The Lie (22 page)

Paulie had witnessed the entire episode with the media. He had listened to the simple, quiet answers given to their questions.
And he had been impressed by the applause elicited from the world-class press corps that had made up the major’s audience.

Or was he being too cynical?

The terrible battle wounds were certainly real enough. And the mere act of prying open that one pale eye each morning, of
getting out of bed to deal with another day, took more hard courage than most men could scrape together in a lifetime.

Still, it was Klaus Logefeld who had brought the old soldier. And all things considered, that had to mean
something
.

It meant enough for Paulie to seek out Wannsee’s chief of security in his office.

“What can you tell me about a countryman of yours?” he asked. “His name is Schadt. He carried your own rank of major in the
old Wehrmacht, and he’s evidently here with Professor Alfred Mainz of the Italian delegation.”

Major Dechen hit some buttons on a desktop computer
and sat studying the screen. “I thought I recognized the name. He’s a once famous antiwar poster model, and he seems to have
been a late addition. Dr. Nicholas Vorelli was his sponsor.”

“That’s all?”

Dechen punched some more buttons.

“He’s apparently a much decorated World War II hero with a full disability pension.” There was a pause as the major considered
what was coming up on the screen. “And according to information supplied by Dr. Vorelli, the man is Professor Mainz’s maternal
grandfather.”

Paulie was alarmed. Klaus and the old man were of the same blood. Meaning what? Paulie had no idea. Except that if he sniffed
around long and hard enough, he was absolutely certain he would come up with a smell he didn’t like.

“Why all the interest in this Major Schadt?” asked the security chief.

“I guess you haven’t seen him yet.”

“No.”

“His face is like nothing I’ve ever run into. It’s a living indictment of all the horrors of war. A silent scream.”

“Is that why he’s here?”

“I can’t think of a better reason,” said Paulie.

A telephone rang.

Major Dechen answered, spoke briefly, and came out from behind his desk.

“Chancellor Eisner’s limousine is just approaching the first checkpoint,” he said.

K
ATE
D
INNESON HAD NO IDEA
what strings Nicko had pulled to arrange it, but she did find herself sitting in what was obviously one of the best press
seats in the house at Wannsee.

With only limited space available, the media was confined to three short rows of chairs at the west end of the conference
hall, and Kate was in the very first of these. She also was directly in back of Nicko Vorelli’s own chair. Which, in turn,
was right alongside that of the Italian foreign minister, Roberto Langione.

Of course this was all for Nicko’s own benefit, for when he might need her, Kate thought, and the implication hit her like
the sight of a large rock against which she was about to smash.

And that was simply for starters.

Klaus Logefeld and his grandfather were sitting even closer to her, the old man’s ramrod-straight back giving off its own
aura of unknown threats, while occasional glimpses of his disfigurement made the whole thing even worse.

How do you manage to live with something like that?
Kate slowly shook her head and looked around the chamber for Paul Walters.

At the moment, Paulie was nowhere in sight. But Kate had spotted him earlier, in passing, and for an instant their eyes had
met.

Her sustenance.

It was true. She was stirred, found a kind of support in merely knowing he was there. As if he somehow would be
able to help her should she be in the need of help, which in itself disturbed her, made her feel less competent than she knew
herself to be.

A ridiculously outdated attitude. Romantic love, heartbreak, and dependency had traditionally been for women.

Not anymore, she thought, and was amused by her own absurdity.

About her, the big conference hall buzzed with sound. It was just about full. The German chancellor had not yet entered to
make his opening remarks as host. Nicko, she noted, was deep in conversation with the Italian foreign minister, yet his eyes
were all over, missing nothing.

So what was he going to do here? What was he going to ask
her
to do? Sometime during the next few hours or days, Nicko Vorelli was going to take some form of action that would affect
both their lives, and she had no idea what that action might be. Still, she had agreed to be part of it.

Which meant what? That she was a fool?

