ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith - CHAPTER 6

The Peugeot 405 climbed from Lac Leman toward the village of St. George. A gentle summer wind flowed through the surrounding fields of golden hay. Cows grazed in the pastures, while farmers tended to their chores. Any tourist would have loved the scenery, but this was not a joyride for the gray banker behind the wheel.

The driver pulled into the parking lot of the renovated farmhouse and spotted the tall German on the terrace. His hand inadvertently fumbled for a packet of cigarettes, even though he had stopped smoking year ago. The banker would have never agreed to this clandestine rendezvous, if it weren’t for his son's circumstances, and Herr Egard got out of his car to meet the man from Hamburg.

He sat at the table.

“Guten Tag, Herr Oster.”

A thick manila envelope rested on the table.

“And to you, Herr Egard. Please sit down. I spotted your car and ordered coffee.” The German lifted his small binoculars.

“Thank you.”

A waiter arrived with a pot of coffee and another of warmed milk, pouring each into the two cups on the table. Once the waiter finished the service, Kurt Oster leaned forward and the banker flinched only to have the German merely asked, "Ein bissen Zucker fur Ihren Kaffee?"

"Ja." The German’s manicured fingernails and refined speech mimicked those of a gentleman.

"Wie veile?" Kurt held up a spoonful of sugar.

"Zwei." Herr Egard had dealt with enough criminals, despots, or mercenaries at his bank to not be deceived by good manners.

Suspecting the sugar might be drugged, the banker waited, until the German added sugar to his coffee.

Kurt sipped the coffee, savoring the bittersweet taste before saying softly, "You will be happy to hear our people are protecting your son at the Chiang Mai prison. No one will steal his food and he has been moved to his own cell."

"I appreciate your help in this matter."

"I would like to say it was from the goodness of my heart, but we are both men of the world and understand how things work. You help me and I help you."

"I am just a banker."

"And as businessman I understand how you value the years at the bank." Kurt Oster smiled amicably and reached across the table to touch the banker's hand. "Whatever I ask will not harm your family or endanger your position at the bank. Every week I will transfer money into an account at your bank. A man will come and pick it up. This money comes from the sale of my telex offices around Europe. Everything will be handled through the proper channels and within two months your son will be back in Switzerland. A free man without any record here or in Thailand."

"I suppose there are no guarantees."

"I know trusting me is a big order, but has anyone else helped your son? Your bank? The Swiss government?"

"No."

"They want nothing to do with a heroin smuggler, so for better or worse you are stuck with me. Believe me it will not be for the worse."

"I pray your words come true." His son's freedom depended on this stranger and Herr Egard shook hands with Kurt Oster. "Is there anything else?"

"No, you are free to go, Herr Egard." Kurt took another sip of coffee, as the smaller man returned to the Peugeot.

Ten seconds after the car left the parking lot toward Geneva, a thick-set Yugoslav in a jumpsuit emerged from the restaurant. Kurt signaled Murah to follow the banker. He didn’t need him going to the police. Back in 1972 he had been the mountain nation's guest at the Champ d'Olon prison. That short sentence for car theft had been a long enough visit to Kittchen for any man or woman in a lifetime.

He took out his binoculars. The snowy alpine peaks gleamed in the sun-bleached distance. The tallest was Mont Blanc.

Forty minutes later the waiter said that his friend had phoned to announce his safe arrival home. Kurt gave the waiter a generous tip and sat back, thinking about how once the account was opened, Kurt would wire the bank Cali’s contribution.

All the pieces seemed to fit into places, but it usually looked that way in the beginning and Kurt could only hope that the puzzle made the right picture in the end. All the other possibilities ended with a bad ending and bad endings were not a plus in his world.

Not for the living.

If they wanted to stay alive and that was all Kurt wanted from life.

To live.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith - CHAPTER 16

After his shower Sean stood at the open window of the hotel room. The morning sun struggled to burn through the overcast and a ferry appeared out of the mist floating atop the surface of Lake Leman. The traffic was light along the quai and a few people walked dogs in the lakeside park. Nearby church bells pealed out the hour and the telephone rang. The desk clerk announced that a Herr Murah was downstairs.

"I'll be right down."

Sean stripped off the thick cotton bathrobe and put on a newly purchased white shirt and silver silk tie. Sean dressed slowly in the fine wool suit, then inspected himself in the full-length mirror. The black suit transformed him from a nightclub manager to a respectable businessman. He bought the illusion for several seconds, then wiped every surface in the room for fingerprints. All he was leaving behind in the 4-star suite was a slept-in bed, two used towels, and 10-Swiss francs tip for the maid. He opened the door with a hand towel and walked down the stairs rather than take the elevator. Upon entering the lobby dripping with 19th Century elegance Sean easily recognized his contact.

