Call After Midnight (23 page)

“But the target got away.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Within a year a contract was out on all three Mossad agents, with the biggest price on Dance's head. By that time they had wisely dropped out of sight. Helga Steinberg, we think, is still in Germany. Dance and Eva Saint-Clair vanished. For five years no one knew where they were. Then, three weeks ago one of our London agents was sitting in his favorite pub when he just happened to overhear a voice he recognized. He'd worked with Dance some years ago so he knew that voice. That's how we found out about Dance's new identity: Geoffrey Fontaine.”

“How did he come to work for the Company?”

“I persuaded him.”

“With what?”

“I tried the usual. Money. A new life. He didn't want any of it. But he did want one thing: to be able to live without any more fear. I pointed out to him that the only way was to go back and finish the job on Magus, the man he should have terminated. For years I'd been trying to track Magus myself, without luck. I traced him only as far as Amsterdam and I needed Dance's help. He agreed.”

Magus,
thought Nick. The old man, the magician. At last he was beginning to understand. “Couldn't do the job yourself,” he said. “So you hired a hit man for the good old U.S.A.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, tell me your old-fashioned diplomacy's any damned good in this situation. A bullet, at least, gets results.”

“The easy answer to everything. Just blow off their heads. So what went wrong? Why didn't your hit man deliver?”

Potter shook his head. “I don't know. In Amsterdam Dance got…nervous. He took off like a scared rabbit. For some weird reason, he flew to Berlin and checked into that old hotel. That night there was a fire. But you know about that. And that's the last we heard of Simon Dance.”

“It was his body in the hotel?”

“We've got no dental records to prove it, but I'm inclined to think it was. No one else from Berlin has been reported missing. Dance hasn't surfaced anywhere. How it happened is anyone's guess. Murder? Suicide? Both are possibilities. He was depressed. Tired.”

Nick frowned. “But if he died in that hotel—then who called Sarah?”

“I did.”

“You?”

“It was a composite message, spliced together from recordings of his voice. You see, we'd tapped his London hotel room.”

Nick's fingers tightened around the armrest as he fought to keep his voice steady. “You wanted her here in Europe? You're telling me you set her up as a target?”

“Not a target, O'Hara. Bait. I heard Magus still had the contract out on Dance. Obviously he didn't believe Dance
was dead. If we could make him think Sarah knew something, he might make a move on her. So we drew her to Europe. We were hoping Magus would show his hand. The whole time, we had our eyes on her. That is, until you pulled her underground.”

“You
bastards
,” cried Nick. “She was nothing more to you than a—a goat tied to a stake!”

“There are deeper issues here—”

Nick shot to his feet. “
To hell
with your issues!”

Van Dam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Mr. O'Hara, please sit down. Try and see the broader situation….”

Nick turned on Van Dam. “Was this your bright idea?”

“No, it was mine,” Potter admitted. “Mr. Van Dam had nothing to do with it. He found out about it later, when he showed up in London.”

Nick looked at Potter. “You? I should've known. It smells like your kind of job. So what've you got planned next? Shall we tie her up in the town square with a big sign saying Fair Game?”

Potter shook his head and said quietly, “No. The operation's over. Van Dam wants to bring her in.”

“Then what happens?”

“It will soon be plain to everyone involved that Fontaine's really dead. They'll leave her alone. We'll have to find Magus some other day.”

“What about Wes Corrigan? I want him let off the hook.”

“Already done. There'll be no harm to his career. Not a mark'll show up on his personnel file.”

Slowly Nick sat down. He gave Potter a long, hard look. His decision and its consequences rested on only one thing: Could he trust these men? Even if he couldn't, what choice
did he have? Sarah was alone out there, hiding from a killer. She'd never survive on her own. “If this is some kind of scam—”

“There's no need to threaten me, O'Hara. I know what you're capable of.”

“No,” said Nick. “I don't think you do. And let's hope you never find out.”

* * *

“W
HERE WILL
I
FIND HIM
in Amsterdam?” Sarah asked the woman.

