The Seventh Secret (18 page)

"I am presently staying in East Berlin. I intended to move over to West Berlin tomorrow for a few days. I planned to do some sightseeing—of government buildings. I assume you are in West Berlin, Miss Ashcroft?"

"At the Kempinski."

"I will stay at the Palace Hotel, not far away, where I have stayed briefly before."

Emily came to her feet, slipping the photograph into her purse. "Then I will contact you at the Palace, as soon as I have my photo files and have gone through them. Let's hope we have luck."

Kirvov had jumped up. "You don't know how grateful I am."

She smiled. "Be grateful only if I am helpful."

Professor Blaubach had preceded her to the door, opening it. He dropped his voice. "I thank you for this. As to your own request, I do not forget. We shall see what we shall see."

I
t was late afternoon when the hired Mercedes let her out before the glass entrance doors to the Kempinski.

After voicing her appreciation to Peter Nitz, who stepped out ahead of her, Emily told the driver Plamp, "If you are not tied up, I will need your services again in a few days."

Plamp touched the visor of his chauffeur's cap. "I am ready to serve you anytime, Fräulein."

Emily said good-bye to Nitz, then hastened into the hotel, crossing the lobby toward the concierge's desk. She was eager to get her key and reach her suite, where she could make telephone calls to the excavators her father had planned to employ in West Berlin, and to phone Pamela Taylor, her secretary in Oxford, on Kirvov's behalf. The building in the oil painting was one of those minor riddles that, for her, always made research more intriguing.

"Suite 229," she said to the concierge.

He turned to her with the key and a slip of paper. "Miss Ashcroft," he said, "there is someone waiting for you."

"Someone?" she said vaguely. She read the message on the slip of paper: "Miss Ashcroft, I hope you can spare a minute to see me. I have come all the way from Los Angeles to meet you. I am in the Bristol Bar." It was signed "Rex Foster," a name utterly unknown to her.

Puzzled, she turned to cross the length of the lobby toward the hotel's cocktail lounge.

Standing at the entrance to the lounge, she cast about to see who the occupants were. There was no lone man waiting for her. There were three couples, in different parts of the room, seated in black upholstered chairs with drinks on the tables before them. There were two women deep in conversation, an elderly man and woman who appeared to be a long-married couple, and two others, an attractive thirtyish man and a young and pretty blond woman, who sat at a small table near an antique Steinway grand piano. The attractive thirtyish man, glancing past his partner, noticed Emily. Mumbling something to the blonde, he came to his feet.

Emily watched as he swiftly approached her in long strides.

Could this be her unexpected visitor from California? she wondered. What an interesting-looking man, she thought.

He was upon her, a lopsided smile on his gaunt face. "Are you, by chance, Emily Ashcroft?" he inquired. "I am."

He indicated the message slip still in her hand. "If you're looking for Rex Foster from Los Angeles, I'm afraid you've found him. If it's a bad time, I hope we can make another appointment. In any case, I hope you don't mind the intrusion."

Her eyes fixed on him, she decided that she didn't mind anything at all. She hoped that her hair wasn't a mess and that her skirt wasn't wrinkled. Her original automatic reluctance to meet a stranger, possibly a pushy one, had been quickly dispelled by his person. His attraction for her, she realized, had been almost immediate. This time it wasn't only the earnest brown eyes. He was at least six feet tall, towering above her, with unruly black hair, craggy countenance, cleft chin, lean and athletic physique. She found that she had already done what men always say they do with sexy-appearing women—mentally undressed him. She had unwittingly done so—it had never happened before, not with Jeremy or anyone--and she marveled at her craziness.

To cover her thoughts and unease, she was unnaturally abrupt. "Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Foster?"

"Ideally, we could have a chat right here. But if you're pressed for time, we could make it any other day at your convenience."

Her instinctive feelings surfaced. She did not want to put him off. She wanted to be with him here and now and she wanted to know more about him and his interest in her. "I—I have a little time," she said cautiously.

"Wonderful," he said. "Perhaps you'd sit down and join us for a drink." He indicated his blond partner. "Then I can explain everything."

Emily took in his waiting partner, and momentarily her heart sank. The female with the blond mane was younger than herself, and certainly prettier. His wife? His lover? His girlfriend in Berlin?

Emily, patting down her auburn hair, said lamely, "I've been working," then erect as possible she trailed him across a small dance floor to his table.

Foster indicated the empty chair beside his own, and before Emily could take it, he introduced her to the breathtaking blonde. "Miss Ashcroft . . . Miss Tovah Levine from Israel. We've just met, and we're both waiting for you."

Relieved, Emily was able to acknowledge the introduction with a smile. Sitting again, Foster had summoned a waiter. "What can I get for you, Miss Ashcroft?"

She wanted to have whatever he was having, to show they were as one. But then she felt that she should show her independence and assert herself. After all, he had come all this distance to see her. "Whiskey and soda," she said, "no ice." She decided that she had better deal with her visitor. "You came here," she said to Foster, "to see me?" Then, she realized, she must acknowledge the blond young lady as well. "And, I gather, so did Miss Levine."

"You needn't mind me," said Tovah quickly. "I can wait my turn. Rex was here first."

Foster nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Tovah." He faced Emily once more. "Yes, Miss Ashcroft, I came to Berlin primarily to see you."

"I can't imagine why."

"I'll explain," he said. "To begin with, I'm an architect."