Kurt's accountant was proof that Neanderthals still roamed the Earth and the black-haired man in the red jogging suit sported a ear-to-ear scar across his neck. Someone had once failed to chop off the squat man's head. He greeted Sean with a grunt, "Herr Coll?"

"I guess you're Murah."

"That's right. You are on time."

"I woke up early. Just a minute. I have to drop off the room key."

Kurt had pre-paid the room, so Sean signed the bill. There were another fifteen minutes until the rendezvous with the banker and he said, "I want to walk to the bank."

"The meeting is at 9:30."

The Swiss and Germans shared a profound appreciation for punctuality and would forgive most any social transgression other than lateness.

"If I leave right now, I will be five minutes early."

"I will wait outside the bank in the car. It is better that way," the unlikely accountant said taking Sean's bag. When they exited from the hotel, Murah followed Sean at a distance, so no one would have thought they were together.

Halfway down the block, he got into a brand-new Volvo.

Sean crossed the street to the park. He stood at the edge of the quai for a minute. A church bell rang once, signaling fifteen minutes past the hour, and Sean headed toward the bank.

The man in the black suit was invisible to the people to work. The two bank guards watched him climb the stairs and held open the door. The bank appeared to be empty at first, as he crossed and the polished marble floor.

A bald man wearing glasses sat at a large mahogany desk, his skin pale from spending too much time inside. Kurt's description was right on the money

"Herr Egard?"

"Herr Coll." The banker greeted Sean and glanced over his shoulder, as if to assure he was not being scrutinized a higher-up. The grim smile slitted the banker's thin lips and he nervously motioned for Sean to sit.

"Your passport, please."

"Most certainly." Sean handed the banker his American passport.

Herr Egard examined the blue-jacketed document, then gave it back to Sean. "Your papers seem to be in order. I will go get the money."

The stoop-shouldered banker went over to the nearest teller and spoke in hushed tones. The teller handed over a small manila envelope and Herr Egard returned to the desk, placing the envelope and a single piece of paper before Sean.

"It is all there. One hundred thousand Swiss francs. You can sign for it and go."

Sean thought one hundred Swiss Francs would have made a bigger package.

"You don't mind if I count it first?"

"Not at all." Sean withdrew ten packets of one-thousand Franc notes from the envelope. It was all there and he signed the release form, saying, "Thank you very much."

"Have a good trip back to Hamburg." The banker shook the American's hand weakly, then sat back down at his desk to resumed his normal routine of balance sheets and numbers.

The pick-up had gone as smoothly as Kurt had predicted.

Sean exited from the bank.

The money barely dented the line of his new suit, but these ten stacks of Swiss Francs were the most money Sean had ever had on his person.

More than a year's wage at the Malchek, though not enough to warrant a runner, especially if you had Murah on your trail from the jump.

The Volvo Sedan pulled up and Sean got in the car. The Yugoslavian asked, "No problems?"

"Got the money right here." Sean patted the packet.

"Good." Murah drove to the airport without saying a word, which was fine by Sean, for he could do without hearing what was going on behind those beady black eyes. At the airport, Sean passed through the security checks without a hitch, then asked Murah what time the return flight was. He was shocked to hear the return flight was for 6:20pm.

"What are we going to do for ten hours."

"Wait."

"Can we wait in Geneva?"

Kurt wanted us to wait here."

Sean understood why, since the 6:20pm departure was the only direct flight to Hamburg.

Kurt might trust him, but not enough to change planes with $70,000.

Sean killed the hours, drinking beer.

He read every English newspaper in the airport and then Walter Abish's HOW GERMAN IT IS, Sean studied the faces of the arrivals and departees. He couldn't help, but notice how glum everyone getting off flights from Germany was.

Why was answered, when he read the Herald Tribune and discovered that Germany had lost to Italy in the World Cup. Being a Red Sox fan, he had dealt with defeat all his life, although losing a World Cup to Italy was not the same as an October defeat by the Yankees.

Nothing was.

Thankfully the plane took off time and, as promised Kurt waited on the other side of the arrival gate. He passed the money packet to the German and Kurt said, "Amazing what a suit will do. You are a new man. No surprises in Geneva, right?"

"None at all." The sensation of being watched crawled up Sean's spine. He inspected the terminal. The security cameras were pointed away from the, and the uniformed police were involved in harassing a Turkish 'Gastarbeiter', for his work permit did not guarantee him the freedom to travel as a native.

