Hour of the Assassins by Andrew Kaplan

traveler’s checks into Swiss francs. As they discussed the details of subsequent transactions, Caine found himself thinking wishfully that if he could get into the numbered accounts, he could probably find Mengele right there and then. But of course that was impossible. Still, that was something he had to remember. It was a prime rule of intelligence investigation—perhaps the prime rule: always follow the money.
    He explained to Kröger that he anticipated selling a certain asset for something over a quarter of a million dollars and wanted the money immediately converted into Swiss francs at whatever the current rate was on the day of the transaction. Scenting a commission, Kröger delicately inquired if he might be of some assistance in the sale.
    It was a difficult moment for Caine. Experience had taught him that the world was still a battlefield, that you could trust people or you could survive, but you couldn’t do both. And he was a survivor. Still, he knew that Swiss banks were inviolable. He took the envelope out of his pocket and showed Kröger the stamp.
    â€œIngenious,” Kröger remarked.
    â€œThe currency regulations,” Caine began.
    â€œOf course. That’s why we are here: to deal with the inconveniences of business.”
    â€œDo you know someone?”
    â€œLet me see,” Kröger said, and spent a few minutes on the telephone. He replaced the receiver and smiled briefly at Caine. Kröger looked like he wanted to sell him a car, Caine thought.
    â€œThe firm of Beckmann und Schenck is highly recommended. I am told that Herr Beckmann is perhaps the leading stamp dealer in Europe. You’ll find his office on the Uraniastrasse fifty-eight, near the Rudolf Bran Bridge. If you wish, I’ll call and tell him to expect you. Once he has authenticated the stamp,” Kröger said, raising his eyebrows slightly to indicate that a fraud would be unthinkable, “you can deposit the stamp in our vault and we can arrange to deliver the stamp to Beckmann when he has a buyer.”
    â€œThat’s very kind of you.”
    Kröger held up his hand as if to forestall any thanks.
    â€œOur fee is five percent of the selling price.”
    â€œOf course,” Caine responded.
    Herr Beckmann was a stocky figure in a gray turtle-neck sweater under a worn tweed blazer. His small deep-set eyes were magnified into owl’s eyes by wire- rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The walls of his spartan office were lined with sheets of brightly colored stamps displayed in glass cases like butterflies. He smiled briefly at Caine and nodded in a perfunctory Prussian bow. But when Caine handed him the envelope and he saw the stamp, he began to blink rapidly. For a moment his eyes, like giant marbles behind the glass lenses, riveted on the stamp with the total concentration of a hawk spying a distant prey.
    â€œExtraordinary,” he murmured.
    â€œI take it the stamp meets with your approval,” Caine said softly.
    â€œThere is no question of its authenticity,” Beckmann replied, his Swiss-German accent sibilant in English. “Where did you get it?”
    â€œFrom the owner.”
    â€œ Ja , of course,” Beckmann murmured, almost to himself. “Where did he get it, bitte? ”
    â€œAt a New York auction in 1968.”
    â€œ Ach , the Teilman auction. But where is the other stamp?”
    â€œI’m still negotiating for it. I expect to have it within six months.” I wish, I wish, Caine thought. Beckmann began to blink again.
    â€œI will find a buyer, or else I will buy it myself.”
    â€œWhat is it worth?”
    Beckmann opened his hands in a bargaining gesture that might have predated Jacob’s negotiation with Esau over a bowl of soup.
    â€œThe market is down these days and the stamp is by itself. Also, an item of this size is very difficult.”
    â€œWhat’s it worth?” Caine repeated.
    There was a long pause