The Engraver From Munich by Michael Lieberman

Author:Michael Lieberman [Lieberman, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-12T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Fremdling was not sure how he was going to finesse the morning. He had finished the new acetate likeness of Lincoln and was preparing to transfer it to wax, which he would apply to a steel die. He was at a standstill: He had told Hobart that he needed the blowtorch to temper the die. Without it the transfer would not take. And it had not come.

He sat vacantly and then slipped from his chair and began to pace the room, stopping now and then to sip his lukewarm coffee, which he had placed on the floor in a corner well away from his workbench. He paused at the storefront window and peeled back a corner of the brown wrapping paper. Where was the UPS truck? He had to have that blowtorch. Without it he did not see how he could extricate himself.

Sometime after ten Hobart shouted from the front, "Hey, old man, your package is here." He walked out, catching sight of the brown truck as it pulled away.

"You want me to carry it back for you?"

"No, I can manage. Perfect timing. I’m about ready to temper the die and begin transferring the image of Lincoln."

The blowtorch came as two parts: the MAPP gas cylinder and the torch itself. These he carried to his workspace where he fit them together. He held the assembled torch this way and that, decided it had just the right heft, and placed it to his immediate left on the workbench. "There, Clara, we are in business." The American design was different from the one he had used back in Germany when he had repaired the plumbing at their summer cottage in der Schwarzwald some years ago. He looked at the newer version—a 10-inch yellow cylinder of MAPP gas, fitted to the torch itself with its trigger starter and broad cylindrical tip. He reached out, picked it up, turned the starter to the on position, and pressed. A tongue of blue flame—3,200 degrees, give or take—hissed out. An oxyacetylene torch would have been far hotter, but in considering his needs, he gave priority to portability and ease of use. He turned it off, set it down, caressed the yellow cylinder, and closed his eyes. "Well, Clara, well, well, well."

Carso calls Ramsberg’s cell. Without pleasantries, he says, "Your lady love, did she arrive last night?"

Ramsberg explains that she was tied up with a client. "At least that’s what she said. I didn’t push her. Brad and Hannah will pick her up at noon and bring her out to the yacht. It’s under control. And you, what do you know?"

"First, forget your sweet Connie. She doesn’t exist. But you already know that. I went to her place last night. It’s empty. Dagmar Levi has scrammed. If she shows up at the marina, I’ll be amazed. I don’t know who she is or who she works for, but she’s been trained. The Russians, Mossad, the CIA, MI6, Breitfeld, somebody. There is nothing innocent about her. The

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