Sean searched for another set of eyes, but lit on no one he would suspect of being undercover.

Kurt also picked up on his agitation and asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I feel someone watching us."

"Really?"

Kurt knew better than to turn his head and Sean said, "I saw no one. Maybe it was simple paranoia."

"Always better to be careful."

The two men exited from the terminal into the midsummer night.

The air was perfumed from the oxygen generated from the city's millions of trees, then a Lufthansa 727 roared down the runway and kerosene overwhelmed his sense of smell. Kurt shouted, "Do you want a ride?"

"No, I have my car." Sean answered once the 727 had taken off.

Kurt's T-Bird pulled up to the curb, driven by Vanessa Von Hausen. Her shirt was unbuttoned, so her small breasts were visible down to the brownish arc of her aureoles.

"You had a long day. Go to sleep, Sean. I will see you at the club tomorrow." Kurt glanced over to the driver. They were more than friends and Sean reflected on how dangerous taking another man's wife might be, especially since he himself was involved with the man's mistress. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

The car door thunked shut and the T-bird hauled off with tires screeching around the curve, leaving the tang of exhaust fumes burnt by a big V-8 to mingle with the scorched aviation fuel.

His car was where he'd left it in the parking lot. He put in a cassette of Van Halen's ATOMIC PUNK and surveyed the map. The blue expanse to the west of the Elbe beckoned him to the North Sea. He wanted to see the ocean in the worse way, though not alone.

Driving to Petra's house seemed to take forever.

Sean had been thinking about her most of the night and day. He had called from Geneva without anyone picking up the phone. He had imagined her letting the phone ring, while Lukas painted her naked body and he half-expected to see this image brought to life with his arrival to Kaiserringstrasse.

The door through the high wall was open. He stepped into the yard. Her car was parked next to the house. He called out her name.

No one answered.

Entering the house he told himself, "This is crazy."

And the sense of being an intruder grew with each step, until he reached the studio.

A storm of rage had devastated the room. The paint cans had been kicked over or thrown against the wall, creating a mad man's avant-garde painting. The TV and VCR had been hammered to oblivion by the champagne bottles, which in turn had been smashed to pieces. The room stank of turpentine and oil-based mixtures and green glass crunched under foot.

The most savage attack had been reserved for the painting on the easel. The canvas had been slashed to limp ribbons by a knife or razor. Suddenly Sean was frightened for what might have happened to Petra and searched for signs of blood without detecting any in the pools of sticky paint.

Upon leaving the shattered studio, Sean spotted the paint-stained footprints on the floor. How a bare foot could have escaped the carnage in the next room without slashing the sole was an unfathomable miracle. He followed the trail upstairs, calling out Petra's name, till he pushed open the bedroom door.

With the shades and curtain drawn, Sean could barely see the figure on the bed.

He reached over and touched her. Her skin was cold and for a second he thought she was dead.

"Go away," Petra told him emphatically, though with a voice as feeble as a cloistered nun breaking her vow of silence.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing, but no one asked you to come here." Her voice wavered on the border of cracking.

After having destroyed the downstairs, she had come to the bedroom, planning on spending the rest of her life in self-pity. Petra had remained in a near-catatonic state for hours, reflecting only how the world would be like without her there. She now wondered whether she had just been waiting for Sean to show up and was angered by this possibility. "Go away and I will be happy."

"I'm not leaving you. You didn't the other night."

"Well, consider us even." Petra buried her head under the pillow.

Deep down she realized, if she had really desired to be alone, she would have locked the front door, and she slid over to the other side, muttering "If you want a friend, then get a dog."

"I've been where you have." Sean sat on the bed, prepared to be told to shut up, but Petra remained silent and he continued, "Earlier this year I've wanted to kill myself. The reasons are unimportant. I was down the South of France, visiting friends. They had the house, kids, dog, car, and swimming pool. Their happiness reminded me of how meaningless my life was. There was a cliff behind the house. One day after lunch I take a walk. I kissed my friend's wife and kids good-bye. My friend asked, if I wanted company. He must have seen the desperation in my eyes. I told him I was okay and that I needed to be alone. I waved good-bye, then headed up the hill. I could see the entire valley spread from east to west. A beautiful sight, more so when I reached the top. The Alps were in the far distance and the Rhone River a silver ribbon in the sunlight some twenty miles away. I walked toward the cliff without any intention of stopping."

Petra sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her wanting to hear what this American had to say was a small step back from the abyss.

