The Schliemann Legacy (9 page)

Pretending to enjoy the view of the river, he casually allowed the girl to lead him through the flower strewn trellis arch over the entrance. The heavy German music pounded in his ears as they rounded the building and walked into the outdoor beer garden. True to tradition, the first sight was a buxom blonde carrying no less than a dozen
mass
of beer. Other beer maids were in constant motion, squeezing around the huge chestnut trees that gave shade to the underground cellars during the hot summer days.

The pair wound their way through the heavy wooden tables and Duman watched for any sign of trouble. His nerves were on edge, his senses tingling. But nothing seemed out of place. By the time he was halfway to the information broker, the terrorist felt he was safe. An attack in the densely packed garden would cost too many innocent lives - even more than in Paris. Duman relaxed slightly.

Mardinaud sat alone, though the number of empty plates gave the table an atmosphere of a riotous party of diners. Drinking heartily from a
mass
of beer, the Frenchman motioned for the couple to join him. Duman turned to the redhead.

"
Liebste
, go find us a table and order whatever you want. Don't wait for me. Enjoy yourself and eat your fill. You have to keep up your strength for later tonight."

The girl gave him another wicked smile and started away. Duman watched her walk, her buttocks moving provocatively beneath the tight, leather miniskirt. Sheer stockings and high heels accented her heavily muscled legs. If this afternoon was any indication, he thought, tonight was sure to be an exciting occasion.

"A most lovely woman, Monsieur...?"

"Wakefield, Richard Wakefield." Duman supplied the name for Mardinaud in a flawless British accent. "Yes, she is rather fulfilling. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"I would not have it any other way." Mardinaud blinked rapidly and looked down at his plate to avoid the piercing blue eyes. He used the side of his fork to scrape the last remnants from the dish. The confidence he'd demonstrated with Katrina had dissolved. He happily played games with most of his other clients but not with Duman. Mardinaud would never make the terrorist tour Munich as the Greek had this morning. The girl was impatient by the end; Duman would be deadly. "You have been well, I trust," he said.

"A small bit of trouble, yesterday. I imagine you heard about it."

Henri had indeed heard about it. A DST agent shot and a woman's throat cut in full view of hundreds of people. Several others killed or injured in the ensuing panic. The inevitable last corpse - that of Duman's betrayer - remained undiscovered. When the authorities found the informant's body, it would serve as a clear warning to all. The news discouraged Mardinaud - another reason he had not toyed with the terrorist. "
L'incommodite
?" he asked, lightly.

Duman laughed, enjoying the understatement. "Yes, an inconvenience."

A waitress set down a foaming brew to replace the empty mug on the table and placed a plate of
weisswurst
with sweet Munich mustard in front of the Frenchman. After pouring the mustard over the plateful, he forked one of the small, white sausages into his mouth, smiled at the barmaid, and began talking while he chewed. "Bring my friend something."

Duman had endured other meals with Mardinaud. In fact, whenever he'd met the man there had been some type of food between them. Like Katrina, he lost his appetite quickly around the information broker. "Nothing for me," he replied.

They both watched the waitress move through the maze of tables. "Nothing like the ass of a healthy German girl," Mardinaud said approvingly.

Duman doubted the Frenchman had been with a woman in years - unless she was an excellent cook or dipped in chocolate. "What is it you have for me, Henri?" he asked. "I trust it is important or at least interesting."

"It might be, if you have not severed all your ties with Turkey."

Duman bristled at the mention of his birthplace. "Those in power forced me from the country, but my heart and allegiance will remain forever with Turkey. If you give me something that aids Turkey in its struggles, I will thank you many times over."

Henri pushed the empty plate aside and drained his beer mug. The waitress was at the table immediately. Only Henri warranted such service. "That was delicious." Mardinaud looked at his watch and then added, "I suppose it was a little early for them."

"I beg your pardon?" Duman had lost track of Henri's quick shifts of thought.

"The
weisswurst
. The dish is to be eaten between midnight and noon. Especially therapeutic after a night of revelry. Or so the superstition has it. If you will indulge me, I believe I will order another plate and risk the misfortune."

