Code Name: Dove Read online

  He leaned back and interlaced his strong, long fingers together. He seemed to be studying her face. Sizing her up.

  “I’ve discussed your proposal with Peter and with the publicity people.” A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Although Peter warned me about appearing too publicly with you—and by the way, don’t ever tell him I told you this—he was as impressed with your work as I was. At first I was skeptical. Peter even more so. But we’re sold.”

  Her relief no doubt put a great deal of dazzle into the smile she gave him. “We’re grateful. And I assure you, you won’t be disappointed.”

  The waiter glided up and asked in German, “Would madam care for some dessert? Perhaps coffee?” The buzz of voices in the room had decreased. Most of the tables were empty. The height of the evening had passed.

  To reinforce the impression she’d been trying to give him that she had little knowledge of German, she looked blankly to König.

  “He wants to know if you’d like dessert or coffee,” he translated courteously.

  “If they have it, I’d love cappuccino.”

  “Two cappuccinos,” Jean Paul told the young man, who disappeared and returned in remarkably short time. As they sipped their coffee, Nova explained to Jean Paul what she and Joe would do during the campaign, up to and through election night.

  “Your plans sound fine. As we go along, you can refine them with publicity and scheduling. I wonder, though…This project can’t occupy your days completely, can it?”

  As if doing so unconsciously, she slowly unfastened the button at the neck of her blouse. “We’ve also been working on the text for a coffee-table book on children. The pictures I showed you?”

  He nodded. “I remember them well.”

  “That, plus your campaign, will keep us more than occupied.”

  Jean Paul’s eyes followed her fingers. Fortunately, Wyczek couldn’t see her hands.

  Jean Paul’s attention returned to her face. She moved her eyes to her cappuccino, took another sip, set the cup down, absently undid the second button, then casually picked up the pad from the table and put it back in her purse. Was she going to try to actually seduce him? Her body seemed to be outracing her conscious intentions.

  As if feeling too warm, she spread the blouse’s lapels, then returned her gaze to König. He quickly shifted his gaze from her breasts to her eyes.

  He finished his cappuccino, then he gave her a questioning look. “Shall we?”

  Once outside, the bodyguard started to hail a taxi. Nova handed her lightweight wool cape to Jean Paul and, as he helped her pull it around her shoulders, said, “Jean Paul, I very much need a walk. Could I impose upon you?”

  “Of course. My pleasure. Which way?”

  The bodyguard spoke, a rough voice, and in German said, “A walk might be dangerous.”

  Jean Paul’s reply, also in German, was that this was an unplanned walk late at night. No assassin would be able to anticipate it. He didn’t consider it risky.

  The guard set his jaw but acquiesced.

  Nova asked, “Does he think it will be too dangerous? Perhaps it’s not a good idea after all.”

  “He is concerned. But I disagree that it’s dangerous. And I, too, would enjoy a walk. So again, which way?”

  Company research indicated König had seldom been to Cologne. Even this trip was merely a political drop-in. He’d have no idea which way to go. Nova, on the other hand, had been well briefed. “East. Just a few blocks from here is the river. We’ll go down through the Altermarkt. My guidebook says it dates back to the Middle Ages.”

  They turned. Would he take her arm? It would be a natural move. Neutral. A move that could be interpreted as innocent yet would signal his willingness for contact.

  Jean Paul tucked his hands into his suit pockets.

  They fell into matching steps, Wyczek plodding along ten paces behind. Very romantic, she bemoaned silently. So intimate. Almost as bad as trying to charm a man with his mother breathing down your neck.

  “You know,” Jean Paul said, “we’ve talked all evening about me or the campaign. Tell me about you. Do you have family?”

  She explained truthfully that she had a mother and sister, and that her father had died in a plane crash when she was twelve. She left out the fact that her father had been an ambassador to Great Britain at the time. It didn’t matter that she divulged her childhood since the CIA had incorporated this part of it into her history. Without breaking the rhythm they’d fallen into, König turned his body and gazed at her. “How very sad for you. And for your mother and sister. How did it happen?”

  “We were living in Rome. He was coming to join us for vacation on Capri, and the small sea plane coming out from Rome crashed into the Mediterranean.”

  They were strolling past remarkable old buildings—Gothic and eighteenth century—but Jean Paul’s attention never wavered from her.

  “My mother has not been well for years.” The truth was, her mom lived in a nursing home close to both her and her sister in California. But because of Nova’s hectic life, she didn’t get to see her mom as often as her sister did. Besides, she knew her mom still felt guilty for bringing Candido Branco into their lives, and seeing Nova only reminded her of their tragic past.

  A landscaped parklike area ran along the Rhine embankment. The full-moon reflection shimmered on the face of the river’s slow current. A cargo vessel lumbered north, perhaps bound for Holland and the North Sea. Nova was keenly aware that Jean Paul still hadn’t touched her. She imagined she could hear Peter Grund warning, “Keep those hands in your pockets!”

  And she disturbingly wanted Jean Paul to touch her. Jean Paul the man, not the mark.

  At a railing overlooking the riverbank, they stopped. She leaned both hands against the rail and feigned an intense study of the black water and the moon glow quivering on it.