"The hilltop was flat and covered with brush as high as my waist. I was committed and shut my eyes. I was only ten paces from my doom, when I heard a snort. First one, then another. I opened my eyes. Two wild pigs stood before the cliff, blocking my way. Their tusks were curved yellow crescents, their bodies long torpedoes of sinewy muscles. A few baby boars were behind them. The mother lowered her head and charged. I ran for my life. There were no trees, but I scrambled up a pile of rocks to safety."

"And so you are saying that you are my wild pig." Petra couldn't believe she laughed.

"Oink, oink." Sean mimicked a pig without being sure, if the Germans used the same animal noise.

"You have missed your calling in life."

"What? I should be a philosopher?"

"No, a comic. That is the most stupid story I have heard."

"But true, I swear it." Sean could tell she thought he was lying.

Sometimes he wondered whether it ever had happened, but he could remember the wind on his face, as he approached the cliff so clearly that it had to be true and he asked Petra, "You still want me to go?"

"No, I could use help cleaning up the downstairs." She pulled the sheet over her nakedness, then reached over to touch his face and asked, "And you? Are you okay?"

"Fine for now."

"Same for me."

The big question was where they went from here.

Petra had been on her own, ever since leaving her parents' house. Ten years without a lover or friend had brought her to the edge and the opposite might remedy her loneliness. It was worth a try. She lowered her head to say, "I said before that I did not want a friend. I think I might have changed my mind."

"I can be your friend."

"Thank you. Perhaps there is hope for you after all, Herr Coll." Petra left the bed and coyly covered herself with the sheet, sensing his disappointment. Each of them understood that stage of their relationship would have to wait for some later date. Neither of them had a real friend in this city and Petra was willing to institute a temporary truce in her war with men to accept Sean as one.

It wasn't much, but both of them would have to live with that little for now.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 19

TWENTY-TWO

That Sunday a fierce rainstorm pummeled Lac Leman and Sean imagined that the Russians and USA were waging meteorological war over Europe. Rather than leave the hotel room's comfort, Sean ordered club sandwich from room service and read Heinrich Boll's BILLIARDS AT HALF PAST NINE, figuring the day to be a dead loss. He fell asleep halfway through the book.

In the morning the bells of Emanuel Church tolled eight times. Sean rose from the bed and went to the window. The rain was still falling through a misty fog onto Geneva's lakeside park,

At 8:15am the bellboy entered the room with the pre-ordered continental breakfast. Sean ate, then dressed in the black suit, which he wore on these trips to Geneva. By 9:05am he checked out of the hotel.

Rain splashed off the sidewalk and he sat in the Volvo.

"No walking today." asked Murah.

"A little too wet for my taste."

The big man was unusually tanned and Sean complimented the Yugoslavian saying, "Nice color."

Murah bobbed his head like a tendon had been cut in his neck.

"Yes, I was in Thailand one week and girls big fun. Little brown fucking machine. A man's Disneyworld."

The Yugoslav put the car in drive and the Volvo pulled away from the hotel.

During the short drive Sean studied the driver's profile. Murah's brow had been battered by fists and his ears flattened by a thousand punches. The flutter of his right eyelid indicated nerve damage. Sean had been hundreds of fights throughout his life, but Murah had been in countless life-and-death battles. The flattened knuckles on the steering wheel were a proof that the driver gave worse than he received.

They arrived at the bank on Rue du Fosse Vert. Sean checked his watch. 9:30am. He got out of the car, saying, "I'll be a minute."

"Take this." Murah handed him a chrome suitcase, similar to those photographers used to transport cameras. Sean opened the case. It was empty, but its addition jarred him into understanding what he was for Kurt.

A bagman.

Someone who picked up cash for someone else.

The same as Johnny Fats, who ended up dead in New York.

The marrow in his spine gelled into ice, as he entered the bank. The guards were in place. The tellers were at the tills. Herr Egard sat at his desk and nodded a greeting. Everything about the routine had the feeling of sameness. Sean approached the desk and the banker handed him a packet, saying, "Four hundred thousand Swiss Marks."

"Four hundred thousand francs?"

"Swiss."

Sean signed a document authorizing the transfer of funds. The amount was twice as much as the previous pick-up.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, I just want to count the money in private."

"As you wish, please come this way." Herr Egard brought him to a thick-walled room and said, "Buzz me, when you are through."

The door shut behind him and Sean suspected these walls would protect him from an atomic blast. Nothing bad could happen to him in here, only outside, so he took his time counting each packet of ten thousand-franc bills, while going over every moment of his trip back to Hamburg.

