The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [67]
Wirth nodded.
“A woman. A man, perhaps.”
Wirth nodded. Dimitri’s inference was as good a cover as any. “Sex can be a nasty business.”
“Surely you have your own people for these things.”
“I’m not convinced my people are going to get it done. For all its success the West is provincial. We have a tradition of trying to do things more or less the right way, even if it isn’t always legal. It’s a mind-set that doesn’t necessarily work, especially if the situation is urgent. You, on the other hand, take the shortest route to the problem and more often than not have a satisfactory outcome. I need only mention the former KGB agent poisoned with polonium right here in London.”
“The result is not always neat.”
“But it works just the same.” Wirth took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to Korostin. “The Magellan/Santa Cruz–Tarija contract.”
Korostin slipped on reading glasses and opened it.
The document was on simple everyday stationery. There was no letterhead, nothing to identify where it had come from. The words covered barely two-thirds of a page, the deal spelled out in the simplest terms, the particulars, everything. Josiah Wirth’s signature was at the bottom of it.
“Everything’s there,” Wirth said. “The name of the principal person involved, Nicholas Marten. What I want done and how. When I have the items in my possession the Magellan/Santa Cruz–Tarija is yours.”
Korostin read it. Then read it again and looked up. “You want to be kept informed of our movements.”
“Each step of the way. I want to know where your people are and where Marten is. No action is to be taken on him until I am there, so that when the photographs and camera memory card are recovered they can be handed directly to me.”
“That might be awkward.”
“You are a gifted man, Dimitri, you’ll find a way to make it work.”
Korostin smiled. “If the items are as damning as your offer suggests, how do you know I will keep my part of the bargain and not turn them against you?”
“Small as we are compared to the giants, Striker Oil has any number of long-term oil and gas field leases around the world. Something you well know. You might want to do business with us again. As I said, you are a gifted man. You wouldn’t jeopardize that opportunity.”
Korostin folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket. “When do you want the work completed?”
“Yesterday.”
40
BERLIN. 8:18 A.M.
Four people stood in the front room of a modest flat on Scharrenstrasse: Hauptkommissar Franck, Komissar Gertrude Prosser, two uniformed policemen, and Karl Betz. A fifth person, Betz’s wife, peeked anxiously through a door that led to the rest of the apartment. Betz was fifty-two, a little overweight, had a mustache and curly eyebrows, and was very nervous. He was also a waiter on the tour boat Monbijou.
Franck held up the official photograph of Nicholas Marten. “This is the man you served on the Monbijou last night.”
“Not served, exactly, Hauptkommissar.” Betz tried to smile through his uneasiness. “Actually he helped me serve. Along with his wife, that is. Or someone I took for his wife. They passed along a couple of glasses of beer to passengers seated next to them.”
“But it was him, you’re certain?” Franck pressed him impassively.
“He’s the one you’re looking for? The murderer of Theo Haas?”
“Is it the same man or is it not?”
“Yes, Hauptkommissar. It is the same man.”
“And the woman with him was the one described to you by Kommissar Prosser?”
“Yes, Hauptkommissar.”
“You said he was wearing something in particular.”
“A Dallas Cowboys baseball cap.” Betz smiled proudly. “I’ve been to Dallas. Dallas, Texas. I nearly bought a cap like that myself, but we were on a strict budget.”
“Where did they board the Monbijou?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Lustgarten dock, I think.”
“Where did they get off?”
“Weidendamm Bridge, the Friedrichstrasse crossing.”
“At what time?”
Betz suddenly looked at the floor.
“At what time, Herr Betz?” Franck pressed him.
The waiter looked back, more nervous than before. “We did nothing illegal. It was a special tour