After the barmaid left, Henri slapped his hands together. "To business."

Duman listened as Mardinaud recounted the treasure's history from Priam's Troy to Hitler's Berlin. Though he knew the story, Duman could not resist hearing it retold -especially by such an expert storyteller as Henri. He'd always been fascinated by the history of his country. He longed to live in those ancient times. A time when one man, a common man, could make a difference in the world. An age when an individual could shape history and leave his mark, as he, Duman, was destined to do.

"I have discovered where the treasure has been all these long years," the Frenchman boasted.

"Not my usual employment, but this could prove to be interesting." Duman's smile made Henri shudder involuntarily. "I would like to return the artifacts to their rightful place in Turkey. That should strike a particularly satisfying blow to the Greeks. Where is the treasure?"

Mardinaud slid a file folder across the table. The blue folder itself was a duplicate of the one he had given to Katrina. However, Mardinaud had tailored the information inside for Duman. As Henri was fond of saying,
control
of information was power. "Everything you need to know is in this file," he said. "Ulrich Kadner has the treasure. He's an ex Nazi who stole the artifacts during the war. Now he keeps them hidden in his home in Colombia. Actually, his home is more of a fortress."

Duman raised his eyebrows, becoming more interested as the challenge mounted. "I assume you detail his security and any presumed weaknesses?"

"That and more. It may not be necessary to use force to get into Kadner's home. Pay particular attention to the section on Helene Kadner. She could be useful to you."

Duman thumbed through the pages until he came to a color photograph of a beautiful, blonde girl dressed in a school uniform and trying unsuccessfully to use makeup to look older. Her stance offered her body to the camera, or the photographer. The open blazer revealed a white blouse with small buttons straining under the pressure of her well developed breasts. The short skirt displayed two exquisitely shaped legs, accented by high-heeled shoes that could not have been part of the uniform. Duman smiled at the photograph. The combination of innocence and lust excited him. Helene Kadner definitely interested him.

"The picture is a year old," Mardinaud said. "She's nineteen now. I have included her school schedule. She will arrive in Bogotá sometime in the next two days to spend time in the city before she goes to Kadner's. Her grandfather is unaware of this change in her plans."

"Looks like quite a girl," Duman commented.

"She has a rather sordid past. Three schools in Europe expelled her before she went to the States. Certain indiscretions unbecoming a young lady." Henri leaned forward and whispered. "She is apparently free in her selection of partners. I have it on good authority that one expulsion was for seducing one of her teachers. The teacher's husband, the headmaster, took exception to his wife's choice of recreation. Don't worry," he added when he saw the Turk's frown. "She enjoys men much more than women."

Duman laughed and nodded. "I think I'll meet her plane. If nothing else, she might be a pleasant diversion. Is that everything?"

"No, I have one more bit of information for you. I hope you won't think me presumptuous, but there is someone here you should see."

Duman's hand immediately slid beneath his coat. He glanced once around the perimeter of the gardens.

Henri rapidly held both fat palms out to placate him. "Please, there is no need for that."

"What games are you playing?" Duman still had his hand under his jacket.

"Do you remember a Greek?"

"You have told the Greeks about the treasure?"

"Naturally. You know how I operate. The information is for sale. The only condition placed on purchasing my product involves money. Besides, this Greek is special. They reinstated her to active duty for this mission. A beautiful girl by the name of Katrina Kontoravdis."

Duman thought for a moment. "The name means nothing to me."

"She was one of the two agents who found you in New York three years ago."

Duman looked off into the distance, his hand coming out from under his coat. "Yes, I remember. Her partner died, shot through the head by one of my bullets. Fools. They both deserved to die. I only caught a glimpse of her at the time. Long, dark hair."

"She has restyled it. Short. Quite charming."

"I'm sure it is," Duman said impatiently. "What does all this have to do with me?"

"From what I understand, the episode in New York caused you some difficulties. Loss of face? I assumed you would appreciate the opportunity to eliminate her. Take care of her before you go to Colombia?"

