South America?
No, I decide, growing angrier, the bitch will find nothing.
With no documents left in the archives, it’s as if Christoph and the others never existed. No masks, but they’re as invisible to the wide world as I am.
And soon, very soon, they will cease to exist at all, while I will go on.
Ten minutes later, I pull into my garage. I park between the white work van and the Mercedes, make sure I’m alone, and then leave the Audi coupe. I climb in the back of the van and start removing the makeup with wipes I keep there.
I have several hours of real work to do. Clients and business associates to meet. I must be presentable for the time being.
But as I stare into the rearview mirror, I flash once more on Mattie Engel, and get a nervous feeling that has served me well over the years. Christoph was her lover once. Even if their official relationship had ended, she must have feelings for him, which means she has a strong motivation to find me, which means she’s dangerous—very, very dangerous.
Right there, my friends, I decide that if it comes to it, I’ll have to make Mattie Engel permanently invisible too.
But until then, I’ve got other people to take care of, people who could identify me, people who could tear off my masks.
CHAPTER 47
THE MIDGET ROLLED an unlit cigar between his lips as he squinted at Daniel Brecht and Jack Morgan before saying in a raspy voice, “You think a fix was in?”
Tiny Heine Wagner was a black-market bookie, someone Brecht had used as an informer for years. Around noon that day, Tiny Heine, Brecht, and Morgan were sitting at a table overlooking the Spree River inside the Georgebräu beer hall in central Berlin.
“We’re asking you if you think a fix was in,” Brecht said.
The bookie shrugged and put the cigar down. “Hertha Berlin is second league. I haven’t seen deep action on any one of their games. Certainly not compared to what you’d see in the premier league.”
“We wouldn’t expect so,” Morgan said after Brecht translated. “But maybe that helps. Do you know of any big payoffs on any of those games?”
Tiny Heine shrugged again. “Not on my book, anyway. But you know, sports betting is changing in Germany. Every day.”
“Explain that,” said Jack.
“The government passed a gambling treaty a few years back that says they’re the only ones who can handle sports betting,” the bookie said, and then started chortling. “It’s supposed to limit gambling addiction.”
“Not working?” Jack asked.
“Doing the exact opposite,” the midget replied. “My business is up twenty-five percent this year. Online, it’s even bigger. Thirty percent.”
“Online brokers in other countries?” Brecht asked.
“It’s officially against the law, but there you go,” Tiny Heine said and started laughing again. “Stupid government bastards. They think because it’s a law that people will pay attention to it, especially addicts!”
Brecht turned to Morgan. “I wonder just how many of these online betting ops there are.”
“Thousands,” Morgan said. “All over the world. Maybe tens of thousands.”
The bookie nodded after Brecht translated. “Who do you figure for the fix?”
“What should I tell him?” Brecht asked in English.
Morgan replied, “Ask him what he knows about Maxim Pavel.”
That name seemed to impress Tiny Heine. “Oooh, that’s heavy. He plays the cool nightclub owner, but the way I hear it, that’s one mean, twisted motherfucker. Word on the street is he’ll kill you as soon as look at you. He’ll like killing you too.”
“Russian mafia?” Morgan asked.
“I have it on authority that he’s ex-KGB. And you think he was in on a fix?”