Читать книгу Code Name: Dove - Judith Leon - Страница 17

Berlin, 3:30 p.m.

With the naval aviator dash Nova had come to expect, Cardone zipped their rental car off the Messendamm and into the parking facilities of Berlin’s International Congress Center—a white, steel-and-concrete mammoth. The beautifully cut suit he’d worn when she’d met him had been replaced by a casual look, at the moment consisting of blue sneakers, baggy brown slacks and a red, open-necked pullover from L.L. Bean. He looked remarkably young. He could pass for twenty-one or two.

At four o’clock, Jean Paul König would speak to a sold-out crowd of thousands and for the first time she’d see her mark in person. Yesterday, within an hour of their arrival in Germany, they had met at a safe house with Martin Davidson—code name Cupid—to review strategy.

“Just like chumming for fish,” their chief of station had said. Davidson was as round all over as his code name suggested, but he would never put one in mind of a sweet cherub; more like a Swiss banker: conservatively subdued, with gold-rimmed glasses and eyes that conveyed no emotion. “We scatter tempting stuff in front of König to get his attention, first Nova and then the idea of a photo piece on his pet project.”

Cardone knew exactly where to go, having spent part of yesterday scouting the congress center’s halls and conference chambers.

They stepped inside to find the massive space already three-quarters full. A young woman with a doll’s rosy cheeks and Delft-blue eyes stuck a brochure in Nova’s hand. The girl said to Joe, “Your tickets?” She was giving him that same sparkly look Nova had seen over and over from women in the handsome Texan’s presence.

“Just follow me,” the girl said as she led them to their row. She reluctantly left only after a parting smile to Cardone.

Nova could not stop a grin. “Do you always have that effect on women?”

He shrugged and grinned back. “Not always. I haven’t had that effect on you.”

They took their seats and she noted with approval that he began what appeared to be a professional scrutiny of the crowd: he’d be looking for anything unusual, any familiar faces, especially, known terrorists or sympathizers.

Electricity rippled through the room. This was an audience holding its collective breath, waiting for the magician to make the beheaded beauty reappear.

She skimmed the flashy brochure. In the past ten days she’d studied many similar materials from the König camp. Her appraisal was that his ideas sounded too idealistic. According to the Company’s analysts, what made König controversial—and exciting—weren’t his views per se, but the radical rate at which he proposed to make changes.

Cardone asked in a half whisper, “Feel the excitement?”

“Absolutely. These folks are dying to pounce on something.”

Four men and a woman sat on the stage. None was König. A slender, slightly stooped man— Detlev Kleitman—rose and proceeded to the lectern. Kleitman, as head of König’s German Homeland Party, was also strongly suspect. Other teams were doubtless pursuing Kleitman in whatever way Company strategists felt most likely to succeed.

Kleitman waited with palms down on the lectern till the hum of conversation subsided. After introducing the program and the VIPs, he took a deep breath and, with a dramatic pause, introduced the main attraction. “I present with great pleasure the rising star of the German Homeland Party, the next Governor of Bavaria, Jean Paul König.” The audience burst into applause and from stage right König strode to the podium. He shook hands with Kleitman, then eased into his presentation.

Nova raised opera glasses and studied the face of the man she’d been sent to dissect. She possessed every shred of information the Company had on his life. She’d memorized his psychological profile. But success would only be hers when, beyond these facts, she learned the hidden desires that were the essence of the man, and found a way she could fulfill some of those desires for him.

König had short blond hair, light eyebrows, and deeply set eyes. “Glacial blue” according to his file. His nose was straight and sharp, his jawline square and strong. The Company’s psychological profilers had described Jean Paul König as a man with the message of a saint, the speaking skills of a demagogue and the looks of a movie superstar.

Nova was already becoming comfortable with German again, and König made listening pure pleasure. He spoke in flawless High German, the words rolling out of his mouth and into and around the room. Cardone, she noted, watched the crowd, not König. Logical, since Cardone didn’t understand much more of German than danke schön and gesundheit. But very soon, even Cardone’s eyes fixed on the tall presence in the center of the stage. The rhythm of König’s speech, the lithe way he moved, the occasional turning of his side to the audience, the grace of his hand as he lifted it to accent a point, all compelled attention. She couldn’t pull her gaze away.