"The 'loss of face', as you call it, is inconsequential. If anything, it proved they cannot capture me easily. The death of her partner made my adversaries nervous and hesitant. As in Paris, they learned a valuable lesson. However, I have never passed up an opportunity to see a Greek agent dead. Tell me about her."

* * * * *

An hour later, Duman was alone on a dark street. Having had time to digest Mardinaud's information about the Greek, Duman had decided he had neither the time nor the inclination to dispose of Katrina Kontoravdis himself. The kill made him nervous. Duman's survival was based on a policy of maximizing his safety. An unprepared, rushed attack was unacceptable - even dangerous. His ego was huge, deservedly so, but he was not blinded by his own reputation. And besides, this was a lowly Greet agent and a woman at that. Hardly deserving of personal attention.

Mardinaud understood that. The Frenchman was playing his childish games again. Knowing Duman was the better player, the fool was evening the odds. Duman preferred having the odds in his favor. That was how he survived. Kontoravdis was unworthy of his time. Bigger game was available. He needed to get to Bogotá to prepare for Helene's arrival. Therefore, he had decided to make other arrangements for the Greek and fly to Bogotá that night.

Duman located the address he was looking for. Avoiding a streetlight, he walked around to the side of the building and knocked. A small man with a pockmarked face peered out. Surprised to see Duman, the man almost slammed the door but stopped himself. His left cheek twitched repeatedly, a nervous condition which had earned him the nickname of
the Mouse
years before. Only Duman and the Mouse's mother ever called him by his Christian name.

"I have a little job for you, Joseph," Duman said. "Won't take much of your time."

"Sure, whatever you want."

An American expatriate, the Mouse had come to Germany in 1980. With two crime families and the FBI looking for him, the heat was too intense for him in the States. Now, he worked as a freelance operator, doing anything from penny ante shakedowns to murder. The Mouse was an idiot but knew more than capable of killing Katrina Kontoravdis.

Duman enjoyed the pungent odor of fear emanating from the man as he explained what he wanted the Mouse to do. This was power, he thought, the power over life and death. A weaker man than he might fall prey to the sense of power, let it overcome him and take control. A weaker man might stray from the chosen path and seek the materialistic rewards such domination offered. Duman preferred the spiritual rewards the
true course
would provide him. All the same, he allowed himself to bask in the Mouse's fear for a time.

"She might be taking a flight tonight," he cautioned. "If she doesn't, you can do the job at her hotel."

"Sounds like a breeze. What does it pay?" The Mouse suddenly realized his mistake. "I hope you don't mind me asking. I...I just wondered, you know. I mean, like, a guy needs money, right? Not that I'd argue the price or anything like that. You know me. I wouldn't do anything like that."

"I know you wouldn't, Joseph. What do you think the job is worth?"

The Mouse thought carefully before he answered. "How about a thousand marks? Give me enough to impress one of the ladies."

Duman counted out five bills and handed them to the Mouse. "Pick up the rest from the usual place," he said. Then he turned away without another word.

If that was the value one of the people put on life, Duman thought, it was no wonder the rulers thought so little of the people.

Chapter 10 - DINNER IN A FISHBOWL

David Morritt had arrived at the Frankfurt airport while Mardinaud was meeting with Katrina in the Marienplatz. His instructions were to remain in his hotel room until contacted. Standard practice for Mardinaud. David spent the time watching the television and refreshing his German. After two hours, he could follow even the most rapid dialogue.

When the phone rang at 7 p.m., David caught it on the first ring. He detected a slight Oriental accent in the female voice that told him to go to the
Hauptbahnhof
.

As usual, the train station was busy when David arrived. Since the caller had not directed him to any specific area, he positioned himself under the central departure board. A sickly looking man in a three piece suit appeared at his side. The personal service surprised David, but the message did not.

He left the station with no intention of following the directions to the Olympic Village. He had seen the complex, in 1972. David ignored the message and began his own search for Mardinaud by activating his old network. He started by trying to find Dieter Treliert.