Just turned forty-one, he was the son of German immigrants who had settled in New Jersey after fleeing the Nazis in 1941. "My dad felt right at home there," he'd told Burke at their first meeting. "Hell, we have public officials in New Jersey who could teach the Nazis a thing or two about corruption." Of course, to a member of the post-war generation, the Nazis were only history book figures or caricatures from his parents' memories. And the memories of that period were too painful for them to speak of often.
"My reason for being here is hot enough that it's not for me to handle," Burke said. "I'll pass it along to the Chief on the scrambler. He can kick it upstairs." Highsmith was known as "the Chief" to those down the line.
Detring squinched his nose so that his glasses seemed to bounce up and down before his face relaxed into a rueful grin. "You're a brave man, Charlie Brown. Jane would probably kick my ass all the way back to Jersey if I bugged out on her in the midst of a second honeymoon."
Burke had no doubt of that. Jane Detring was an Army brat, a redhead with a fiery temper and a commanding presence, most likely inherited from her father, a recently retired three-star general. It was the general who had recommended his son-in-law, a former intelligence officer, to his old friend Nathaniel Highsmith.
Burke shrugged. "Lori needed a rest today anyway. So what's new in Berlin?"
"Our overt business is getting so damned good we may have to give up the covert stuff," he said with a smug look. "We've signed up two new clients in the last two weeks. A bank and a manufacturer who wants us to help with a product planned for the U.S. market."
"That ought to keep us looking legitimate. But I hope you've got an equally glowing operational report from the Amber side ready for the Chief. What's the status of that Czech problem?"
"I sent Blair to Prague yesterday," Detring said. "He's our TV expert. He's scouting out locations and background for a video on how small manufacturers are progressing under the new regime. He knows the territory."
The company's covert operational side was known as the Amber Group, a name that came from the color of the folders used to hold its classified files. The Amber Group had been asked to look into how light antitank weapons similar to the U.S. Army's Viper managed to show up among terrorists trained in Libya. The LAWs, which could obliterate a car or a small structure from a distance of 300 meters, were the product of a Czech small arms manufacturer. The democratic government had previously given assurances that the company would not be involved in any shady dealings. Obviously, something had gone amiss.
"Keep me posted," Burke said, gazing out at the tall buildings in the distance. "What do you do for excitement around here, Erich?"
Detring shrugged. "I've been hitting the cocktail circuit lately to try and keep up with what's going on in the old DDR. Talk about excitement, these Germans really know how to throw a party. Of course, they do tend to get a bit out of hand at times."
"Glad it's you and not me," Burke said. "I'm no good at small talk."
Detring laughed. "I got used to it when I was a defense attaché. The embassy parties were a great source of gossip, some of it really useful."
"Have you picked up any juicy tidbits on the Berlin cocktail scene?"
"Afraid not. I did run into an interesting character last night, though. You remember reading about the 'Hanover Hacker' a few years ago?"
"Sounds vaguely familiar. Hanover, Germany?"
"Right. A guy named Hess. He was going through a satellite network into the States. He broke into a lot of university and military computer systems."
"Yeah, now it rings a bell. Wasn't there a book about it?"
"The Cuckoo's Egg, by a computer security expert who tracked him down. They found he was selling stuff to the KGB."
Burke nodded. It was all coming back now. "Don't tell me you ran into him?"
"Not hardly. He got off with probation and has stayed out of sight. This guy was a friend of his from Hanover. He told me another hacker there recently tried the same trick just to see if it would still work. Want to guess what happened?"
Burke gave him a pained frown. "Don't tell me—"
"It worked. He got into some university laboratories and a military base before he got scared and signed off. Would you believe that? After all the talk about computer security, people are still too lazy or careless to use proper procedures."
"I'd better make a note to warn our people when I get back," Burke said.
He had a pretty good idea of what was involved, since he had been forced to acquire a basic knowledge of computers when he took the Worldwide job. His background in mathematics had helped.
Near the end of the Ku'damm, Detring turned onto a side street, then swung into the garage beneath the building where Worldwide's offices were located. They took an elevator up to the top floor, which afforded an excellent view of the commercial and shopping complex called the Eruopa-Centre and the adjacent Zoologisher Garten, Berlin's midtown zoo. It was only Burke's third visit here, the first coming at the time of the office's grand opening. He spent a few minutes meeting and greeting some of the new people, Germans who had been carefully screened and thoroughly vetted before being hired. Then, having fulfilled the mandatory back-patting chores required of a home office executive, he borrowed Erich Detring's desk to use the scrambler. Before leaving him to his call, Detring switched on a small, highly-sensitive frequency sweeping device to assure Burke that the office was free of eavesdropping bugs.
Glancing at his watch, Burke saw it was still early in Washington. But Nathaniel Highsmith was one of those early-rising, early-on-the-job men who had everything organized and rolling by the time the normal business day started. When Highsmith came on the phone, Burke got the same reaction he had experienced with Detring.
"What the devil are you doing calling from the office in Berlin?" Nate asked in his animated, booming voice. "You're supposed to be taking it easy, vacationing in Budapest."
"True," Burke said in his usual relaxed manner. "But things got a bit out of hand yesterday."
"What do you mean out of hand?"
"I was approached by an ex-Mossad officer I'd met in Tel Aviv during the Jabberwock investigation. He wanted me to relay a message to Kingsley Marshall."
"Wanted you?" Nate asked. "Why you? Does he know anything?"
"Not about the Amber Group. He saw Lori and me having lunch at the Hilton. He was there for a convention. I'm sure it was strictly accidental."
He explained the circumstances of the meeting and then told Nate about the secret addendum to the Israeli-South Korean agreement.
"Damn!" Nate's voice burst over the line. "It sounds like Israel is handing them a bomb on a silver platter. What the hell does South Korea need a bomb for? Particularly after what happened in Pyongyang."
"My thoughts exactly."
"You're prepared to vouch for this guy?"
"Cam Quinn believed in him implicitly. He gave me the right answer on Jabberwock."
"All right. If you're convinced."
"There's one other thing, Nate. We promised him, practically on a blood oath, to protect his identity. If the Mossad finds out about this, he's a dead man."
"Not to worry. I'll take it straight to Kingsley. I'm sure he'll go directly to General Thatcher or the President. They won't want to ruffle any feathers in the Middle East until we know a hell of a lot more about what this means."
Chapter 7
There was nothing about the man's appearance to make anyone in the small, noisy restaurant give him a second glance, which was the way he preferred it. Hanging among his wardrobe at home was the blue uniform and gold-braided cap of an officer in the Korean National Police. As a homicide investigator, it was something reserved for formal occasions, which were occasions he would as soon do without. At the moment he was dressed in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. A compactly built man, slight of stature, wearing round, metal-framed glasses, he slowly rubbed the tips of two slender fingers over a slightly receding hairline. It was an idle gesture, as he felt more concern for his waistline than his hairline. Past forty, he was into the years when many of his contemporaries had begun an unwanted expansion around the middle. But fat, he assured himself with no little annoyance, was the last thing he was likely to get from the chapchae they served around here. He'd be damned lucky to find any lean, for that matter. He took his chopsticks and stirred the vegetables and noodles in the metal bowl, looking for the bits of beef that should have been there. He would have had better luck searching a grassy field for a missing rifle cartridge.