Nova raised the opera glasses to view his face again and a light shiver slipped down her sides.

When he finished, five thousand charmed souls burst into applause. Several dozen people near the front stood. An irregular wave rippled through the auditorium as others rose to their feet, straining to see and clapping as a waving König finally left the stage.

“Can you feel that?” she said to Cardone.

“How could anyone miss it? The place is electrified.”

“I can see why the Company figures he’s guaranteed to win in Bavaria.”

Cardone gave her a grim smile. “I can see why they say he could eventually be chancellor. I can see why they say he’s one of the most popular figures in the European Community. I can see how if this guy is who we think he is, we better stop him.”

“Now,” Nova agreed.

At seven in the evening Nova heard the expected knock on her door. They would soon attempt their first meeting with König. She slipped on her high heels, crossed the wooden floor to the door and opened it.

Cardone looked stunned, then dramatically grabbed his chest over his heart. “My God, Blair! You look—well.”

She had wondered what his response would be when he saw her all dressed up. In front of him, wearing regal crimson trimmed with black, stood a woman of utmost sophistication. At least, that was the intended effect. With the help of an agent who specialized in disguises, Nova had brought clothes, makeup and jewelry—including the beautiful swarovski crystal chandelier earrings she had on—to create an image few men would be able to resist.

“I heard all those tales in Virginia about a woman who could become any man’s most addictive fantasy.”

She grinned. “Ready for battle.”

He bowed. “I pity the enemy.”

At five after eight, she walked beside Cardone into the Hotel Intercontinental Palace. The two of them were now, as planned, only slightly late. With her hand resting lightly on his arm, they strolled through the lobby and down a brilliantly lit, golden-carpeted corridor. Every eye turned in their direction.

“Fancy place,” Cardone said. “But maybe fancy like this is old hat for you?”

She let the question pass. “It really is beautiful, isn’t it? I love crystal. I love light.”

The doors to the ballroom stood open. Their planners had assumed the banquet would not begin on schedule and, true to human nature, a number of couples and foursomes continued to filter in.

“I’ll wait,” she said. “See if König’s arrived.”

Nova detected just the slightest hesitation from her partner. Perhaps she had been too abrupt. Men could be so damned sensitive when a woman spoke firmly or ordered rather than asked. Cardone had seemed uncomfortable from the beginning with her, but she had thought they were past that now. Apparently not.

The space vibrated with the hum of over three hundred people with nothing to do but talk. Waiters were pouring water and slapping down silver trays of butter.

The long head table dominated the room’s opposite end. Joe spotted König, one seat off center, his attractive blond wife, Ilse, to his right and the slightly stooped German Homeland Party president, Detlev Kleitman, to his left.

He returned to Blair’s side. She pivoted in his direction and the scarlet gown flared around her ankles with the elegance of a matador’s cape. His heartbeat did a neat flip. Her hair was down but pulled back over one ear and long, dangling crystal earrings swayed and glittered in the artificial light. His thought, ice cascade against black silk.

He imagined himself starting to unzip her gown. They were together in a darkened room in front of a fireplace and soft music was playing. What might be this beautiful woman’s favorite music—

What the heck was he doing unzipping her dress! My god. They were partners in a dangerous game. And she had never once hinted at any sexual interest in him.

“König’s there,” he said. “He’s seated at the head table at the opposite end of the room.”

With Cardone at her side, Nova entered the ballroom. She felt a grim exhilaration. König must grant her an interview. Fleeting panic rushed through her as a tumult of thoughts bombarded her. Could she do this right, say the right thing, be the right woman for this mission? But just as quickly as the logical fears had quizzed her, they were gone. She had years of experience charming men. This was not going to be any different, even if he was a mass murderer. She would succeed again.

Her hand on her partner’s arm, she strolled to the center of the ballroom. They turned and aimed for the head table down what suddenly felt oddly like a church aisle.

Heads turned to look at them. After a promenade that seemed the length of the coast from La Jolla to Los Angeles, they reached their destination. Jean Paul König had been talking to Detlev Kleitman but he turned his piercing blue gaze toward her. She quickly looked away, but as Cardone pulled out her chair and she glided onto it, she sensed König’s appraising gaze touch her skin.

