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“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 blearily to see Brecht showing him the iPad. A woman in a long, dark trench coat and a floppy rain hat stood with her back to the camera outside the door across the hall.
They heard Pavel’s muffled voice through the door. “Who is it?”
“I have delivery for you,” the woman replied in a soft Portuguese accent as she fumbled with the belt of her raincoat.
They heard the dead bolt thrown.
The woman looked both ways, and then shrugged the raincoat off.
Morgan sat upright. She was magnificently naked when the door opened.
Pavel’s eyes went wide with delight. “Delivery accepted.”
She stepped into his arms. The door closed behind them.
“Who is that goddess?” Brecht asked. “I didn’t see her face.”
Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t see it either, but I’d recognize that teardrop Brazilian rear anywhere. That, my friend, was Perfecta.”
CHAPTER 34
WHEN THE FRONT door to Agnes Krüger’s town house in Wilmersdorf slammed shut, the billionaire’s wife regained her composure and bearing.