  “Have you never married?” he finally asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m either too picky or too busy.” She shook her head. “My sister thinks I’m too compulsively neat for any man to tolerate. I also know I love my work and that it keeps me uprooted. It’s difficult for a relationship to grow.”

  König faced her, leaned one elbow against the railing. Instantly she was acutely aware of Wyczek, leaning against the same railing, not more than twenty feet away.

  “I enjoyed dinner this evening,” Jean Paul said softly. He had lowered his voice. Jean Paul’s voice was one of his great gifts. He moved crowds with his voice when he spoke forcefully. Now, as he spoke intimately, his voice was almost hypnotic.

  “I did, too.”

  “The walk was also pleasant,” he said, “but I think I should put Klaus to bed.”

  She turned away from the river. “How do we get home?”

  “Let’s see if Klaus can flag a cab. Or we may have to walk back to the cabstand.”

  Traffic was light. Jean Paul took her arm and a bizarre mixture of pleasure and revulsion raised gooseflesh along her sides. Charming a man who might well be a monster brought revulsion. But the pleasure he’d kindled in but a few brief moments by such slight gestures—a softly spoken sentence, a touch on the arm—that, too, was alarming. She would tell Davidson they must not, under any circumstances, underestimate König’s power to evoke emotion—the weapon of the demagogue—even in the most skeptical subject.

  Wyczek fell in behind but Jean Paul waved him to join them. “See if you can find a cab,” he told the guard in German. Nova had learned in the past few weeks that Jean Paul insisted on taking cabs and mass transit when possible. He felt having a car and driver was too extravagant and that taking mass transit was more environmentally sound.

  Within minutes, a cab Wyczek flagged down stopped in front of her modest hotel. She bet herself that Jean Paul König was too much the gentleman to simply drop her off. He’d see her inside.

  She won her bet. And then, as they stood waiting for the elevator, he instructed Wyczek to wait in the small lobby. The guard frowned—the
first expression she’d seen break his stony face—but he obeyed.

  Might Jean Paul be willing to stay the night, right now? Should she encourage him?

  The fourth-floor hallway was deserted. Again Jean Paul took her arm. A turning point loomed. Her strategy planned for no more than an intimate evening to create a bond. But things seemed to be moving fast beyond that modest goal.

  At her door he took her hand, looked deeply into her eyes and said, “A wonderful evening, Nova.” His tone was courteous. The evening was over. “I hope we can do it again sometime.” He gave her hand a continental kiss.

  She forced out a smile and nodded, then slid her key into the lock. In the doorway, her hand still on the knob, she turned and said with all the warmth she could command, “I’m going to be looking forward to another evening.”

  Jean Paul nodded, turned and retreated down the hall. Nova closed the door and sagged against it. Her pulse beat strongly against a lump in her constricted throat as she fought disappointment and fear of failure. What is wrong with this man!

  And what’s happening to me?

  She’d actually been ready to give herself to him for the night of his life and he’d settled for a kiss of her hand!

  Brooding would accomplish nothing. From her suitcase she fetched the minirecorder. Insomnia—a reality she’d finally accepted gratefully in her late twenties—allowed her to live the equivalent of two lives. In her teens and the troubled years behind prison bars, she’d considered the long nights a curse. What do you do when everyone else you know is sleeping? Then she’d discovered serious reading, languages and bodybuilding. Her nights had transformed swiftly and beautifully from curse to gift.

  She dictated the evening’s events for Davidson. During sit-ups she began to think the CIA’s strategists might have to adopt a different approach. So much effort had been spent on inserting her, she doubted they would try another woman, but that option would be discussed. The thought that some other woman might be called on to achieve what she could not shoved a booster shot of competitive vigor into her last two sit-ups.

  She rolled to her stomach for push-ups and thought of Joe. Maybe in the morning he’d tell her that unlike her evening, his had been a success. Into the wee hours, she read a new Russian novel. She was adding Russian to her suite of languages.

  Nova folded her London Times as she spotted Cardone heading toward the small round table she’d commandeered. His tray held coffee, a bowl of fruit and the same chocolate-covered pastry she’d chosen.

  Over the clink of silverware and coffee cups he said, “Guten Morgen.”

  “’Morning, Joe,” she returned in English. Even though he was picking up German rather quickly, she didn’t want to break their cover of speaking in English.

  She waited for him to empty the tray and set it aside before telling him the bad news. The Founder had sent another set of instructions. According to Cupid, the targeted event was an international meeting on deforestation in Denmark, in mid-July. The terrorist demanded the countries involved in the meeting grant forgiveness of foreign debt in return for certain preservation measures instituted by several Third World nations. The President of the United States’s position was that giving in to yet another demented demand would put the American economy into a panic-generating nosedive.

  But if the U.S. didn’t give in there would surely be more deaths. She took a bite of pastry.

  After he had taken his first hit of coffee he asked, “So what did you find out last night?”

  This grilling was going to be uncomfortable—but unavoidable. She shrugged. She hoped she was doing a good poker-face hiding of the disappointment she felt. He was expecting progress, he was hungry for progress, just as hungry as she was.

