The Seventh Secret (42 page)

Emily started to open the car door, when Kirvov grabbed her arm. "Wait. You can't go in there."

"Why not?" Emily demanded. "It's a public eating place. I'm the public and I want to eat. I also want to see if Evelyn Hoffmann is in there."

"Don't do it, Emily. It could be dangerous."

"Nonsense." She was already out of the car.

"Emily, what happened to your father wasn't nonsense. She may be a neo-Nazi. Please remember your father—"

Mention of her father made Emily turn around in the street. She leaned down toward Kirvov and considered his worried countenance. "I am remembering my father," she said quietly. "That's why I must know what's going on in there."

"Then I'm going with you."

"No, Nicholas. You stay here. Probably nothing is going on, and there's some innocent explanation, and we can bring this futile chasing around to an end. But if something is going on—all right—I'll he out of there and back before closing time. If I'm not, then you know what to do. Let Rex Foster know, and he can go to the police."

"I wish you wouldn't do this," Kirvov implored her. "I must," Emily said. She shut the car door and started for the Café Wolf.

A
s if hypnotized, Kirvov watched her, and finally he saw Emily enter the Café Wolf.

Inside the Café Wolf, Emily tried to get her bearings. Quickly she scanned the interior. Another middle-class neighborhood restaurant, but immaculate. To her left a bar with a row of brown stools, a circular staircase, a phone booth, a potted plant. To her right a number of round tables, one of them occupied by two women deep in conversation. At the bar, a young woman in a sweatshirt and leather pants, a towel over her arm—apparently the waitress—was laughing at something the young bartender told her.

The waitress saw Emily and started toward her. "Fräulein , would you like to be seated?"

The waitress pulled a wooden chair away from a table and Emily sat down.

"I just wanted to get a bite," Emily said.

The waitress looked sorrowful. "I am afraid the kitchen is closing, and in a half hour the Café will be closed. Maybe I can still get you a bowl of hot
Bohnensuppe
. I can see if—"

"Not that," said Emily, who had no stomach for bean soup.

"Maybe you would like a beer or coffee?"

"A beer will be fine. Any kind."

As the waitress tripped off to the bar, Emily surveyed the room more carefully. The two women occupying a nearby table were rising to go. Both were overweight and poorly dressed. Neither one even slightly resembled Evelyn Hoffmann.

As the pair departed, Emily resumed her study of the premises. There were only two places that Evelyn Hoffmann could have gone. One was up the circular staircase, which might lead to an apartment or offices; the other was into the kitchen nearby. There was a swinging door that led into the kitchen and beside it an open pass-through window for the chef to put out food orders.

The waitress was back with a beer and the check.

Emily tasted the foam, and observed the waitress collecting the salt and pepper shakers for refills. As the waitress went into the kitchen, and the bartender went out the door, Emily was alone to figure out what to do next. She decided to explore where the staircase led.

Coming to her feet, she went quickly to the stairs. As she put her foot on the first step, she noticed two plastic signs nailed to the wall to her left. The first read: ACHTUNG STUFEN! (Watch your step!) The other was more disheartening. It read: TOILETTEN. To make sure, Emily continued ascending the steep steps on tiptoe. The landing revealed two doors. One was marked with the silhouette of a woman, the other with the silhouette of a man. The toilets, all right, and nothing more on the landing. Nevertheless, she opened the door to the women's toilet. There was a tiny anteroom with a sink in it and two water closets, both visible and empty. After a moment's hesitation, she tried the door to the men's loo. Expecting anything, she found only an unoccupied urinal and toilet, and a sink.

Unhappily, Emily went back down the steps into the restaurant. The waitress was still out of sight. Emily returned to her table and her beer, and contemplated her next move.

She saw the waitress reenter the room, eye her, and then approach once more. The waitress said, "I am sorry. We are closing in five minutes. If you will please settle the bill."

"Of course," said Emily. She unclasped her purse, found two deutsche marks, and gave them to the waitress. For an instant, she considered questioning the waitress, describing Evelyn Hoffmann and inquiring where she had gone. Before she could make up her mind, she realized that the waitress was heading for the kitchen.

With a sigh, Emily stood up to go.

At the swinging door, the waitress looked back to call out, "
Auf Wiedersehen
."

She disappeared into the kitchen.

At the front door, Emily hesitated. She glanced over her shoulder. The kitchen remained the one possibility that she had not explored.

Why not? She could see whether there was another exit at the rear that the Hoffmann lady might have taken. Or at least she could invent some question to ask of the waitress. Indeed, why not?

Emily wheeled about and resolutely she headed for the kitchen. Without further hesitancy, she pushed through the swinging door. It was the usual white tile kitchen. A steel sink, counters, wood chopping block, commercial range, refrigerator, cupboards.

Emily looked about. The waitress was nowhere in sight. There was some kind of corridor, though, straight ahead. Emily started for the corridor.

Suddenly, out of the dimly lit recess of the corridor, a tall, muscular, blond German youth loomed, obviously the cook since he was wearing a white chef's cap and a white apron.

Startled, Emily stopped in her tracks, blinking up at him.

"
Fräulein
," he said softly, "your identity card, please."

"My what?"

"Identity card. I must see it."

"I—I'm not sure I know—" she stammered.

But the tall young man interrupted her, an edge to his voice. "Who are you?"

