72.

AVOIDING T THE elevator, Scholl walked down the four flights of gallery stairs with Von Holden at his side. At the street, Von Holden opened the door and they stepped into crisp night air. elevator, Scholl walked down the four flights of gallery stairs with Von Holden at his side. At the street, Von Holden opened the door and they stepped into crisp night air.

A uniformed driver opened the door to a dark Mercedes. Scholl got in first and then Von Holden.

"Go down Savignyplatz," Scholl said as they moved off.

"Drive slowly," he said as the Mercedes turned onto a tree-lined square and drove at a crawl along a block of crowded restaurants and bars. Scholl leaned forward staring out, watching the people on the street, how they walked and talked to each other, studying their faces, their gestures. The intensity with which he was doing it made it seem as if it were all new, as if he were seeing it for the first time.

"Turn onto Kantstrasse." The driver swung onto a block of garish nightclubs and loud cafes.

"Pull over, please," Scholl said finally. Even though he was being polite, his manner was short and clipped, as if everything was a military order.

A half block down, the driver found a spot on the corner, pulled in and stopped. Sitting back, Scholl folded his hands under his chin and watched the squeeze of young Berliners trafficking relentlessly through the neon colors of their clamorous Pop Art world. From behind the tinted windows, he seemed a voyeur intent upon the pleasures of the world he was watching, but keeping his own distance from it.

Von Holden wondered what he was doing. He'd known something was troubling him the moment he'd picked him up at Tegel Airport and taken him to the gallery. He thought he knew what it was, but Scholl had said nothing and Von Holden thought that whatever it might have been had passed.

But there was no reading Scholl. He was an enigma hidden behind a mask of uncompromising arrogance. It was a temperament he seemed helpless or unwilling to do anything about because it had made him what he was. It was not unusual for him to work his staff eighteen hours a day for weeks and. then either criticize them for not working harder or reward them with an expensive holiday halfway around the world. More than once he'd walked out of critical labor negotiations at the eleventh hour and disappeared, going alone to a museum or even a movie, and not returning for hours. And when he did return, he expected the problem to have been resolved in his favor. Usually it was, because both sides knew that he would fire his entire negotiating staff if it were not. If that happened, a new staff would be brought in and negotiations would be started from scratch, a. process that would cost both Scholl and the opposition a fortune in new legal fees. The difference was that Scholl could afford it.

In both cases it was more than simply getting done what he wanted done, it was a control mechanism, the deliberate flaunting of a colossal ego. And Scholl not only knew it, he reveled in it.

Von Holden had been Leiter der Sicherheit-director Leiter der Sicherheit-director of security-for Scholl's general European operations-two printing plants in Spain, four television stations, three in Germany, one in France, and GDG, Goltz Development Group, of Dusseldorf, of which Konrad Peiper was president-for eight years; personally hiring the security staffs and supervising their training. Von Holden's responsibility, however, did not end there. Scholl had other, darker and more far-ranging investments, and their safeguard fell under Von Holden's title as well. of security-for Scholl's general European operations-two printing plants in Spain, four television stations, three in Germany, one in France, and GDG, Goltz Development Group, of Dusseldorf, of which Konrad Peiper was president-for eight years; personally hiring the security staffs and supervising their training. Von Holden's responsibility, however, did not end there. Scholl had other, darker and more far-ranging investments, and their safeguard fell under Von Holden's title as well.

The situation in Zurich, for example. The pleasuring of Joanna was a case of manipulation requiring skill and delicacy. Salettl believed Elton Lybarger wholly capable of complete recovery: emotionally, psychologically and physically. But early on, he had voiced concern that with no women in his life, when the time came to test Lybarger's reproductive capacity, a woman he was unfamiliar with could make him uncomfortable, to the point where he might possibly refuse to perform, or at least, be stilted in his performance.

A female who had been his physical therapist for an extended period and who had accompanied him all the way to Switzerland, to look after him there would be someone he trusted and was comfortable with. He would know her touch, even her smell. And though he might never have looked upon her sexually, he would, at the time he was brought to have intercourse with her, be under the influence of a strong sexual stimulant. Fully aroused, yet not wholly aware of the circumstances, he would instinctively sense the familiar and in doing so relax and proceed.

