Castillo was pleased.
“After that happened a couple of times,” he went on, “they started placing their mines on the other side of the fence. That was out of range of the catapult—”
“Excuse me, Herr Gossinger,” a maid said as she entered the room and extended a portable telephone to Castillo. “It’s the American embassy in Berlin. They say it’s important.”
“Thank you,” Castillo said, and reached for the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Have I Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger?” a male voice asked in German.
Sounds like a Berliner, Castillo thought. Some local hire who will connect me with some Foggy Bottom bureaucrat too important to make his own calls.
“Ja.”
“My name is Tom Barlow, Colonel Castillo,” the caller said, now in faultless American English. “Sorry to bother you so early in the day, but the circumstances make it necessary.”
Okay, the American guy speaks perfect German. So what? So do I. So do Edgar and Jack.
But he called me “Colonel Castillo”?
“What circumstances are those, Mr. Barlow?” Castillo asked, switching to English.
“I thought that you would be interested to know that an attempt will be made on your life today during the services for Herr Friedler. Actually, on yours and those of Herr Görner and Herr Kocian.”
“You’re right. I find that fascinating. Are you going to tell me how this came to the attention of the embassy?”
“Oh, the embassy doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Okay, then how did it come to your attention?”
“I ordered it. I’ll explain when we meet. But watch your back today, Colonel. The workers are ex-Stasi and are very good at what they do.”
There was a click and the line went dead.
Castillo looked at his godchildren. They were looking impatiently at him to continue the stories of fun and games with Communists in the good old days.
[THREE]
When Castillo had been growing up in das Haus im Wald, he lived in a small apartment—a bedroom, a bath, and a small living room—on the left of the Big Room on the third floor. It had been his Onkel Willi’s as a boy. To the right had been “The Herr Oberst’s Apartment,” twice the size and with one more bedroom that had been converted into sort of a library with conference table.
Everyone still referred to it as The Herr Oberst’s Apartment, but it was now where Castillo was housed. Enough of the Herr Oberst’s furniture had been moved out to accommodate Karlchen’s bed and childhood possessions. The furniture removed had gone into the smaller apartment, which was now referred to as “Onkel Billy’s Apartment.”
Castillo had wondered idly who had made the decision for the change, but had never been curious enough to ask.
He remembered that now—probably because of the soap opera and history lectures, he thought—as he led everyone into The Herr Oberst’s Apartment.
The room assignment was to mark the pecking order.
Although occupied as a perk by our managing director and his family, the house in fact belongs to Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H.
I am the majority stockholder thereof, and so have been given the larger apartment. And Billy, because he owns what stock I don’t, has the smaller apartment.
But who made the assignment—Billy or Otto?
“I hated to run the boys off that way,” Castillo said as he waved everybody into chairs around the conference table. “But I didn’t think they should hear this.”
“Who was on the phone, Ace?” Delchamps asked as he sat down and pushed toward Castillo an ashtray that had been made from a large boar’s foot.
“The name Tom Barlow mean anything to anybody?” Castillo asked as he found, bit the end off, and then carefully lit a cigar.
When everyone had shrugged or shaken his head or said no—or various combinations thereof—Castillo continued: “This guy told the maid—probably in German—that he was from our embassy in Berlin and wanted to speak to Gossinger. When I got on the line, he asked me—in German, Berliner’s accent—if I was Gossinger, and then, when I said I was, he switched to English—American, perfect, sounded midwestern—called me Colonel Castillo, said his name was Tom Barlow, and that he hated to call but thought I would be interested to learn that an attempt will be made on my life—and on Otto’s and Billy’s—during the Friedler funeral.”
“My God!” Görner said.
“I asked him how the embassy came into this information, and he said that the embassy didn’t know. Then I asked him how he knew. And he said because he had ordered the hits, and that he would explain that when we met, and that I should be careful as the hitters are ex-Stasi and good at what they do.”
“Why do I think we’ve just heard from the SVR?” Edgar Delchamps said. “I wonder what they’re up to.”
“You think this threat is credible?” Görner asked. “That the SVR is involved?”
“I think it’s credible enough for us to stay away from the funeral,” Castillo said.
“Prefacing this by saying I’m going to Günther Friedler’s services,” Billy Kocian said, “what I think they’re up to, Edgar, is trying to frighten us, and I have no intention of giving them that satisfaction.” He paused and looked at Castillo. “There will be police all over, Karl. The SVR is not stupid. They are not going to spray the mourners with submachine gun fire or detonate a bomb in Saint Elisabeth’s.”
“Uncle Billy has a point, Ace,” Delchamps said.
“Karl, what I think we should do is contact the police,” Görner said, “the Bundeskriminalamt. . . .”
“Otto,” Castillo said, “we’re pressed for time. We don’t have time to convince the local cops or the Bundeskriminalamt that there even is a threat. All we have is the telephone call to me. And I’m not about to tell the local cops, much less the Bundeskriminalamt, that this guy called Gossinger is really ‘Colonel Castillo.’ And unless I did, they would decide that all we have is a crank call from some lunatic.”
“So what do you suggest?” Görner replied.
“The first thing we do is circle the wagons.”
“What?” Görner asked.
“Set up our own defense perimeter,” Castillo said. “Protect ourselves. Everybody’s here but the FBI. Now, we don’t know if these people know about Yung and Doherty, but we have to presume they do. So the first thing we do is get them out of the Europäischer Hof.”
“Get them out to where?” Kocian asked.
“Someplace in the open,” Castillo said. “Where we can meet them and where we can see people approaching.” He paused and then went on: “I think Billy’s right. We should not let these bastards think they’ve scared us. Which means we will go to Saint Elisabeth’s. You game for that, Otto?”
“Of course,” Görner said firmly after hesitating just long enough to make Castillo suspect he really didn’t think that was such a good idea.
“The boys and Helena?” Kocian asked.
“Surrounded by our security people,” Castillo said. “Not sitting with us. We have reserved seats?”
“Of course,” Görner said. “But I can change the arrangements for them.”
“Okay. Now, what we need is a place in the open not too far from Saint Elisabeth’s where we can meet. Suggestions?”
No one had any suggestions.
Finally, Castillo had one: “Otto, you know the place, the walk, just below the castle? That’s open, not far from the church. . . .”
Görner nodded.
“That’d do it,” he said.
“How quick can we get our security people over to the Europäischer Hof to take Yung and Doherty there?” Castillo asked. “They’re armed, right?”