“A beer, please.” Vance forced an American accent into his ordinarily flawless German.
The barman glared back at him for several seconds before shoving a full glass under his nose. He knew that look very well. Strangers, especially foreigners, are not welcome, it said. He ignored it and sipped his beer.
“You have some business here, perhaps, mein Herr?”
Vance looked up. The speaker was a stout, red-faced man. Grease stains down the broad front of his brown wool sweater suggested he was a mechanic, a sloppy eater, or both.
“I’m looking for a man who owns a boat.”
“Really.” The fat man’s piggy eyes almost disappeared as he grinned broadly. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place, friend. Hasn’t he, boys?”
The room exploded in laughter.
Vance waited for them to quiet down, smiling faintly. When he had their attention again, he went on. “I meant a particular trawler. The Witchmaiden. I’d like to speak to her captain about a quick… charter… I have in mind.”
The other man had obviously elected himself spokesman for everyone present. He chuckled again. “Old Hummel’s boat? Then you’re too late.”
“I am?”
“Ja. Somebody else already beat you to it. Put cold cash right in that sour fart’s hot palm.” The big man gestured with his own beer. “Naturally old Hummel legged it off that floating wreck before they could think twice. And nobody around here has seen him since!”
“Bastard owed me money, too,” one of the other sailors muttered.
“Half the town, more like. But it would have cost the buyers more than the boat cost to settle all his debts.” The fat man drained the rest of his beer and then glanced at the American. “Maybe they were some of your competitors, eh?” he asked shrewdly.
“Maybe.” Vance said it as casually as he could. He shrugged. “Those damned Swedes are always fast off the mark.”
The fat man shook his head in amusement. “They weren’t Swedes, friend.” He pointed to the bar around them. “We know them very well here.”
The CIA agent nodded his understanding. One of the guidebooks he’d consulted had said Wismar was once a Swedish foothold on German soil — all the way up to the early 1900s, if he remembered right. He’d mentioned Sweden deliberately to turn the conversation toward nationalities.
He wanted to forge ahead faster, to ask outright who had bought the boat, but he pulled back at the last second. Dragging useful data from these clannish fishermen was like making your way through a minefield. You couldn’t move too fast. “You look thirsty. Another?” He raised his own glass.
The German smiled contentedly. “My thanks.”
Vance looked around for the barman and frowned. He wasn’t there. The man had vanished sometime during the conversation, leaving a harried-looking assistant in his place. He’d probably dodged out to avoid being forced to sell another drink to an American. Well, screw him. He tapped his glass on the bar to get the assistant’s attention. “More beers, please. One for me. And the rest for these good gentlemen here.”
That earned him several more smiles.
In the end it took him several drinks and nearly half an hour to bring the conversation back around to the Witchmaiden’s new owners.
“Who, them? They’re French. Not that they want us to know that. Secrets, eh?” The big German tapped his own nose and winked. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took another swig. “Standoffish bunch, aren’t they, boys?”
His companions nodded their agreement.
“You’re sure of that? That they’re French, I mean.”
“Very sure.” The fat man snorted. “Snail-eaters with too much money and too little sense, if you ask me.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Who else would be stupid enough to pay Hummel all that money for a boat and then leave her sitting after just one trip?”
Vance sipped his own beer to buy time and stay calm. This was what he’d been waiting for. “A trip?”
“Ja. Last month.” The German grinned. “I thought that would interest you. Maybe they were on a little jaunt across the water to bring back a few crates of untaxed whiskey? Or some other luxury goods, eh?”
The CIA officer nodded vaguely, listening with only one ear while the sailors batted back and forth their own ideas about the Witchmaiden’s illicit cargo. He was busy trying to evaluate his next move. Should he keep digging or head back to Berlin?
Berlin, he decided. Although all the evidence he’d gathered was only circumstantial, it was strong enough to warrant further investigation by more experienced personnel. He’d narrowed the field down to one trawler in one small German town. That should be good enough. Once America and Great Britain flooded Wismar with trained criminal investigators, there would be too much international publicity for the French to sweep things under the rug.
But first he’d better phone in a preliminary report. Berlin was a long drive away, and his superiors would need time to assemble the right team. He disengaged himself from the small circle still arguing the relative profits to be made from smuggled liquor or other products.
The barman was back, still with the same angry look and sullen disposition.
“Is there a telephone here?” Vance asked.
“Down the hall.” The man jerked a thumb toward the door he’d just come in. “By the bathroom.”
The American nodded. He tossed a wad of newly issued franc-marks on the bar. “Another round for my friends there, please.” With a cheerful wave toward the sailors, he headed toward the phone.
As he’d expected, the chief of station wanted him back in Berlin that same night, if not sooner. His photos of the fishing trawler were about to become a very hot commodity in Washington and London.
It took him longer than he expected to say his good-byes. The Old Swede’s customers were reluctant to let their newfound source of free drinks make a quick escape. He finally broke lose with the promise to come back after conferring with his “business partners.”
Night had come to Wismar by the time Vance stepped outside, shivering in the sudden cold. At least, the rain had stopped falling while he’d been inside the bar. He zipped his windbreaker up, stuck both hands in his pockets, and walked briskly toward his car — awash on a small tide of beer and general contentment. Despite all the obstacles he’d faced, he’d finished his first assignment with flying colors.
He never saw the two men closing in behind him from a darkened alley.
One of the two French agents knelt beside the American, going through his pockets with practiced hands. The other put two fingers to his mouth and whistled softly, signaling an unmarked van waiting around the corner. That done, he looked down. “Is he dead?”
“No. I only gave him a quick tap on the back of the skull.” The kneeling man straightened up. “Here we go.” He held out Vance’s rental car keys.
“Good.”
The van pulled up beside them. Two more men hopped out through its open side door. Working fast, they picked the unconscious CIA agent off the pavement and bundled him inside. The van was moving almost before they’d climbed back aboard and slammed the door shut.
As the vehicle’s taillights disappeared from view, the team leader turned to his subordinate. “Right. You know the drill. Pay the bartender what we promised. Then bring the American’s car to the rendezvous point. We’ll search it there.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be along. First, I’ve got to call the director and tell him about our little problem here.” He frowned, anticipating his likely orders from Paris. The head of the DGSE never liked leaving loose ends lying around.