his face. "Of course! I want you with me always. We are going to get the treasure and be out of here - together!"

Helene collapsed on top of him and smothered his face with kisses. As she worked her way lower on his body, he put his hands behind his head and smiled with double satisfaction - until he heard a shouted command in Spanish. His brow creased as he wondered who Kadner's visitor was.

* * * * *

Kadner motioned to the chair and sat down behind his desk. Frederico Santos, one of the top men of Juan David Ochoa's branch of the Medellín Cartel, sat heavily and motioned his bodyguard to leave. Kadner nodded and Bitkowski held the door for the Cartel guard. With a last look at Kadner, the German followed the Colombian into the hall.

"Who is this Wakefield?" Santos asked.

"A friend of my granddaughter's. He is unimportant."

"You are a fool if you think anyone is unimportant," Frederico said. "What do you know of him?"

"He is my concern. He has been checked out."

"My men tell me he arrived unannounced."

Kadner fought to keep his anger under control. He despised the thought of relying on these sweaty, sub human Colombians for his protection, but the thought of them spying on him was almost too much. He would have liked to throw Santos and his entire security force off the compound. However, needs outweigh desires. He forced a smile.

"Naturally, I allowed that appearance," Kadner lied. "Do you honestly think anything my granddaughter does is beyond my scrutiny? She must
think
she is free and can move without my notice."

"A cage, no matter how large, is still a cage?"

"Exactly," Kadner said. "Now, can we get down to our business?"

Frederico opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of computer paper. Kadner watched him flip through the pages and thought of how much he hated the drug smuggling scum. The man's only redeeming feature was his product. The drugs killed off some of the world's population of blacks and spics. If only the Jew lawyers and money traders didn't get rich off the profits, the drug business would be perfect.

Santos handed Kadner the papers. "The top three paragraphs are the most important."

Santos watched the gray haired German scan the print and cursed his soul. To the Colombian, the Nazi was the lowest form of slime. To turn on your own, to profit from their anguish. How could a man sell out those who had been closest to him? No wonder the Germans lost the war. How could such trash defeat anyone? The man was no Colombian. He was not even a true man. He deserved the worst death imaginable.

However, Ochoa needed him so Frederico tolerated him.

Bombings, murder, terror. These were the acts of cowards who run and hide in the night. The terror worked to an extent, but the Americans controlled too much of the country with their money and influence. And dead Colombians meant nothing to Americans. The Cartel needed a different weapon to win the war against the Americans.

Direct control of the Americans was difficult, but domination of South and Central America was within the grasp of the Cartel. All they needed was access to the power of the individual countries. Unfortunately, money was not always the answer to that access.

The Cartel needed to guide those in power, those who could make life difficult for America. But controlling the leaders was not necessary. True power comes from those around the leaders. Control the advisors and the strings of the Master are yours.

And that was where the Nazi entered the strategy.

Most people foolishly expected the escaped Nazis to fade into the background and get lost in their new countries. That would have been impossible for these egotistic fanatics. After being on the verge of ruling Europe, they could not resist the allure of all encompassing power.

But they were not fools. They could not become the Hitler. They obviously could not afford to be seen by the public. Instead, they worked behind the scenes, directing the puppets while they ensured their own protection. Many still commanded great influence from their positions of absolute anonymity.

The Cartel needed to sway these men to see the advantage of helping the Cartel. Kadner identified his old friends and created dossiers on them that the Cartel could use in their gentle persuasion. In return, the Cartel protected Kadner and kept him safe from the Jews. He still had to pay for the men with his money, but he paid for the privilege of the men with his information.

And his soul, Santos thought. God, how he despised dealing with this maggot.

"You need someone who can sway opinion on this vote?" Kadner asked.

"Obviously," Frederico replied impatiently, "the vote takes place too soon for us to do anything about it. We want to prepare for the next time. I need someone close to him. You get me a name and we can work from there."

"I don't know. I'll see what I can come up with."

"Do that," Frederico said. "We wouldn't want you to become a liability."

Kadner stared back at Santos. The German knew all too well what would happen when his supply of names evaporated. Much of his life was spent plotting for that eventuality. He didn't need to be reminded of it by this sweating pile of dung. "Viktor!"

Bitkowski immediately opened the double doors and went in. The Cartel bodyguard shouldered his way through the opening with him.

"Señor Santos is leaving. Please show him the way out."

"I'll await your call, Heir Heiden," Santos said, purposely using his real name. "Please don't take too long. Señor Ochoa is an impatient man."

Chapter 22 - OPERATION HARVEST FESTIVAL

Night had descended and the small sliver of moon in the starry sky did nothing to brighten the clearing. The jungle surrounding the wooden shack was silent, a deceptively lifeless calm. Nocturnal animals, insects, and birds continued to hunt, quietly springing and diving upon their unsuspecting prey. Only gentle rustlings and the anguished cries of the hapless victims exposed their positions. Intrigued by the murmur of soft voices, a single weasel risked approaching the shack with its new and strange smells. The small animal quickly lost interest and scrounged the ground, sniffing along the trail David had left while dragging the body of Mardinaud's operative to its burial place.

Inside the shack, a single lantern glowed steadily, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. David and Katrina sat on the floor with their backs propped against the plain wooden planks. Deceptively thin blankets protected them from the hard, dirty floor. David stared straight at the lantern, almost mesmerized by the still flame. He had just finished telling her the story of his mother's death. Katrina did not know what to say. Instinctively, she reached out, covered his hand with hers, and lightly squeezed. David turned and gazed into her tender, brown eyes. She smiled at him and he returned the pressure of her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I had no idea what Kadner, I mean Heiden, had done. I should never have pressed you into telling me."

"It's strange, but I didn't mind telling you." Seeing the honest compassion in her dark eyes, David felt a comfort he had not felt in years - not since Shana, his late wife. The sensation of Katrina's delicate hand in his warmed him. His stomach moved with a tense self consciousness. He kept his hand entwined with hers, fearing the release as much as the closeness.