Patricia Potter (54 page)

Matt absorbed the rebuke with trained equanimity. “No, sir,” he admitted.

Chris led him to the door. “Have the extra set of prints sent to Mrs. Evans personally.”

Matt nodded.

“I’m going to see Weimer after the conference meetings today. I want a report on everything he does afterward—around midnight.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt added.

“It’s going to be more difficult. He’s going to know he’s under surveillance and that his line has been tapped.”

“We won’t lose him again,” Matt repeated grimly.

“Make sure you don’t.”

Chris had several hours to kill. He walked down to the beach. The day was not quite as hot as it had been, and the breeze felt good against his skin.

There were more people than usual, the cooler air driving them from the aid-conditioned motels. The water was calm, the silver-gray glinting in the sun as the tide started to ease its way up the beach, one wave at a time. There was a family not far away, the children building a sand castle.

Haunting memories returned as he remembered the shining day when Meara had looked up at him with laughter and trust and liking. He could recall Tara’s small hopeful face, and Peter’s open admiration. There had been so much innocence then, so much youthful hope. God, he wished he could roll time back again.

But would he have really changed things, given the circumstances? Could he have? It was a question, he knew, that would plague him the rest of his life.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, long enough for the castle-building family to leave and for the ocean to sweep over the fragile structure, erasing the dream as if it had never been, erasing the footsteps in the sand. He rose, brushing the sand from his clothes. Finally it was time to play his hand.

Kurt Weimer carefully stepped inside the cottage. The door had been unlocked and he would have sworn he had locked it. It could be a maid, of course, but this was rather late in the day for that possibility.

“Come in,” said a disembodied voice, and when Kurt hesitated, he heard the cock of a pistol. He looked around cautiously and finally saw a man leaning against a wall, his form partially hidden in shadows. A gun was in his hand.

“Who are you?” he said with contempt. “I have little money here.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Come out where I can see you.”

The intruder leisurely moved forward, and Kurt felt his contempt change slowly to fear. Despite the lazy movements, the man had the coldest, most menacing eyes he had ever seen. They were not the eyes of a thief. They were the eyes instead of a professional hunter. He had hired enough to know.

“What do you want?”

“Just a little conversation.”

“Who are you?” Kurt said as he slowly moved toward a bureau.

“I already found the gun,” his uninvited guest commented with an amused smile. “And got rid of it.”

Kurt hated the fear, the failure circling around inside him.

“Do you know who I am?” he blustered.

“I know exactly who…and what…you are,” the visitor said coldly. “The question is who else will know.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“I’ll try to be more exact.”

The tone sliced through Kurt, and he knew what was coming. Somehow he knew from the knowing eyes staring at him. He knew. But still he bluffed. “I’ll have you arrested—”

“For breaking and entering? What about treason? I wonder how your government would consider membership in an organization of people who, shall we say, are dedicated to protecting criminals wanted by the German government.”

“You’re insane.”

“Oh, am I? I wonder whether this government, and your own, will think the same when they hear certain tapes and see some very excellent photographs of a top government official at a somewhat questionable meeting.”

“There are no laws against curiosity….”

“No, but there is one about—what is the term?—neutralizing an Argentine resident. Interesting term for murder. The Bull, I think his name is. I wonder what he would think about the order. I understand the Israelis know who and where he is. And your friend in Germany. Stefan? I wonder if German Intelligence has a file on him. Or you.”

The color drained from Kurt’s face. “What do you want?” It was little more than a croaked whisper, and he despised himself and hated the man across from him for causing it.

“Right now? A simple walk on the beach.”

“Why?”

The man laughed. “After what I just told you, you ask? You disappoint me.”

Kurt understood immediately. The room had been bugged, of course. His mind ran over the past couple days. He must have been followed too, otherwise how would they know of the rally? And Cannon? Did they also know about that? How much had he said on the phone to Stefan?

But it was also interesting that the intruder apparently didn’t want their conversation overheard. Otherwise why leave the room? Why? Nothing made sense.

He shrugged, as casually as he could, his eyes on the gun. “Won’t you be a bit conspicuous on the beach?”

“Oh, it will be in my pocket. But in case you decide to ? get foolish, please realize that copies of the tape and photos I mentioned are in very safe places. If anything happens to me, they go immediately to the FBI and German Intelligence.”

Kurt balled his fist in a tight knot, wanting to strike out, but he couldn’t. Not in this room. Not with listeners apparently nearby. He cursed out loud as he realized how completely he was trapped. He nodded and stepped out of sliding glass doors to the beach, feeling the ominous presence of the man behind him. He took the few seconds to analyze. Who was his opponent? What did he want? If the man were a federal agent, Kurt knew he would probably be headed for a small office someplace, answering some very embarrassing questions and trying to keep from being deported back to Germany. The tape could involve him in conspiracy to murder. There wouldn’t be enough evidence to convict, not an illegal tape recording, but he would be publicly and politically destroyed.

Bastard.
He wanted to kill the man behind him.

“That’s far enough,” the man said, and Kurt saw a bench on a dune overlooking the beach.

“Sit down, Weimer.”

There was something tantalizing about the man’s voice, something he knew he should recognize but didn’t. It nagged and worried at him. A hint of Germany, perhaps, but no. There was no accent, none at all, and perhaps that was what struck him.

