Code Name: Dove Page 7

  Sex was only a physical act to her now. She’d concluded this long ago and out of desperate necessity. It was a sad conclusion, especially to learn it as a child. But she never let herself feel the emotions that came with sex. Not after her stepfather destroyed any chance for her to see the act as one of love.

  But would she even have to go so far as to seduce König, as Cardone seemed to assume? Strangely, she didn’t come up with no. Still, she felt irritated that he would imagine her gaining pleasure if she did.

  The taxi stopped in front of the building housing König’s campaign headquarters. A southeasterly wind was driving elephantine cumulus clouds toward the Bavarian Alps. They headed for the building’s ground-floor entry and took the elevator to the sixth floor. Campaign posters plastered the hallway leading to König’s office.

  König’s secretary sat behind a sleek black desk. She was perhaps twenty-five, petite, blond, with gentle brown eyes. No cold reception here. She smiled warmly. “Guten Morgen.”

  “My name is Nova Blair. This is Joe Cardone. We have an appointment.” Her stomach felt as though a ball of snakes roiled in it in tight little circles.

  “Mr. König is expecting you.” The secretary’s English was quite polished. Joe unleashed one of his better smiles; the secretary’s attention shifted to him. “If you would please make yourselves comfortable, he will only be a few moments more.” A slender finger directed them toward a modern-looking gray couch and chairs.

  After discovering the secretary’s name was Ellen Nöe, Cardone began thumbing through a magazine. Green plants softened the room’s essential utility. On a table in front of the single large window stood an almost violent sculpture. Of darkly veined gray marble, the sculpture was about five feet long and portrayed six wolves bringing down a deer. The table had been carefully chosen to display the valuable piece. Nova rose and went to Ellen Nöe’s desk. “I like the sculpture,” she said to the secretary.

  “Interesting, no?”

  “Seems an odd thing to have in his campaign headquarters, though.”

  “Wait until you see the piece in his office. Next to his conservation work, I sometimes think Herr König’s sculpture collection is his greatest passion.”

  Before Nova could ask the sculptor’s name, one of two doors behind the secretary’s desk opened and König’s campaign manager, Peter Grund, barged out. He made a quick, clinical appraisal of Nova’s body, then dismissed her as he handed a sheaf of letters to the secretary. “They’re signed. Make sure they all go out this morning.”

  The portly Peter Grund in the CIA photos looked nothing like her stepfather, but Grund’s voice and bearing recreated Candido Francisco Branco’s arrogance in detail. She could imagine Grund grabbing her by the hair, twisting her face to look into his and saying, “You love me don’t you?” Nova despised him at once.

  Careful, she warned herself. Her briefers had proposed, as one of many possibilities, that Grund was the mastermind and Jean Paul König merely his pawn. Her instincts immediately charged off in that direction. She could imagine Grund doing almost anything.

  Grund retreated to his office.

  A green light flashed on the secretary’s intercom. “Mr. König will see you now.”

  She and Cardone met König halfway into his office. He shook hands with Joe and then took hers. She hoped his hold might linger a bit longer than one might expect. It didn’t.

  He gestured toward four low-slung upholstered armchairs pulled up to a low coffee table occupying the left half of the room. In German, König said, “I think we’ll be more comfortable over here.”

  “Neither Joe or I speak German,” she replied in English, which was true for Cardone, but not for her. Her German was nearly flawless.

  “Ah, forgive me,” he said, switching to English. “I had suggested that we might be more comfortable at the coffee table.”

  In the corner behind the table and chairs stood two five-foot-high, white-marble polar bears on a pedestal, apparently carved from a single enormous slab, their bodies locked in combat. The claws, fearsomely long, were of black onyx.

  Cardone said, “Nature. Red in tooth and claw. You could paint names on them. Consumerism and Conservation.”

  König laughed and clapped Cardone on the shoulder.

  Nova stepped to the piece. “May I?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She ran her hand over a huge paw and traced her forefinger under one of the black claws. She fought a shiver. The raking feel of it lingered even after she took her hand away. The statue’s ferocity seemed ominously symbolic.

