'All right,' I told Thrower. 'What street?' 'Eiderstrasse. I shall be moving to the Prinzen, nearby.'
'When?
'I'll be leaving here in a few minutes; I was hanging on in case you signalled.' There was something about his voice that was different, I thought. It was just as smooth, but there was a note of frustration coming through. It wasn't because of what had happened in the underground garage; I hadn't told him about it yet because I didn't want to waste time.
I said, 'I'll wait for your call. How long?'
'We should be able to debrief in about an hour.'
'Where?
'I'll tell you when I phone.'
'All right.' On a thought – 'Have they got Helen Maitland to the airport yet?'
In a moment he said, 'In point of fact, no. She's missing.'
The place smelt of leather and coconut matting and sweat.
'Come on in,' he said.
He was a big man with thick black hair on his bare arms and a round pink head with tiny blue eyes in it that looked as though they could bore through the steel door of a strong room. Thrower had told me his name was Jim, and that was all. The battered sign outside said Jim's Gym. Someone was bashing at a punching-bag.
'Thank you,' I said, and he stood back for me. We'd exchanged paroles.
They were mostly boys in here, some with black eyes.
I couldn't have shown anything on my face but Jim said, They didn't get them here. They got beaten up by their fathers. My job's to stop it happening again.' His eyes shifted a little. He's waiting for you up there,' he said.
He led me across to some stairs in the corner.
Thrower was on the first floor in a room used for storing things, mostly half-broken furniture and a few car seats with the stuffing coming out. It was freezing in here.
'Come along in,' Thrower said.
'Is there any water around?' I was thirsty.
'I don't think so. Downstairs, perhaps.'
'And no bloody heating?' 'I didn't ask.'
He looked as smooth as he sounded, Thrower, what you'd call well-groomed, almost as bad as that bastard Loman, although this man's shoes weren't polished: he was wearing furlined boots. A long face, pale eyes, a tight mouth, fresh cuts from shaving, a short man, thin, hands in the pockets of his elegant black coat, nothing I could see to like about him, but then I wasn't in the mood.
'What happened,' I asked him, 'to Helen Maitland?'
'We'll get to that,' he said.
I was warned. It sounded as though he was used to calling the shots.
'What exactly do you mean,' I asked him, 'she's "missing"?'
He turned away – impatiently, I think. He would have to improve, this man Thrower, he would have to improve a great deal. My hands were in my coat pockets too but it wasn't just to keep them warm; they were still shaking from the reaction: those bastards had come very close indeed to writing me off and it had been noisy down there and I hate loud noises.
'I began calling her room,' Thrower said carefully, 'at seven o'clock this morning, to give her comfortable time to catch the plane. There was no answer. I called her twice more at intervals of ten minutes, then I phoned security and told them I thought there could be something wrong. They let me into her room. She wasn't there and she hadn't packed, not even her toilet things.'
'She leave any kind of note?'
'I couldn't find one. I -'
'What about -' and he stopped and waited for me. 'All right,' I said, 'go on.'
'I talked to the doorman, who said that Mrs Maitland had left the hotel at about 6.30, saying that she didn't want a taxi, she wanted to take some air. She had a coat on. That is all I can tell you.'
My fists were clenched in my pockets, to stop the shaking. I said, 'Have you phoned the Steglitz since you left there?'
'Ten minutes ago, from my hotel.'
'And she's not back?'
'No.'
Do you want to come in for a little while?
She'd been shivering, standing there outside her door, her hands pressing the collar of her coat against her cheeks. I'd said no, she needed sleep.
Just for a few minutes.
She'd leaned her head against me, and I'd held her until the shivering had stopped. I had to make some calls, I'd told her.
I'm cold, and a bit frightened, that's all.
And I'd told her to call room service, ask for some hot milk and Horlicks. That is what I had told her.
Thrower was watching me.
She'd asked me to come in for a few minutes because she was cold and frightened. Jesus Christ, it wasn't much to ask, was it?
'I've informed London.'
'What?'
Thrower, saying he'd informed London.
'I'd hope so,' I told him, 'I would very much hope so.'
Something hooted, down there outside the building, a barge, I suppose, on the river. Fog still clung to the water, but the sun was throwing a clear cold light across the buildings on the other side.
'Why don't we sit down?' Thrower said, and I looked at him.
'And what did London say they'd do?'
'All that's necessary.'
'We brought her out here, you know that? The Bureau brought her out here, on my recommendation. So they'd better bloody well find her again, hadn't they?
He turned away, turned back, and I didn't like the way he did that, he wanted me to see how very patient he was being with me. 'Look, Thrower, if they don't find -' and I stopped. In the silence I could hear the thumping of the punch-bag downstairs. It was freezing cold in here and I'd just come out of an action phase and I'd have to get some control back, especially if this man Thrower was going to run me in the field. I'd need some patience too.
'You don't have to feel any guilt,' he said, 'about this.'
'I don't?'
'The recommendation to bring her out here was yours, but the decision was London's. You -'
'Split hairs if you like.'
'You also blamed yourself, I'm told, for what happened to McCane.' He took a step towards me, perhaps because I'd been raising my voice and he wanted to keep things quiet. 'Didn't you?'
'Is this place all right? Is it a safe-house?'
'The safest in Berlin.'
'McCane? Yes, that was my -' and I stopped again. I wasn't under control, didn't sound under control.