Private Berlin Read online

  “I was sick, nauseated all those times, the shits,” Cassiano said indignantly. “I went to doctor. He says I am having problem with German food. It came and went, but I still played. Sick. Hurt. I play. I’m known for that.”

  “Sure you weren’t taking a dive?” Morgan asked.

  Cassiano turned furious after Brecht translated, and started shouting at him in Portuguese. “No way. There is World Cup in three years. Do you honestly think I’d screw that up?”

  Brecht gestured at the woman, who had stirred and groaned at the shouting. “You look like you’re trying to screw up a marriage with a supermodel, so what do we know?”

  “This is recreation,” Cassiano said, indignant once again. “And my answer is still no. I was not taking a dive. I never take a dive. It is a matter of honor.”

  “You know Maxim Pavel? He owns that drag-queen club, Cabaret.”

  Cassiano looked insulted. “Do I look like fan of female impersonators?”

  “Doesn’t answer the question,” Morgan shot back. “Do you know Pavel?”

  Cassiano sighed. “Like I told Schneider, I met him once at another of his clubs, not Cabaret, Dance, I think.”

  “Did you know he’s associated with Russian mafia?” Brecht asked.

  “Not until Schneider asked me the same question,” he replied evenly. “Like I said, I met him once. We talk for maybe five minutes.”

  “About what?”

  “He says he is a big fan. Gets my autograph.”

  “Can anyone corroborate this? Your wife?”

  “Perfecta wasn’t with me when I went to the dance club. But Cabaret’s a ten-minute walk from here, so do the same thing I told Schneider to do. Go there and ask Pavel.”

  CHAPTER 30

  FIREMEN TRAINED HOSES on the smoking ruins of the slaughterhouse.

  Her ears still ringing from the blast, her mind flashing with images of Chris’s corpse, Mattie sat on the bumper of an ambulance, wincing as an EMT used a butterfly bandage to close the scalp wound she’d gotten during the blast.

  Burkhart sat next to her getting his arm wrapped with gauze. Next to him, High Commissar Dietrich was being treated for a cheek contusion.

  They were facing Dr. Gabriel and Risi Baumgarten, a German federal agent who’d seized control of the investigation.

  Dr. Gabriel said, “I just spoke with Jack Morgan. He’s given the okay for me to call in forensics teams from our offices in Amsterdam, Zurich, Paris, and London. Anything you want from Private is yours.”

  “I think Private’s already been involved too much,” snapped Baumgarten, who stood a full six inches taller than the hippie scientist.

  Mattie heard that through the ringing in her ears and said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means perhaps this explosion would not have happened had you not gone down there, Frau Engel.”

  “Someone had to go,” said Dietrich. “She was the right size, and we had no idea there was a bomb down there.”

  Dietrich had seemed much less tightly wound and adversarial since the explosion. Mattie smiled grimly at him, thankful for the backup.

  But Baumgarten was having none of it. “You sent in an amateur.”

  “I am not an amateur,” Mattie cried.

  “You set off a booby trap,” Baumgarten said.

  “I did not set off anything. I did not trip anything.”

  “So it’s simply a coincidence that the place blew right after you’d been down there?”

  Burkhart shook his head. “If it was a booby trap and she tripped something, it would have gone off right away. I figure this was done remotely, by radio. We just got lucky getting out before it blew.”

  Baumgarten eyed them all, and then looked at Gabriel. “You said there was a video of what Frau Engel saw in the subbasement.”

  Gabriel nodded and cued it up on his computer. Baumgarten was sobered by the images from the boneyard. Mattie could not watch when the camera picked up Chris’s corpse. But she did see herself reaching up to tear green paper from one of the bomb packets. She dug it from her pocket and handed it to the federal agent.

  Baumgarten examined it for several moments before saying, “Czech-made Semtex, smiliar to C-4. Soviet era. Got to be twenty-five or thirty years old.”

  “Who put it down there and when?” Mattie said. “I mean, if Burkhart’s right, whoever set those bombs off had to have been watching us, or at least had to have known there were police at the site. He didn’t know we were rushing to get out. He was willing to kill all of us to keep that boneyard buried.”