  König said, “Coffee? Or tea perhaps?”

  She and Cardone declined and the three of them eased into the chairs. “Let me summarize our interview with Rudolph Meyer,” she began. She tried to monopolize König’s eye contact, but his attention tended to wander. He crossed his legs away from her, a classic body-language barrier. This was not a male on the prowl.

  Cardone said, “I have the impression from Meyer that the Europeans are going to try to hang together on this GATT thing. They’re not going to, as Meyer put it, ‘buckle under to the Americans.’”

  König became animated. He uncrossed his legs. “The impression you received from Mr. Meyer is, I am confident, absurdly weak. We both belong to the German Homeland Party, but we differ substantially on what will keep the EC from ecological disaster. Mr. Meyer is far too willing to compromise. The EC is not going to try to reject further weakening of our agricultural subsidies. The EC will reject the US pressure to.”

  “The vote is coming up soon,” Nova said. “What if things don’t go as you hope?”

  König’s brow creased, he crossed his legs again. “I may not be able to control this vote, this time. But the German Homeland Party is going to make major gains this next election. We are the spirit of the people.”

  Nova leaned toward him and put all the sincerity she could muster into her voice. “Joe and I, we know you’re right. But can the people avoid the siren call of cheaper goods? Even to save a sentimentally valued lifestyle? I’m afraid the average citizen wants cheap produce even more.”

  König’s gaze bored into her. “I believe with all my heart, Ms. Blair, that you’re wrong. Europeans already subsidize relatively uncompetitive farms. And why? Because they’re stupid? No. Because they want to drive from their homes and visit the countryside.”

  He looked at her with an intensity that actually left her feeling unable to deny him, made her want to follow. His power was scary.

  “People long for stability,” he continued. “And quality of life. But time’s running out. Birth rates out of proportion to resources doom sixty thousand children a day on this planet to death. This is obscenity. And to expect the old power structure to make changes is like expecting a wolf to chew off its foot to free itself before it even feels the pain of the trap.”

  She shook her head. “The trap?”

  “The current world power structure derives its power from the status quo. Those who sit at the top will never willingly sever even one of their precious limbs of acquisition. Only if their own deaths were imminent—the trap so evident they knew they had to chew off a leg or they would die—would they change anything.”

  His gaze was on her but his eyes, snapping with anger, seemed to be seeing somewhere else. “Strong action is needed. We’re all like the proverbial frog in the pot. Raise the water’s temperature slowly enough and a frog sits calmly and boils to death. Its sense organs aren’t able to tell it the water is becoming deadly. Human affairs will only change when the people have a leader who can raise the warning convincingly and then offer new ways to live.”

  “And you believe that’s what the German Homeland Party and you, their candidate, have to offer? A clear and convincing warning?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you think you’ll win Bavaria?”

  “Absolutely.” König leaned back. “You know, the wicked tragedy, truly wicked, is that technologies to achieve
immediate results, even utopia if we wished, are already available.”

  “I agree,” she said, trying to sound convincingly in total agreement with him. “And by using the media, and working together, I’d like to be a part of bringing your vision to people. May I show you some of my work? Things I’ve done over the last month.” She placed her attaché case on the table and spread out the European photos. König didn’t lean in when she did. Bad sign.

  Her palms started to sweat. Only after she slid back in her chair did he uncross his legs, bend forward, and finger through the pictures.

  “Quite remarkable. Excellent, really.” He relaxed again into his chair. “Very sensitive work.” His cool blue eyes met hers and seemed to warm a fraction. It was the first time she felt a sincere personal reaction to her.

  She responded with a faintly intimate smile. “We believe, we fervently hope, your campaign and this election will be historic. Something much bigger than just Bavaria or even Germany. I believe you can change the world. We’ve budgeted to be in Europe much of this summer on this photo shoot. And I think you have provided us with the right direction and inspiration. We’d like permission to tag along with your campaign. We’d do a photo essay on the German Homeland Party. On you. That could be one of our angles.”

