Lane awoke at 3:00 A.M., got up and went to the window that looked out toward the lake. It was still blustery and it looked cold outside, whitecaps on the lake and no stars in the still overcast sky. But there was no one down there lurking about that he could see.
He used the bathroom and then went back to bed. He lay in the darkness thinking. The Russians were not going to try anything until he surfaced with the diamonds. They would not take the risk of coming that far and then losing the ultimate prize. The only wild card was Mironov, who was here in Germany by now, and probably with the two ex-KGB men.
He might be wanting revenge for the roughing up Lane had given him, and because he'd had to return to his boss with his tail between his legs. Russians were long on vengeance and very short on forgiveness these days. Especially when it involved money. The problem was that Lane had no way of telling what the man was going to do in the morning.
He had willed his mind to go blank so that he could get a couple more hours of sleep when he heard someone at his door. He silently snatched his pistol from the nightstand, slipped out of bed, and went to the even deeper darkness in the corner beyond the window. The door opened and he saw Gloria silhouetted; the light from the fire on the grate downstairs made her thin nightgown transparent.
Lane put the gun down on the chair beside him. “Go back to your husband,” he said softly.
Startled, she turned toward his voice, but it was apparent that
she could not see him. “I couldn't sleep,” she said in a small voice. “I've been thinking about you all night.”
“I'm sorry, but get out of here.” He listened for someone else awake and up. But the house was silent except for the crackle of the fire.
“Your wife is dead, John.”
“Not to me.”
She came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door. Now Lane couldn't see her, but he heard her come across to him, and then she was naked and in his arms. She was shivering.
“You can't know how long it's been,” she said, theatrically, her body tight against his. He was dressed only in his shorts, and she felt soft, almost slack, not in the least appealing.
He turned on the floor lamp. She reared back in the sudden glare, her hand going to her eyes. He gently pushed her back, picked up her nightgown from the floor and handed it to her.
“Go back to your own room before we both get into trouble,” he told her. “I'm going to have a busy day of it starting in a damned few hours, and I'd like to get some sleep.”
She didn't bother trying to cover herself, and an ugly look came into her face. “Fuck you,” she said harshly, her lip curling into a sneer. “All the money in the world couldn't buy what I was offering you for nothing.” She brushed past him and left his room.
“Well, that was nicely done,” Lane muttered.
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Mironov couldn't sleep either. He got up, put on a pair of slacks and a light jacket, and went out to the back porch, out of the wind, to smoke a cigarette. When he was finished he called Lukashin on his cell phone.
“Don't tell me that you're already finished with your little project,” Lukashin said. It was about ten in the evening in Washington. There was music in the background.
“No, we're going first thing in the morning,” Mironov said. “The good part is that I don't think he suspects anything. From what I could hear on Golanov's wire, the dive will be straightforward.”
“A hundred meters down in total darkness into a destroyed bunker?” Lukashin asked. “I'd say that will be anything
but
straightforward.” He laughed. “Whatever you do, don't show your hand until after whatever he's bringing up with him is safely out of the water. Unless you want to jump in after it.”
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Lane got up again a little before six, took a long, hot shower, got dressed in Pierre Cardin jeans and his favorite cashmere sweater, soft half boots on his feet, and went down to the kitchen. Sergeant Schaub was already up and had breakfast started. He handed Lane a steaming mug of coffee and poured a healthy measure of Asbach-Urhalt cognac into it.
“Something to brace you up,
Junge
. It's going to be damned cold down there even in a dry suit.”
“I don't plan on staying long.”
“See that you don't. With that helium-oxygen mixture the cold is going to hit you harder than normal. Is the equipment what you need?”
“It'll do fine,” Lane said. He took a sip of the coffee. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Schaub went back to the stove where he was cooking fat sausages in a large skillet. There were fried potatoes, chopped spinach, cheese, and
Brötchen,
the small, hard German bread rolls. “How many eggs?”
“Three,” Lane said.
“What about a weapon?” Schaub asked, attending to the cooking.
“I don't think there'll be any ghosts down there.”
Schaub turned back, an impatient scowl on his square face. “I never trusted the bastard Russians, and I don't trust them now. I suggest that you carry a gun with you in case something goes wrong on top.”
“I see what you mean,” Lane said. “I can strap a pistol to my chest under my dry suit.”
“Good idea,” Schaub said, satisfied. “Now sit down and I'll fix your eggs.”
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Speyer was in the bathroom shaving. Gloria got out of bed and went to the door. She could smell breakfast from the kitchen downstairs, and her stomach turned over. She'd had too much to drink last night, as usual, and she felt like hell.
“Well, it worked,” she said. “The bastard took the bait.”
Speyer looked at her in the mirror. “What are you talking about?”
“Your pal, John Browne.” She came into the bathroom, raised her nightgown, and sat on the toilet. He hated it when she relieved herself in his presence.
He waited until she was done. “What about him? Did you find out anything?”
“Nothing much, except that he's no different from any other man.” She took off her nightgown, made sure that he got a good look at the self-inflicted bruises on her breasts and flanks, then stepped into the shower, closed the curtain and turned on the water.
Speyer pulled the curtain back. “Stop playing games,
Liebchen
, and tell me what happened.”