"An architect?" She had never met one before. Somehow she had suspected from his appearance that he was a rich banker's indolent son. He seemed so relaxed and comfortable with himself, and confident. No, she corrected herself, not indolent. There was no indolence in the assurance and intensity of his manner. There was, she guessed, contained strength. "What—what do you do as an architect?" she blurted out foolishly, since she knew better but had been at a loss for something to say.

Foster replied seriously. "I try to make lovely things."

Fleetingly, Emily wondered if this was an intentional double entendre or an ingenuous remark on his part. She would love to have known. Anyway. "Buildings, presumably?"

"Buildings, of course. I work very hard at it because I enjoy creativity. I like to see things grow under my fingers."

His fingers, she noted for the first time, were slender and long. She wondered about their touch.

"And has that made you successful?"

"More or less," said Foster. "But even that's not enough. In America, it is not only the professors who must publish or perish. I am doing what I gather you've been doing, Miss Ashcroft, although I wouldn't dare compare the importance of my book project with your own. I'm preparing a book called
Architecture of the 1000-Year Third Reich
. About what Hitler had built in Germany—and what he planned to build had he won the war. So that's where our interests intersect. Adolf Hitler."

"I see."

"Frankly, like you, I've come to Berlin to finish my research and complete a book. I'm afraid I'll have some difficulty doing so without your help."

She adored his eyes, and was ready to do anything for him. "How can I help you, Mr. Foster?"

"All right. Here goes. My picture-and-caption book still has one incomplete section. There are some missing plans I had hoped to locate through the family of Hitler's chief architect, Albert Speer, but I have had to search elsewhere for the missing plans. I knew of your father's biography and I realized that if anyone knew about Speer's associates or assistants, it was your father. I had narrowed down my own hunt for the elusive plans to one of the ten associates to whom Speer may have assigned them, but I had no idea where to find this associate. It seemed to me that your father would likely know of this man. So I wrote to your father asking if I might come to Oxford and meet with him. He was-kind enough to give me an appointment for the very next week. But then"—Foster paused—"I read about his accident." Foster looked steadily at Emily. "I can't tell you, Miss Ashcroft, how sorry I am. Not for me, of course. For you."

"Thank you. Please go on."

"Two days ago, in reading about your father in the press, I learned that you had been collaborating with him so I made up my mind to try to see you."

For an instant Emily was troubled. "How on earth did you find me here?"

"I telephoned your home in Oxford hoping to speak to you. I planned to fly to London and drive up to see you. Your secretary answered and, after we had talked for some time, she admitted you had gone to West Berlin and were staying at the Kempinski."

Emily frowned. "I made Pamela promise to tell no one I was here."

"I'm afraid I wheedled it out of her," Foster said apologetically. "I reminded her that I already had been given an appointment by Dr. Ashcroft, and I was sure his daughter would not object to seeing me. In light of this, your secretary felt it was all right to tell me where you were. I hope this doesn't upset you?"

"I take it you've had a lot of experience charming secretaries," she smiled. "At any rate, you got here."

"I came to the Kempinski hoping to catch you and make a proper appointment. But you were out. So I decided to wait. Meanwhile"—Foster gestured toward Tovah Levine—"at the very moment I was asking the concierge about you, Miss Levine came up to the counter and overheard me. It turned out that she also had come to the Kempinski to see you. So we decided to wait for you together."

Puzzled, Emily directed her attention to the pretty blonde. "And you, Miss Levine, why did you want to see me?"

Tovah Levine, who had been listening and drinking, set down her glass. "To tell you the truth, Miss Ashcroft, I'm a working journalist. Recently, I was assigned to West Berlin to do a series of feature stories for the
Jerusalem Post
. When I learned you were coming here, I thought you'd make an excellent subject. Hitler still sells newspapers. Regrettable, but there it is."

Emily blinked at the journalist. "And how did you know I was at the Kempinski?"

"Easy," said Tovah Levine. "When I arrived, I checked into the Berlin foreign correspondents' press club. It keeps a record of the arrival of each and every celebrity in Berlin. It has connections with all the hotels in the city—with the concierges, assistant managers, receptionists----who pass on the names of foreign celebrities who've just registered. So I thought I'd come over and see if I could get a story."

"Well, I'm hardly a celebrity," said Emily, "and I certainly can't give you a story. Believe me, Miss Levine—you, too, Mr. Foster---I really meant to keep my business here a secret. If word gets out that I am working here, it could be dangerous for me at worst—or my project at the very least."

"Mum's the word, I promise you," said Foster, raising his right hand.

"Good enough," said Emily. "As to helping out on your architectural book, I hope I can give you what you want. When would you like to meet?"

"Tonight," said Foster. "Before you came into the lounge, I invited Tovah to join me for dinner at a restaurant in the neighborhood. I'd be very happy if you'd also be my guest."

Emily feasted her eyes on him. He was so damn winning, irresistible in every way. Certainly she wanted to know him better, and soon. If Blaubach came through, she might be very busy. "Why not?" she said to Foster. "I was going to eat in my room. This is certainly a better offer. I thank you."

"Very good," said Foster enthusiastically.

Emily hesitated, gaze fixed on the blond journalist. "I can join you only if Miss Levine promises that whatever we discuss is strictly social and off the record."

"I'll promise anything," agreed Tovah Levine, holding up her own right hand in a solemn pledge, "because I am fascinated—and because I am hungry."

Emily laughed. "Ground rules set. Fine." She consulted her gold wristwatch. "It is almost seven. I need an hour to make several phone calls, and to bathe and change." She turned her full smile on Foster. "The lobby at eight o'clock?"