Donicht got up and said, “He’s not working today. Took a couple of days off.”
“You got a home address?”
Donicht smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, let’s go then.”
The two of them hurried out of the office.
At that very moment across town, Hermann Conrad stood at the wooden door of the apartment on the fifth floor and raked his knuckles across it. He glanced up and down the corridor in both directions, sure nobody had seen him enter the building.
The man who answered the door was a weasel-looking guy dressed impeccably in a fine Italian suit. A suit Conrad had paid for, he was sure. Playing in the background was a Vivaldi concerto. Without saying a word, the man opened the door wide for Conrad, let him in, and then closed the door behind him and locked it.
“Why couldn’t this conversation have taken place over the phone?” Conrad asked him.
“Someone has been looking into my activity,” he said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I don’t trust the phones.”
Conrad paced over to the large picture window that looked down on the Donau Canal and the Donau River beyond that. If this man was compromised.
“I need to cover my tracks,” the man said.
Turning on him, Conrad said, “You should have been covering your tracks all along.”
“I was. But someone knows their computers. I flagged the system to warn me if someone looked into certain key words. When they did, I had the system run a clean sweep program I designed myself. It should destroy any contact I have had with your men, running through the system like a virus. Well, more like a worm.”
“But what if someone already downloaded this information?”
The man ran his hands through his hair, closed his eyes for a moment, and then said, “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You don’t think? I don’t pay you to think.” Conrad was livid now, his breathing faster. He reached inside his coat pocket and felt the small vial his scientists in Magdeburg had given him. It was one of six. He hated to use it, but saw no reason not to at this point. This man had been compromised. He knew too much about Conrad’s organization. “All right. Let’s consider the downfall.” Conrad saw the wet bar against the opposite wall. “Let’s have a drink and figure out how to proceed.”
The man had seemed nervous, but was now relieved. “I have some good schnapps.”
Just then the music stopped.
“I’ll tell you what,” Conrad said, “you put on some Mozart and I’ll get us the drinks.”
Smiling, the man went and did just that, his back turned as he searched for the right CD. Conrad poured two large glasses with schnapps, pouring the liquid from the vial into one, and making sure the man didn’t see him do it. Mozart’s Requiem started on the stereo just as Conrad handed the man his drink. To the naked eye and the nose, both drinks looked identical. The liquid had no smell and only a slightly cloudy appearance.
“To a continued profitable relationship,” Conrad said, bringing his drink up but making sure not to tap glasses. He didn’t want any liquid plopping into his own drink. Even though he knew a tiny amount would probably not hurt too much.
The man lifted his glass and with one fluid motion, slid the schnapps down his throat.
It would take a few minutes to react, Conrad guessed. No more than that. He had seen the tiny nanoprobes take over a mouse, then a cat, and then a dog. He smiled now thinking about that symmetry.
“Is everything all right?” the man asked.
“Of course,” Conrad said. “Please, take a seat. I’ll take that.” He took the glass from the man and set both of them on the bar counter.
Reluctantly, the man took a seat and crossed his legs.
“Okay. Let’s discuss this situation.” Conrad noticed the man’s eyes start to glaze over. “You were my inside contact with every law enforcement agency in the world. Now that’s all gone.”
“But,” the man said, his brain searching for words. “You. We can. We still need to work.” He wasn’t making any sense.
It wouldn’t be long now, Conrad knew. So tell him how he will be, perhaps, the first man to die like this in the history of mankind. The first nanocide. He liked that term. Maybe he could register the word.
“At this very moment,” Conrad said, “tiny nanoprobes are attacking your body. Under normal circumstances the nanoprobes would be searching for abnormal cells. But these are a little different.”
The man’s eyes were uncertain, looking for some understanding as to what was happening to him.
“Yes, my friend. These little nanoprobes are designed to attack perfectly healthy cells. First, they attack the autonomic nervous system, paralyzing you. Those are my favorite. Then they hurry forward, attacking your heart, your intestines and your remaining vital glands. Of course, you end up shitting yourself, pissing your pants.” As he said this, a patch of wetness appeared in the man’s crotch.
Conrad carefully washed out the glasses with hot soapy water and wiped down finger prints from those and the schnapps bottle.
He continued talking to the paralyzed dying man. “By now, the little buggers are into your lungs, your kidneys and your brain.”
Turning, Conrad saw the man’s head leaned to one shoulder. Conrad looked around the room, trying to remember if he had touched anything else. No. He had been careful. Not even the door handle. With the Requiem picking up in the background, Conrad slipped out the apartment door, making sure to open and close the door with his handkerchief.
He left the building and passed two men on the sidewalk on his way to his rental BMW.
Martini and Donicht stood at the door of the Interpol liaison’s apartment uncertain what to do. They had both knocked repeatedly, with no answer. But Martini could hear Mozart’s Requiem coming to a dramatic ending, so the man must be there.
“What do you think, sir?” Donicht asked his boss.
Martini had already tried the door handle a couple of times, but he did it again now. “Screw it!” With one thrust of his shoulder, the door lock snapped and gave way.
Donicht had his gun out and quickly moved past his boss into the living room.
Not even bothering to pull his gun, Martini wandered about the room. He saw the man on the sofa and knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
The two of them ended up in front of the man, whose head lay on his shoulder, his eyes open and glazed over.
Leaning forward toward the body, Martini thought for a moment he heard a gurgling in the body. Probably settling blood, he thought. Out of instinct, he checked for a pulse. Nothing. But the body was still warm.
“Call the forensics team in,” Martini said to Donicht.
“You think it was murder?”
“That’s what we want to find out.”
Donicht moved toward the front door and called it in with his cell phone while Martini continued around the room, a notebook out and noting certain items. Something wasn’t right. He could smell booze. What was it? He kneeled onto the sofa next to the man and smelled the man’s mouth. Schnapps? Then he got up and went to the wet bar. No glasses. He drink from the bottle? Hell no. Not with Mozart playing.
16
It was starting to get dark in Steyr, and Miko Krupjak and his two Brothers, Jiri and Grago, still had not found the Grand Master of the Teutonic Order, Gustav Albrecht. They had visited six gasthauses within a short distance of the Vogl Restaurant, where Albrecht had used his visa. Miko had guessed the man would not stay in one of the larger hotels, since they would require a visa. He would be spending cash on a gasthaus. But why had he used a credit card at the restaurant? Habit, perhaps.