The waiters started the first course: pâté de foie gras. Introductions at their table commenced in German. She and Cardone stuck to English. Cardone did an admirable job of engaging the woman to his right—a white-haired matron having passable English—in small talk. Nova chatted with the man to her left, the editor-in-chief of Der Zeitgeist.

Eventually waiters delivered the main course. The editor’s attention shifted to his plate. Nova, who had never taken her attention completely from the head table, used the lull to scrutinize König’s wife. Ilsa König had a distant look, as though her body was present but her mind was somewhere else. Nova had read that the couple had married when quite young and had two sons. Their marriage was no longer close, if it ever had been, according to the Company profile. But König was faithful to his wife. Always skeptical of that bit of info, Nova was even more so now after seeing the living man in action. König, in her opinion, could have virtually any woman he wanted.

The Company’s psychological profilers had said the key to ensnaring him lay in deciphering the reason for his strange fidelity to his wife despite their tepid union. If Nova could, the profilers were confident König was emotionally ripe for the picking. Nova wasn’t in the business of breaking up marriages. Or sleeping with her marks. But Price had reminded her that this man could be a terrorist and thousands of lives were at stake. And resting on her shoulders.

Cardone leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “König’s wife looks bored out of her mind.”

Nova snapped out of her thoughts and focused on the task at hand. “From the look on her face, I suspect you’re going to be the most exciting thing in her whole evening.”

“Listen, a beautiful woman tied into that kind of marriage will be easy to please.” Cardone flashed her a grin, then added, “I don’t know if I told you. I’m a great dancer.”

So terribly confident the young agent was. “I’d love to make an independent judgment. Before we leave tonight, a long twirl around the floor is a must. Okay?”

Cardone started to answer but a waiter materialized behind König and handed the politician a note. Horrified that König might be called away, Nova stared while her heart thumped over speed bumps. König read the note, said something to Kleitman and something even briefer to his wife, then rose and left, following the waiter.

“Uh, oh,” Cardone muttered. “What the hell will we do if—”

“He’ll come back,” she said calmly. “Think positively.”

She started counting every second while stirring food around her plate. She believed absolutely in the power of positive thinking. It was what had gotten her through the darkest days and hours of her life. But, if König had been called away, that was beyond their control. Positive thinking wasn’t going to bring him back, but it would help them think of a Plan B, rather than focus on their frustration and negative energy.

Mercifully he reappeared and took his seat.

She heard Cardone exhale slowly. She felt her heart rate settle as she suffered through several brief speeches. Finally, Kleitman announced that dancing would begin. Waiters folded back a paneled partition and an orchestra began to play a waltz.

She and Cardone were prepared to approach the Königs at the head table if necessary, but Nova knew a move that forward ran a tremendous risk of offending. Minutes ticked by. König and Kleitman seemed deep into some subject.

“I wonder what can be so important,” Cardone said, his impatience obvious. “König is supposed to like to dance.”

Nova watched as König turned to his wife. The pair rose and König escorted her to the dance floor.

Without speaking, Cardone pulled out Nova’s chair. She settled her hand in his and they slowly wove their way to the edge of the swirling mass of dancers. She and Cardone stepped onto the parquet floor and he swept her into his arms. In spite of her fixation on what she would say to König, Nova was caught by her nearness to Car-done. His hands were large and strong but he held her gently. Through the dress she felt heat from his palm in the small of her back. He was, after all, a great-looking guy. Serious-faced, he sailed them into the rhythm of the music. He wasn’t a bad dancer, and made it easy for her to follow his lead as she homed in on König. Cardone guided them next to the Königs, then let her go, tapped König on the shoulder and addressed him in English.

“Mr. König, I’d be honored if you would allow me a dance with your wife.”

König’s wife spoke English, although not as well as her husband. She smiled at Cardone. König frowned. But Isla König let go of her husband, and she and Car-done began to dance.

Nova’s quarry turned, gave her a wry smile, acknowledging the inevitable, and held out his arms. Her skin alive with electricity, Nova stepped toward him, nodded in a silent greeting and moved into his embrace.

