“So what do you want?” said Gregor. “Why are you here?”

“I want to talk to the investigator on the Helmut Dalitz murder case.”

“Dalitz? The banker?”

“Businessman. Do you have any information?”

She made a face. “That’s too local for us to get involved in.”

“You have nothing?” asked Nuri, surprised. The FBI had been briefed, to some degree at least, on the Wolves and the suspected connection to the murder. Was Gregor out of the loop? Or playing coy?

Coy. The word evoked images of sex kittens… a nauseating concept when connected with the woman sitting across from him.

“Why is the Agency interested?” Gregor asked.

“They don’t tell me everything,” said Nuri, deciding he could be just as hard to deal with as Gregor. “They sent me here to see what was going on.”

“They didn’t tell you why?”

“I think it has to do with money laundering,” said Nuri.

“That’s an FBI area of interest.” Gregor’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing like that has come up.”

“So you are following the case?”

“From a distance,” she said. “We’re somewhat interested—not involved.”

The orange juice and coffee arrived. Nuri took a sip of the coffee. It was surprisingly weak.

“I don’t see where he could have been laundering money,” said Gregor. “He was a respected businessman.”

“Yeah, it’s probably a total waste of time. That’s the sort of crap they send me on these days,” said Nuri.

Gregor frowned. “This is because of the connection to the Wolves, right?”

“Well, I—”

“All right. Let’s go,” she said, rising.

“But—”

“I have other things to do today,” she told him. “If you’re coming, come. And you better leave the waiter a good tip. They really like me here.”

The Berlin detective heading the investigation into Dalitz’s murder was a thirty-something woman who spoke English with a pronounced British accent. She was also among the most beautiful women Nuri had ever met.

She was so pretty, in fact, that if she and Gregor were combined and averaged out, the result would still be among the top ten or so models in the world. Nuri felt his head flush just meeting her; her handshake—firm, not too eager but not unfriendly—weakened his knees.

“I will be very happy to tell you what we know,” Frau Gerste said, leading them to her office in the upstairs of the municipal building. She worked for the national police even though her office was in the local police station; Nuri couldn’t quite grasp the relationship between the local, state, and national police agencies but decided it was irrelevant for now.

“I am afraid that it is not much,” Gerste continued, taking a seat behind her desk. This was unfortunate; it removed half of her body from view. “What we have does not seem to lead to much that is usable.”

Frau Gerste recounted the details of the crime, which had happened in a relatively popular part of Berlin, in an area that had been under communist control before the Wall came down. There had been few people on the street at the time, however, and apparently the assassin and any assistants had gotten away without being seen.

“We would believe he was waiting somewhere outside,” said Frau Gerste. “There are video cameras, but several blind spots. So he must have studied the area.”

“It was a professional job,” said Nuri.

“Very. The bullet was significant—undetectable by metal detectors,” said Gerste. “We imagine this was because the killer was in the music hall with him, or thought he might be. There were detectors at the door. His weapon, I assume, would have been undetectable as well. Very unusual.”

“Yes.”

“From what I understand,” she said, “the bullet is similar to one used in another murder, this one political. Do you have details on that?”

Nuri shook his head, trying not to make it too obvious that he was lying. It was terrible to lie to beautiful women.

“I have heard that there was an organization responsible for the political murder.” Frau Gerste smiled—it was as if the sun had come out after a winter’s worth of cloudy days. “Interpol’s information is very limited. A code name, the Wolves. That is why your interest, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” said Nuri.

“Of course a professional committed the crime,” said Frau Gerste. “But why? Helmut Dalitz did have some enemies, but hiring someone to murder him?”

“You don’t buy the mafia connection?” said Nuri.

She made a face. “Revenge for a heart attack? Would you commit murder for a heart attack?”

“Well, I wouldn’t commit murder,” said Nuri.

“If you were the mafia, would you hire another killer?”

“If they owed me money or a favor,” said Nuri.

She shrugged. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Frau Gerste preferred a more local motive—a jilted lover, perhaps, though the investigation had not produced one. There were rumors that the victim saw prostitutes and had a gay lover.

Gregor nodded vigorously as Frau Gerste proffered the theories—none of which had any firm evidence to back them up. But they would be more acceptable to a German, thought Nuri; they were signs of personal disorder, which would explain the external disorder of murder.

“Could the murderer have been working with someone on the inside?” asked Gregor.

“The inside?”

“Someone who was part of his business. Who would know where the video cameras were and the security arrangements. His daughter? I heard he was with his daughter and her boyfriend.”

“The daughter was there. The boyfriend is no longer a boyfriend. We did check that possibility,” said Frau Gerste, nodding approvingly. “That is something we continue to explore. Jealousy from the boyfriend. Perhaps he wanted a fortune.”

The look in Frau Gerste’s eyes—approval—would have melted Nuri on the spot had it been directed at him. It had a distinctly sexual tinge to it.

Aimed at Gregor, it seemed almost immoral, even sacrilegious. Nuri felt his stomach turning, just a little.

“Of course, with a little bit of planning, then it would be possible to compute the lines of sight at the square,” said Frau Gerste. “No sources would be necessary.”

“Maybe he is on the tape from a few days before,” suggested Nuri, finally finding his tongue.

“We have thought of that. The tapes are kept for only forty-eight hours. There was nothing overly suspicious in that time.”

Nuri found himself staring at Frau Gerste’s profile. She wore her blond hair in a bob. Ordinarily not a perfect choice, he thought, though in this case she pulled it off.

And her breasts…

She turned suddenly to him.

“So why are two Bureau of Investigations agents interested?” asked Frau Gerste.

She gave him the look. It wasn’t really approval. It was… something more basic. Nuri, blood thumping in his temples, was temporarily tongue-tied.

“He’s not with the Bureau,” said Gregor.

“No?”

“I’m a liaison with State,” said Nuri, preferring not to use the words Central Intelligence Agency if at all possible. “We—there may be a national security connection.”

“National security? Because of the Wolves? Ah. So you believe that?”

He had Frau Gerste’s interest. Maybe he should admit to being with the CIA. Some women liked the excitement it implied.

“These things have to be checked,” said Nuri apologetically. “But we do have a lot of resources. Perhaps they can be of help.”

“What sort of resources?”

“DNA sampling. If you have something from the scene—”

“Nothing. We have our own labs. But we found nothing.”

“Well, if we had access to billing done in the area, we might be able to find a pattern,” offered Nuri.

“Billing?”

“Credit card payments, that sort of thing. Restaurants. See if the place was under surveillance. The person or persons might have bought something in the area. It’d be a long shot.”

“German law makes that difficult to obtain,” said Frau Gerste. Indeed it did, which was why he had to ask; the credit card companies would not simply part with the information, even to their American counterparts. “And that would be a needle in the haystack, I think you say.”