“Don’t know” McVey shook his head uncertainly, then looked to Remmer. “Let’s get an enhancement on him too, see if we can find out who he is. Maybe we can take the circle down one more notch.”
A line lit up and the phone buzzed at Remmer’s elbow.
It was fifteen minutes past two when they got there. Berlin police had already cordoned off the block. Homicide investigators stood aside as Remmer led the way through the shop and into the back room of the antique store on Kantstrasse.
Karolin Henniger lay on the floor wrapped in a sheet. Her eleven-year-old son, Johann, was next to her. He, too, was covered by a sheet.
Remmer knelt and pulled back the covering.
“Oh God—”Osborn breathed.
McVey eased the sheet from the boy. “Yeah,” he said, looking up at Osborn. “Oh God . . .”
Both mother and son had a single gunshot wound to the 1 head.
111
NINETY MINUTES later, at 3:55 P.M., Osborn stood at the window in a large room at the ancient Hotel Meineke staring out at the city. Like all of them, he was trying to separate the horror of what they’d just seen from what they had to do at the present. Their focus had to be on Scholl, nothing else. Still, it was impossible to shake the thoughts.
Who was Karolin Henniger really, that someone would do that to her and her child? Did the perpetrator think that she had told the police something that morning? If so, what did she know she might have confided? And then there was the other question, the one he could see in McVey’s eyes: If they had never gone to see her, would Karolin Henniger and her son still be alive? That burden had to be his and he knew it, more dead because of him. He had to forget about it.
Going into the bathroom he washed his hands and face. They’d moved the entire operation to the Meineke following the discovery of a body in a .seventh-floor bathroom of the Casino wing of the Hotel Palace, a room that had an almost perfect view into theirs in the main building. A special tech team was being flown in from Bad Godesberg to go over the room for evidence.
The reason they’d come to the Meineke was that it was only one building, and the only way up or down was via a creaky elevator that serviced the entire hotel. A stranger or even a friend would have a great deal of trouble getting past the BKA detectives in the lobby, or the team of Schneider and Littbarski detailed near the elevator lading two doors down. That protection left McVey and the Others free to consider a severe complication.
Cadoux.
He’d suddenly reappeared, seemingly from nowhere, leaving a message for Noble through his office at New Scotland Yard that, guess of guesses, he was in Berlin. He’d emphasized he was in trouble, and said it was extremely important he speak to Noble or McVey as soon as r possible and that he would call back within the hour.
McVey didn’t know what to think. He saw Osborn eye him as he dumped a handful of mixed nuts onto his palm from a plastic bag. “I know. Too much fat, too much salt. I’m gonna eat ‘em anyway.” Carefully picking out a Brazil nut, he held it up, studied it, then popped it in his mouth. “If Cadoux’s telling the truth and the group’s onto him, he
A knock at the door cut McVey off in midsentence. Getting up, Remmer slid the automatic from his shoulder holster and went to the door.
“Schneider.”
Remmer opened the door and Schneider stepped in, followed by a handsome brunette in her early forties. She was taller than Schneider and wider. Pale lipstick emphasized a mouth that was turned up at the corners in a perpetual smile. Tucked under her arm was a large manila envelope.
“This is Lieutenant Kirsch,” Schneider said, adding that she was a member of the BKA computer- enhancement team. Nodding at Remmer, she looked to the others and spoke in English. “I am happy to report the identity of the man driving the BMW. His name is Pascal Von Holden and, he is director of security for Erwin Scholl’s European business operations. We are running a profile on him now.” Opening the envelope, she took out two 8 x 10 black-and-white glossy photographs from the enhanced video taken of the house at 72 Hauptstrasse. The first was of Von Holden I as he got out of the car. It was grainy but clear enough to make out his features. The second was grainy as well and less exact. Still, it was enough to define a youngish, dark-haired woman, standing by the window looking out.
“The woman was a little more difficult, but a positive I.D. came back from the FBI just as I was leaving to bring you the photographs,” Lieutenant Kirsch said. “She is American. A licensed physical therapist. Her name is Joanna Marsh. Her residence is Taos, New Mexico.”
“Elementary police work, eh McVey?” Noble raised an eyebrow in admiration.
“Luck,” McVey smiled. The BKA had sent a fax of both computer-enhanced photos to the police departments in Berlin and Zurich, and, at his request, the photo of the woman to Fred Hanley at the L.A. office of the FBI. It was a long shot, but he’d had a hunch that if Lybarger was in Berlin and staying at the house in Hauptstrasse, there was a very good chance his physical therapist would be there as well. And now, with her identification confirmed, the reversal of the same ought to hold true. To wit: if she was there, so was Lybarger.
There was a dull banging as the building’s heat came on. McVey stared at first at one photo, then the other, memorizing them, then handed them to Noble and walked over to the window. He tried to imagine himself in Joanna Marsh’s position. What was she thinking as she stood staring out from that window? How much does she know about what’s going on? And what could or would she tell them if they could get to her?
Lybarger, he agreed with Osborn, was the key. What was ironic, as well as maddening, was that although they now had a clear photo of Lybarger’s therapist, computer-enhanced from a videotape and identified literally in a matter of minutes by an organization halfway around the world, the only photograph Bad Godesberg had been able to rouse of Lybarger himself was a four-year-old blackly and-white passport picture. And that was it. Nothing else. Not even a snapshot of him. Which was crazy. A man as important, or as seemingly important, as Lybarger should have had his picture published at least once. Somewhere. Some magazine, some newspaper, or, at the very least, some kind of investment journal. But as far as anyone could tell, he hadn’t. It was as if the harder they looked, the fainter he became. Fingerprints would have been a gift from all that was holy, if for nothing else than to run them and, in all likelihood the way things were going, discount them. Clearly, Elton Lybarger had to be the most secretive, most protected man in the civilized world.
McVey looked at his watch: 4:27.
Barely thirty minutes before they were to meet Scholl. The one prayer they’d had, or hoped to have anyway, was Salettl, who McVey had desperately wanted to interview before they encountered Scholl. Maybe Karolin Henniger could have helped reach him. Who knew? But Salettl, of anyone, might have given them some insight into Lybarger, the man. Not to mention the possibility that Salettl himself was involved in the murders of the headless men. But unless things changed dramatically in a very short time, such an interview wasn’t to be, and they would have to go with what they had, which was excruciatingly little.
Suddenly, the thought came to get Joanna Marsh on the telephone and try to pump her for as much as he could before she either hung up or someone did it for her. It was worth a try. At this point anything was, and he was about to ask Remmer to get the phone number of the house on Hauptstrasse when line two on the pair of secured room phones rang. Remmer glanced at McVey and picked up.
“Cadoux. Patched through from Noble’s office in London,” he said.
Motioning Noble to the extension, McVey took the phone from Remmer, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “Get a trace on it.” Remmer nodded and went into the bedroom, where he punched up the other line.