Hence the choosing of Joanna. Far from home, with no immediate family, and not terribly attractive, she would be physically and emotionally vulnerable to a surrogate's seduction. A seduction whose sole purpose was to ready her for copulation with Elton Lybarger. The need for the surrogate had been Salettl's calculated judgment and he'd voiced it to Scholl, who had turned to his Leiter der Sicherheit. Leiter der Sicherheit. Von Holden's personal participation would not only guarantee Lybarger's security and privacy, it would further demonstrate Von Holden's allegiance to the Organization. Von Holden's personal participation would not only guarantee Lybarger's security and privacy, it would further demonstrate Von Holden's allegiance to the Organization.

Across from the street, a digital neon clock over the entrance to a disco read 22:55. Five minutes to eleven. They had been there for thirty minutes and still Scholl sat in silence, absorbed in the young crowds filling the street.

"The masses," he said quietly. "The masses."

Von Holden wasn't sure if Scholl was talking to him or not. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't hear what you said."

Scholl turned his head and his eyes found Von Holden's. "Herr Oven is dead. What happened to him?"

Von Holden had been right in the first place. Bernhard Oven's failure in Paris had been bothering Scholl all along, but it was only now that he'd chosen to discuss it.

"I would have to say he made an error in judgment," Von Holden said.

Abruptly Scholl leaned forward and told the driver to move on, then turned to Von Holden.

"We had no problems for a very long time, until Albert Merriman surfaced. That he and the factors surrounding him were eliminated as quickly and efficiently as they were only proved that our system continues to work as designed. Now Oven is killed. Always a risk in his profession, but troubling in its implication that the system might not be as efficient as we presumed."

"Herr Oven was working alone, operating on information provided him. The situation now is under control of the Paris sector," Von Holden said.

"Oven was trained by you, not the Paris sector!" Scholl snapped angrily He was doing what he always did, making it personal. Bernhard Oven worked for Von Holden, therefore his failure was Von Holden's.

"You are aware I have given Uta Baur the go-ahead."

"Yes, sir."

"Then you realize the mechanisms for Friday night are, by now, already in place. Stopping them would be difficult and embarrassing." Scholl's stare penetrated Von Holden the same way it had Salettl. "I'm sure you understand."

"I understand. . . ."

Von Holden sat back. It would be a long night. He'd just been ordered to Paris.

73.

A DAMP fog swirled around and it had started to mist. The yellow headlamps of the few cars still out cut an eerie swath as they moved up the boulevard St.-Jacques past the telephone kiosk. fog swirled around and it had started to mist. The yellow headlamps of the few cars still out cut an eerie swath as they moved up the boulevard St.-Jacques past the telephone kiosk.

"Oy, McVey!" Benny Grossman's voice cut through three thousand miles of underwater fiber-optic cable like bright sunshine. Twelve fifteen, Tuesday morning in Paris, was seven fifteen, Monday evening in New York, and Benny had just come back into the office to check messages after a very long day in court.

Down the hill, through the drizzle and the trees that separated the two-lane street, McVey could just see the hotel. He hadn't dared call from the room and didn't want to chance the lobby if the police came back.

"Benny, I know, I'm driving you crazy-"

"No way, McVey!" Benny laughed. Benny always laughed. "Just send my Christmas bonus in hundreds. So go ahead, drive me crazy."

Glancing out at the street, McVey felt the reassuring heft of the .38 under his jacket, then looked back to his notes.

"Benny. Nineteen sixty-six, Westhampton Beach. An Erwin Scholl-who is he? Is he still alive? If so, where is he? Also 1966-early, the spring, or even late fall of sixty-five, three unsolved murders, professional jobs. In the states of-"

McVey checked his notes again. "Wyoming, California, New Jersey."

"A snap, boobalah. And while I'm at it why don't I find out who the hell really killed Kennedy."

"Benny, if I didn't need it-" McVey looked out toward the hotel. Osborn was tucked in the room with the tall man's Cz, the same as the first time, and with the same orders not to answer the phone or open the door for anyone but .him. This was the kind of business McVey heartily disliked, being in danger with no idea where it might come from or what it might look like. Most of his last years had been spent picking up the pieces and putting together evidence after drug dealers had concluded business transactions. Most of the time it was safe, because men who were dead usually didn't try to kill you.

