nothing.
Rudy Krüger snorted. “You know what? I don’t need to know the details. I know all about Hermann. Except for his money, and
his business, his art collection and the cars, he only has one other dimension. Stepdad’s a goat, driven by his prick and
balls. And those women? They’re just holes. Even mother is a hole, a hole who completed Hermann’s façade of respectability.”
Agnes Krüger’s façade broke into rage. “Enough!” she shouted at him. “Go back to that hell hole you prefer to my house! Get out!”
Her son smiled and stood. “I know what you’re going to do, Mother. You’re going to figure out a way to sweep it under the
rug, and you know why?”
Agnes Krüger said nothing. She just glared at Rudy.
“Because of the money,” he told Mattie and Katharina. “With my mother and stepfather it’s always about the money.”
CHAPTER 33
JACK MORGAN AND Daniel Brecht sat at the window table in a café diagonally across the street from Cabaret, debating why Cassiano would claim
he met Pavel alone when Pavel said they met with his wife.
“Perhaps a memory lapse,” Brecht allowed. “Or it’s a flaw in a cover story.”
Morgan had been looking out the window. He threw down his napkin and got up fast. “So much for rehearsal and other business.
Pavel’s on the move.”
Brecht tossed money on the table and rushed after him into the street.
Out in front of Cabaret, the nightclub owner climbed into a taxicab.
Morgan was already hailing another cab. They jumped in and told the driver to follow the cab ahead.
As they drove, Morgan began to feel the effects of jet lag. His head nodded and his brain buzzed with thoughts, wondering
if Pavel had actually had something to do with Chris’s death, wondering how Mattie Engel was taking it all.
Burkhart had said she was acting like a professional.
Morgan’s last thought before he dozed was: But how long can that last?
Several minutes later, Brecht nudged him and he jerked awake.
“Pavel’s getting out at the Hotel de Rome,” Brecht said.
Even in his groggy state, Morgan recognized the hotel. It was the most luxurious in Berlin as far as he was concerned. He
usually stayed there during his visits.
“Know anyone in security?” Morgan asked as they climbed from their taxi down the street from the hotel.
“Definitely,” Brecht said. “I helped them out last year. The American movie star. Did you see that report?”
Morgan came fully awake. “I’m so tired I forgot that happened here. Jesus, what a mess that must have been to clean up.”
“Crazy mess,” Brecht said. “Crazy, crazy mess.”
They entered a lobby with soaring ceilings and marble columns, and went to the concierge. Brecht asked to see the hotel’s
head of security.
Exactly nine minutes later, Brecht and Morgan were inside the room directly across the hall from one Pavel had reserved. They
also knew that the nightclub owner had just ordered champagne and caviar.
He was expecting someone.
Brecht unscrewed the peephole and inserted a tiny fiber-optic camera and microphone, which he connected to a transmitter linked
to his iPad.
“I pay for all that?” Morgan asked after he flopped on the king-size bed, feeling depressed again about Chris Schneider’s
death.
“Private Berlin issued,” Brecht said. “Here comes room service.”
Morgan watched the cart with the champagne and caviar arrive and then Pavel open the door to let the waiter in. He left moments
later.
“Why don’t I have one of those mini surveillance kits?” Morgan asked.
“Euro technology,” Brecht said. “Hasn’t made it to LA yet.”
“I forgot I live at the end of the universe,” Morgan said, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I’m going to snooze. Wake me up
if…”
Private’s owner drifted off. Right on the edge of sleep, just before falling, Brecht tapped him on the shoulder. “Pavel’s
got a visitor.”
Morgan groaned and opened his eyes
Rudy Krüger snorted. “You know what? I don’t need to know the details. I know all about Hermann. Except for his money, and
his business, his art collection and the cars, he only has one other dimension. Stepdad’s a goat, driven by his prick and
balls. And those women? They’re just holes. Even mother is a hole, a hole who completed Hermann’s façade of respectability.”
Agnes Krüger’s façade broke into rage. “Enough!” she shouted at him. “Go back to that hell hole you prefer to my house! Get out!”
Her son smiled and stood. “I know what you’re going to do, Mother. You’re going to figure out a way to sweep it under the
rug, and you know why?”
Agnes Krüger said nothing. She just glared at Rudy.
“Because of the money,” he told Mattie and Katharina. “With my mother and stepfather it’s always about the money.”
CHAPTER 33
JACK MORGAN AND Daniel Brecht sat at the window table in a café diagonally across the street from Cabaret, debating why Cassiano would claim
he met Pavel alone when Pavel said they met with his wife.
“Perhaps a memory lapse,” Brecht allowed. “Or it’s a flaw in a cover story.”
Morgan had been looking out the window. He threw down his napkin and got up fast. “So much for rehearsal and other business.
Pavel’s on the move.”
Brecht tossed money on the table and rushed after him into the street.
Out in front of Cabaret, the nightclub owner climbed into a taxicab.
Morgan was already hailing another cab. They jumped in and told the driver to follow the cab ahead.
As they drove, Morgan began to feel the effects of jet lag. His head nodded and his brain buzzed with thoughts, wondering
if Pavel had actually had something to do with Chris’s death, wondering how Mattie Engel was taking it all.
Burkhart had said she was acting like a professional.
Morgan’s last thought before he dozed was: But how long can that last?
Several minutes later, Brecht nudged him and he jerked awake.
“Pavel’s getting out at the Hotel de Rome,” Brecht said.
Even in his groggy state, Morgan recognized the hotel. It was the most luxurious in Berlin as far as he was concerned. He
usually stayed there during his visits.
“Know anyone in security?” Morgan asked as they climbed from their taxi down the street from the hotel.
“Definitely,” Brecht said. “I helped them out last year. The American movie star. Did you see that report?”
Morgan came fully awake. “I’m so tired I forgot that happened here. Jesus, what a mess that must have been to clean up.”
“Crazy mess,” Brecht said. “Crazy, crazy mess.”
They entered a lobby with soaring ceilings and marble columns, and went to the concierge. Brecht asked to see the hotel’s
head of security.
Exactly nine minutes later, Brecht and Morgan were inside the room directly across the hall from one Pavel had reserved. They
also knew that the nightclub owner had just ordered champagne and caviar.
He was expecting someone.
Brecht unscrewed the peephole and inserted a tiny fiber-optic camera and microphone, which he connected to a transmitter linked
to his iPad.
“I pay for all that?” Morgan asked after he flopped on the king-size bed, feeling depressed again about Chris Schneider’s
death.
“Private Berlin issued,” Brecht said. “Here comes room service.”
Morgan watched the cart with the champagne and caviar arrive and then Pavel open the door to let the waiter in. He left moments
later.
“Why don’t I have one of those mini surveillance kits?” Morgan asked.
“Euro technology,” Brecht said. “Hasn’t made it to LA yet.”
“I forgot I live at the end of the universe,” Morgan said, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I’m going to snooze. Wake me up
if…”
Private’s owner drifted off. Right on the edge of sleep, just before falling, Brecht tapped him on the shoulder. “Pavel’s
got a visitor.”
Morgan groaned and opened his eyes
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