When he was finished counting, Sean repacked the case, then buzzed the door.

"Alles in Ordnung?" asked Herr Egard.

"Alles ist klar." Sean was envious of the banker's well-ordered world. Except for a few wrong turns early in his life Sean could be leading the same life, but he had no idea how to get back onto that path. He was who he was and nothing was going to change that.

He walked toward the exit and a guard opening the door for him proved that, but once he stood on the steps, a crazy urge to run away came over him.

Sean looked at Murah behind the wheel of the Volvo. The Yugoslav was certainly packing a piece, but his hands were not on the steering wheel. It would take him a couple of seconds to get out of the car. Sean could outrun the big man and melt into the city. He could be in Paris by nightfall and anywhere in the world the next day, but something kept him from robbing Kurt.

Actually someone.

Sean got in the car and the Yugoslav asked, "Is there anything wrong?"

"No, I was just taking a breath of air before I get stuck in the airport all day," Sean lied, not caring whether Murah believed him or not.

"All part of the job," Murah commented, as the Volvo pulled away from the curb. The driver said nothing else on the way to the airport and by the time Sean arrived at the airport, he had settled down to being strictly a courier, instead of a thief.

He walked into the terminal with his travel bag over his shoulder and the aluminum case in his left hand. Murah seemed to be on edge, as he escorted Sean through the terminal.

"Was ist los?" Remembering Kurt's mention of armed robbery, Sean clasped the case, though he could imagine anyone so stupid as to attempt a hold-up it in an airport.

"Nichts ist los?" Murah answered, though his eyes swiveled like a lizard hunting for a fly.

"Who are you looking for? The police?"

"Die Polizei sind da." Murah motioned secretively at the two uniformed officers against the wall. His porcine eyes shifted from left to right, then he smiled dully. "I'm more worried about the taxman."

"The taxman?"

"What do they do the taxman look like?"

"Like saints. Very evil saints." Obviously Murah did hold any love for the government revenue collectors and as they sat down, Murah announced, "As you Americans say, "The coat is clear."

Sean didn't bother to correct the Yugoslav's mutilation of the phrase and remained quiet, as they sat through the long hours till his departure. When he finally passed through the gate, Sean said, "See you next week."

Murah waved back, glad for this trip to be over, for he could have sworn that the American was planning a runner at the bank and had anticipated him to attempt the same in the airport. He would have hated to shoot him, but a job is a job. He waited for the plane to take off, then Murah returned to his Volvo, ready for another week of work at his car repair shop.

During the Lufthansa flight #3671 to Hamburg the 727 rose through innumerable pockets of turbulence, as a capricious cross-streams buffeted the plane. The aircraft yeed and yawed like a ship at sea. Every passenger on the flight was scared and Sean was no exception. He picked up a Stern Magazine and buried his face in the pages praying for the plane to land. His prayer went unanswered and for the first time in his life he reached for the airsick bag, though he successfully fought back the nausea. They did not clear the overcast, until they were a few hundred feet from the ground. The wind tugged on the plane from all directions and, when the pilot expertly landed on all three points, everyone on board responded with applause.

The quick taxi to the terminal undernoted how little air traffic Fuhlsbuttel handled.

When the airplane's outer door opened, Sean was first out of the plane and swiftly proceeded across the windy tarmac to the terminal. Inside he spotted Kurt behind the separating glass, but when he waved, the German strangely retreated into the crowd.

"Herr Tempo?" a man asked behind him. A stranger using your last name is always a bad sign, whether in person or on the phone. Sean turned around to face a young man sporting a trim goatee and longish blond hair. There was no denying what he was.

"Are you Herr Tempo?" asked the plainclothes policeman.

"Depends on who's doing the asking." Sean noticed that the other travelers gave the two men a wide berth and their whispering glances confirmed that they had already convicted him without an accusation.

"Inspector Brucken." A badge further identified the blonde man as a police officer. "I am with the Hamburg Kriminalpolizei. Would you please come with me?"

It was more a command than a request. A pair of uniformed policemen stood by the arrival gate in a back-up position. Sean had no choice, but obeyed the command and entered the office before the inspector. The walls were painted institutional green. A table and two chairs were bolted to the floor. A two-way mirror was screwed into the wall and Sean recognized he was in an interrogation room.

"What's this all about?"

"You are familiar with Cali Nordstrom or Tommy Letier, also called SS Tommy?" The police inspector's crumpled suit bore the stress of having spent too many hours in a car.

