“Harper? This is Gerda.” She was scowling at the phone. “I must see you at once. You and Hurtada both. Yes, of course it’s important or I would not bother. Yes, damn it. I said it was. Both of you come to the library as soon as possible. We must have a talk. Right away, damn it!”
The Bitch slammed down the phone. She looked at the bookshelves and winked, then went to a tall cabinet in a corner of the library and took out bottles and glasses. Nick could hear her humming softly as she went about her preparations. One of Brahms’ short pieces from Liebeslieder. What a character she was — made Lady Macbeth look like a saint!
It would be a few minutes before the two men arrived. Nick made good use of the time. He played a hunch. It was dark in the little room, and he had no matches or lighter, so he had to feel around the paneling in the dark. He kept the earphones on — luckily the flex was long enough for roaming.
If there was a back way out of this hidey hole — and he was betting there was — it should be in the back panel. He felt over the slick wood with his fingertips, pressing and rapping gently, listening for hollowness. Nothing. He kept trying. He was about to give up in despair when his fingers touched a slight protuberance in the paneling, a scroll or arabesque of some sort. He pressed it, heard a faint clicking noise, and a section of the paneling slid back. A waft of dank air swept over his face, smelling of mold and dust and old bones. He had found his way out. God only knew where it led. Probably to some charnel pit where the Dragon waited.
He left the panel open and went back to the eye slit. Gerda von Rothe was seated at the desk, sipping at a highball and tapping her big round thigh with the quirt. Without looking in his direction she said: “They’ll be here any minute now, Jamie. Just keep your mind on the job and do it quickly, get it over. And remember — they’re very tough. Don’t give them a chance!”
There was a tapping on the library door. The Bitch shot a glance at the hidey hole and said, very softly, “Here they are now. Gut Glück, Jamie.” He had noted before how she lapsed into German when she was excited. He watched her vanish into the blind spot at the end of the library. Cold air was blowing in from the tunnel behind him, chilling the back of his neck. Why not take off right now? Start his exploration — it might take him hours to find his way from the castle to those lab buildings — and he was going to need every minute. Yet he lingered. If the scene coming up was going to be an angry one, as he hoped, he might pick up some valuable information that would save him time in the long run.
Gerda von Rothe came back into view followed by Maxwell Harper and the mestizo — Chinese, Hurtada. Nick wondered what the man was called in Peking. Today he was wearing one of the long white lab gowns over a cardigan and dark trousers. He was bare headed, the raven dark hair close cropped.
Harper was wearing the same snapbrim panama. He did not take it off. His lightweight suit was beautifully cut, a pearly gray, and a bright tie sparkled against his dazzling white shirt front. The AXEman, missing nothing, saw that Harper liked his collars starched — the sharp edges were cutting into the pink hanging jowls. Harper, he thought again, looked like a well-bathed and barbered pig. But he did not underestimate the man. He could see the faint bulge of a shoulder clip beneath the beautiful suit. Of the two men, he thought now, Harper might well be the more dangerous. Simply because he didn’t look it.
The voices came through the earphones, diminished but perfectly clear.
“So what’s it all about, Gerda?” Harper’s voice was hoarse. “Make it snappy, will you! I’ve got to get back to Mexico City tonight to catch a plane for Los Angeles. What’s wrong?”
Hurtada said nothing. Harper slumped into a chair near the desk but Hurtada paced nervously to and fro, shooting narrow dark glances at the other two. He gave the impression of extreme agitation.
The AXE agent waited with interest for what Gerda would say. She had to hand them some line, some stall, to account for summoning them. What? Some truth or a tissue of lies? He kept his eyes glued to the dark netting.
Gerda von Rothe poured drinks and handed them around. Harper drank deeply. Hurtada tasted his, made a face and put it down.
“Everything is wrong and you know it!” The Bitch faced the two men. She kept slapping the riding crop against her palm. “Things have been all wrong since that fool Vargas stole the counterfeit and got away. That is bound to lead to trouble sooner or later. I want you two to pack up your operation and get out of here!”
Harper shot an amused glance at Hurtada, took another drink, then laughed at Gerda. “Christ, is that all? You got us up here for that? I told you we’ve talked it over, Hurtada and I, and we’ve decided there is no great risk. Believe me, Gerda, we’ve figured all the angles. If that money could be traced back to us we would have known it by now. So stop worrying. Just be a good girl and play along the way you’ve been doing. That way everyone stays healthy. Anyway this operation isn’t going to last forever. We’ll go away one day and leave you alone.”
The woman slammed her riding crop down on the desk. “You’ll ruin me,” she screamed. “You’ll ruin everything I’ve built over all these years. I tell you I won’t have it. I want you out of here.” She glowered at Hurtada. “Take your filthy Chink soldiers and put them back on your submarine where they belong. Take them back to China! I’ve had enough.”
The watching Nick Carter frowned in puzzlement. This had a ring of truth about it. Was her anger genuine or an act? Had she forgotten that he was listening? Then he understood — she didn’t care what he heard now. Jamie McPherson was a dumb bastard, remember? And it didn’t matter for another reason — he was never going to leave El Mirador alive.
Hurtada had not yet spoken. Now he fixed the woman with cold black eyes and said, “I do not understand this at all, Gerda. Why are you making this scene? It makes no sense. I thought it was all understood — you cannot betray us, or even cause us trouble, without betraying yourself. Do you think we do not know about your friends in Brazil? Is it possible that you think us so stupid that we would not take precautions?”
Maxwell Harper laughed. “What he means, Gerda, is that you can stop looking for your Nazi pal from Brazil. I’m afraid he won’t be showing up.”
Nick was sure now that Gerda von Rothe had temporarily forgotten him. The deadly weakness of arrogance — and the Germanic hubris is far worse than the Greek ever was — is that it cannot abide to be taunted. Gerda seemed to swell, to actually gain in stature. She went livid and in that instant her face lost its beauty and took on a gargoyle ugliness. She smashed at Harper’s glass, sweeping it from the desk with her crop.
“So that’s it! You did kill him!”
The American shrugged his big shoulders. “If you mean the guy who called himself Siegfried, yes, we did. Or rather I did. We figured he was a gunman, an executioner you had sent for, Gerda, so we played it safe. You get some very nasty ideas at times, my dear woman. I wish you wouldn’t.”
The woman appeared to regain her control, at least partially. She leaned toward Harper. “How did you know he was Siegfried? He would never have told you. Never! He was one of our best men.”
Harper was lighting a short black cigar. He beamed jovially through blue smoke at Gerda. “He did, though. Hurtada persuaded him. Burnt his feet a little with a cigarette lighter. Before we finished with him he was anxious to talk — he wanted to tell us his entire pedigree and the details of his love life.” Harper chuckled. “Hurtada is very good with fire. Not very subtle, though, especially for a Chinese.”