He was two fingers down on his drink when a very weary Jamil Erhanee slid into the opposite chair and dropped a six-inch bundle in front of Carter.
"You've been busy."
Erhanee sipped his beer. "Keeping the modems hot."
"Boil it down for me."
The Indian took a deep breath and dived in. "Protec is big, I mean really big. And one of the reasons is a huge transfusion of megabucks at just the right time."
"Delaine's money."
"You got it. Conway gobbled up little companies like sharks swallow minnows at feeding time once he got his hands on her loot and her line of credit."
"Score one for our side. What about cash transactions in the last six months?"
"Protec tosses around millions like they came out of a kid's Christmas account. But, oddly enough, that worked in our favor."
"How so?"
"Because smaller amounts stick out like all hell. It goes like this. Protec-Europe is financed out of Zurich. If any funds are transferred from home — San Francisco or New York — to Zurich, it's always for a special reason. And it's always big bucks. About three weeks ago, there was a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar transfer from New York to Zurich."
"And that's small?"
"Smallest ever. It was earmarked for the Protec-Berlin slush fund."
"Who controls that fund?"
"Lady by the name of Ursula Rhinemann."
"Bingo," Carter whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing. Go ahead, where did the quarter mil go?"
"To buy a company chateau on the Havel River. But twenty-four hours after the down payment was made, it was withdrawn. There was a three-percent penalty, but that's peanuts."
"Who did the money changing?"
"Deutschbank, here in Berlin. I've got a buddy over there who remembered the deal. The money wasn't transferred back into the Protec account. It was withdrawn in cash."
"By Ursula Rhinemann?"
"You got it. But there's lots more. Personal on the wife. She drew two-hundred-and-fifty grand in cash from her personal account two days before she and Conway left for Europe."
"The bastard doesn't get his fingers in at all, does he?" Carter growled.
"Now come the last two twists." Erhanee paused there, savoring his beer and Carter's anticipation. "Oskar Hessling doesn't keep much cash in this country. In fact, he doesn't keep much cash, period. His horde is in gold, and he likes to buy it illegally. It's cheaper that way. He uses a guy named Peter Rohenstaffer. A little over two weeks ago, Herr Peter made a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar gold buy in London and ferried it to Zurich for Hessling; That news came from a speculator friend in London."
"It all fits so far."
The grin on Erhanee's face spread from ear to ear. "Now comes the zinger. This morning, at the crack of opening, almost two hundred and fifty thousand in cash was deposited in the Protec slush fund at Deutschbank."
"By Ursula Rhinemann."
"You got it!"
Carter rubbed his chin in thought. "It's still circumstantial, but there's a definite trail. You got an address on this Rohenstaffer?"
"I thought you'd ask."
Erhanee passed across a slip of paper and dived into the food in front of him.
"Have a good lunch," Carter said, dropping some bills on the table. "I owe you one."
"It can't wait?"
"Not as fast as I think things are going to move in the next twenty-four hours," Carter said over his shoulder, and he headed for the foyer and a telephone.
According to Marty Jacobs, the AXE boys were tying the Voigts in knots, and the day was still young.
Horst Vintner was out, but Bruchner listened to the tale on Peter Rohenstaffer and agreed to pick Carter up in ten minutes.
He made one last call, to Lisa's suite at the Victoria.
"Dammit, Nick, I wish you'd check in more often," she said when she heard his voice.
"Been busy. What do you know about Ursula Rhinemann?"
"Name rings a bell, but I can't place it."
"I think she's the other woman in the triangle. I want you to call every mutual friend you and Delaine had, and see if your sister ever mentioned the name. Also, use your clout with Langley and have them dive into the records of international air carriers. I want to know the dates, if any, that Rhinemann visited the States."
"Will do. By the way, I haven't exactly been idle."
"Oh?"
"Delaine and I both bought a lot of our clothes at a little boutique off Fifth Avenue in New York called Figaro's. I know the owner well, and called her."
"The red dress?"
"Yes. The saleswoman was named Kay. I talked to her, and she remembers the incident well. Delaine hated the dress and wouldn't even try it on. Stephan went into such a rage he frightened everyone in the shop. He finally won, and they bought the dress."
They were both thinking the same thing; it was like ESP through the line.
The dress was a beacon-better yet, an identifying target for the shooter.
"It's thin, Lisa, but it might be another nail in the coffin."
He hung up and hefted Erhanee's bulky bundle of computer printouts into the street. Bruchner was just pulling up to the curb.
"Here's the address."
"What's that?" The man nodded toward Carter's bundle.
"The financial life of Stephan Conway and Protec, my evening's reading. Have you got it?"
Bruchner passed across a thick, pulpy plastic envelope. "That stuff's pure gold on the street. The boys back there came along to make the arrest and make sure they get it back."
Carter swiveled his head. Two plainclothes policemen followed them closely in an unmarked sedan. Their faces were square and grim, and their eyes never left the SSD car.
Carter put the one-pound bag of heroin in his inside coat pocket, and lit a cigarette. Herr Peter Rohenstaffer would be a small link, but at this point any link would do.
The address was in an old section of north Berlin, above Tegel Forest on Weiden Strasse. It dead-ended into a walkthrough alley. Carter had Bruchner stop around the corner, and the two cops pulled in behind them.
Carter left the Protec report in the SSD car and moved down the block. Dusk had settled just enough to turn on the automatic streetlights.
Number 32 was indistinguishable from its other two-story-neighbors. Carter rang the bell and put the hardest look he could muster on his face.
A pockmarked face under slicked-back gray hair appeared in a crack of the door. Carter wouldn't have known it was a woman if she hadn't spoken.
"What do you want?"
"'I'd like to speak to Peter Rohenstaffer."
"What about?"
"I'd like to tell him myself."
"He isn't here."
"Where is he?"
"None of your business. He is out of town."
"I see. Who are you?"
"I am his mother."
"Oh, well, would you tell Herr Rohenstaffer that we have a mutual friend who has just died?"
"Who?"
"He'll know. Tell him I have to have an accounting."
The woman's mouth began to flap, but before any sound came out of it Carter turned and walked down the steps.
With the departure of daylight, a light mist had settled in, blurring the illumination from the streetlights into murky shadows.
Carter walked toward the corner where the two cars wailed, then doubled back. Near the alley, he took up his watch beneath the stoop across the street and two houses closer to the alley than Number 32.
It was eight minutes by his watch when he saw the curtains of the front windows part slightly. Two minutes later the door of Number 32 opened, and a tall figure in a dark raincoat slipped down the steps. He carried a bulky briefcase, and from the speed of his movement and his carriage Carter put him somewhere in his mid-thirties.