The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [92]
Düsseldorf
Düsseldorf was a bleak city despite its prosperity. The industry that had made it wealthy had also taken away its soul, and its hotels were not places where people went for pleasure but for business. Each was as internationally anonymous as the other, but Valentin deliberately avoided them and selected one in the drab downtown area, away from the bright lights and smart restaurants.
There were no public rooms, just a plate-glass door with two flights of fake-marble steps leading to a lobby, a small, grubby elevator scratched with initials and graffiti, and a narrow staircase leading to the upper floors.
He was wearing jeans, an anorak, and a flat cap, and he carried a small brown case. He paid cash in advance and the old man behind the desk barely looked at him as he handed him his key.
The room was small and sparse with exactly enough space for the single bed, a table, and a tiny shower. Valentin looked at his watch. It was noon. After placing his bag on the table, he drew the flimsy flowered curtain, took off his shoes, and lay down on the narrow sagging bed. He thought of the bed he had just left, and of Genie, sleeping like a baby. Her blond hair fell across her face and her eyelids were still swollen from crying. One long slender leg was flung across him as she snuggled into the crook of his arm. She was very beautiful, she had smelled of roses and lilies, and he had wanted to make love to her again, but there wasn’t the time.
He had turned away from her, dressing quickly. Then he quietly packed his bag and sat down at the desk. He had thought for a long while before he wrote Genie the note, then he had picked up his bag, walked back to the bed, and stared at her. The ultimate dangerous attraction. Leaving Genie Reese could have been the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.
Now he lay on the bed in the squalid German hotel, waiting for the hours to pass until it was night, wondering what he should do about her. Of course he should never have made love to her. It was the stuff all diplomatic scandals were made of, and if Boris ever found out, it would be just the ammunition he needed to disgrace him. He doubted he would, though. The KGB had lost his trail. For the moment, he was anonymous, and that was exactly what he wanted.
The hours passed slowly but he did not leave his room, even for food. At ten o’clock he stripped, showered, and dressed quickly in black trousers, thin black polo-necked sweater, black rubber-soled shoes, and the anorak. He placed an assortment of small tools—wire, fine cord, and a tiny detonator—in the special inside pocket of the anorak, put on the flat cap, and slid a pair of black woolen gloves and a black balaclava into his pocket, along with a small, powerful flashlight. Then he locked the rest of his things in his bag and, after locking the door behind him, walked quickly down the stairs and through the lobby. The old clerk glanced up briefly and then went back to the boxing match on television.
The car he had rented at the airport was parked two blocks away, a small black Mercedes—fast, the way Germans liked them for their autobahns. There was no traffic and it took him exactly fifteen minutes to drive the twenty miles to Haus Arnhaldt. He parked at the end of the wide lane that led to the rear of the house, switched off the lights, and waited.
He had done his research well. Haus Arnhaldt was built like a fortress, but there were no guards outside, no dogs. Just an electronic scanning device and an old security system. The place had never been burgled in 150 years, and nobody expected it ever would be. With his Spetsnaz training, it presented no problem to Valentin.
At midnight he put on the balaclava and gloves and jogged silently along the bridle path that led through the woods to the stables at the back of the house. There were no horses in the stables and no grooms in the cottages. He knew there had not been any since Ferdie’s daughter was killed in the riding accident ten years before. Valentin