While he stood before the chalkboard, a capable-looking man wearing a finely cut European suit approached.
“Gage Hartline?” the man said in a low voice. He was rather handsome, lean and hawk-eyed with a fashionable stubble beard and short haircut. A quick glance told Gage the man had a pistol under his left arm.
“That’s me,” Gage answered.
“Herr Schulz is here, waiting to meet you. If you’ll pardon me, we must step into the restroom so I might check you for weapons or recording devices.”
Gage shook his head. Another one?
“Are you serious?”
“Quite,” the man replied politely. “If you don’t agree, there will be no meeting.”
“You think I’d attempt to hurt Herr Schulz here, in a coffee shop?”
The man stared. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t. Now, please sir.”
With a shrug and a shake of the head, Gage submitted. After the thorough pat down, he surrendered his phone to Schulz’s bodyguard.
“You’ll find Herr Schulz upstairs and to the left,” the man said. “He’s by the fireplace. What would you like to drink?”
“Just a black coffee.”
Gage walked away, wincing in pain as he climbed the steps. Upon reaching the second floor, Gage recognized Rainer Schulz from the many photos he’d studied on the Internet. The German was exactly where his bodyguard had said he’d be. He was sitting at a two-person table, his hands cradled around a mug of coffee. When Gage approached him, Schulz nodded to the chair. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown. Instead, he kept his green eyes clearly focused on Gage as he settled into the chair.
“Herr Schulz,” Gage said. “I’m Gage Hartline.” Gage slowly extended his hand across the table. Schulz gave it a brief shake, at which time Gage realized the German’s hands were thin but strong.
Schulz was showing his age, especially in comparison to many of the pictures Gage had studied. The German was in his late 60s. He was trim and distinguished, wearing his silver hair slightly long but neat. His skin was pink and freshly shaven. His mouth was rather small, his lips wrinkled as if he were pinching them together. He wore a dark gray sweater over a wine shirt with a point collar. On his left wrist was a simple silver watch. In front of him, a folded pair of reading glasses and, on the vacant adjacent table, a newspaper. Though Schulz was famous in some circles, Gage assumed he was rarely recognized.
“What do you want?” Schulz asked, speaking English with a light accent.
“I’d like to chat with you about your relationship with Karl Vogel.”
“Why?”
“I’m assisting the Vogel family with settling the estate.”
Schulz perfunctorily nodded, as if Gage had answered his question correctly. “Mister Hartline, listen carefully, because I’ll tell you this once. If you attempt to mislead me or obfuscate, this meeting is over.”
“I understand.”
“See that you do.”
Gage struggled to smile, but he did, mouth only. He realized this would be a tricky meeting.
Schulz slid his coffee aside. “What exactly do you want to know?”
Gage heeded Schulz’s warning and went for broke right out of the gate. “Herr Schulz, I was hired by Claudia Vogel to protect her in her final days. She was sick with cancer but didn’t want anyone to know. She believed her husband had been murdered.”
Schulz sat very still. Gage could see the pulse on the man’s neck, beating steadily at what Gage guessed was about 80 beats per minute, probably slightly increased due to the caffeine.
At this point, a café employee arrived with Gage’s coffee. She asked Schulz if he wanted anything else. He dismissed her with a minute shake of his head. Gage glanced over his right shoulder to see the bodyguard watching from a table by the stairs.
Finally, Schulz’s nostrils flared and he spoke. “I understand Karl died of cardiac arrest.”
“His potassium levels were too high. It wouldn’t have been found in a normal autopsy. Claudia commissioned a much more exhaustive post-mortem and that’s how it was discovered.”
“Did someone give him a lethal injection?”
“It appears so, yes.”
Schulz’s eyes wandered outside before coming back to Gage. The German was simmering. “And you think it was me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s why you’re here. I’m forevermore connected to an RAF killing that I had nothing to do with. It doesn’t matter. In the court of public opinion, I’ve been an assassin for a quarter-century.”
“You demanded honesty, sir, and you’re getting it. Frankly, I have a large list of who I consider to be potential suspects.”
“Yes, like whomever was driving that BMW a few nights ago at Frankfurt International.”
Gage arched his eyebrows.
“There’s little I don’t know, Mister Hartline,” Schulz said quietly, evenly, confidently. Perhaps even dangerously. He continued. “I know you’re a blank with a fabricated background. I know you do security work and have taken down a few thugs in your time.”
Schulz’s transformation was startling. He leaned forward, intense but still speaking in that quiet, dangerous tone.
“I also know that Karl Otto Vogel had more bitter enemies than could fit in this entire café. That’s not to mention the number of close friends whose wives, and daughters, he bedded or attempted to bed. But you…you learn that he and I were once mere acquaintances, and you come to investigate me?”
“I understand you were business associates.”
“Be quiet. I’m not scared of you, Hartline. I’ve dealt with piss-ant intelligence types for years. You’re a dime a dozen, as they say
