The short, fit, middle-aged man in the damp bathrobe, his soggy grey hair dripping, came into his private office and closed the sliding glass door slowly, as though reluctant to close himself off from the pool area with its barrel-pot flowers and dwarf oaks, the tinkle of the artificial waterfall at the pool's deep end and the broken mirror image of the sun on the water.
"The report is in from Mittelstand Limited, Herr Goethe," said his private secretary. The man waited until Goethe turned to face him before placing the stapled print-out on the big mahogany desk.
"From Hendricks himself?"
"Yes, sir."
"You read it? Is the car ready to roll?"
"Some last minute things, but the tests will begin tomorrow, sir."
Goethe breathed heavily through his nose, a nervous habit. He draped his beach towel over a chairback near the fireplace and gave it a pat. "I suppose there is a video of the test model on Hendricks' website?"
"I believe so, yes, Herr Goethe. If I may say, the model brings your design to life most beautifully."
"It had better. He's been paid enough, and more than enough. Thank you, Karl."
"And... your daughter arrived while you were having your swim, sir."
"What, from Cologne?"
"I believe she mentioned Hamburg, sir."
Goethe stood staring into space, his mouth open.
"Hamburg..." He tightened the cloth belt of his bathrobe. "She knows I like to relax in the solar after my exercise. Tell her I will see her there "
"The west solar, Herr Goethe?"
"Of course. The sun is going down, not up."
Hildegard uncrossed her legs and stood up from a plush armchair beside the potted ferns, and spread her arms.
She was a young strawberry-blond woman with a petite figure and a charming pixie face framed by a 1920s style bob that flirted with her rosy cheeks.
"Hullo, Daddy dear!" she said theatrically, coming toward him with an inquisitive smile.
Goethe ran his eyes over her khaki blouse and skirt before taking her hug.
"Why are you affecting a British accent, Hildy?" he asked.
"Because I am a British girl," she replied earnestly, going up on tiptoe to kiss his chin.
"Thank God your mother isn't here."
Hildegard's smile faded by degrees. She wasn't sure how to respond to the mention of her deceased mother.
"I can tell you're happy about something," she said, perking up.
"Why do you insinuate things and then change the subject? Did you come down from Hamburg? Wait, let me get relaxed in my favorite soft spot under the skylights."
She watched him get comfortable, or pretend to get comfortable, in the black leather recliner where the late afternoon sun lingered.
"Hamburg," he said with a grunt. "So it's this other thing, is it? Just when I was thinking of leasing an office suite in Cologne I find out you've moved to Hamburg. It's about Brad Frey, is it not?"
"Yes, but he doesn't know who I really am, you see. To him I'm Jane Austin, from Stratford, England. A girl who dropped out of college to pursue a writing career. I sold two short stories last year, you ought to remember, sold to the Mansfield Monthly, no less. Brad is so taken by me that he's leased an apartment in Hamburg for when I come over from England every four weeks or so."
"Your sugar daddy," Goethe said through a frown. "And you repay him for his generosity, I suppose, when he visits Hamburg to meet with his partner in crime?"
Hildegard thought over what she should say. She dropped a cushion on the teakwood floor and sat on it cross-legged. "You refer to Herr Vaughn? I mean, no, MISTER Vaughn. But really, criminal activity? Why should experiments in medical research be a crime? Oh I know what you'll say. Those poor refugees. The guinea pigs. Well, Brad's said nothing about it to me and I'm playing totally dumb about it. And anyway, why should I care? I'm getting material for a novel. A novel like Pride And Prejudice. I need experiences, and I'm getting them."
She spread her arms. "I'm still ME. I'm only fooling Brad about being a British girl who lives in England. I still have my place in Cologne you got for me."
Goethe nodded pensively. Then his eyes brightened. "I've heard from Hendricks. The test model is complete."
"The Sabertooth?"
"Yes. The luxury sedan that looks and drives like a sports car, a muscle car with elegant lines. Chrysler has allocated five million dollars for the project. We'll know in a few days if it 'cuts the mustard,' as the Americans say."
Hildegard rocked on her hips. "I do hope it cuts," she said.
The telephone burred apologetically on the lampstand by the bed in Room 303 of the Brunswick.
Sanguineus strode from the bathroom drying his hair.
"Herr Cruor?" said the lilting voice of the maitre d. Sanguineus could hear the rattle of cutlery and the softly echoing chatter of patrons.
"Speaking."
"Your friends are in the Kaiser banquet room, sir, a Frau Steinbergen and Herr Rolgo."
"Please inform them that I shall be down in about fifteen minutes."
"Jawohl."