  While Baumgarten considered that, Dietrich said, “I agree. And more, I think what Frau Engel discovered could be a dumping ground for a serial killer. How else do you explain thirty skulls in the same place?”

  “Maybe he’s an assassin,” Burkhart said. “Maybe when people hire him to make their enemies disappear, this is where he dumps them.”

  Dietrich nodded. “I could see that too.”

  Baumgarten did not comment on any of it. Another agent called to her and she left them just as Inspector Weigel reappeared. “Where does this leave us, High Commissar?”

  “Blocked, at least as far as this place is concerned,” Dietrich said. “We really have no other course of action except to wait for the forensics teams to find us some evidence.”

  “That could be a week or more!” Mattie protested.

  “It could,” the high commissar said.

  “So you’re going to put this investigation down?”

  “Not at all,” Dietrich said. “But I know what my supervisor is going to say. We’ve got a backlog of homicide cases and the federal agencies have taken the lead now. Until we get more physical evidence, I’m sure I’ll be spending my time working cases with more short-term promise.”

  Mattie looked at the Kripo investigator in disbelief and then anger. “Well, you can be damn sure of one thing, Hauptkommissar—Private Berlin will be spending every waking moment working on this case. We are not resting until we nail the bastard who killed Chris and the other people buried under that debris.”

  CHAPTER 31

  THE NIGHTCLUB CABARET was empty and dark except for a few workers and a man in a leotard on stage practicing a dance routine in time to an amplified tune that Jack Morgan could not place.

  Cabaret’s décor was over-the-top lavish with velvet booths and crystal chandeliers and a booming sound system.

  Morgan took one look and wanted to leave for Ahrensfelde. He’d just heard from Burkhart about Mattie’s discovery of Chris’s body, the mass grave, and the destruction of the slaughterhouse.

  But Burkhart had assured him they were fine, and there was little Morgan could do there because the federal police had taken over the investigation. He’d reluctantly decided to continue pursuing the Cassiano angle.

  A burly, big-necked man stocking the bar regarded Morgan and Brecht suspiciously and asked them what they wanted. Brecht showed him his Private badge, introduced Morgan, and asked for Maxim Pavel.

  The bartender, a Russian, seemed amused and switched to stilted English, addressing Morgan: “You have office in Moscow, Mr. Private?”

  “We do,” Morgan replied.

  The bartender grinned, revealing a missing tooth. He nodded at Brecht. “Good think you put this bloodsucker in Berlin. He wouldn’t last ten minutes in Russia. They’d put a stake through his heart.”

  Without a change in expression, Brecht showed his canine teeth, and said, “I bite guys like you in the neck.”

  The bartender snarled at Brecht, “Get out of here before I call police or throw you in the sun.”

  “Not before we talk with Pavel,” Brecht said.

  “He’s not—”

  “I am Pavel,” said a voice behind them.

  Morgan turned to find a man coming at him from the main entrance, removing a raincoat and setting it on a chair. Pavel was a fit, handsome man whose age was hard to peg; his skin was so taut Morgan believed he’d had plastic surgery at some
point.

  “What do you want?” Pavel demanded.

  “We’re with Private,” Morgan said.

  “Getting to be a regular thing with you guys.”

  “Chris Schneider came to visit you last week?”

  “That’s right,” Pavel said. “Why?”

  Morgan said, “Soon after he came to see you, he was murdered and dumped in a rat-infested slaughterhouse that blew up about two hours ago, almost killing two more of my agents.”

  That threw Pavel and he shrank a little. “Blown up? Schneider’s dead?”

  “Uh-huh,” Brecht said. “Where you been this morning?”

  “Driving in the countryside,” Pavel said. “It calms me.”

  “Anyone able to vouch for that?”

  “I’m sure if a real police officer asked I could find someone.”

  Morgan said, “Did Schneider ask you about Cassiano?”

  “I told him that I met Cassiano once at Dance, another of my clubs.”

  “No other contact?” Morgan asked.