  König frowned. “I don’t know about that.”

  She had to sway him. “May I show you some other pieces?”

  He nodded.

  From the second envelope she pulled out the five photos of children. “I also work part-time as a tour guide. The company arranges adventure tours to some pretty exotic places, and I’ve had opportunities to work in some very primitive settings.”

  Again König waited for her to set the pictures on the coffee table and slide back into her seat. He then picked them up and studied each carefully.

  Her mouth felt parched. She thought about asking for water, but caught herself, realizing it would be disastrous to break the mood.

  For the longest time König said nothing. Finally he returned to a picture of a Brazilian boy in a patch of butterflies.

  She said, “I think Joe and I could do a terrific piece. I have connections with several top news magazines. Most importantly, we believe in what you want to accomplish.”

  “My campaign manager is the person who arranges this sort of thing. Frankly, I’m not sure how he’d view having the two of you underfoot.”

  Cardone jumped in. “Like Nova says, we have our own funding that will last easily through to the election. We wouldn’t be a financial burden. How about a trial period? How about convincing Mr. Grund to let us accompany you for two weeks? If it doesn’t work out, he can bounce us then.”

  König nodded. Like everyone else they had met thus far when she was with Cardone, König liked her partner. “Fine,” König said. “We will try it for two weeks.”

  König stood. She and Cardone also rose. König shook her partner’s hand, then reached for hers. She would let her hand linger in his as her eyes lingered on his face. She must make that magnetic connection.

  König’s gaze held steady, but his handshake was brief to the point of being obvious.

  Once again she had the disturbing thought that the intelligence guys at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, had it wrong. Maybe König wasn’t vulnerable to a woman at all, intelligent, talented, or otherwise. Maybe, contrary to what they had dug up, he was homosexual.

  She and Cardone rode the elevator in silence to the ground floor. Nova mentally reviewed the interview. Soon she would debrief with Cupid.

  Conclusion number one: Jean Paul König was a committed man. Possibly obsessive. He’d said, with a glitter in those cool eyes, that strong action was needed. Just how strong did he mean? Did “strong” include a little blackmail and mass murder?

  Conclusion number two: gaining Jean Paul König’s confidence wasn’t going to be easy.

  Chapter 11

  Cologne, Germany

  At eight in the evening, a black Mercedes-Benz taxi delivered Nova and Jean Paul König to Cologne’s finest French restaurant.

  For more than two weeks she and Cardone had been with the König campaign and she’d never missed an opportunity to get near Jean Paul at campaign affairs, but this meeting over an evening dinner was the best opportunity she’d had to get close to him.

  The husky, bald-headed bodyguard—Klaus Wyczek, an addition to the campaign entourage since a death threat to König a week ago—stepped from the front seat passenger side and opened Nova’s door. Wyczek compensated for his lack of hair on top with a Vandyke to cover his weak chin. In her experience thus far, a feral look of suspicion mixed with cunning never left his face. Wyczek paid the cabbie. König joined her on the sidewalk.

  Time had become a knife tip never removed from her back. According to Cupid, in only three days The Founder’s next punishment would be delivered. She was working hard, but she couldn’t help but worry that they were sniffing down an entirely barren path.

  The June air was warm against her skin, the evening beautiful, the setting romantic. She had only to smother jitters that attacked whenever her mind sidetracked to the fact that she was unarmed, had no backup and, if all went well, would eventually be alone with a suspected terrorist and his linebacker-size bodyguard.

  The maître d’ greeted König effusively, then led them to adjacent tables along one wall. Flickering on the center of every table was a large candle, which created the perfect intimate setting.

  Unfortunately, Wyczek took the table next to theirs. Nova sat opposite to Jean Paul, putting her back to Wyczek so he wouldn’t distract her with his watchful brooding gaze.