This made Sanguineus think of the SS officers in Nazi war movies, the crisp yah-Vool! He compared this to the scene he had witnessed from the balcony shortly after his arrival earlier that day: the gang of Somalian refugees carousing along the An der Alster, the dark blue of the bay in the background. He had been surprised to see a group of German men cross the street to avoid the gang. It was not a good sign, this missing Teutonic spark. The opposite extreme of the Stormtrooper mentality was a quivering jelly on two legs, and in a moral sense the latter was no better than the former.
A sleek waiter in tails led Sanguineus around to a table in an alcove, its bow window covered in heavy brocaded drapes. It was a fairly secluded place, one of several alcoves that circled the main dining area. The banquet hall was near capacity on this Friday evening.
Rolgo and Gretchen Steinbergen were drinking a dark red wine, but Sanguineus was not so formal. He ordered a Doppelbock beer, and for the meal he chose Bratwurst and potato salad in a meat broth. The conversation kept to the pleasantries until after the beer came.
"Who's the target?"
Rolgo said, "The husband of the client, a biochemist named Brad Frey. He's about my age. I've a photo of him taken last week by his wife. Gretchen here can fill you in. Did you talk to Bear Claus before your trip?"
Sanguineus was doing a quick analysis of the portly Ms Steinbergen, an ICS investigator working out of Berlin. She gave the impression of somebody's grandmother completely out of her depth, but this, he knew, was an effect of her investigative methods, her cover. The short curly grey wig, the pince nez eyeglasses, the overly rouged cheeks, potent perfume, and the white orchid-print dress with cultured pearl necklaces, was the costume of her deceptions.
"No. He's in Wyoming, at the ranch."
Gretchen tapped the table with a garish red fingernail. "Brad Frey has leased a condo here, in the Brunswick annex. It's for his mistress when she visits Hamburg once a month, on the same days he is here to work with a colleague. Frey lives in Stuttgart. We believed that the mistress is an English woman, from Stratford, calling herself Jane Austin. Age 22, an aspiring writer. We believed this about her being a British citizen because this is what Frey believes. However, we have found out differently. She's the daughter of a self-employed automotive designer, a German. Gottfried Goethe. The daughter's name is Hildegard Goethe. She has a cheap residence in Cologne."
"Her father. Is he 'Otto of Brunswick' in Estelle's posts?"
"Precisely right. And Brad Frey is 'Philip of Swabia' of course. Constance, the mother of Frederick the future king of Sicily in the tortured storyline, is Estelle's take on the evidence she had to work with concerning the mistress. But you can dismiss all that about Constance. Hildegard Goethe is apparently a bit player. I don't think she knows about Frey's illegal activities, or if she does know, she doesn't care."
Sanguineus sampled his beer. "And the authorities know nothing of Frey's and his colleague's 'illegal activities'?"
"Precisely right. We learned of it through our black hats. It was deduced from the client's computer files. But there's been a development, just this morning, on your flight here. The colleague was Mundo Vaughn, a biochemist who worked at the Asklepios hospital here in Hamburg, and the St Georg clinic. I say 'was' his colleague, because Dr Vaughn was found dead in his home in Neuenfelde, found by his servant, an elderly housemaid. He was divorced. No children, and lived alone. The autopsy is pending. There was no sign of foul play. And there was no mention of any suspicious activity regarding the very unethical experiments on refugees. Well, that's not surprising. We know very little about it ourselves, since the client herself knows next to nothing about the details. Like Hildegard, perhaps, she didn't want to know too much."
"None of the refugees have come forward?"
"Not so far, no."
"And we don't know what the drug or procedure is supposed to accomplish? Then why do we think the experiments are unethical? Illegal, sure, if done without permission from the appropriate body. We're making Frey out to be a Dr Mengele."
Rolgo smiled. "Are you complaining?"
"Not in the way you refer to," Sanguineus said. The conversation paused as waitresses brought the entrees.
"Frey will be a person of interest to the police, now that Vaughn has died unexpectedly," he continued a minute later. "Frey might be under surveillance, and this would make my job harder. I can't imagine he killed his colleague if he intends to keep the experiments under the radar. He would have to have a very strong incentive for bumping off Vaughn and risking the exposure of his activities. And how is it that Frey can gag his refugee subjects and keep them so tightly in line?"
Rolgo shrugged. "That just goes to prove that his methods are illegal, or at the very least unethical."
Gretchen murmured a laugh. "Ethics are not our strong suit," she said, stirring her soup. "Mr Cruor, I have informants in the German Federal Office of Criminal Investigation. With any luck, I should know the details of the police investigation, if there is one, very soon, and also the results of the autopsy."
"In the meantime," said Rolgo, "read Gretchen's report on Brad Frey's routine, his habits, his hobbies, his relationships, and come up with contingency plans. You have three or four days, I think, before it will be time to act. Time is money, and the client is not in a position to be charged extra."
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