"Benny"-McVey turned back to the phone-"the victims would have been working in some kind of high-tech field. Inventors, precision tool designers, scientists maybe, even a college professor. Somebody experimenting with extreme cold-three, four, five hundred degrees below zero cold. Or maybe, the reverse-somebody exploring heat. Who were they? What were they working on when killed? Now, last: Microtab Corporation. Waltham, Massachusetts, 1966. Are they still in business? If so, who runs the shop, who owns them? If not, what happened to them and who owned them in 1966?"

"McVey-what am I, Wall Street? The IRS? The Department of Missing Persons? Just punch this into a computer and out comes your answers?-When the hell you want it, New Year's 1995?"

"I'm going to call you in the morning."

"What?"

"Benny, it's very, very important. If you draw a blank, if yon need help, call Fred Hanley at the FBI in L.A. Tell him it's for me, that I asked for the assistance." McVey paused. "One other thing. If you haven't heard from me by noon tomorrow, your time, call Ian Noble at Scotland Yard and give him everything you have."

"McVey-" Benny Grossman's voice lost its testy ebullience. "You in trouble?"

"Lots."

"Lots? What the hell's that mean?" What the hell's that mean?"

"Hey, Benny, I owe you-"

Osborn stood in the darkened window looking down at the street below. The fog was thick and the traffic almost nonexistent. No one passed on the sidewalks. People were home asleep, waiting for Tuesday. Then he saw a figure walk under a streetlamp and cross the boulevard toward the hotel. He thought it was McVey, but he couldn't be sure. Pulling the curtain back across the window, he sat down and clicked on a small bedside lamp, illuminating Bernhard Oven's .22 Cz. He felt like he'd been hiding for half a century, yet it had only been eight days since he'd first looked up and had seen Albert Merriman sitting across from him in the Brasserie Stella.

How many had died in eight days? Ten, twelve? More. If he'd never met Vera and come to Paris, each one of those people would still be alive. Was the guilt his? There was no answer because it was not a reasonable question. He had had met Vera and met Vera and he had he had come to Paris, and nothing could change what had happened since. come to Paris, and nothing could change what had happened since.

In the last hours, while McVey had been gone, he'd tried not to think of Vera. But in the moments when he did, when he couldn't help not think of her, he had to tell himself she was all right, that the inspectors who had taken her to her grandmother's in Calais were good, trustworthy cops, and not a corrupt tentacle of whatever the hell was going on.

Violence had struck him at an early age and its after-math had been with him ever since. The nightmares after Merriman had been shot, the crippling emotional breakdown that had ended on the floor in the attic hideaway in Vera's arms had been little more than a desperate wrenching against an ungodly truth: that the death of Albert Merriman had settled nothing. The horrid, scar-faced killer he'd pursued from childhood had been simply replaced by a name and precious little else. In leaving Vera's building-in coming out of hiding, risking the tall man, the Paris police and the chance that McVey, once face to face, would arrest him on the spot-he was admitting that he could no longer go it alone. It wasn't mercy he'd come to McVey for, it was help.

A knock at the door startled him like a pistol shot. His chin came up and his head snapped around as if he'd been caught somewhere with his pants down. He stared at the door, uncertain if his mind was playing tricks.

The knock came again.

If it was McVey he'd say something or use his key. Osborn's fingers closed around the Cz just as the knob began to turn. The door pressed inward just enough to insure it was locked. As quickly the pressure ceased.

Crossing the room, he leaned back against the wall, just to the side of the door. He could feel the sweat build up in the grip of the gun. Whatever happened next was up to Whoever was in the hallway.

"Sorry, honey. Ya got the wrong damn room," he heard McVey drawl loudly from outside the door. It was followed by a woman's voice flailing in French.

"Wrong room, honey. Believe me. Try upstairs-maybe you got the wrong floor!"

French spat back, angry and indignant.

Then there was the sound of the key in the lock. The door opened and McVey came in. He had a dark-haired girl by the arm and a rolled-up newspaper sticking out of his jacket pocket.

"You want to come in, come in," he said to the girl, then looked at Osborn.

"Lock it."

Osborn closed the door, locked it, then slid the chain lock across.

