D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

Charter a plane if you have to. I will take care of what is to occur on this end and then make my way to Ostend. Verstehen Sie?”

Karl’s reply came through entirely free of static: “Ja, Comrade General, I understand.”

It was nearly dawn when they reached the car rental agency, occupying one of a dozen identical cubicles set into the middle of a giant parking lot clogged with vehicles. After arranging for their car in halting French, Michael used the men’s room while Erika went to fetch the car, a late model Peugeot 505. He washed up, trying to avoid the haggard image that stared out at him from the spotted mirror.

Outside, he found the Peugeot idling at the curb. Erika sat in the passenger seat hunched forward, her ear cocked toward the radio blasting a news report. She flipped it off and leaned back.

“The bastards have killed three more on the list since I left Germany. That leaves only one.”

“Who?” Michael asked, buckling the seat belt and adjusting the seat back to relieve his cramped legs.

“Ludwig Jarmann,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Where do we find him?”

“University of Bonn, College of Geopolitics. From here it should take us about four to five hours.”

Michael nodded and threw the car into gear.

“Geopolitics,” he said, laughing humorlessly. “I wonder if the Russians appreciate the irony.”

They pulled away from the curb and shot out onto the main road. A moment later, back in the parking lot, a midnight-blue Citroen slithered out onto the road and followed in their wake.

Mueller smiled when Lillian’s car pulled up to the front entrance of the Dorchester Hotel. The valet opened her door and she strode through the glass doors, disappearing into the lobby.

“It would appear that our widow is merrier than we thought,” Mueller said, chuckling.

Franz joined his laughter. “What next, Comrade General?”

“Let’s give them a moment. It may well be their last.”

Lillian fought the impulse to flee the hotel back to the safety of her car and, ultimately, the seclusion of Woodhaven. It was a temptation as seductive as any that beguiled the ancient Christian saints. The difference was that her sin would not be the return to the safety of her home, but the retreat from a confrontation she dreaded.

Steeling herself, she crossed the elegant lobby with its overstuffed furniture and priceless objects d’art, her knees feeling like rubber. She felt every eye on her, even though logic and her own empirical observations belied it.

Reaching the bank of elevators, she entered one that stood open and pushed the button for the penthouse, her throat going dry when the doors hissed shut and the elevator shot upwards with stomach wrenching swiftness. The floor numbers swept by, each one announced by a cheery “ding” that grated on her.

The penthouse floor, unlike the others, was decorated as if it were an extension of the ornate lobby: Brass sconces spaced every few yards, cast a muted amber glow on the beige-colored walls. Expensive paintings took up the spots in between, making it appear much like a conservative art gallery or museum. The carpet, a luxurious Wilton pile, squished under her feet when she moved toward the door at the end of the hall. A hulking figure stood guard in front of it, half-shrouded in shadow, his hands clasped in front of him.

The guard stared at her, looking puzzled that a prim-looking elderly woman would be standing there in front of him. She met his gaze, refusing to let his grim, determined glare intimidate her.

“Tell him I am here,” she said.

If the man was puzzled before, he was now astounded to see this old lady speaking idiomatic Russian with no accent. He hesitated only a moment before raising his arm and speaking into a radio. Seconds later the door flew open and another giant KGB man beckoned for Lillian to enter. She followed him into an enormous sitting room that looked out onto a breathtaking view of the London skyline. She found Pavel Hedeon standing in front of the window puffing on a Cuban cigar.

“Why have you come, Svetlana? You know it is not safe for you to be seen with me.” He had not turned from the window to look at her, and that hurt and angered her. She moved toward him, measuring her words.

“You promised me, Pavel. You promised me that no harm would come to him.”

Hedeon whirled to face her. “And I have kept my promise! No harm has come to him.”

“He’s been shot at and nearly killed, twice!” She trembled, hating herself for showing what Pavel would consider a weakness.

“That is the fault of the East Germans!” he said, extinguishing the cigar in a marble bucket of sand. “Those jackals yearn for reunification with the decadent West. They betray the revolution.”

“Blast the bloody revolution! I don’t care anymore!” She advanced toward him, coming to within arm’s length of him. “You are responsible for him. Or had you forgotten?”

Hedeon’s anger seemed to leak from him, like sand from a broken hourglass. “No,” he muttered. “I have not forgotten.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Hedeon grabbed her by the shoulders, his sausage-thick fingers caressing her. “What I must. There is too much at stake, my dear.” He looked past her toward the KGB man who’d let her into the suite and motioned for him to leave. Lillian heard the door shut behind him. Hedeon turned to face her, his fierce eyes boring into hers. “Please, you must let me handle this my way. It is almost over. There is only one of the Hitlerite conspirators left.”

The feeling rose up in her again, the nearly uncontrollable urge to flee. Instead, she fell into