"Maybe I do." The next best thing to saying nothing was to repeat the negative of what you had just said, so he added, "Maybe I don't."

"I know you do, so could you open that case?"

As far as he knew, transporting money was not illegal, though ignorance was no guarantor of innocence, still Sean took a risk and opened the case. It wasn't his money. The policeman's eyes widened at seeing so much cash. Sean had probably responded in the same manner at the bank.

Alex Brucken read from a notebook for a few seconds, then said in clipped English, "You have been taking trips to Geneva every Monday for the last three weeks."

"Am I a hobby of yours?" Sean asked, refusing to be rattled.

"More or less." The plainclothed officer folded the notebook inside his jacket, so it might have been mistaken for a gun in a shoulder holster. "You take this money to Kurt Oster, a business associate of Cali Nordstrum."

"I haven't robbed any banks. All I did was pick up some money from Switzerland and bring it here. As far as I know that is not against the law."

"No, but maybe what happens to the money afterwards is."

"Is this an official investigation?" Sean started for the door.

"What is the difference?" Inspector Brucken grabbed Sean's wrist.

"It's the difference between telling you the truth or telling you to go fuck yourself." He had used the line before in New York and practice makes perfect.

"Consider it unofficial interest." The policeman released his hold.

"Then consider me 'gone', I'll save the 'fuck yourself' for later." Sean saluted the inspector.

"That is very funny, but excuse me, if I do not laugh," the inspector said, as he opened the office's door. "We will stay in touch."

"I'm sure I can bet on that," Sean replied like some tough guy in a movie, but he was relieved to be freed. As he walked through the terminal, Sean thought about what he was going to say to Kurt. Nothing nice, for he didn't have to wonder why he was being rousted. Kurt and Cali were criminals just like the officer said they were. All that talk about this being legal was bullshit, but then Sean had always known that.

Stepping outside he pulled up his collar against the cold the drizzling wind. Summer was almost gone and he was not even close to getting out of town.

A brand-new BMW pulled up to the curb. Kurt was behind the wheel. Sean slid in and they sped from the airport. Kurt's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

"What was that all about?"

"Some policeman sticking his nose where he should not." Kurt answered, which Sean could tell wasn’t the truth.

"He knew about my transporting your money." To Sean's way of thinking Inspector Brucken could have only discovered what he was doing by someone snitching him out. The list of those people aware of his trip was small; Petra, Kurt, Herr Egard, and Murah. None of them would have talked, meaning someone else was taking an interest in what he was doing for Kurt.

"There is nothing illegal about that. If there was, then you would have been arrested, yes?" Kurt's telling him the same thing again had a more false ring to it after his encounter with the police. "That policeman, he is guessing. That is all."

"Then why did he mention Cali's and your names?" Sean was too angry to buy the excuse. He had come three thousand miles to avoid a problem with the police only to find himself getting in deep here. Inspector Brucken might be shooting in the dark, but eventually the policeman would find something, because there was more than likely something to find.

"He is simply fishing for information."

"Then why did you hide?" Sean turned around in his seat. The road was empty, but that didn't make him feel any better.

"It was better that way." Kurt stepped on the gas. The thrust of the car forced them against the leather seats. He nervously drummed on the steering wheel, indicating the gravity of the confrontation. "All that money came from my liquidation of my telex holdings throughout Germany. They send people to jail for tax evasion, so I have been protecting myself. To be truthful, I will be leaving Germany soon. I am tired of this shitty weather. Once I settle my affairs, we can both leave."

"I want to go now." Sean was spooked. Anytime you speak to a cop means things are heading in the direction of jail. While a German prison might be better than Riker's Island, Sean had no desire to be a penal guest of any nation.

As the BMW rushed down Mittelweg, the streetlights came on one by one. The few people on the street were wearing more clothes than the weather required, as if they were anticipating an early winter. Sean fingered the door handle, when they neared Milchstrasse.

"If you want to go, I cannot stop you." Kurt braked sharply, and the big car swerved to a halt. He was angry, because something had fucked up. Even worse was Sean's wanting to bail out. He had to stop the American from going and said, "But I can't pay your percentage from the club right this instance."

"Just pay me from what you have in the case?" Kurt owed him approximately five thousand Marks, which converted to around $3000.

"I have to give it all to Cali."

"Why not me?"

"You will not kill me and Cali would. All I'm asking is for one month more."

"From where I'm sitting one month seems like forever."

"I can use you here. At the club."

Sean looked up at his apartment. The lights were on. Petra was upstairs. She had kept him from running in Geneva. Her and her alone. It was Petra who also made him cave into Kurt by saying, "Okay, I'll stay, but I'm through with the trips to Geneva."