"I—why I'm a customer I just wanted to—but, no, I'd better go now."

"I think not." The young man had reached under his apron and brought out a businesslike Mauser 7.65 automatic. "You come with me." He waved the gun menacingly. "Come walk ahead of me.
Schnell
!"

Heart pounding, legs leaden, Emily forced herself past him, and into the frightening corridor.

C
afé Wolf had closed down.

And no Emily Ashcroft.

First no Evelyn Hoffmann. Then no Emily Ashcroft.

Kirvov stood in the growing darkness of Askanischer Platz, staring at the locked door of the blacked-out restaurant across the street. He tried to imagine what could have happened, but he had not the slightest clue. He only knew that it was serious and sinister, and that something must be done.

His first instinct had been to rush the front door, break into the quicksand of Café Wolf, find Emily if possible, and uncover the mystery once and for all.

Common sense restrained him. If he went inside, and also disappeared, no one on the outside would have any idea of what had happened to Emily and himself.

Still safe in the street, he remained Emily's only contact with the outside world, the lone witness able to summon rescue. He reminded himself of Emily's last directive to him: I'll be out of there and back before closing time. If I'm not, let Rex Foster know, and he can go to the police.

Emily had been right. There was no other sensible choice.

Kirvov stumbled back to his car, started it, and was off to seek help.

Arriving at the brighter, more normal world of the Bristol Kempinski hotel, he left his car with the doorman and hurried into the lobby.

As he strode to the reception desk to call Foster, he saw a young blond woman leaving the counter, starting toward the bar. Then he recognized that she was Tovah Levine.

"Tovah!" Kirvov called out, hurrying to intercept her. She stopped and lifted her hand with a greeting. "Hi there, Nicholas."

"Tovah, something terrible has happened. I've got to find Rex immediately. We must get to the police."

She studied his agonized expression briefly, then, looking concerned herself, she took his arm. "I was about to meet someone who—who knows the police. Come, you can tell us what's going on."

Kirvov held back. "Tovah, this is urgent. I can't waste a minute."

"Please, Nicholas," she insisted, "come with me."

Reluctantly he gave in, going in step with her the length of the long lobby. The luxurious bar area, except for a bearded man playing the brown Steinway piano, appeared empty. Then Kirvov noticed a man rising from one of the chairs grouped around a table in a darkened corner of the room.

Tovah brought Kirvov forward to the man who was waiting, a man taller than Kirvov, with the tanned regular features of a cinema star or an athlete.

Tovah said, "Nicholas, I want you to meet Chaim Golding, a Berlin friend." She said to Golding, "This is Nicholas Kirvov from Leningrad. I've told you about him. Another Hitler hunter."

Golding reached out to shake hands, but Kirvov took his hand only briefly, then swung toward Tovah. "Listen, Tovah, I have no time to socialize now. Another time maybe. At the moment, there is trouble. Emily has disappeared. I don't know what happened. I must get Rex and go to the police. I'll tell you all about it when we're alone." He cast Golding a look at once nervous and apologetic. "This—this is a private matter. I must go."

Tovah gripped his arm once more. "To get the police? No. Sit down. Mr. Golding knows about the police."

"But—"

"Sit down," Tovah demanded with an authority in her voice that Kirvov had not heard before. -You can speak in front of Chaim Golding." She shot Golding a questioning glance, and Golding nodded. Tovah went on to Kirvov, "If we have trouble, Mr. Golding will be more useful to us than the Berlin police." Then she added in an undertone, "Nicholas, Chaim Golding is Mossad, and so am I."

For an instant, Kirvov showed his bewilderment. -Mossad?"

"Israeli intelligence department," said Tovah. "I am a journalist, that is true, but it is also my cover for being a Mossad agent. Chaim Golding is my immediate boss, head of the important Berlin section."

Kirvov displayed a glimmer of recognition. "Mossad. You mean, the Entebbe operation and all that. Yes, I have read about you." He lowered himself to the edge of a chair. -But still, the police—"

"Never mind the police," said Tovah, sitting, pausing while Chaim Golding dropped into his chair across from them. "Mr. Golding's local Mossad is more powerful—and more trustworthy—than the Berlin police. Now tell us what happened to Emily."

Kirvov began to resist once more. "I'm not sure there is time for this—"

"There has to be time," Tovah insisted. "We must talk before acting. We have no choice. Tell us when you last saw Emily."

Quickly, Kirvov described what had happened since he and Emily had parted from Tovah on the Ku'damm. "I came right here to inform Rex, and to get the police to break in there, to break in and investigate."

"The police will not break in and investigate," said Tovah flatly. -They are the last ones to be notified."

Kirvov was totally at a loss. "What do you mean?"

Tovah's countenance was intent. "When you and Emily went off to follow Evelyn Hoffmann, I flagged a taxi and I followed her friend Wolfgang."

"Yes?"

"I followed him, all right, straight to a four-story building at Platz der Luftbriicke 6," said Tovah. "Over the building entrance there was a sign. It read: '
Der Polizeipräsident
in Berlin.' You understand that, Nicholas?"

"The headquarters of the Berlin police chief."

"Yes. I soon discovered that the man I was following was Wolfgang Schmidt, the chief of police. Do you understand what I am saying? The head of the Berlin police is associating with the Hoffmann woman. The same woman who has been calling on Klara Fiebig, the one who owned your Hitler painting. Very suspicious.