König swept her skillfully across the floor as they explored how to make two bodies move as one. Nova looked up at him. His eyes surprised her. They were a cool blue, but they radiated amusement and charm that easily made up for the lack of superficial warmth. The frown was now completely gone. She was surprised at the sense of well-being emanating from him.

Pitching her voice low and making sure she caught his gaze squarely, she delivered her rehearsed opening slowly in English. “You must forgive my partner.” She paused, waiting for him to take the lead.

“He isn’t your husband?”

“Oh, no.”

“And why is it I must forgive your partner?”

“He’s had a great day professionally and decided your wife is the most lovely woman in the room and no matter how much nerve it took, he was going to ask to dance with her.”

Nova focused on König’s body, on matching her every movement to his. He must be made to feel, with strong impact, a harmony between them.

“Your partner is mistaken. It’s true my wife is lovely, but I believe I am presently graced with the room’s most beautiful woman.”

She chuckled, remembering to keep her voice low. “You’re kind.”

König’s hand tightened slightly on her waist. Probably an involuntary response, or maybe a good sign that he was intrigued. He said, “Somehow I’m sure you must be told often that you’re beautiful.”

They glided through several more turns with König watching a point in the air over her shoulder. Then the penetrating blue eyes found hers again. “Your accent is American. Are you living in Berlin?”

“No. We arrived yesterday.”

Intentionally, Nova stumbled out of rhythm, sagged against him and clutched him tightly. “Oh, dear.”

He stopped and, courteously supporting her, searched her face. “Are you all right?”

“Just embarrassed. Could we move off the dance floor? Just for a moment.”

“Of course.” He slipped a supporting hand under her arm and she clung tightly as they navigated between the swirling dancers and off the parquet.

She put one hand to her temple while retaining a good grip with the other on Jean Paul König’s arm. “Just a bit of dizziness.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. “I’ve had a slight ear infection. I thought I was over it.”

His look was one of sincere concern. He filled the silence with “You say you and the young man are partners. What is your business?”

“Not a business, really. I’m a freelance photographer. Joe’s the team’s writing half.”

“And you are here to photograph something?”

“Yes. A week or two more here in Germany should wrap it up.”

“Sounds intriguing.” He encouraged her with a nod.

“It has to do with GATT agricultural subsidies.”

König’s brow wrinkled in an appropriately baffled response. Like a good angler, she waited to let his curiosity tickle his mind. “And just how does the raging debate on the General Agreement on Trade and Tariffs come to interest a photographer?”

“I assure you, only through a very indirect route. A year ago a newspaper article left me feeling as though I was about to be robbed. The article was about the GATT agreements and how much land the European Community countries might lose to urbanization at the upcoming Brussels meeting.”

Interest flashed in the blue eyes. “Not a very photogenic subject I should think.”

“My obsession is nature. I found myself very upset over what my government wants, what Europeans want and what I think would be the best for Mother Nature.” Nova had carefully prepared this line to make him feel at once that their interests were aligned.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“That’s partly what our project is about. To let me see for myself. We’ll do a photo essay on what the countryside and farmlands look like now and then juxtapose them with examples of what Europeans might end up with if this agreement goes through.”

“Have you drawn your conclusion yet?”

“I think European farmers can’t begin to compete with Americans and other countries. But is the solution to abandon them and industrialize? If the EC gives another inch, any trace of a European pastoral way of life is finished.”

He gave her a single approving nod. “My thoughts exactly.”

Yes, indeed. Of course they were his thoughts, exactly.

The waltz was over, the music stopped. Bad timing. She felt a tightening of alarm in her chest. König must not escape just yet. His gaze flicked through the thicket of bodies on the floor. Cardone was positioned so König could see that his wife was happy. The orchestra began a two-step. Cardone swept Ilse König into another dance.

Nova grasped the opportunity. “My dizziness is gone.”

“Good.” He raised his free hand, palm up in invitation.

They stepped back onto the dance floor and slipped into the new rhythm. König leaned away a bit and said, “What is it exactly you’ll do while you’re here?”

“Joe’s so pleased because he’s arranged for me to meet with your agricultural minister. Mr. Meyer can give me a rundown on endangered scenic spots.”

König snorted. “I’m not very impressed with your choice for a source.” Rudolph Meyer was a thorn in König’s side, a man the CIA knew König detested.