They were walking through the trees to the Citroën. The ground was damp, and Sarah's heels sank deeply into the young grass.

“Are you certain you wish to find him?” asked the woman.

“I have to. He's the only one I can turn to for help. And he's waiting for me.”

“You may not survive this search. You know that, don't you?”

Sarah shivered. “I'm barely surviving now. Every moment I'm afraid. I keep wondering when and how it'll end. If it will be painful.” She shuddered. “They used a knife on Eve.”

The woman's eyes darkened. “A knife? Kronen's trademark.”

“Kronen?”

“Son of the Devil, we used to call him. He is Magus's favorite.”

“He wears sunglasses? And he has blond, almost white hair?”

The woman nodded. “You've seen him, then. He'll be looking for you. In Amsterdam. In Berlin. Wherever you go, he'll be waiting.”

“What would you do if you were me?”

The woman looked at Sarah thoughtfully. “In your place? With your youth? Yes, I would do what you're doing. I would try to find Simon.”

“Then help me. Tell me how I can find him.”

“What I tell you could kill him.”

“I'll be careful.”

The woman searched Sarah's face, once more weighing her chances. “In Amsterdam,” she said, “there is a club, the Casa Morro. On the street Oude Zijds Voorburgwal. It is owned by a woman named Corrie. She was once a friend to Mossad. To all of us. If Simon is in Amsterdam, she will know how to find him.”

“And if she doesn't?”

“Then no one will know.”

The Citroën's door was already open. They climbed in and the driver headed toward the Ku-damm.

“When you see the Casa Morro, don't be shocked,” the woman said.

“Why would I be shocked?”

The woman laughed softly. “You'll find out.” She leaned forward and spoke to the driver in German. “We can drop you off near your
pension
,” she told Sarah. “Is that what you wish?”

Sarah nodded. To reach Amsterdam she would need money, and Nick was carrying most of their cash. Tonight, when he was asleep, she could lift it from his wallet and leave Berlin. By morning she'd be miles away. “I'm staying just south of—”

“We know where it is,” said the woman. She muttered a few more words to the driver. Then she turned to Sarah. “There is one last thing. Be careful whom you trust. That man you were with yesterday—what is his name?”

“Nick O'Hara.”

The woman frowned, as if trying to place the name. “Whoever he is,” she said, “he could be dangerous. How long have you known him?”

“A few weeks.”

The woman nodded. “Don't trust him. Go alone. It's safest.”

“Whom can I trust?”

“Only Simon. Tell no one what I've told you. Magus has eyes and ears everywhere.”

They were nearing the
pension
. The street outside looked so exposed, so dangerous. Sarah felt safer in the car; she didn't want to get out. But the Citroën had already slowed down. She was reaching for the door handle when the driver suddenly cursed and floored the gas pedal. Sarah's shoulder slammed against the door as they swerved away from the curb and shot back into the traffic.

“Nach rechts!”
the woman shouted, her face instantly taut with fear.

“What is it?” cried Sarah.

“CIA! They're all over this street!”

“CIA?”

“Look for yourself!”

They were coming up fast on the
pension
. Like all the other buildings on this street, it was a featureless box of gray concrete, distinguished only by a splash of shocking red graffiti scrawled on its front wall. On the sidewalk next to the graffiti stood two men. Sarah recognized them both. Planted solidly on his two short legs was Roy Potter, who squinted up the street in their direction. And standing close by, his face frozen in disbelief, was Nick.

He seemed unable to move, unable to react. As the Citroën roared past, he could only stand and stare. Just
for an instant, his eyes met Sarah's through the car window. He grabbed Potter's arm. Both men dashed into the street after the Citroën in a futile attempt to grab the car door. That's when she understood. At last it was clear.

Nick had been working with Potter all along. Together they'd engineered a plan so intricate, so well acted, that she'd been totally taken in. Nick was with the Company. She'd just seen the proof, there on the sidewalk. He must have returned to the room and found her missing. Then he'd sounded the alarm.

