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Herr Ohlmeyer stared back at Rapp for a long moment, his flinty blue eyes giving away little. This was the face of a man who’d helped Hurley run operations against the Stasi, the nickname for East Germany’s secret police. The face of the man who had the ability to keep Rapp looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life with just a few well-placed phone calls.
After an eternity, the patriarch slowly nodded.
“I believe you. More importantly, I believe she loves you, but she doesn’t understand you or your world. Not the way I do.”
“I think she understands more than you think,” Rapp said. “It was never my intention to put her in danger, but—”
“Danger still found her,” Ohlmeyer said, waving away Rapp’s argument with slender fingers. “This is precisely my point. You of all people should understand that she will never be safe so long as she is with you. My friend Stan Hurley says that you’re good, Mr. Rapp. Perhaps one of the best he’s ever trained. But being good wasn’t enough to keep you from getting shot, was it?”
Despite his best efforts to remain cordial, Rapp felt his blood pressure beginning to rise. “That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? When most everyone else in West Germany was content to ignore the menace of communism, you used your position in one of your nation’s most important banks to facilitate clandestine operations against East Germany. Are you telling me that your actions didn’t put your family and loved ones at risk?”
“They absolutely did!” Ohlmeyer slammed his fist against the coffee table as his German accent grew more pronounced. “My work came at a price. A horrible price. One I would spare my granddaughter.”
A flush crept across the old man’s cheeks and his chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath. His physical reaction, more than the substance of Ohlmeyer’s argument, persuaded Rapp to hold his tongue. Rapp did not run agents like a traditional CIA case officer, but he didn’t need to be a master spy to realize that he’d struck a nerve. One of Ohlmeyer’s bodyguards vacated his position by the door in response to the old man’s outburst, but this seemed to only further anger the banker.
“I’m all right, damn you.”
Greta’s grandfather did not appear to be all right. Though Ohlmeyer had always looked every bit of his sixty-odd years, the former spy didn’t seem to be himself. His face was puffy and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, too much alcohol, or perhaps both. Rapp had originally chalked Ohlmeyer’s appearance up to worry about his granddaughter, but nowrealized that the banker’s concern was a symptom, not the problem. Something had caused him to fly to Barcelona and dispatch members of his security detail to round up his granddaughter. Judging by the man’s genuine surprise at finding Greta sequestered with Rapp, their relationship wasn’t the catalyst for Ohlmeyer’s behavior.
The old man was spooked.
After several deep breaths, Ohlmeyer’s breathing returned to normal, and his expression turned from irritation to a look Rapp couldn’t quite read. The banker rubbed his chin and his gaze traveled across Rapp as if seeing him for the first time. “You truly love my granddaughter?”
Rapp nodded. “I do.”
“Then let’s see if your words have conviction. She needs help.”
Rapp again felt his temper stir. He was not accustomed to having his veracity challenged and Ohlmeyer had done so twice in a single setting.
“Help with what?”
“Someone who wants to kill her.”
CHAPTER 11
RAPPstared at Ohlmeyer, waiting for the old man to elaborate.
When he didn’t, Rapp sighed and bit the bullet. “Who?”
The banker slowly nodded. “That is a reasonable question. The question of an assassin preparing to service his next target, but in this case, it’s the wrong question. It is thewhyrather than thewhothat must inform our response to this threat.”
Again, the banker paused and again Rapp refused to immediately take the bait. Instead, he took a swallow of coffee and engaged his most fearsome weapon.
His mind.
In keeping with European traditions, the coffee was a latte, since it was now late afternoon. The brew was both strong and flavorful, but Rapp unexpectedly had a craving for good old-fashioned American drip java. He’d been living his legend as a Paris-based traveling computer salesman for almost two years. While the idea of calling one of Europe’s most desirable cities home had seemed great on paper, the reality was different. He missed America and all her eccentricities. He’dbecome somewhat of a soccer fan in order to fit in with the locals, but nothing beatMonday Night Football. In fact, had it not been for his relationship with Greta, Rapp thought he might have already requested a move back stateside.
Greta.
Ignoring Ohlmeyer’s exasperated expression, Rapp surveyed the room.
The hotel had a distinctively European feeling without the postmodern vibe that seemed to be all the rage. Rather than monochromatic decorations, hard edges, and uncomfortable furniture, the décor was warm and the plush leather chair could have been fitted for his backside. A carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice stood glistening next to a bowl of mixed fruit and a plate of meats and cheeses on the low table that separated him from the German banker. Cut-glass tumblers filled with mineral water completed the entourage. One of Ohlmeyer’s men hovered in the background, but the remainder of the banker’s security detail was absent.
As was Greta.
After arriving at the hotel under the care of the agitated, but otherwise no worse for wear, security detail, Greta had been warmly embraced by her grandfather and then told in no uncertain terms to wait in an adjoining suite while the family’s patriarch had a private conversation with Mr. Rapp. Since he had more than a passing familiarity with Greta’s stubborn streak, Rapp had expected fireworks. Instead the woman he loved had brushed his cheek with a kiss and then done her grandfather’s bidding. It wasn’t lost on Rapp that the sign of physical affection had been its own form of rebellion, but he was also a little shocked to see his headstrong spitfire behave like a church mouse.
He hadn’t understood then.