"Okay, honey, you're in. What now?" McVey said to the girl, who stood in the middle of the room with a hand on her hip. Her eyes went to Osborn. She was probably twenty, five foot two or three, and not the least bit frightened. She wore a tight silk blouse and a very short black skirt with net stockings and high heels.

"Fucky, fucky," she said in English, then smiled seductively, looking from Osborn to McVey.

"You want to screw the two of us. Is that it?"

"Sure, why not?" She smiled and her English got a lot better.

"Who sent you?"

"I am a bet."

"What kind of bet?"

"The night clerk said you were gay. The bellman said no."

McVey laughed. "And they sent you to find out."

"Oui." And pulled several hundred francs from the top of her bra to prove it. And pulled several hundred francs from the top of her bra to prove it.

"What the hell's going on?" Osborn said.

McVey smiled. "Aw hell, we was just funnin' with them, honey. The bellman's right." He looked at Osborn. "Want to fuck her first?"

Osborn jumped. "What?"

"Why not, she's already been paid." McVey smiled at her. "Take your clothes off. . . ."

"Sure." She was serious, and she was good at it. She looked them in the eyes the whole time. One and then the other and then back again, as if each piece as it came off was a special show for him alone. And slowly she took it all off.

Osborn watched open-mouthed. McVey wasn't actually going to do it? Just like that and with him standing there? He'd heard stories about what cops have done in certain situations, everybody had. But who believed it, let alone thought they'd be firsthand party to it?

McVey glanced at him. "I'll go first, huh?" He grinned. "Don't mind if we go into the bathroom, do you, Doctor?"

Osborn stared. "Be my guest."

McVey opened the bathroom door and the girl went in. McVey went in behind her and closed the door. A second later Osborn heard her give a sharp yelp and there was a hard bump against the door. Then the door opened and McVey came out fully clothed.

Osborn was dumbfounded.

"She came up here to get a look at us. She saw me in the hall, it was all she needed."

McVey tugged the newspaper from his jacket pocket and handed it to him, then went over to gather up the girl's clothes. Osborn unrolled it. He didn't even see which paper it was. Only the bold headline in French- HOLLYWOOD DETECTIVE SOUGHT IN LA COUPOLE SHOOTING! Beneath it, in smaller type, "Linked to American Doctor in Merriman Murder!" Once more Osborn saw the same Paris police mug shot of. himself that had been printed earlier in Le Figaro Le Figaro and beside it a two or three-year-old picture of a smiling McVey. and beside it a two or three-year-old picture of a smiling McVey.

"They got that from the LA. Times Magazine. LA. Times Magazine. An interview on the everyday life of a homicide investigator. They wanted gristle, they got boredom. But they ran it anyway." McVey put the clothes into a hotel dry cleaning bag and unlocked the door. Carefully he checked the hallway, then hung the bag outside. An interview on the everyday life of a homicide investigator. They wanted gristle, they got boredom. But they ran it anyway." McVey put the clothes into a hotel dry cleaning bag and unlocked the door. Carefully he checked the hallway, then hung the bag outside.

"How did they know this? How could they even find out?" Osborn was incredulous.

McVey closed the door and relocked it. "They knew who their man was and that he was tailing one of us. They knew I was working with Lebrun. All they had to do was send somebody down to the restaurant with a couple of photographs and ask, 'Are these the guys?' Not so hard. That's why the girl. They wanted to make sure they had the right Mutt and Jeff before they sent in the firepower. She probably hoped she could get a look, make up a story and walk away. But obviously she was prepared to do whatever she had to if it didn't work."

Osborn looked past McVey at the closed bathroom door. "What did you do to her?"

McVey shrugged. "I didn't think it was too good an idea to let her go back downstairs right away."

Handing McVey the paper, Osborn opened the bathroom door. The girl sat stark naked on the toilet, handcuffed to a water pipe on the wall beside it. A washcloth was stuck in her mouth and her eyes looked as if they were ready to pop from her head in fury. Without a word Osborn closed the door.

"She's a feisty one," McVey said, with the sliver of a grin. "Whoever finds her, she's going to make a big stink about her clothes before she lets anyone pick up a telephone. Hopefully that delay will add a few more seconds to our increasingly limited life span."