There was no point in telling him that my department knew I was making the rendezvous and would be initiating an immediate search, because if the HUA had known about the rendezvous they would have filled the streets with patrol cars before we'd even got as far as Spandauerstrasse.
I think he'd understood what I'd said, though he didn't take any immediate interest; he was still looking at nothing in particular, his eyes blank, his entire presence impersonal, very like a customs officer who spends his day chewing people and spitting them out again without really enjoying the taste.
But now he was taking an interest; he'd been turning things over in his mind.
'Give me your wallet.'
I reached for my hip pocket, both hands together, and got the wallet and held it out for him so that he could look at my papers to see if I were telling the truth, but he wasn't a professional and his mood was perfectly calm because he'd got a gun on me and I was in handcuffs and there was nothing I could do and in this he was in error because my survival was threatened and the system was full of adrenalin and the nerves were singing with tension and the muscles taut as bowstrings and I raked the edge of my shoe down his shin with force enough to strip the flesh off the bone and bring a scream of agony as my foot impacted on the angle of his flying-boot with the whole weight of my body bearing down and the hips spinning and the hands driving against his gun-wrist and the links between the handcuffs snapping bone as the gun fired and I heard the bullet hit the wall behind me.
I think he was already unconscious before he hit the ground; with most people the degree of pain I'd induced will be enough to cross the threshold and demand relief and the only relief available is the cessation of awareness and the brain will look after things.
He shattered the leg of an antique chair as he went down with his face white and his neck twisting as his head rolled against the concrete floor and I left him there and crouched and picked up the gun and had it in my right hand with my left forearm across the small of my back to give me an adequate position for the aim as the door opened at the top of the steps and Pollock came down, no bright smile.
22: POLLOCK
'God,' he said quietly, 'what a mess.'
The pilot had vomited when he'd regained consciousness and the pain had started up again, but I don't think Pollock meant that; he meant the whole situation.
'Move over there,' I said, 'behind him. And don't let him get up.'
'I doubt if he can. But I've got to get him to a hospital.'
'Pollock,' I said, 'this isn't a fucking cricket club. Get over there.'
He moved now, but not because the gun worried him. That was my impression.
'If the other man comes down the steps,' I said, 'and you give him any kind of warning, I'm going to put a bullet straight into your head. Parlez-vous English?'
He gave a slow blink, as if keeping patience. 'Look, if I take the handcuffs off, will you put down the gun?'
'In that order, yes. But first we've got to wait for the other man to come back. I want his gun too.'
'His name's Schwarz,' he said, with a formality that would have amused me if I hadn't been so enraged. On the trip from the rendezvous I'd been certain they were going to shoot me as they'd shot Lena Pabst, and there was all that adrenalin still hanging around the blood and going sour. 'We need to talk,' Pollock said, and then a door opened and someone came down the steps and Pollock looked up. 'Jurgen, put your revolver on the floor, will you?'
The man took a look at things and began pulling his gun out of the holster and I said, 'Do it very carefully,' and he just used his finger and thumb on the butt as if it were something smelly, and laid it on the bottom step. Then he looked at the man on the floor.
'We'll get him to a doctor,' Pollock said.
I was still holding the gun with my left arm twisted behind my back and it was tiring. 'Pollock, come over here and stand with your back to me.'
The man on the floor was crooning over his broken wrist, his face still bloodless. He was the one who'd kept digging his gun into me on the way here.
'Closer,' I told Pollock, and he went on backing towards me until the muzzle of my revolver was touching his spine. Then I told the pilot in German, 'unlock these things.' I didn't need to tell him what would happen to Pollock's spine if anyone played about. Schwarz, Pollock had said his name was.
When the handcuffs were off my wrists I told them both to move into the corner behind the man on the floor.
'Schwarz, is that driver still up there in the van?'
'Yes.'
'Get him down here. If you're longer than two minutes I'm going to put your friend out of his misery.'
'Look — ' Pollock said.
'Shuddup.' I was in a rotten mood and it was their bloody fault.
Schwarz went and got the driver, a young low-ranker in a windcheater and boots, his movements sharp and circumspect in the presence of the pilots.
I looked at Pollock. 'Where is this place?'
'The cellar underneath the Club.'
I told the driver, 'Go upstairs and get a bucket of water and a cloth and come back and clear up that mess on the floor. Then you'll take the officer to the nearest medical centre. Now move.'
'Sir!'
'Pollock, you can light a cigarette. Schwarz too.'
It'd help cover the smell. I watched their hands as a matter of caution, but Pollock hadn't got anything on him or he'd have reached for it when he'd come down the steps and seen the mess.
I went over to the phone and dialled the hotel.
Second ring: Cone was nursing it.
'The rdv,' I told him, 'was set up to make a snatch. I've restored order and I'm now in the Trumpeter operations room, though it looks more like a junk shop: we're not dealing with a very sophisticated cell.
'Where is it?'
'I don't want you sending people around. Listen, I'm going to get all the information I can, and I'll phone you again in an hour, at 7:45. If I don't, call the British Ambassador and tell him that Pollock, his cultural attache, is in the Trumpeter cell, and by the look of it I'd say he's running things. But do not give that information to anyone unless I fail to call you. I don't want to blow this operation until I know what's happening, and there's an awful lot of stuff hitting the fan. With this man Pollock involved we've got a second UK connection, so we don't want to make any waves.'
Cigarette smoke drifting on the air. The driver came down the steps with a red plastic bucket with the Kronnenburg logo on it and started to clean up, making a lot of haste.
Cone: 'You can't do this.'
'What are you talking about?'
'I've got to signal London. You must realise that.'
'I'm not stopping you.'
'But I've got to tell them you've successfully penetrated Trumpeter, and — ' on a thought '- you are in charge there, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'That's very nice, but I can't tell Bureau One that you're in contact with me but you're totally alone in the centre of the opposition cell and refuse to let me know where it is.'
'Oh, for Christ's sake, I've had a long day. I'm — '
'I know, but you're not listening. What sort of director will I look like?'
I thought about it while the driver took the bucket up the steps, boots banging. I suppose it was the only way Cone knew he could break me down, by appealing to my respect for him.
'It's not your fault if I don't do things by the book.'
I heard him let out a breath. 'You are in — ' no contraction, articulating carefully '- the centre of an opposition cell and may at any time find yourself compromised, and when questions are asked later I shan't be able to explain why my executive lost all trust in me and refused all confidence.' His voice went very quiet. 'It's not a question of not doing things by the book. It's a question of manners.'