Franken was chief investigating officer for the Federal Criminal Bureau for Saxony, also an ex-Stasi officer whose past was buried even deeper than theirs. It was rare that they had any contact with each other.
Legler held his reply for a moment, but he too glanced toward the door. “What are you worried about, Herman?”
“We have built comfortable lives for ourselves in the aftermath.”
Legler acknowledged the obvious. “The future seems bright.”
“I would not like to jeopardize what we have, for the sake of a minor profit.”
“You’re still speaking of Herr Allain,” Legler said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Admittedly the profit I made on the two units was not excessive. But if his business develops, it could turn into something worthwhile.” He’d dropped his pseudo western mannerisms. “Unless of course his business is something other than he says it is.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Dunkel said.
A heavyset, round-faced man with curly gray hair appeared in the doorway, spotted them seated near the rear of the bar, and came back.
“Gentlemen,” he said, taking a seat.
“Good of you to join us, Karl,” Dunkel said. “In point of fact we were just discussing you. We need your help with a somewhat… delicate matter.”
The waitress came, and Franken ordered a dark beer.
“Would this have anything to do with, shall we say, past entanglements?”
“Good heavens, no,” Dunkel said. “The past remains the past. All Germans are looking to the future. In that we are steadfast.” Dunkel pursed his lips. “It’s another matter, one possibly of an international criminal nature that Bernard and I may have been unwittingly caught up in.”
“If you’ve gotten yourselves into trouble I don’t know if I can help,” Franken said quietly.
“I’m not talking about that kind of help, Karl. We’ve broken no German laws, nor do we intend doing so.” Dunkels voice was just as low as Franken’s. What was being discussed here was nobody’s business. “With the changing situation in the East, a businessman has to operate with care. Sometimes even forgoing an immediate profit if his business would possibly be in jeopardy.”
Legler shot him a dark look, but Dunkel ignored it.
“Go on.”
Dunkel explained the unexpected business deal that had fallen into their laps.
“His explanation to me why he was bringing his business to Leipzig, and not to Stuttgart, didn’t ring true.
Nor did his dealings with Bernard. Operating his business as he was, it would be impossible for him to make a profit. It made me wonder that either the man was a fool or he was working to another more, shall I say, mysterious purpose.”
“Es machts nichts,” Franken said, indifferently.
“But it does matter,” Dunkel disagreed. “We have reputations to maintain that might run into difficulties should certain inquiries be made arising from a criminal proceeding.” Dunkel looked frankly at the cop. “I’ll do whatever it takes to maintain my good name. I have too much to lose otherwise. We all do.”
“What can you fear from a Belgian?”
“He’s not a Belgian. The passport he used was a fake. In fact the man is an American.”
“How do you know?”
“His letter of credit arrived in the name of Pierre Allain, drawn on a foreign bank. When I did some checking I discovered, by accident, that Pierre Allain was apparently the name of his business, and was not in fact the name of an actual person. But the Belgian passport he showed me identified him as Allain. In fact the man’s real name is Kirk McGarvey. An American, as I said.”
Franken stiffened slightly, but then he shrugged and took a drink of his beer.
“Did you happen to make a copy of his passport?”
“I did,” Legler said. “We needed it for the licensing and export documents”
“Fax it to my office this afternoon, would you?” Franken said. “Along with copies of all the paperwork on the cars.”
“Okay.”
“Is this name familiar to you, Karl?” Dunkel asked.
Franken shook his head. “Nein, but I’ll check it out. At the very least he’s broken several of our laws by using a false passport.”
Dunkel hesitated a moment. “This won’t affect us, will it?”
“Not to worry, Herman. You and Bernard have done nothing wrong. In fact you’ve done exactly tile correct thing by bringing this to me.”
“Then this is out of our hands now?”
Franken pushed his beer glass aside and got to his feet.
“Completely,” he said to Dunkel. “But if he tries to make contact with you again, call me immediately.”
“We’ll certainly do that,” Dunkel said.
Franken gave them an odd look, then turned and left the bar.
“Gott im Himmel, what the hell was that all about?” Legler demanded. “Who gives a damn what passport the man was using? I have a safe filled with them, as I imagine you do.”
Dunkel smiled benignly. “Herr McGarvey’s account with Barclay’s bank, a secret account that can only be accessed by a number and a code word, is worth in the neighborhood of three and a half million British pounds.”
Legler’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your point, Herman?” “I am in possession of the account number as well as the code word,” Dunkel said. “If Herr McGarvey were to find himself languishing in a German prison, he would not be in a position to challenge anyone who was to take over his financial holdings.”
This time Legler smiled. “Hot damn,” he said in English.
Lynch received the telephone call from Colonel Galan at his office in the U.S. Embassy at 2:15 p.m. He’d been working on his daily summary report for transmission to
Langley and he was in a foul mood. McGarvey continued to elude them, and Ryan’s star pupil, Elizabeth, had been of no help except for giving them Otto Rencke’s name, which had resulted in a dead end. Galan sounded distant, almost resigned, as if he was at wit’s end and was calling to explain why he could not go on, or even if he should have embarked on this mission in the first place.
“She’s gone,” he said when Lynch answered.
“Who’s gone?” Lynch asked.
“Elizabeth McGarvey. And there’s a good chance that the Russians have her.”
“What are you talking about?” Lynch demanded angrily. If it was true he had no idea how he would explain this to Ryan, who’d taken a personal interest in the case.
“She and Jacqueline came up with the idea that McGarvey might be hiding out in an apartment he’s used before in Riga. They flew up there early this morning without telling anybody and Elizabeth went in. Jacqueline was supposed to be backing her up, but before she could do anything Elizabeth came out of the apartment with a man, and they drove off together in a van.”
“Was it McGarvey?”
“Jacqueline didn’t get a very close look, but she didn’t think it was him,” Galan said. “My first thought was that the Riga police might have arrested her for some reason, but now I don’t think so. I made a few inquiries up there, but one wants to say anything, beyond the fact that no young American woman was arrested anytime within the past month.”
“Then it was McGarvey,” Lynch said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I don’t think so, and neither does Jacqueline. She was his lover long enough to recognize him even from a distance,” Galan said. “In any event, the Riga police did admit that a Russian woman by the name of Raya Kisnelkov was arrested and turned over to the Russian Militia.”
Lynch thought for a second.
“It’s a long shot, but it could be a coincidence,” he said, even though he didn’t believe it himself. “At any rate
