Bang of a door and the nerves jerked and I watched the man going along the passage to the elevator, the man who had been in the office across the corner. His room was dark now.
Only two others were still lit, but the passage itself was bright under the argon tubes. They would be left going all night, for the janitors.
I could see six faces from where I sat, two of them substantial except tier the filming of the glass, four of them reflections. From where they sat they could see three faces, all of them mine.
Movement attracts the eye at the periphery of the vision-field; nothing is actually seen, only movement, but it brings attention, and turns the head. It took time, therefore, to reach the filing cabinet in the corner, perhaps fifteen minutes. It wasn't important; but I'd had to move in the chair, lowering my body behind the desk, by imperceptible degrees, and by the time I was at the filing cabinet in the corner of the room the muscles were trembling from the strain. But there were no faces in the windows now.
There wouldn't be anything on Trumpeter here in the cabinet; even if the drawers were locked it'd be dangerously accessible: there'd be a wall-safe somewhere and I would look for it. But this was the only corner of the room where I was invisible, so I could do some work here to pass the time. The man who had left his office wouldn't be the last; the other two would follow — there wasn't, after all, a night-shift here. If I were wrong then I'd have to rethink.
The drawers were locked but I'd brought the keys I'd been looking for in the desk and I used them now.
Aircraft deployment — States of Readiness — Estimated Scramble Delay.
The second drawer held personnel statistics, the third drawer an inventory of ordnance and specialised weaponry, the fourth a breakdown of the fighter units and their strategical disposition throughout the Democratic Republic. The bottom drawer was more interesting: Werneuchen Base: Deployment of Aircraft — Availability of Optimum Strength — Personnel.
It didn't surprise me that Werneuchen was featured and had an entire drawer to itself. My air base, Werneuchen, is in the front line of the war. Lena Pabst, her dark eyes shimmering. I am in the front line of the last war on earth, and when it's over I shall still be here to see the dawn of the new world.
But for a bullet.
Werneuchen: the focus of Trumpeter was on Werneuchen, and I left the bottom drawer unlocked in case there was a chance of taking anything with me when I left here. The whole cabinet was stuffed with the type of classified product worth mounting a specific documentation snatch on its own, but if I took away everything I came across tonight I'd need a truck outside.
I moved to the next corner, where there were three more files, and I had the keys in my hand when a panel of light in the environment went out and I froze. Sound of voices, footsteps. I watched the six reflections and saw them come together and part again where the panels of glass formed a corner. The footsteps were fainter now. Sound of the elevator doors thumping open, thumping shut.
Totally alone, and I got going in earnest, opening the three files and ransacking them for any material in code, because there'd be nothing on Trumpeter in plain text. I still believed there was a safe somewhere, in a wall or in the floor, and I slammed the last drawer of the third cabinet shut and began looking for it, and within the next half hour I'd sounded every inch of the walls and the panels of the desk and the base of the carved ottoman that was the only decorative piece of furniture in the room.
Sound.
Freeze.
Elevators. Not the doors, just the machinery, the low whine of the motors.
Doors now.
This floor.
I'd worked thoroughly but I'd covered my tracks and there was nothing in sight that hadn't been there when I'd first come into the office. From where I was standing now I could see two reflections of the elevator and the three figures in the corridor.
Steady the breathing, stabilise the nerves.
They weren't janitors: I couldn't see clearly through the reflecting panels but their peaked caps were distinct.
Walking steadily, keeping in step, talking; I could hear their voices now.
Didn't move. Watched. It would be ten or twelve seconds before they reached the corner and came into full sight of Room 60 and if one of them raised his head and looked straight in front of him he would see me clearly. One of two things was going to happen. When they reached the corner they would keep straight on and move out of sight, or they would turn and come in this direction and either pass Room 60 or come in.
A gleam of brass on their caps: two of them were high ranking. A civilian in the middle — he could be Melnichenko.
I waited. Tidal breathing, the itch of sweat as it gathered on the scalp. They were still talking. Then they reached the corner and turned in this direction and came on without stopping.
Rat in a trap.
18: VERTIGO
'I would have liked to be presented to him.'
'Of course. But it's my understanding that — Hans, will you sit here? — it's my understanding that the chiefs of service haven't been invited to the press luncheon. They're playing down the military side of things during this particular visit.'
'I shall be over at Werneuchen that day, in any case. The — '
'On the Pabst matter?'
'Yes. It's unsettling — she was highly respected and devoted to the Party. Does anyone feel a draught?'
'Draught?'
'Yes, this window's not quite shut.'
A bus halted at the lights.
The window was shut now; the latch had clicked home.
Traffic was slowing behind the bus: two or three cars and a taxi.
I could still hear voices but they weren't intelligible now that the window was shut.
Cold. It was very cold here.
The lights went to green and the traffic moved off, the bus leaving a cloud of diesel smoke drifting across the street. I couldn't smell it from here.
The ledge was less than a foot wide. I had to angle my feet.
He would be Melnichenko, the man who said he was going over to Werneuchen. He was the only one with a Russian accent, and the others wouldn't be interested in whether Lena Pabst was devoted to the Party or not. So it would have been strictly no go if I'd stayed in the room — Melnichenko's own office. But this might not be any better: I was seventy feet above the street and I could only shuffle sideways and if I put any pressure at all against the concrete behind me I would lose my balance, finis.
The windows of Room 60 had plastic blinds but they weren't totally opaque so I'd crabbed my way along the ledge until there was a wall behind me. I suppose if I felt the onset of fatigue or vertigo I could shuffle back to the windows and knock on them and think up an acceptable reason for being out here and look for a chance of getting clear while the military police were taking me along for questioning, but I didn't like throwing in the towel without trying to find a better way out — an unfortunate metaphor, yes — if you threw a towel from here it would go floating and curling and dipping lower and lower until it met the street. A body would go straight down.
So Melnichenko was reported to have a file on Trumpeter in Room 60 and Lena Pabst had been got out of the way because she'd been infiltrating Trumpeter and Melnichenko himself would be at Werneuchen making enquiries. I was glad I'd phoned Yasolev. If I came unstuck from the side of this building at least I'd reported on Melnichenko and it might give them a clue, even provide a breakthrough.