Her eyes went wide and suddenly she began to cry. “You wanted me to tease him. Try to get him to tell me things. I tried last night, and he raped me.”
“Why didn't you cry out?”
“I couldn't. He said that he would kill me. He's crazy.”
Speyer turned away, angry, and Gloria closed the curtain again. She turned the water warmer and smiled. All men were easy.
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Lane finished his breakfast and took his coffee outside to the front veranda where he could see the lake and have a smoke. It was still very cold and blustery with no signs that the weather would break soon. He was going to be very vulnerable while he was in the bunker. It was possible that because of the windy weather, which roiled up the surface of the lake, currents could be running through the bunker. There was no telling what he was going to run into when he got down there.
He tossed the cigarette aside and went across to the garage. In the back, behind a stack of cardboard boxes and some folded burlap bags, he found an opening in the wall boards. He wrapped his cell phone in a burlap sack and stuffed the bundle as far down inside the wall as he could reach. He didn't want someone finding it when he was inside the bunker.
“Browne,” Speyer called from outside.
Lane shoved the rest of the burlap bags in front of the opening, and went back outside just as Speyer came across from the house.
“I was just making a last-minute check on the equipment.”
“It's off, you son of a bitch,” Speyer shouted. He sprinted for Lane, who stepped aside at the last possible moment and stuck out his foot, sending Speyer sprawling on his face.
Baumann and Schaub came out of the house. “What's happening?” Baumann demanded.
“I don't know.”
Speyer got up and Lane tried to give him a helping hand but he
batted it away. “You're fired. I want you to get the fuck out of here right now before I kill you.”
“Was ist, Herr Kapitän?”
Schaub asked as he and Baumann hurried across the driveway.
“The bastard wanted everything for himself,” Speyer shouted.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Lane said, keeping his tone of voice casual, though he had a pretty good idea that it had something to do with Gloria.
“My wife came to talk to you last night.” Speyer turned to Baumann and Schaub. “I wanted Gloria to find out as much as she could about him. I didn't trust him and I was right. He raped her.”
“That's not true,” Lane said. He held himself loose. He had the pistol in his belt at the small of his back but he didn't want to have to use it. He wanted to bring up the diamonds, or whatever it was, from the bunker and then find out what Speyer's ultimate plan was. Killing him now, or calling in the German Federal Police and arresting him, wouldn't provide the answers.
Schaub shot Lane a look. “What time was that, Herr
Kapitän
?”
“Three o'clock,” Gloria said from the doorway. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater, but she hadn't fixed her hair and she wore no makeup.
“I'm sorry, Herr
Kapitän,
but Mr. Browne was with me in the kitchen,” Sergeant Schaub said. “We couldn't sleep so we were having a smoke and some schnapps. Talking about the mission.”
“He's a fucking liar,” Gloria shrieked.
The animation suddenly drained from Speyer's face. For a moment he looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But a kid capable of killing anyone who got in his way or challenged him. When he raised his head he was smiling with embarrassment. “Sorry about that.”
“You bastards,” Gloria screamed, but then she realized that no one believed her, and she went back inside.
“Your wife did come to my room last night to try to seduce me, but I sent her away,” Lane admitted. “That's the second time she's tried since Kalispell. Either keep her on a shorter leash, or the next time you send her to me I might not send her back.”
“She said you hit her.”
“I don't hit women or children. Only men who deserve to be hit.”
Speyer stared at Lane with hatred. “I don't trust you.”
“Well, I don't trust you either,” Lane replied. “Nor do I particularly
care for your brand of leadership. So if you want me to get out, I'll go. But first I'll take the five thousand you offered me. I didn't come all this way for nothing. Besides, I figure that saving your life is worth at least that much.”
Speyer looked at Schaub and Baumann and then stared at the whitecaps marching across the lake for a few seconds before turning back. “I'd rather you didn't leave just yet,” he said. “As a matter of fact without you we'd have to abort this mission until I could find someone to take your place. In the meantime keeping the Russians in place would be difficult if not impossible.”
“Ten percent,” Lane said.
Baumann started to object, but Speyer held him off. “That could be as much as thirty million dollars.”
Lane shrugged. “I figure that it's worth it, don't you? Ninety percent of something is better than one hundred percent of nothing.”
Speyer nodded, a wry smile on his lips. “It's a deal, Mr. Browne with an âe.' Under the circumstances I don't have much of a choice.”
“No, you don't,” Lane said.
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“What I want to know is what the hell is down there that's so important,” Golanov asked.
“I don't know myself, but whatever it is, they want it badly enough to risk coming back to Germany and spending a lot of money,” Mironov replied.
They were outside at the DF 1 truck, ready to head out. Golanov was driving and Cherny rode shotgun. Mironov would drive over to the chalet as soon as the filming began and the diver was down in the bunker. Speyer's wife didn't know what he looked like. To her he would be nothing other than one of the Russian team.
“Just remember nobody makes a move until Browne is out of the bunker and has the package,” Mironov cautioned them. “I'll be waiting at the chalet, but if you see an opportunity, take it. Save us all some trouble. But I want Browne for myself if at all possible.”
“What if the caretaker gets suspicious, or if a tourist should wander by?”