"Thank you, Sean. Thank you very much." Kurt was profoundly grateful, and tears formed in his eyes. Sean was fairly certain it was all an act, but asked, "What is wrong?"

"Well," Kurt hesitated, as he weighed opening up his mind to the American, then he said, "It is Vanessa. She's gone."

"How many days has she been gone?"

"Two."

"Stop worrying. I can tell by the way she looks at you, that this is no fly-by-night affair," Sean assured the driver, though he had never given Kurt anything, but long odds with the platinum beauty. Their worlds were too far apart.

"I'm glad someone sees it that way," Kurt said, as his passenger left the car.

He watched the American cross the street to the apartment building. Sean had a right to be rattled. Someone had talked. Not Cali, not himself, and the banker had too much to lose to blurt out his guts. Kurt thumped the dashboard with his fist. This policeman was a warning from someone other than the police saying they knew exactly what Cali and Kurt were doing.

If Cali found out about this policeman, he would back out of the project. Without the money from the swindle, Kurt would remain a front for Cali and, as much as his friend would take care of him, Kurt had to be his own man.

Cali and Kurt had pledged at the beginning of this project, that no one could stop them. Neither of them had ever said anything about that person being one of them and nothing was going to change that either. Nothing and he drove away into the rain

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 20

Rain splattered on the Opel's windscreen and the steering wheel wobbled each time the tires struck a pothole on the rutted road off the 404. The new woods had been planted in orderly rows to either side. Alex Brucken shook his head. He should not be here, however the baron had insisted on the police officer coming to his mansion to report about his confrontation with the American at the airport. He should have refused the deviation from the usual rendezvous by the Alstersee, except the police officer was also curious to see how the top .00001% lived.

He had first seen little reason for following the American. His working papers out of order was a problem for immigration and his seeing Herr Von Hausen's mistress didn’t not involve the baron's wife's infidelities with Kurt Oster. The money in the case changed everything, but this last chore had seriously overstepped the boundaries of police procedure and endangered his position with Stupo. He was calling it quits, but his honor required his telling that to Lukas Von Hausen face to face.

Alex Brucken swung the wheel to the right too late to avoid a deep puddle. The front end dipped underwater and the ventilation pumped in a gaseous vapor. With the money from this job, he would buy a good second-hand family car. The rest would finance for a down payment on a house out in Wedel, so his children could grow up away from the influences of the Turks and Palestinians crowding the inner city school.

A kilometer from the main road the Opel turned onto a dirt driveway and passed the estate's unoccupied gatehouse. Alex Brucken was disappointed by finding a decaying mansion instead of a fairy tale castle, then the rich lived in another world than people like himself.

Despite what the baron had told him, he was not born yesterday. His name might have protected him from being arrested before, though not from being noted in the police files. Herr Von Hausen had been a junkie, a homosexual, a leftist sympathizer, and was now a member of a banned right-wing organization. It was only a matter of time, till the baron moved from the files to prison.

The Opel braked before the portico. The front door was open. Alex walked inside the mansion, then came to a halt in the darkness. Two sputtering candles let the entrance. The hallway was devoid of any furniture. The faint chords of classical music filtered from upstairs. As his eyes adjusted to the murk, Alex spotted a man in the corner and reached for his 9mm automatic.

"Alex, Alex, there's no need for a gun. It's only me." The baron stepped from the shadows. His hands were mockingly half-raised, as if surrendering himself into custody. "Sorry to startle you."

"I am tired. That's all," Alex said, though was angry for admitting any weakness to this man. He reported about rousting the American at the airport and the case of money. The baron listened silently and at the end said, "It must have been a long day, but I thank you for this work. It meant a lot to me."

Lukas had been worried about the police officer ever since hearing his voice on the telephone. He was obviously having serious misgivings about having performed these extracurricular activities. He could easily become another certainly another problem. During the Seventies Lukas could have shot him dead and dumped the body, claiming the murder to be an act of the Baader-Meinhof Gang or the Red Army. Nowadays a policeman's death would spur a major investigation and that would mean a knock at his door.

"You are wondering why you followed this American and anyone involved with Kurt Oster. As I told you, my wife is involved with the nightclub owner. I love her and hope one day she will see the error of her ways. You have seen my wife. She is beautiful, yes?"

Alex Brucken nodded, though the baron's wife was out of his class. His more immediate concern was both whether Herr Von Hausen's would pay the remainder of his fee.

Lukas turned on a single light, illuminating the desolate hallway.