At this moment it seemed so.

Then she saw Nicko leave the Italian foreign minister and start toward her.

Nicko took Kate to a small area of clear space and said softly, “I’m an idiot. Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For even thinking of getting you into this.”

Kate stared at him.

“Forget everything I’ve told you,” he said. “You’re not involved.”

“Then whatever it was, is off?”

“For you, it is.”

“But not for you?”

He shrugged and half smiled. “I’ll see.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I care about you so much, it’s utterly ridiculous,” he said, and went back to the foreign minister.

L
ESS THAN FIVE METERS
in front of where Kate sat with other members of the press, Klaus Logefeld rose from his chair in the second row of delegates
rimming the long conference table and touched his grandfather’s shoulder.

“I’m going to the men’s room before things get started,” he said.

Major Schadt looked up at him and nodded.

Klaus circled the conference hall, crossed the main lobby, and entered the lavatory.

Two men stood at the urinals, staring blankly at the wall. A third man stood alone beside a window, watching Klaus as he walked
in. Klaus recognized one of the men at the urinals as Arthur Green, the American secretary of state, and the man beside the
window as one of his security people.

Four toilet stalls lined the wall opposite the urinals. Only one appeared occupied, but it was the one Klaus had to get into.

He stood there for a moment, feeling the flat gaze of the security man along with his own tension. Then he removed his jacket,
hung it on a hook, and began rinsing his hands, face, and eyes in one of the washstands.

Klaus took it slowly, deliberately, working to kill time until the toilet stall became available.

When he at last reached for a towel, he looked up to find the American secretary of state smiling at him.

“Professor Mainz?”

Klaus nodded.

“I thought I recognized you from your book-jacket photo. I’m Arthur Green.”

He spoke in English, extending his hand, and Klaus Logefeld shook it.

“I’m flattered that you’ve actually read my work, Mr. Secretary. Unless you just looked at my picture.”

The secretary laughed. “Oh, I’ve read you, all right. I was impressed enough by your ideas to pass some of them off as my
own.”

“As long as you quoted me correctly.”

“I wouldn’t dare change a word, Professor.”

Followed by his security man, Secretary of State Green left the room.

Moments later, Klaus entered the stall he had been waiting for, and locked it behind him.

Climbing onto the toilet, he used a small nail file to unscrew the ventilator grill from the ceiling. Then he removed his
two automatics and remote detonator from the studs to which they had been taped five days earlier, and pocketed them.

When he had replaced the ventilator grill and left the toilet stall, the rest room was empty.

Klaus examined himself in the long mirror above the line of washstands.

He saw hair, eyes, face, chest. This strange creature. Yet human.

And inside, something else.

Hope.

The mirror showed his grandfather enter the room behind him.

Klaus turned, handed the old man one of his two automatics, and left the washroom without either of them saying a word.

T
OMMY
C
ORTLANDT MADE HIS FIRST VOICE CONTACT
with Paulie Walters by mobile phone at 12:36
P.M.
The CIA director was with the president and two security men in the lead sedan of their four-car motorcade. Paulie was alone
on the lawn just outside Wannsee’s rear entrance.

“What’s doing?” said Cortlandt.

“Eisner is well into his opening remarks. I guess he has about another ten to fifteen minutes left.”

“I know. We’ve been listening on the radio. Any potential trouble spots?”

“None that I can see,” said Paulie. “How far away are you?”

“About twenty minutes to the first checkpoint. I’d like to time it so we get there not too long after Eisner finishes up.
Does the rear entrance still look best for us?”

“Perfect.”

“Hold on a minute,” said the CIA director.

He covered the receiver and spoke to Dunster. “Anything you want to say?”

The president sat in silence for a moment. He had spoken little during the drive from the Eberswalde air base and his eyes
were distant. “Let me talk to your man,” he said.

“The boss wants to talk to you,” he told Paulie. “But no names or titles, OK?”

