Джозеф Файндер - Extraordinary Powers

Atkins was telling me that orders had been disseminated throughout the world that I was to be brought in by any Agency official who chanced to encounter me.

“It’s a D-Sid.” A DCID, or Director of Central Intelligence Directive. “Orders cut by some muckety-muck at the Agency named Rossi. What are you doing here?” Atkins was moving quickly now, probably an unconscious fear reflex. We kept up with him; Molly was forced into a kind of half-walk, half-sprint. She only listened, allowing me to do all the talking.

“I need your help, Kent.”

“I said, what are you doing here? Are you out of your mind ?”

“How much do you know?”

“They warned me you might surface here. Have you gone private or something?”

“I went private when I quit and went to law school.”

“But you’re back in the game,” he prodded. “Why?”

“I was forced into it.”

“So they all say. You can never quit.”

“Bullshit. For a while, I did.”

“You were put through some sort of superclassified experimental program, they say. Some sort of research program designed to enhance your usefulness. I don’t know what that means. The rumors are vague.”

“The rumors are barium,” I said. He got my reference: “barium” is a KGB-inspired term for false information that’s given to suspected leaks in order to detect them, much the same way barium is used in gastroenterology.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’ve got to go to ground, Ben. Both of you. Disappear. Your lives are in jeopardy.”

When we had gotten to a deserted spot, a copse of trees by a dirt path, I stopped. “You know Ed Moore’s dead.”

He blinked. “I know. I talked to him the night before he was killed.”

“He told me you were scared to death.”

“Moore exaggerated.”

“But you are scared, Kent. You’ve got to tell me what you know. You gave Moore documents—”

“What are you talking about?”

Molly, sensing his reticence, announced: “I’m going to take a stroll. I badly need some fresh air.” Her hand grazed the back of my neck as she walked off.

“He told me, Kent,” I continued. “It never went any further than me, I promise. We don’t have the time for this. What do you know? ”

He bit his thin lower lip, frowned. His mouth was a straight line, an arc tilted downward. He consulted his watch, a fake Rolex. “The documents I gave Ed were far from conclusive.”

“But you know more now, don’t you?”

“I have nothing in writing. No documents. Everything I’ve learned is ears-only stuff.”

“That’s often the most valuable intelligence. Kent, Ed Moore was killed over this. I have some information that might be useful—”

“I don’t want your goddamned information!”

“Listen to me!”

“No,” he said. “You listen to me. I talked to Ed a few hours before the fuckers made him commit suicide. He warned me about an assassination conspiracy.”

“Yes,” I said, my stomach tensing. “Against whom?”

“Ed had only bits and pieces. Speculation.”

“Who?”

“Against the only guy who can clean the Agency out.”

“Alex Truslow.”

“You got it.”

“I’m working for him.”

“I’m glad to hear it. For his sake and the sake of the Company.”

“I’m flattered. Now, I need some information. Recently, a large sum of money was wired to a corporate account in Munich. The Commerzbank.”

“Whose account?”

Could I trust him or not? I had to rely on Ed Moore’s good judgment. I plunged ahead. “Are you with me or not?”

Atkins took a deep breath. “I’m with you, Ben.”

“The recipient’s name was Gerhard Stoessel. The corporate account belongs to Krafft A.G. Tell me everything you know.”

He shook his head. “You got that wrong. Boy, you got something all screwed up.”

“Why?”

“Do you know who Stoessel is ?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Christ! Haven’t you been reading the papers? Gerhard Stoessel is the chairman of Neue Welt, an enormous real estate concern. Believed to own and/or control most of the commercial real estate in unified Germany. More to the point, Stoessel is the economic adviser to Wilhelm Vogel, the chancellor-elect. Vogel’s already named him finance minister in the Vogel government. Wants Stoessel to rebuild the shattered German economy. He’s known as Vogel’s Svengali, sort of a financial genius. But as I said, you got something really screwed up.”

“How?”

“Vogel’s real estate company has no links whatsoever to Krafft A.G. Do you know much about Krafft?”

“That’s part of the reason I’m here,” I said. “I know it’s a huge arms manufacturer.”

“Only the biggest arms manufacturer in Europe. Headquartered in Stuttgart. Way bigger than the other German defense companies — Krupp, Dornier, Krauss-Maffei, Messerschmitt-Bölkow-Blohm, Siemens, and let’s not forget the Bayerische Motorenwerke. Bigger than Ingenieurkontor Lübeck, the submarine makers; or Maschinenfabrik Augsburg-Nürnberg, AEG, MTU, Messerschmitt, Daimler-Benz, Rheinmetall...”

“How do you know Stoessel has no links with Krafft?”

“It’s the law. There was a ruling some years back by the Federal Cartel Office, when Neue Welt tried to acquire Krafft. The cartel office decided the two companies can’t have anything to do with one another, that a merger would create an uncontrollable giant. Did you know the word cartel comes from the German Kartell ? It’s a German concept.”

“My information is right,” I said.

All this time I had been straining, while talking and listening, to pick up what I could of Kent’s thoughts. Here and there something would come through. Each time it confirmed for me what I already knew, that he was telling me the truth, at least as he knew it.

“If... if your information is right, and I won’t ask where you got it, I don’t want to know — that’s damned convincing proof that Stoessel’s company has somehow, secretly, acquired Krafft!”

I turned to make sure Molly was within view; she was: she was pacing back and forth.

What this all meant, I thought but didn’t say, was that the Bank of Zurich had funneled billions of dollars to a German corporation, the largest real estate firm combined with the largest munitions manufacturer... which was behind Wilhelm Vogel, the next chancellor of Germany... the next leader, functionally, of Europe.

I shuddered, not wanting to consider the ramifications of this, but not able to stop myself. The consequences, I knew at once, were even worse than I had suspected.

“Could it have been a bribe?” I asked. “Stoessel’s known as a Mr. Clean type,” Atkins replied. “Those are the types who most often take bribes.”

“All right, I’m not saying he wouldn’t take a bribe. But the fact is that all campaign financing in Germany is scrutinized incredibly closely these days. That’s to keep these industrial giants from controlling the politics. There are any number of ways to secretly channel money, but there isn’t a corporation that would dare. German intelligence keeps a close watch. So if you have proof — documentary proof — of this, that’s political dynamite.”

What was I to say? I had no documents. All I had was the thoughts in Eisler’s head that I’d received. But tell that to Atkins!

“All the more reason,” I said, “why billions of dollars or deutsche marks surreptitiously channeled into the country would be enormously valuable to a candidate. But I don’t get it. I thought Vogel was a moderate, sort of a populist.”