'Hans is there now, checking things out,' Petra replied. 'I expect we can be ready in forty-eight hours. What of your end?'
'All is in readiness. I will call you in two days,' he said, breaking the connection. He walked out of the phone booth at Charles De Gaulle International Airport and headed toward the taxi stand, carrying his attach+й case, which was largely full of hundred D-mark banknotes. He found himself impatient for the currency change in Europe. The equivalent amount of euros would be much easier to obtain than the multiple currencies of Europe.
CHAPTER 7
It was unusual for a. European to work out of his home, but Ostermann did. It was large, a former baronial schloss (translated as 'castle,' though in this case 'palace' would have been more accurate) thirty kilometers outside Vienna. Erwin Ostermann liked the schloss; it was totally in keeping with his stature in the financial community. It was a dwelling of six thousand square meters divided into three floors, on a thousand hectares of land, most of which was the side of a mountain steep enough to afford his own skiing slopes. In the summer, he allowed local farmers to graze their sheep and goats there. -.. not unlike what the peasants once indentured to the schloss had done for the Herr, to keep the grass down to a reasonable height. Well, it was far more democratic now, wasn't it? It even gave him a break on the complex taxes put in place by the leftwing government of his country, and more to the point, it looked good.
His personal car was a Mercedes stretch-two of them, in fact-and a Porsche when he felt adventurous enough to drive himself to the nearby village for drinks and dinner in the outstanding Gasthaus there. 'He was a tall man, one meter eighty-six centimeters, with regal gray hair and a trim, fit figure that looked good on the back of one of his Arabian horses-you couldn't live in a home such as this one without horses, of course. Or when holding a business conference in a suit made in Italy or on London's Savile Row. His office, on the second floor had been the spacious library of the original owner and eight of his descendants, but it was now aglow with computer displays linked to the world's financial markets and arrayed on the credenza behind a desk.
After a light breakfast, he headed upstairs to his office, where three employees, two female and one male, kept him supplied with coffee, breakfast pastry, and information. The room was large and suitable for entertaining a group of twenty or so. The walnut-paneled walls were covered with bookshelves filled with books that had been conveyed with the schloss, and whose titles Ostermann had never troubled himself to. examine. He read the financial papers rather than literature, and in his spare time caught movies in a private screening room in the basement-a former wine cellar converted to the purpose. All in all, he was a man who lived a comfortable and private life in the most comfortable and private of surroundings. On his desk when he sat down was a list of people to visit him today. Three bankers and two traders like himself, the former to discuss loans for a new business he was underwriting, and the latter to seek his counsel on market trends. It fed Ostermann's already sizable ego to be consulted on such things, and he welcomed all manner of guests.
Popov stepped off his airliner and walked onto the concourse alone, like any other businessman, carrying his attache case with its combination lock, and not a single piece of metal inside, lest some magnetometer operator ask him to open it and so reveal the paper currency inside terrorists had really ruined air travel for everyone, the former KGB officer thought to himself. Were someone to make the baggage-scanners more sophisticated, enough to count money inside carry-on baggage, for example, it would further put a dent in the business affairs of many people, including himself. Traveling by train was so boring.
Their tradecraft was good. Hans was at his designated location, sitting there, reading Der Spiegel and wearing the agreed-upon brown leather jacket, and he saw Dmitriy Arkadeyevich, carrying his black attach+й case in his left hand, striding down the concourse with all the other business travelers. Furchtner finished his coffee and left to follow him, trailing Popov by about twenty, meters, angling off to the left so that they took different exits, crossing over to the parking garage by different walkways. Popov allowed his head to turn left and right, caught Hans on the first sweep and observed how he moved. The man had to be tense, Popov knew. Betrayal was how most of the people like Furchtner got caught, and though Dmitriy was known and trusted by them, you could only be betrayed by someone whom you trusted, a fact known to every covert operator in the world. And though they knew Popov both by sight and reputation, they, couldn't read minds which, of course, worked quite well for Popov in this case. He allowed himself a quiet smile as he walked into the parking garage, turned left, stopped as though disoriented, and then looked around for any overt signs that he was being followed before finding his bearings and moving-on his way. Furchtner's car proved to be in. a distant corner on the first level, a blue Volkswagen Golf.
'tauten Tag, ' he said; on sitting in the right-front seat.
'Good morning, Herr Popov,' Furchtner replied in English. It was American in character and almost without accent. He must have watched a lot of television, Dmitriy thought.
The Russian dialed the combinations into the locks of the case, opened the lid; and placed it in his host's lap. 'You should find everything in order.'
'Bulky,' the man observed.
'It is a sizable sum,' Popov agreed.
Just then suspicion appeared in Furchtner's eyes: That surprised the Russian, until he thought about it. for a moment. The KGB had never been lavish in their payments to their agents, but in this attach+й case was enough- cash to enable two people to live comfortably in any of several African countries for a period of some years. Hans was just realizing that, Dmitriy saw, and while part of the German was content just to take the money, the smart portion of his brain suddenly wondered where the money had come from. Better not to wait for the question, Dmitriy thought.'Ah, yes,' Popov said quietly. 'As you know, many of my colleagues have outwardly turned capitalist in order to survive in my country's new political environment. But we are still the Sword and Shield of the Party, my young friend. That has not changed. It is ironic, I grant you, that now we are better able to compensate our friends for their services. It turns out to be less expensive than maintaining the safe houses which you once enjoyed. I personally find that amusing. In any case, here -is your payment, in cash, in advance, in the amount you specified.'
'Danke, ' Hans Furchtner observed, staring down into the attach+й case's ten centimeters of depth. Then he hefted the case. 'It's heavy.'
'True,' Dmitriy Arkadeyevich agreed. 'But it could be worse. I might have paid you in gold,' he joked, to lighten the moment, then decided to make his own play. 'Too heavy to carry on the mission?'
'It is a complication, Iosef Andreyevich.'
'Well, I can hold the money for you and come to you to deliver it upon the completion of your mission. That is your choice, though I do not recommend it.'
'Why is that?' Hans asked. 'Honestly, it makes me nervous to travel with so much cash. The West, well, what if I am robbed? This money is my responsibility,' he replied theatrically.
Furchtner found that very amusing. 'Here, in Osterreich, robbed on the street? My friend, these capitalist sheep are very closely regulated.'
'Besides, I do not even know where you will be going, and I really do not need to know-at this time, anyway.'
'The Central African Republic is our ultimate destination. We have a friend there who graduated Patrice Lumumba University back in the sixties. He trades in arms to progressive elements. He will put us up for a while, until Petra and I can find suitable housing.'
They were either very brave or very foolish to go to that country, Popov thought. Not so long before it had been called the Central African Empire, and had been ruled by 'Emperor Bokassa I,' a former colonel in the French colonial army, which had once garrisoned this small, poor nation, Bokassa had killed his way to the top, as had so many African chiefs of state, before-dying, remarkably enough; of natural causes-so the papers said, anyway; you could never really be-sure, could you? The country he'd left behind, a,small diamond producer, was somewhat better off economically than -was the norm on the dark continent, though not by much. But then, who was to say that Hans and Petra would ever get there?
'Well, my friend, it is your decision,' Popov said, patting the attach+й case still open in Furchtner's lap.