  The maître d’ backed away and a blond waiter with a gold stud in each earlobe and his nose took his place. She and König ordered Cinzano.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Jean Paul asked, “why is Mr. Cardone not with us? Shouldn’t I discuss textual changes with him since he is your team’s writer?”

  Nova had figured Jean Paul would inquire about this, and planned to use it to her advantage. “We had a deadline for a piece we have coming out next month for an outdoor adventure magazine. We agreed he should finish it tonight. And the fact is, we write the text together since much of the articles feature in-depth captions. He does first drafts and finishes, but I always have input. So whatever needs to be changed, you can tell me.”

  He smiled, perhaps pleased they were justifiably alone. They studied their menus. Having picked her choice, she laid the menu aside. When König did likewise, she said, “I’ve been looking forward to your comments on the article.”

  He shook his head. “My schedule this week has been horrendous. This was the only time my secretary could manage for us. I’ve looked forward all day to enjoying your company.”

  She felt another rush of the satisfaction she’d felt this morning when his secretary had divulged where and when this meeting would occur. This evening hour was not, in fact, the only time they could have met. Ellen Nöe had indicated König could just as well have picked eight o’clock tomorrow morning.

  The waiter returned with drinks. Jean Paul smiled, a warm one that put a friendly, confiding twinkle in his eyes. “You know, during our dinner we’ll have to be extremely discreet. Peter is always concerned about my appearing in public with any woman other than my wife. And he specifically warned me, from the first day you came to my office, that I should be careful with you. He knows a beautiful woman can invite scandal.”

  “That’s a campaign manager’s duty, isn’t it? To keep you focused on the job. Why did he relent and allow you out with me tonight?”

  “I simply told him there wasn’t another time and that I wanted to insist on some changes in the article.” Jean Paul chuckled. “I promised I’d be careful.”

  “Changes? Nothing serious I hope.” She feigned concern, but she was still reveling in the fact that this was the first time the man had laughed in her presence. He was letting himself relax around her. A very good sign.

  “No, no. Mere s
uggestions. Nuances about the spirit of the German Homeland movement that perhaps only insiders would feel didn’t ring true.”

  From her evening bag, Nova quickly withdrew a pen and pad. “I’m ready.”

  She jotted down his ideas, making sure to make eye contact often. Davidson would see to it the changes were made before Cardone submitted the final product tomorrow to Der Stern. The Company would ensure that this article made a huge splash. The König campaign was going to find Blair and Cardone a first-rate team of publicity-getters.

  König ordered himself a second drink. Another positive sign he was letting down his guard.

  They both ordered coq au vin, a shared taste that she filed into memory. Chilled salads of ingeniously sliced cabbage, beet, radish and squash appeared at once. Wyczek’s food arrived at the same time. She leaned close to Jean Paul and lowered her voice. “I hope you won’t be offended, but I don’t much like the looks of your sour-faced bodyguard.”

  Jean Paul smiled. “It is unpleasant to have someone tagging along everywhere. He practically never speaks, though, so he’s not personally annoying. In any event, I knew this time would eventually come, and if I win the Bavarian election, it will get seriously worse. Klaus does look like something you wouldn’t want to meet alone in the dark, but there are none better at what he does. I find that reassuring.”

  “When I learned about the death threat, I was terribly worried.” She would have faked concern if necessary, but it wasn’t. She squeezed her glass so hard she was surprised she didn’t break it. Jean Paul was so compelling a force that for the fiftieth time she forced herself to focus: Evil hearts can inhabit beautiful bodies. I’m going to destroy this pretty man if, in fact, he is rotten at the core.

  She set the glass down and glanced from under her lashes at his face. A strong sensual tug stunned her. She blinked several times. Took a deep breath. Be very careful, whispered an urgent inner voice.

  The waiter whisked their dishes away and scooped crumbs from the linen cloth. Still surprised at the sudden sexual rush she’d just felt, she lurched into another topic. “This article is just the beginning, Jean Paul. You’ve seen a sample now of what we can do. Have you decided about Joe and me? Can we stay and follow your campaign trail?”