  “Other than what I see on television, no,” Pavel replied.

  “What about his wife, Perfecta?” Morgan asked. “You ever met her?”

  The nightclub owner hesitated, but then said, “Once. That same night.”

  “So they were together?” Brecht asked.

  “That’s right,” Pavel said. “A handsome couple. But now I have to oversee rehearsal and attend to other business before tonight’s show.”

  Brecht made to protest, but Morgan stopped him. “We appreciate your time, Herr Pavel.”

  Pavel studied Morgan before smiling broadly. “You come back and see the show, Mr. Morgan. It’s on me.”

  Morgan smiled coldly. “Drag queens aren’t my thing.”

  “Cabaret is so much more than that,” Pavel said, not missing a beat. “The costumes, the makeup, the talent. It’s a great art form.”

  “I’ll be in touch if I have a change of heart.”

  Outside the club, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

  Brecht said, “Somebody’s lying to us, Jack.”

  Morgan nodded. “I know.”

  CHAPTER 32

  AN HOUR LATER, Agnes Krüger exuded an almost regal bearing as she sat in the drawing room of her lavish townhome on Fasanenstrasse in the elite Wilmersdorf district of Berlin, and listened to Mattie Engel and Katharina Doruk give an account of her husband’s extracurricular activities.

  “Three mistresses?” the billionaire’s wife said at last in a voice like an ill-tuned piano string. “And two prostitutes a day, you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Katharina said. “I’m sorry.”

  There was a long silence. Mattie sat numbly on a plush couch, wanting to feel sorry for the woman, but all she could think of was how she was ever going to tell Niklas that the only man who’d ever been solidly in his life was gone.

  She and Burkhart had left the explosion scene while journalists and federal agents swarmed the area. They returned to the office where she’d met Katharina, who had told her to go home, but Mattie refused, saying she could not face Niklas yet.

  Katharina had decided to keep Chris’s appointment with Krüger’s wife. Mattie could not bear sitting still, so she’d showered and changed in Private Berlin’s locker room, and gone along.

  But now she just wanted to go home, hold Niklas, and Socrates, and cry.

  “It is hard,” Agnes Krüger said, breaking the silence, and then coughing. “It is hard to learn that you do not satisfy your husband in any way, shape, or form. Do you have names? The mistresses? Their phone numbers, addresses?”

  Katharina looked pained. “We do, but—”

  “What’re you gonna do, Mother?” a snide male voice said, cutting her off. “Buy them off? Cover up for him again?”

  The billionaire’s wife reacted as if she’d been slapped.

  Mattie startled and looked over to see a gaunt young man with grungy clothes and a scruffy beard. He was peering into the drawing room from the hallway.

  Agnes Krüger’s chin rose as if in defiance. “My son, Rudy.”

  “The name’s Rude, Mother.”

  “This is not the time.”

  “Sounds like it is,” her son said, strolling in and taking a seat. He nodded to Mattie and Katharina. “Go on. I’d like to hear just what old stepdad’s been up to.”

  The billionaire’s wife sat even more erect in her chair.

  Mattie and Katharina said nothing.

  Rudy Krüger snorted. “You know what? I don’t need to know the details. I know all about Hermann. Except for his money, and his business, his art collection and the cars, he only has one other dimension. Stepdad’s a goat, driven by his prick and balls. And those women? They’re just holes. Even mother is a hole, a hole who completed Hermann’s façade of respectability.”

  Agnes Krüger’s façade broke into rage. “Enough!” she shouted at him. “Go back to that hell hole you prefer to my house! Get out!”

  Her son smiled and stood. “I know what you’re going to do, Mother. You’re going to figure out a way to sweep it under the rug, and you know why?”

  Agnes Krüger said nothing. She just glared at Rudy.

  “Because of the money,” he told Mattie and Katharina. “With my mother and stepfather it’s always about the money.”

  CHAPTER 33

  JACK MORGAN AND Daniel Brecht sat at the window table in a café diagonally across the street from Cabaret, debating why Cassiano would claim he met Pavel alone when Pavel said they met with his wife.