"You can see to what I have been reduce. My last money was spent to protect the honor of my wife, but it is too late. What you had told me has convinced me of that."

The words 'Last money' assured him that this job was over, but he still had to say, "I can not work for you anymore, Herr Von Hausen."

"And I can not pay you for anymore. I am broke. Not a pfennig left of the Von Hausen fortune. You have no idea what it is to lose the woman you love."

"I am sorry," Alex said blankly, certain the baron was about to stiff him.

"It is not your fault and it is not like a Von Hausen to leave a debt of honor unpaid." The baron handed the police officer a packet of money. "No, do not pity me. I will find a job, maybe a rich heiress. My kind always does."

Alex wanted to check that the money was all there, but this was neither the time nor the place. The sight of a grown man crying, especially a complete stranger, sickened him and he backed down the hallway, saying, "Good luck, sir."

"Yes, I need that," Lukas replied before lowering his face into his hands.

Once the Opel left the yard, Lukas lifted his head and broke into a broad smile. The expression of revulsion on the policeman's face had been priceless. Few Germans could handle another person's emotion and the policeman had been no exception.

Alex Brucken's last information about the American had solved the jigsaw puzzle. Cali had been borrowing large sums of money, which he gave to Kurt, who wired it to a bank in Geneva, where the American picked it up and brought it back to Hamburg. None of the pieces mattered, until you considered the transvestite banker in Hamburg, who was in charge of international wire transfers.

Kurt and Cali had forced the banker in Hamburg misdirect funds to Geneva and the recent sums entering the Swiss account would lull the Geneva bank into a complacency about large amounts of money entering the account.

Once the money wire transfer had been placed into Kurt's account, there remained the last problem of picking up such a large sum of money. Normally the thieves would have pushed the funds through several offshore accounts, till it hit the Bahamas or Cayman Islands, then waited several years before moving the money to another account elsewhere for distribution.

Lukas was counting on impatience.

Kurt and Cali would pick up the money the same day they stole it, which had to mean at the Swiss bank in Geneva. Lukas knew exactly who to call to erect an unexpected detour for the two friends.

The policeman might be a problem later on, though nothing compared to his partner in crime. Eliminating SS Tommy would be difficult, but hardly an impossibility and Lukas laughed, for it would be a pleasure, but then almost everything he did would be soon, because now he possessed a reason to live and no one could take that away from him.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN - CHAPTER 40

From thirty-thousand feet the east end of Cuba was a green finger poking into a blue-eyed dream. A passing stewardess asked the passenger in seat 1-A, if he needed anything. He signaled for her to wait a few seconds, then decided almost everything in his world was perfect, which was more than most everyone on the 747 could say, so he shook his head and returned his gaze onto the ocean below.

After so many years of dissolute behavior Lukas Von Hausen knew plenty of the wrong people in the right places. An old Swiss friend in the Caymans had bounced the wire transfer to an affiliate bank in Jersey, then to its final destination in back in the Caymans, thus creating a double veil of secrecy even Interpol could not pierce.

Lukas could live very comfortably with the nearly five million dollars in the Caymans bank earning 11% interest if he was only interested in retirement, instead the money was enough to finance one film in Hollywood, five in Germany, ten in France, and hundreds in India or New York on 8mm.

His wastrel years might have been viewed with regret, except they would be the foundation for all the scripts in the years to come. He would remake his life in films, only this time everything would work out. Resting in the wide seat in first-class, Lukas reflected on how well this scheme had gone, especially, since the loose ends were snipped off.

SS Tommy had shipped his wife off to the Middle East. Some sheik would be very happy with her. Lukas would return to Hamburg and the police would investigate her disappearance. A phone call and ransom note indicated a kidnapping and he would play the sorrowful husband for them and the newspapers,

Some might suspect foul play on his part, but he had been out of town on business, plus everyone would fall for his role of the tragic husband. Maybe not that policeman, Alex Brucken, but he had nothing on Lukas.

Nothing concrete.

He was a wronged husband.

There was no crime in that.

Kurt was the most trouble, once he connected Vanessa's disappearance with Lukas' trip to the Caymans. Sadly tears solved nothing. He was helpless with Cali out of the picture, so that left only SS Tommy. The pimp would not see his end of the money in this world or the next.

Lukas asked the stewardess on her next round to bring him a split of champagne. He had lots of reasons to celebrate. He had money. He had rescued his family name from oblivion. Cali and Kurt were out of the picture, so were the American and his wife. Petra was his again. In his mind he saw his entire future.

All that was remained was the living of it.