The street… He knew something about the streets and crowds, he told Helden. One never knew enough, she replied, telling him to walk as close to the curb as possible, to be ready to dash out among the traffic at any sign of hostility or surveillance.
«Remember,» she said, «you’re the amateur, they’re the professionals. Use that position; turn your liability into an asset. The amateur does the unexpected, not because he’s clever or experienced but because he doesn’t know any better. Do the unexpected rapidly, obviously, as if confused. Then stop and wait. A confrontation is often the last thing surveillance wants. But if he does want it, you might as well know it. Shoot. You should have a silencer; we’ll get you one in the morning. I know where.»
He turned, stunned, unable to speak. She saw the astonishment in his eyes. «I’m sorry,» she said, leaning forward, smiling sadly and kissing him.
They talked through most of the night, the teacher and the pupil, lover and lover. Helden was obsessed; she would invent situations and then demand that he tell her what he would do in the hypothetical circumstances.
«You’re on a train, walking through a narrow corridor; you’re carrying important papers. A man comes toward you from the opposite direction; you know him; he’s the enemy. There are people behind you; you can’t go back. What do you do?»
«Does the man—the enemy—want to hurt me?»
«You don’t know. What do you do? Quickly!»
«Keep going, I guess. Alert, expecting the worst.»
«No, my darling! The papers. You’ve got to protect them! You trip; you fall to the floor!»
«Why?»
«You’ll draw attention to yourself; people will help you up. The enemy won’t make his move in that situation. You create your own diversion.»
«With myself,» said Nod, seeing the point.
«Exactly.»
It went on, and on, and on, until the teacher and the pupil were exhausted. They made quiet love and held each other in the comfort of their warmth, the world outside a faraway thing. Finally, Helden fell asleep, her head on his chest, her hair covering her face.
He lay awake for a while, his arm across her shoulders, and wondered how a girl who’d been entranced by The Wizard of Oz had grown up to become so skilled a practitioner in arts of deception and escape. She was from another world, and he had entered that world with alarming speed.
They awoke too late for Helden to go to work.
«It’s just as well,» she said, reaching for the phone. «We have shopping to do. My supervisor will accept a second day of illness. I think she’s in love with me.»
«I think I am too,» said Noel, letting his fingers trace the curve of her neck. «Where do you live?»
She looked at him, smiling as she gave the number to the operator. Then she covered the mouthpiece. «You’ll not extract vital information by appealing to my baser instincts. I’m trained, remember?» She smiled again.
And was maddening again. «I’m serious. Where do you live?»
The smile disappeared. «I can’t tell you.» She removed her hand from the telephone and spoke rapidly in French to the Gallimard switchboard.
An hour later they drove into Paris, first stopping at his hotel, to pick up his things, then moving on to a district profuse with secondhand-clothing stores. The teacher once more asserted her authority; she chose the garments with a practiced eye. The clothes she selected for the pupil were nondescript, difficult to spot in a crowd.
A mackinaw and a brown topcoat were added to his raincoat. A battered country walking hat; a dark fedora, its crown battered; a black cap whose visor fell free of the snap. All were well worn. But not the shoes; they were new. One pair with thick crêpe soles; a second, less informal, whose leather soles were the base for a layer of rubber attached by a shoemaker down the street.
The shoe-repair shop was four blocks away from a shabby storefront. Helden went in alone, instructing him to remain outside. She emerged ten minutes later with a perforated cylinder, the silencer for his automatic.
He was being outfitted with uniforms and the proper weapon. He was being processed and sent into combat after the shortest period of basic training one could imagine. He had seen the enemy. Alive and following him … and then dead in the streets and alleyways of a village called Montereau-faut-Yonne. Where was the enemy now?
Helden was confident they had lost him for a while. She thought the enemy might pick him up at the airport, but once in Berlin, he could lose that enemy again.
He had to. She wanted him back; she would be waiting.
They stopped at a small café for lunch and wine. Helden made a final phone call and returned to the booth with the name of a hotel in Berlin. It was in the Hurenviertel, that section of the city where sex was an open commodity.
She held his hand, her face next to his; in minutes he would go out on the street alone and hail a taxi for Orly Airport.
«Be careful, my darling.»
«I will.»
«Remember the things I’ve told you. They may help.»
«I’ll remember.»
«The hardest thing to accept is that it’s all real. You’ll find yourself wondering, why me? why this? Don’t think about it; just accept it.»
Nothing is as it was for you. Nothing can ever be the same.
«I have. I’ve also found you.»
She glanced away, then turned back to him. «When you get to Berlin, near the hotel, pick up a whore in the street. It’s a good protective device. Keep her with you until you make contact with Kessler.»
The Air France 707 made its final approach into Tempelhof Airport. Noel sat on the right side of the plane, in the third seat on the aisle, the space next to him unoccupied.
You have money; buy an extra seat … and don’t let anyone sit next to you; don’t get hemmed in.
The ways of survival, spoken by a survivor, thought Holcroft. And then he remembered that his mother had called herself a survivor. Althene had taken a certain pride in the term, her voice four thousand miles away, over the telephone.
She had told him she was taking a trip. It was her way of going into hiding for several weeks, the methods of evasion and concealment learned more than thirty years ago. God, she was incredible! Noel wondered where she would go, what she would do. He would call Sam Buonoventura, in Curaçao, in a few days. Sam might have heard from her by then.
The customs inspection at Tempelhof was swift. Holcroft walked into the terminal, found the men’s room, and reassembled his gun.
As instructed, he took a taxi to the Tiergarten park. Inside the cab, he opened his suitcase, changed into the worn brown topcoat and the battered walking hat. The car stopped; he paid the fare, got out, and walked into the park, sidestepping strollers, until he found an empty bench, and sat down. He scanned the crowds; no one stopped or hesitated. He got up quickly and headed for an exit. There was a taxi stand nearby; he stood in line, glancing around unobtrusively to see if he could spot the enemy. It was difficult now to single out anything or anyone specifically; the late-afternoon shadows were becoming longer and darker.