The trade, p.11
The Trade, page 11
Thomas got her to talk about the night Parker ran to Paris. “He ordered a present for you as best man,” she said. “It was a ship’s chronometer for your sailboat. And he was supposed to pick it up that day in Cologne. There’s a shop by the cathedral and it was that night—the day before yesterday, was it?—when he didn’t come back. It got later and later. I wasn’t worried. He often stayed out to two or three in the morning. Then he called me. Out of the blue it was, there was nothing wrong before that. And he said over the telephone. ‘Hilda, get the hell out of there. Go stay with your sister until I call you. They’re chasing me.’ ‘Who’s chasing you?’ I said. And he said, ‘It’s World War Three, Hilda.’” And he hung up the phone. And that was the last I heard from him.” She sobbed again and the hands began furiously to wash the same dishes over again in the darkness, lit only by the pocket flashlight as the coffeepot gurgled mournfully.
And that was it. She knew nothing else. Parker never talked about the newsletter, never told her any of the gossip and information he picked up. He received phone calls at all hours. He often went out to meet people late at night in bars or restaurants or even at a phone booth at some remote place. He never mentioned World War III to her before. She’d never heard of the Doomsday Book.
Thomas let her talk while her sister morosely drank coffee. She was preoccupied—worried, was it?
“I haven’t told you the best part, Tommy,” Hilda said. “When we decided to get married, I celebrated by getting pregnant. You should have heard Bernie laugh.”
The three of them sat in the dark in the kitchen, solemn as though at a wake, portions of their faces lit by the inadequate flashlight, a grieving cheek and ear from Hilda’s averted face, the bowed sullen brow of her sister, the merry twinkle of Hilda’s diamond engagement ring, Thomas’s dull coffee spoon.
“It’s not safe here,” Thomas murmured at last. “They’re still searching for something and they’re bound to come back.”
“I’ll just do up these cups.” Hilda sat up, then paused. “Is it safe on the streets of America? In Cincinnati? Is his mother—will I like—” She stroked a flat palm on her kitchen table slowly as though to soothe it.
“You’re worrying about the wrong things,” her sister said. “In five months you will have a baby to take care of.”
“Shhhhhh.” Thomas put a silencing hand on her arm. “Listen.”
It was a faint sound, furtive in the darkness. Thomas recognized it: a lock pick deftly inserted in the door lock. He put out the flashlight and moved to the wall by the door and flattened himself there. The lock clicked.
The door moved barely an inch, admitting pale light from the hall. It opened a foot and the light lay across the entryway rug. Then it swung fully open. A thick powerful figure in silhouette filled the doorway and the man regarded the two immobile staring women at the table.
“It’s okay, Charlie,” Thomas said.
“Found you,” Brewer replied.
Kaethe Dorten dressed for the evening while her mind dwelt on her father. All those years while she was growing up, doing her homework, reading children’s books, playing children’s games in her bedroom, a few feet away in the study, her father and Manfred Fritzsche and Gustav Behring were planning, night after night, the complete destruction of one of the most powerful nations in history. Their audacity awed her. And her father’s plan astonished her. It was either mad or brilliant.
Her quick mind was racing, as it kept discovering more and more implications. Finally she had to try to block it out of her thoughts. “Later,” she told herself. “I’ll think about it.” She needed to turn her attention to Thomas.
She bathed and tried on four different evening gowns before she selected one. And that was the most daring of the lot—white silk that showed off the smooth skin of her fine arms and back. Studying herself in a mirror, she thanked her mother and grandmother for her figure.
Again, the thrill in her throat occurred when she thought of Thomas, only now it extended down to her belly. It was a form of stage fright and that amused her. “I feel,” she told herself, “as though I’m hunting my first tiger.”
She got out the dossier on Thomas her father had given her. It was a masterpiece of vagueness, written in the sterile, factless language of the hardened bureaucrat; she found some interesting parallels between them. Like her, Thomas had built his own business with his own hard labor. Like her, he had a reputation for innovation and unconventional methods.