“Understood.”

The CIA director handed the phone to the president.

“Are you hearing me?” said Dunster.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m just curious about the general mood. Is there any real sense of excitement, or is it all business as usual?”

“At this point I’d have to say business as usual, sir. But that might be a bit unfair.”

“Why?”

“Because the chancellor is still making his opening remarks.”

“And how would you judge what Eisner is saying?”

“More of the customary platitudes about human rights, of course. German edition.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s pouring ashes over his head about the Holocaust and the need to keep such things from happening again.”

The president gazed out the window at the verdant landscape dotted with neat German homes.

“And that doesn’t impress you?” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because in one form or another these things
are
happening again. A few more platitudes aren’t going to stop them now.”

Jimmy Dunster looked less than happy.

“Thank you,” he said, and gave the telephone back to Tommy Cortlandt.

The CIA director spoke again to Paul Walters. Then he broke the connection.

“Is something bothering you, Mr. President?”

It took Jimmy Dunster a long moment to answer. “To be honest,” he finally said, “yes.”

“What is it?”

“Just about everything.”

At Wannsee, Paulie found Major Dechen at a far edge of the conference room and eased him into a nearby corridor.

“I’m going to need you to get me to your chancellor,” he said. “The minute he finishes speaking. It’s important.”

“How important?”

“President Dunster wants to talk to him.”

The major stared at Paulie. “Why do I suddenly have the feeling this is the real reason you’re here?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“All right,” said Dechen. “You can meet us in my office.”

The security chief slipped away to better his position. Paulie stayed where he was to listen to Eisner.

Moments later the German chancellor completed his official remarks, and Paulie quickly worked his way out of the conference
hall, along the central corridor, and into the security office.

Major Dechen had Eisner there almost at once. A heavy, ruddy-complexioned man, the chancellor stood mopping his face with
a damp handkerchief as he shook Paulie’s hand.

“Now what’s all this about your president wanting to speak to me?” he said in lightly accented English.

“Exactly that, Mr. Chancellor.”

Paulie punched some numbers into his handset and heard Tommy Cortlandt answer.

“I have your man here,” Paulie said.

“Good,” said the CIA director. “Give him your phone and the boss will take it from there.”

In the lead car of the small motorcade, the CIA director nodded to the president, who had been listening to the brief exchange
on his own phone.

“Are you there, Herman?” said Dunster.

“Hello, Jimmy. What’s happening? Was my speech that bad?”

“No worse than usual. But this has more to do with
my
needs than with
your
speech.” The president took a moment to moisten his lips. “The fact is, I need a small favor.”

“Not too small, I hope. I’d rather have you owe me big.”

“Listen to me, Herman. Right now I’m in a car just a few miles from Wannsee. And what I need is for you to meet me in fifteen
minutes at your first checkpoint, and escort me straight through to the conference center.”

There was complete silence at the other end and Jimmy Dunster spoke into it.

“Since this is not a secure call, Herman, I’d appreciate your holding all questions until we’re together. Will that be all
right?”

The chancellor’s laugh, when it came, was flat. “I can’t see how I’m going to know that for at least fifteen minutes.”

P
RESIDENT
J
IMMY
D
UNSTER’S ENTRY
into Wannsee’s main conference chamber went all but unnoticed. The president simply appeared as part of a small group that
included his wife and Chancellor Eisner, and was quietly seated in a far corner of the room.

Only when Klaus Logefeld became aware of an undercurrent of whispering along with a sudden swiveling of heads did he realize
exactly who was there. Even then his initial reaction was little more than one of mild surprise.

Seconds later, the full force of it went off inside him like a small bomb.

He nudged his grandfather.

The old man nodded. “I saw.”

The president’s wife appeared younger and more attractive in person than in any pictures he had ever seen of her. It was just
the reverse for the president. In the flesh, Jimmy Dunster looked a lot older and frailer than on film.