"I know none of these people…"
"Read!"
Ursula read, dropped the papers, and ran from the room. The sounds of vomiting from the adjoining bath didn't bother Anna Palmitkov. She fixed a drink from the other woman's well-stocked sideboard and lit a cigarette.
Eventually Ursula returned, shaken, and resumed her seat. "I know nothing of this."
"Don't you? The third sheet of paper was pressed into Ursula's hand. "This is the statement of Dieter Klauswitz, to the effect that he was hired by Oskar Hessling to assassinate Delaine Berrington Conway. It also states that you and Stephan Conway ordered, through Oskar Hessling, this murder.»
"That's impossible! The killer didn't even know that Stephan and I…"
Ursula suddenly screamed and clamped her lips tightly shut.
Anna Palmitkov's smile was that of a predator.
"We have Dieter Klauswitz in an East German prison at this very moment."
"It means nothing!" Ursula gasped. "It means absolutely nothing! None of this can be connected to myself or Stephan!"
"Perhaps not, directly. But several weeks ago one of our agents was working with Oskar Hessling. His cover name was Peter Limpton. His real name is Boris Simonov. He turned out to be a traitor after he was caught by the Americans, but several of the operations he initiated bore fruit even without his knowledge. These, for instance."
From the manila envelope, Anna produced ten eight-by-ten prints. All were in living, fleshy color. Each of them was from a different angle, and they all showed Ursula Rhinemann and Stephan Conway in various stages of making love.
Ursula bent her face into her hands. Silent tears dripped from her fingers and all the starch went out of her body.
"You're not the police," she said finally, looking up, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "What do you want?"
A smile of victory creased Anna Palmitkov's face. "That's more like it," she said, producing another sheet of paper and moving toward the other woman. "Here is an updated list of the equipment Oskar Hessling has already tried to blackmail Stephan Conway for. There are also detailed instructions as to where and how they should he routed."
"Stephan will never agree!"
"I think he will." Anna said, calmly sipping her drink."! think your lover will agree to anything to save his skin. Call him."
"Now?"
"Now. I'm sure he has a private phone."
"Yes." Ursula nodded dumbly. "He installs a scrambler line wherever he goes… for business."
"Good, even better. Call him!"
Still weeping, Ursula tugged the phone toward her and dialed.
"Yes?"
"Stephan… it's me."
"Ursula, how dare you call me here… even on this phone!"
"Stephan, something very important has come up…"
"Dammit, Ursula, can't it wait until morning?"
"No, dammit, it can't!"
"All right, all right, darling… calm down. What is it?"
In a halting, weepy voice, Ursula read the three confessions, and then told him about the pictures.
When she finished, there was a long, deathly silence on the other end of the line.
"Stephan?… Are you still there?"
"Yes, I'm here. I'm thinking. Is the woman still there?"
"Yes."
"Put heron!"
She held the receiver out to the Russian. "He wants to talk to you."
Anna Palmitkov removed a Cartier earring and spoke into the phone. "Yes."
"Who are you?"
"It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I am willing to suppress the information I have in return for certain… indulgences on your part."
"You're asking me to commit treason!"
"Murder, treason… it's all the same."
"Damn you!"
"I have very little time, Mr. Conway. What do you say?"
"I'd like to tell you to kiss my ass."
"I'm sure you would." She chuckled mirthlessly.
"I'll have to see you first… talk to you in person."
Anna paused, reasoned. "That could be arranged."
"I'm due to inspect my Spandau plant in the morning. There is a beer hall on Pininberger Strasse in Staaken, near the wall."
"I can find it."
"Shall we say noon?"
"Noon would be fine. Guten Morgen, Herr Conway."
Anna hung up the phone and replaced her earring.
"He's not going to do it," Ursula said, her already wide eyes even wider.
"He wants to talk. But I'm sure, my dear, that he will do it."
"Are you awake?" she asked from the darkness beside him.
"Yes."
Carter moved his arm over her stomach, but there was no response. She had been waiting in his room, in fact in his bed, when he returned from the meeting with Voigt.
"What happened?" she had asked.
Carter told her as he undressed and slid into the bed beside her.
They talked, and the more they hashed it over, the more desultory she had become. Carter made overtures and she responded, weakly. The lovemaking was mechanical, no passion, minimal result.
Afterward, they had lain for many moments in silence, apart.
Now it seemed she wanted more talk, and Carter wasn't really up to it.
"I've got a gut feeling, right there" — she pressed his arm — "that no matter what you uncover, it will all lead to the Rhinemann woman, and Stephan will end up walking away."
"Not if I can help it."
"Perhaps not even you, Nick, can work a miracle this time. The more we learn about Stephan, the more I realize that he is rich, clever, powerful, and completely amoral. People like that can get away with anything. There are no laws for them."
The dull monotone of her voice struck him. It wasn't like her, and the fatalistic viewpoint she was taking could be dangerous.
"Hey," he said, squeezing her.
"What?"
"I think you've got post-coital depression."
"Don't patronize me, Nick."
"All right," he sighed, "I won't. We need the shooter. I think Hans-Otto will give him to us."
"And then, hopefully, everything will fall into place?"
"Hopefully. Everything in this business is bits and pieces. You only pray they come together."
"Remember Hong Kong?" she asked, her voice raspy with mood.
"Yeah."
"You stayed with me all that night and the next day. That next night I woke up and gave you a name. You left my hospital room. I know where you went and what you did, Nick."
Gently, Carter rolled away from her.
He remembered. He had very carefully worked the Chinese underworld and gotten himself an Uzi. Then he had gone to a Kowloon warehouse and blown away three men.
No report had ever been filed, nor was any connection ever made.
But Lisa had known.
Suddenly he was conscious that she was up, out of the bed, and slipping into her robe.
"Where…?"
"You need your sleep," she replied, moving toward the door. "Tomorrow is a big day… for both of us."
He started to object, but the door was already closing behind her.
Carter was bone-tired, but he lay awake for a long time after she left, worrying about the way he thought her mind was perhaps playing tricks on her.
It was first light when at last he allowed his eyes to close and let sleep overtake him.
Thirteen
Stephan Conway slid the photos and the sheets of paper back into the manila envelope and dropped them on a table between himself and the woman. Even though they were in a very private, screened cubicle, he looked around before speaking, as if someone were peering over his shoulder.
"Other than the photographs, it's pure supposition," he growled. "And so what? Many married men have affairs. Half the men working for me are probably screwing their secretaries."
"If they are working for you," the dark-haired woman replied coolly, "they probably are."