Thomas had entered military intelligence after attending Dartmouth College, where he majored in economics and banking. Six months in the Federal Reserve System in Boston made him restless. He took a commission in military intelligence after meeting General Claude Wynet at a Washington cocktail party.
In the military he served with both Frank Gorman, his future business partner, and Bernard Parker. Thomas was wounded in Vietnam (“severely”), evidently in the back (the source of the scar on his face probably). The three men left the service about the same time with distinguished records (no details).
The dossier noted that when Thomas had entered the arms business, the principal sales techniques were fear and bribery. By introducing modern methods, including economic-impact studies, objective military estimates, financial and credit recommendations and military training programs, Thomas and his partner, Gorman, rather than selling whatever noisy and shiny hardware could be pressed on the client, sold a complete military package based on client needs. Their competitors paid them the highest compliment, they all copied Excalibur’s methods—with little success.
Meantime, Excalibur Ltd. had grown so large and powerful it now sold directly in world markets against such giants as the United States Government. In its warehouses, Excalibur was reported to have enough inventory to outfit infantry divisions. Principal credit for the company’s success went to Thomas’s business methods (sharp, aggressive, resourceful).
The dossier summed up Thomas’s personality profile with such words (selected from a suggested word list) as dedication, intelligence (exceptional), resourcefulness (singular) and courage. But it didn’t supply any instances from Thomas’s career to document these words. There was no anecdotal material, particularly no hard facts beyond dates and place names. Under “Remarks, Psychological,” again without elaboration, it noted: incipient claustrophobia. The character profile concluded with one word: formidable.
The writing was more like an alarmed warning than an objective report. It seemed to have been written by a hysteric. She could picture her father ordering that the report be couched in the strongest terms as a stern admonition to her. When he had handed the dossier to her, he’d said: “Be careful. He’s an exceedingly dangerous man.” But nothing in the report documented it.
She sat on her couch looking over the night lights of Cologne and their reflections on the Rhine and composed her thoughts. Fritzsche had really botched things with his Panzer tactics. He had killed Parker in a public execution, without finding out how much Parker knew, what his sources were and who he had been working with. He had burned Parker’s letter to Thomas unread. He had shredded Parker’s records, which made the murder a silencing rather than an act of revenge and so narrowed Thomas’s investigation extremely; he had drawn into Germany one of the United States’ smartest agents. And she suspected that Fritzsche had also done some other things he hadn’t yet mentioned.
So her assignment was threefold. As much as possible cover up what Fritzsche had done. Find out how much Parker knew and discover his sources. And prevent Thomas from learning anything.
Kaethe’s doorbell rang shortly after eight. Three men and a woman entered her apartment with terse nods. Her father had said they were the four best street people in Germany. One of the men looked like a banker. The second was as pale as a pallbearer. And the third looked like a thief: his shifty eyes never met hers. The woman looked like a housewife come to dicker about her water bill.
They were unlike any intelligence people she’d ever met. There was something between the banker and the housewife: he avoided looking at her and she watched him with angry eyes—or were they hungry eyes? The pallbearer seemed somnolent—probably on drugs. And the thief’s eyes never stopped taking inventory of her apartment. They didn’t give their names. They sat stiffly on their chairs and waited for her to speak.
“My father regrets that he cannot meet with you,” she told them. “He is relying on me to be his messenger until he’s on his feet again. Now—an American agent arrived in Cologne yesterday. His name is Thomas.”
“Colin Thomas?” asked the banker.
“Yes. You know him?”
They all nodded. “Oh yes, he is well known.”
Carefully Kaethe told them of Bernie Parker’s murder and concluded by saying, “His death was a terrible blunder and we have to cover over his trail. Colin Thomas must not be allowed to find anything.”
“He’s notoriously relentless,” the banker said. “Thomas never gives up. Have you considered assassination?”