“What do you want?” Kurt asked again, keeping his tone calm and emotionless.

“I want certain assurances from you.”

Kurt glared at him with hatred. “What kind of assurances?”

“That you will stay away from the Evans family.”

Of all answers he expected, this was the least of them. Money. Power. Those two he expected.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he blustered.

“I’ll make it very clear then. I’m a friend of her late husband’s. I look out for them. Both of them. Do you understand me?”

“You
are
a lunatic. I’ve merely taken Lisa out several times.”

“I don’t like the way you part your hair, my friend. I don’t want you around her again. Am I clear?”

“You have no right.”

“I have every right now,” the man said. “I have the pictures and tapes, remember.”

Still partially disbelieving, Kurt stared at the man opposite him. It was difficult to tell his age. Late forties possibly, but his body was still superbly fit, muscles evident in the arms and shoulders. His eyes were dark blue, menacing and unblinking. If there was gray mixed in the corn silk blond of his hair, he couldn’t find it. The only indication of age at all were the deep lines around the man’s eyes and mouth.

“What is it you want exactly?” Kurt finally managed.

“I have three copies of both the photographs and the tape of your conversation to Herr Kranz. One set is on its way to an attorney in New York, another to a German solicitor. If they hear of anything happening to either Meara or Lisa Evans, both have been instructed to send copies to the Central Intelligence Agency, German Intelligence, and the New York Times.”

“What do you mean, anything?”

“Oh, anything from an auto accident to…a natural death. Anything at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” Kurt said. “You haven’t had time.”

“You can do anything if you have enough money. Surely, you know that, Herr Weimer.”

“You aren’t serious.”

“I’m very serious. One accident and everyone will know that the respected Kurt Weimer is a leader in Odessa and trying to seed violence in the United States.”

Kurt felt himself trembling. Nearly twenty years wasted. “You can never prove it.”

“I don’t have to,” the man said. “I have enough to start others digging. Enough to ruin you.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I owe Sanders Evans a debt. I’m paying it now. I take my obligations very seriously.”

“I can’t be held responsible for anything that might happen to them.”

“Then
make
it your responsibility. Oh, and there is something else. You will be cutting your trip short. Sudden problems in your office.”

“I want copies of everything. I want to know they exist.”

“Take my word for it, although I must admit those glasses and that hat last night didn’t improve your image.”

“And if I do as you say?”

“Your image will remain untarnished,” the man said with cold humor.

“How do I know that?”

“Simple, you trust me.” There was a glint of humor in the man’s eyes for the first time.

Kurt cursed fluently in German.

“Sorry. I don’t understand German.”

“Then how…?”

“Did I translate the tape? I didn’t. An associate of mine did.”

“But you said—”

“The man is in my employ. Completely trustworthy.”

“Damn you.”

“Perhaps, but in the meantime I would like an answer.”

Kurt couldn’t stop the question on his lips. “What do you know about Meara Evans?”

“That she’s a very nice lady, and when you showed an unusual interest in her daughter, she worried. She had good instincts.”

“Are you a federal agent?”

“No, otherwise I would be duty bound to turn this information over, wouldn’t I? As it is, we will make a simple bargain. No notoriety or harm for her daughter, none for you.

Kurt looked into a bland expression. The man knew far more than he was saying, but Kurt realized he would learn no more. He had made several crucial mistakes.

But then so had the arrogant bastard in front of him.

“I’ll do as you say,” he said.

“Good. I believe there’s a flight out tomorrow morning for Atlanta. And then New York.”

“Who
are
you?”

Chris smiled. “As you have your secrets, I have mine. Let’s leave it that way. Now start walking back to your cottage and don’t look back.”

When Kurt reached the door of the cottage, he couldn’t help but look back. But no one was there.

Kurt Weimer made several calls, aware now that all were being taped. He cursed himself thoroughly for not checking, but he’d had no reason to suspect anything. As as he went over every minute of his stay here, he started to remember small things, like the woman at Christ Church who somehow seemed familiar. Now, as he thought about it, there was a resemblance in build to the woman he had also seen in the Brunswick cemetery where his father was buried.

Which meant his visitor probably knew a great deal more than he’d said.

He would have sworn that no one was following him in Atlanta. But it didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered but escape.

He didn’t believe his visitor. Not for a moment did he believe the information the man had taken so many pains in gathering would stay confidential. At any rate, he couldn’t risk it. Any extensive investigation by the West German government would show certain financial manipulations and irregularities. Huge accounts could possibly be traced back to him. At the least, he would go to prison.

A planner by nature and training, Kurt seldom left anything to chance. He had always known exposure was possible, and he had established several other identities, all with access to numbered bank accounts in Caribbean banks. After years in Odessa, he knew every trick there was, every government that could be bought, every banker who knew how to be discreet. And he could continue his role in Odessa in an even more active way.

But the Evans bitch would pay for this. Both she and her daughter. Now it really didn’t matter if he was careful. Kurt Weimer, in any event, would disappear.

The first step was to rid himself of his watchdogs. They were obviously very, very capable. But they had underestimated both his resolve and his resources.

Chris drove slowly back to Jekyll Island. He had done one of two things: frightened Weimer off or brought him out into the open. Instinct told him it was the latter.