  “Perhaps a memory lapse,” Brecht allowed. “Or it’s a flaw in a cover story.”

  Morgan had been looking out the window. He threw down his napkin and got up fast. “So much for rehearsal and other business. Pavel’s on the move.”

  Brecht tossed money on the table and rushed after him into the street.

  Out in front of Cabaret, the nightclub owner climbed into a taxicab.

  Morgan was already hailing another cab. They jumped in and told the driver to follow the cab ahead.

  As they drove, Morgan began to feel the effects of jet lag. His head nodded and his brain buzzed with thoughts, wondering if Pavel had actually had something to do with Chris’s death, wondering how Mattie Engel was taking it all.

  Burkhart had said she was acting like a professional.

  Morgan’s last thought before he dozed was: But how long can that last?

  Several minutes later, Brecht nudged him and he jerked awake.

  “Pavel’s getting out at the Hotel de Rome,” Brecht said.

  Even in his groggy state, Morgan recognized the hotel. It was the most luxurious in Berlin as far as he was concerned. He usually stayed there during his visits.

  “Know anyone in security?” Morgan asked as they climbed from their taxi down the street from the hotel.

  “Definitely,” Brecht said. “I helped them out last year. The American movie star. Did you see that report?”

  Morgan came fully awake. “I’m so tired I forgot that happened here. Jesus, what a mess that must have been to clean up.”

  “Crazy mess,” Brecht said. “Crazy, crazy mess.”

  They entered a lobby with soaring ceilings and marble columns, and went to the concierge. Brecht asked to see the hotel’s head of security.

  Exactly nine minutes later, Brecht and Morgan were inside the room directly across the hall from one Pavel had reserved. They also knew that the nightclub owner had just ordered champagne and caviar.

  He was expecting someone.

  Brecht unscrewed the peephole and inserted a tiny fiber-optic camera and microphone, which he connected to a transmitter linked to his iPad.

  “I pay for all that?” Morgan asked after he flopped on the king-size bed, feeling depressed again about Chris Schneider’s death.

  “Private Berlin issued,” Brecht said. “Here comes room service.”

  Morgan watched the cart with the champagne and caviar arrive and then Pavel open the door to let the
waiter in. He left moments later.

  “Why don’t I have one of those mini surveillance kits?” Morgan asked.

  “Euro technology,” Brecht said. “Hasn’t made it to LA yet.”

  “I forgot I live at the end of the universe,” Morgan said, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I’m going to snooze. Wake me up if…”

  Private’s owner drifted off. Right on the edge of sleep, just before falling, Brecht tapped him on the shoulder. “Pavel’s got a visitor.”

  Morgan groaned and opened his eyes blearily to see Brecht showing him the iPad. A woman in a long, dark trench coat and a floppy rain hat stood with her back to the camera outside the door across the hall.

  They heard Pavel’s muffled voice through the door. “Who is it?”

  “I have delivery for you,” the woman replied in a soft Portuguese accent as she fumbled with the belt of her raincoat.

  They heard the dead bolt thrown.

  The woman looked both ways, and then shrugged the raincoat off.

  Morgan sat upright. She was magnificently naked when the door opened.

  Pavel’s eyes went wide with delight. “Delivery accepted.”

  She stepped into his arms. The door closed behind them.

  “Who is that goddess?” Brecht asked. “I didn’t see her face.”

  Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t see it either, but I’d recognize that teardrop Brazilian rear anywhere. That, my friend, was Perfecta.”

  CHAPTER 34

  WHEN THE FRONT door to Agnes Krüger’s town house in Wilmersdorf slammed shut, the billionaire’s wife regained her composure and bearing.

  “My son fancies himself an anarchist and an artist,” she said. “He despises my husband for his money.” She smiled sourly. “But he doesn’t refuse the ten thousand euros Hermann deposits in his account every month.”

  She laughed caustically and then looked at Mattie. “You have children?”

  “One,” Mattie said. “A son.”

  “Rudy is an only child as well,” she began. She hesitated and then said, “But he’s not why you are here.”