“No! Parker’s death has already caused a sensation. Thomas’s murder would be a catastrophe. Just be sure we have covered Parker’s trail thoroughly. Now, how about Parker’s office staff?”
The banker looked at his watch. “They left by jet for Greece two hours ago, just as your father ordered. Four ladies. Three weeks in the Greek islands, all expenses paid. Their tour guide is one of our people. He will make sure that no one questions them in Greece about Parker. Their neighbors have all been told that the ladies won a sweepstakes trip to Spain. Thomas will learn nothing from them.”
“How about the man who was with Parker that night?” Kaethe asked.
“Dancer,” the banker said. “He’s a small-time gun smuggler and an information peddler.”
“Where is he?” Kaethe asked.
“We’re seeking him,” the banker said. “He seems to have gone into hiding.”
“That’s ominous. Why would he hide? We have to find him. Put more people on it—as many as you need. Just find him.” She gazed at their intelligent, capable faces. Their calm professionalism was reassuring to her. “Now, we have to learn what Thomas knows. He has two men with him—Brewer and Roland. Know them?”
They all nodded.
“Roland,” the banker said, “is a first-class agent. Very smart and resourceful. Brewer is dangerous—smart and completely ruthless. He’s a killer.”
“I want their rooms searched—Thomas’s and Roland’s and Brewer’s. We have to do a thorough job and that means getting them out of their rooms and keeping them out. Every inch of their rooms must be searched. I want photographs taken of all their papers, no matter how insignificant, including their passports. Who’s the photographer?”
The woman nodded her head.
“Good,” Kaethe said. “How will you get into the rooms?”
The woman looked at the pallbearer. “Him,” she said. “He will also be my hallway sentry. He will warn me if anyone comes.”
Kaethe Dorten looked at the banker and the thief. “Can you two handle Brewer and Roland—make sure they stay away from their rooms?”
The banker nodded. “Yes,” he said tersely.
“Use physical force only under extreme stress.”
“Pardon,” the banker asked, “but who will keep Thomas away from his room? He is the most dangerous of the three.”
“I will,” Kaethe said and watched them exchange doubtful glances.
Roland arrived on the evening flight from London, and after checking into his room, he and Brewer went to Thomas’s suite for a meeting.
Roland brought a half bottle of whiskey and some plastic glasses with him. He sat back on a sofa, put his feet up and spilled some whiskey into a glass, then held the bottle up, offering it to Thomas and Brewer. They shook their heads and Roland put the bottle between his thighs.
Thomas started by pointing at Brewer. “You pick up anything in Paris, Charlie?”
Brewer nodded. “Sure.” He told his story quickly. He had friends in the Paris police administration. They let him see the car. They let him see Parker’s corpse. They let him see the bullet hole in Parker’s back. The vehicle had been abandoned in the Eighteenth Arrondissement up behind Gare du Nord. Mud coated much of the body, turf had been forced up into the chassis, and the wheel wells were clotted with dirt and twigs, indicating that it had been driven hard over back roads and open fields. It had one flat tire when the police found it abandoned in an alley.
“The car was a rental,” Brewer added. “From the Bonn Airport. I think he was going to take a flight out, maybe on his way to Washington. But they were watching for him at all the airline gates. So he rented a car and they saw him and followed him.”
“All the way to Paris? That’s four hundred miles,” Roland was skeptical.
“And chased all the way, Roland,” Brewer answered.
“I did a little checking this evening,” Thomas said. “It seemed to me that there would be one man at this auction without fail.”
“Dancer,” Brewer said.
“Right,” Thomas replied. “Dancer. He should have been here scabbing up some gunrunning jobs and freeloading drinks from Parker. So I sniffed around and found out that he was here but he checked out almost at the same time that Parker was being killed in Paris. See if you can find him, Charlie.”
Brewer nodded.