Sarah collapsed against the seat in shock. She heard Nick's voice one last time as he shouted her name. Then the sound faded away, drowned out by the engine's roar. All of Sarah's strength was gone. She huddled against the car door like a hunted animal. She
was
a hunted animal. The CIA was after her. Magus was after her. No matter which way she fled, someone's net would be closing in.

“We'll have to leave you at the airport,” said the woman. “If you board a plane immediately, you may have time to get out of Berlin before they can stop you.”

“But where are you going?” cried Sarah.

“Away. We take a different route.”

“What if I need you? How can I find you—”

“You can't.”

“But I don't even know your name!”

“If you find your husband, tell him Helga sent you.”

The sign for Tegel Airport came up too quickly. There was so little time to gather her courage, so little time to think. Before she was ready, the Citroën stopped at the curb. She had to climb out. She didn't have a chance to say goodbye to Helga. As soon as Sarah's feet hit the pavement, the door slammed and the car sped off.

Sarah was alone.

On the way to the ticket counter, she glanced through the cash in her wallet. There was barely enough for a meal, much less a plane ticket. She had no choice. She'd have to use her credit card.

Twenty minutes later a flight took off for Amsterdam. Sarah was on it.

A
FTER IT LEFT
Tegel Airport, the black Citroën headed south toward the Ku-damm. Helga had to make one last stop before she left Berlin. She knew she was taking a big chance. The CIA had seen her license plate; they could trace her address. Death was closing in fast. Already Eva was gone. She would have to call Corrie, tell her to warn Simon. And she would ask her about this man, Nick O'Hara. Helga wondered who he was. She didn't like new faces. The most dangerous enemy in the world is the one you do not recognize.

She would have to abandon the car and board the train to Frankfurt. From there she could move south to Switzerland and Italy, or west to Spain. It didn't matter where she went; what mattered was that she left Berlin. Before Eva's fate caught up with her, too.

But even spies can be sentimental. Helga couldn't leave the city without her few precious possessions. To anyone else they were worthless things, but to Helga they were bits and pieces of a life she'd left behind: photographs of her sister and her parents, all of whom had died in the war; a half dozen love letters from a boy she would never forget; her mother's silver locket. These things reminded her of her humanity, and she would never leave without them, even under threat of death.

Her driver understood why they were stopping at the house. He knew it was useless to argue. He took her home
one last time and sat in the car while she ran inside to collect her belongings.

From all the secret places in her bedroom came those few treasured items. They were packed, along with her pistol, in the false bottom of a satchel. Then clothes were thrown on top, the old skirts and housedresses she favored for their lack of distinction. She glanced out the window and saw the Citroën parked in the street below. What a pity to abandon such a fine car, she thought, but she had no choice.

She closed the window and headed downstairs. Outside, the sunlight made her blink. For a few seconds, she stood on the porch and let her eyes adjust before she locked the door. Those few seconds saved her life.

From the street came the screech of tires. Almost simultaneously, gunfire ripped the afternoon silence. Bullets spattered the Citroën. Helga threw herself to the porch, behind a row of clay tulip pots. Gunfire burst out again, and shards of glass rained down from the windows above her head.

Desperately she rolled beneath the railing and threw herself into the flower bed behind the porch, dragging the satchel with her. She had only a few seconds to act, a few seconds before the assassin would move in to finish the job. Already she heard his car door slam. He was coming.

She reached in the satchel. The false bottom slid open. Her hand closed around cold steel.

The footsteps moved closer. He was climbing the steps now; for him it would be a straight shot into the flower bed.

But she beat him to it. She raised the pistol, aimed and fired. The man's head was flung backward as a bright blotch of scarlet sprang out above his right eye. He fell, smashing through the far railing, and toppled like a disjointed doll among the garden tools.

Helga didn't bother to check his condition. She knew he was dead. The man's companion didn't wait around to confirm her marksmanship, either. He was already back in the driver's seat. Before she could aim and fire again, the car had roared off and disappeared.