  He frowned. “My dinner with Ellen went fine, but after dating for nearly two weeks that has included shows, dinners and finally a lot of conversation in bed, I’ve concluded she’s simply an outstanding secretary. I don’t think she has a devious bone in her body.”

  Nova dropped her gaze toward her tray, a mental image jolting her—of Cardone naked in bed with Ellen Nöe, their bodies pressed close, legs entwined and his lips brushing Ellen’s cheek. The thought bothered her for no definable reason. Just as it was her job to get close to Jean Paul, Joe was to get as close as possible to Ellen. Perhaps because jumping into bed with Jean Paul was still her last resort.

  “And the office?” she asked.

  She looked at Cardone again and found him studying her intently with his dark brown eyes as if he cared what she might think about him seducing the secretary.

  “A complete nothing,” he said, breaking his study of her and picking up his coffee. “Breaking in was easy, a sure sign nothing would be there. And there wasn’t. I went through everything. Grund’s stuff. All the mailing and publicity files. Nothing but campaign junk. So, how’s the bonding with König working?”

  He sounded pushy. Demanding. Well, The Founder was ready to attack again and what real progress could she report? Nothing.

  “The walk went well. Jean Paul even ditched Wyczek briefly to accompany me to my hotel room door.”

  “So he asked you out again?”

  “No.”

  “No! Nova, you need to work it a little more aggressively. We need to get some results!”

  “I know what I’m doing!” she snapped at him. “I can handle this!”

  “Can you? What does that mean? You’ve been all over and around him for over two weeks. Then you have an intimate dinner. Did you get any sense at all that he wanted more than a murmured good-night?”

  Unspoken but hanging in the air was his disclosure that he’d gotten very close indeed to Ellen. Nova wanted to clarify his target wasn’t married or running for political office so was a little easier to get to. “I suppose the ladies’ man is sure he could win over any quarry in less than a week.”

  “Well—” He struggled with some words that didn’t come out. For a long, painful moment the silence between them seemed louder than the clinking and talk buzzing around them at other tables.

  Cardone scrubbed the five o’clock shadow that was more than likely on its twelfth hour and took a sip of his coffee. He sat the cup down and gave her a weary look that seemed to say he was sorry for jumping on her. They were both clearly tired and frustrated with their progress, or lack thereof.

  “Look,” he said, “Ellen isn’t running for a political office. Peter Grund couldn’t care less whether Ellen sees me after work. Don’t think I’m making any kind of comparison. I’m not.”

  He waited. She had quickly hidden the hurt look. But he’d seen it and he regretted having caused it. He finished his coffee. She finished hers. He offered her a smile. “We don’t want to be late.”

  They rose and made their way toward the door. The freeze coming off Nova Blair made him feel like he was swimming beside an iceberg in an Arctic sea. Davidson was going to be even less pleased than he was himself with her lack of progress. He felt more than a little bit sorry for her.

  Chapter 12

  The Founder’s Compound

  After three firm raps on his study door, his wife strode in, uninvited. She never respected his privacy. Casting him an irritated look, she said, “The results from last month’s sales in Hong Kong have come in. I want you to look through them. They are distressingly low. Something is wrong there.”

  “All right.”

  “Now. Not tomorrow.”

  He sat quietly. After a long pause, she turned and left.

  He stood and slipped his hand behind the rosewood panel and pressed the hidden button. The disguised elevator door from his study to the underground corridors slid silently open. He stepped in and pressed Down.

  His hands, he noted with amusement, were trembling. He licked his lips, knew he was wearing a crooked smile. It was always like this when he had a new model: his excitement recreated his teenage anticipation of first sex, an act he’d shared with a whore. The door opened. He stepped into the corridor and headed for
his sculpting studio.

  Disciplining this excitement was important; loss of control of himself or the model would show in his work. Twice the relationship between artist and subject had spiraled too quickly beyond anger and pain into fear, submission and a plea for death. The resulting sculptures had lacked animation. He had destroyed them. This time the model was a woman, delivered only an hour ago. Maurus, his dedicated associate, selected and procured all of the special subjects, unimportant people, unlikely to be missed, or if missed, their disappearance wouldn’t be aggressively explored.

  He opened the door and heard her handcuffs clink against the metal posts of the bed as she twisted in an attempt to see who was there. He took slow breaths. The two tables in the middle of the room held his tools. He forced his gaze to linger there a moment.

  Finally again in command, everything felt right. He walked to the bed.

  Her eyes went wide, probably because of his appearance. He would certainly not be what she was expecting. She said in English, “Who the fuck are you? You can’t keep me here!” She was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, perhaps twenty-seven or eight in age. An American by her accent. She had short curly brown hair and was lean. A lean body; he liked that in his models.

  “I said, you can’t keep me here. I’ll be missed.”

  “I don’t think so. In any case, no one can find you. I have done this many times.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  He felt she would do very well. It would take time to break her, and the slow disintegration of a defiant will created the very best material. He stepped to the three video cameras mounted on tripods and switched them on, then turned back to the girl. “You are going to be the model for my next sculpture.”