“It won’t be easy. I think he’s scared and on the run.” Thomas looked at Roland. “How about Parker’s office staff? It’s Sunday night. They’re probably all home, Arthur. Go pump them. Find out what Parker was working on. If you learn anything I’ll be right here in the hotel mixing it up with the traders. I want to see if I can find anyone in the trade who saw Parker that night. Okay? Go.”
Thomas went down to the exhibition hall of the Hotel Central. It was packed. Ordinary-looking men with bald spots and slight paunches and women in rumpled travel clothes shopped the new lines of weapons and military equipment as benignly as toy buyers. Some couples strolled through with their children.
It might have been a harmless yacht show. At each booth eager to demonstrate their product lines were salesmen wearing each on his lapel a card in plastic, “Hello there, my name is—.”
They were aided by continuous-reel, full-color movie projectors that threw on the screens footage of war matériel in action, bombing, blasting, whizzing through air, riddling targets, dealing out mayhem and slaughter, conquering everything. There were eyestopping posters and four-color brochures and catalogs and scale models and automatic slides with sound tracks.
At many booths, pretty girls from the local modeling agencies greeted everyone and gave away lapel buttons with company slogans.
“I’ve seen the new Clauseon Sky Raider Rocket” was the most numerous on the lapels of the shuffling crowd. People had a choice of French, German or English.
Thomas saw a complete cast of characters from the arms business: the military attachés from the Bonn embassies, salesmen from the big munitions-manufacturing firms, military officers drawn from countries as far as Africa and South America and independent arms dealers come to buy for inventory, all squeezed in with the fringe characters of the business—the gunrunners and the smugglers, the fee men and the bird dogs, the boosters and the tipsters, the professional patriots and the desperate exiles, the camp followers and the mercenaries looking for a war.
Thomas talked to many of them. Then he went up to the ballroom.
The beat of the music dominated everything. Excalibur was having its disco in the main ballroom of the hotel, and it seemed everyone in the arms trade was planning to attend. The ballroom was filling rapidly. There were four bars, one at each corner; the disco equipment was on an island in the center. Overhead, strings of light flashed with the beat.
Travers, Excalibur’s German representative, was in charge of the disco, and he moved among the crowds like an impresario. “I decided on a dance rather than a cocktail party because it loosens them up faster,” he told Thomas.
Thomas frowned slightly when he saw Travers signal the disco operator to make the music louder. It was already deafening. Then he saw Kaethe Dorten enter.
She created an immediate flurry: everyone seemed to know her and greet her; the crowd became brighter and more enthusiastic. Completely poised, she had the politician’s gift for making each person she greeted seem like a personal friend. People pressed around her, most to salute her, all to stare at her figure in the fitted evening gown. By the time she’d reached the disco island, she had converted the party to her own.
“Who is she?” Thomas asked Travers.
“I don’t know.”
“You seem to be the only one who doesn’t.”
Travers shrugged. “The man she’s with is a midlevel administrator with the German Defense Department. Name’s Kosney.” Kosney was about thirty, well over six feet tall, thin and darkly good-looking in an evening jacket. But he had the ungainly walk of a marionette: Thomas doubted that he’d come to dance.
Kosney approached and introduced Kaethe Dorten to Travers. Travers introduced Thomas. Kaethe shook his hand with a surprisingly strong grip.
“Are you with Excalibur, too, Mr. Thomas?” she asked, raising her voice above the din.
“Yes. I am.”
“Your party seems a huge success.”
“Yes, well, it’s to introduce our new line.”
“What new line?”
“Hearing aids.”
She laughed and said, “I’ll take two.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Dorten,” he said. “That’s a familiar name. What does your father do?”
It was the one question she dreaded. Had he guessed her identity that quickly? “My father’s retired. Dorten’s a common name. I doubt if you know him.”
“Retired from what?”
“From a busy life, Mr. Thomas. You may be interested to learn that you and I are competitors.”
“Is that so? In hearing aids?”
“No. Arms.” She laughed again and he listened with pleasure. Her laughter reminded him of Martha. “My firm is doing the sales presentation for the Essen Arms Company.”
