His turn came. He gave the driver the names of two intersecting streets. The intersection was three blocks north and four blocks west of the hotel. The driver grinned and spoke in thickly accented but perfectly understandable English.
«You wish a little fun? I have friends, Herr Amerikaner. No risk of the French sickness.»
«You’ve got me wrong. I’m doing sociological research.»
«Wie?»
«I’m meeting my wife.»
They drove in silence through the streets of Berlin. With each turn they made, Noel watched for a car somewhere behind them that made the same turn. A few did, but none for any length of time. He recalled Helden’s words: They often use radios. Such a simple thing as a change of coat or the wearing of a hat will throw them off. Those receiving instructions will look for a man in a jacket and no hat, but he is not there.
Were there unseen men watching for a certain taxi and a certain passenger wearing certain clothing? He would never know; he knew only that no one appeared to be following him now.
During the twenty-odd minutes it took to reach the intersection, night had come. The streets were lined with gaudy neon signs and suggestive posters. Young fair-haired cowboys coexisted with whores in slit skirts and low-cut blouses. It was another sort of carnival, thought Holcroft, as he walked south for the prescribed three blocks, toward the corner where he would turn left.
He saw a prostitute in a doorway, applying lipstick to her generous mouth. She was in that indeterminate age bracket so defiantly obscured by whores and chic suburban housewives—somewhere between thirty-five and forty-eight, and losing the fight. Her hair was jet black, framing her pallid white skin, her eyes deep, hollowed with shadows. Beyond, on the next block, he could see the shabby hotel’s marquee, one letter shorted out in its neon sign.
He approached her, not entirely sure what to say. His lacking German was not his only impediment: He had never picked up a whore in the streets.
He cleared his throat. «Good evening, Fräulein? Can you speak English?»
The woman returned his look, coolly at first, appraising his cloth topcoat. Then her eyes dropped to the suitcase in his right hand, the attaché case in his left. She parted her lips and smiled; the teeth were yellow. «Ja, mein American friend. I speak good. I show you a good time.»
«I’d like that. How much?»
«Twenty-five deutsche marks.»
«I’d say the negotiations are concluded. Will you come with me?» Holcroft took his money clip from his pocket, peeled off three bills, and handed them to the woman. «Thirty deutsche marks. Let’s go to that hotel down the street.»
«Wohin?»
Noel gestured at the hotel in the next block. «There,» he said.
«Gut,» said the woman, taking his arm.
The room was like any room in a cheap hotel in a large city. If there was a single positive feature, it was to be found in the naked light bulb in the ceiling. It was so dim it obscured the stained, broken furniture.
«Dreissig Minuten,» announced the whore, removing her coat and draping it over a chair with a certain military élan. «You have one half hour, no more. I am, as you Americans say, a businessman. My time is valuable.»
«I’m sure it is,» said Holcroft. «Take a rest or read something. We’ll leave in fifteen or twenty minutes. You’ll stay with me and help me make a phone call.» He opened the attaché case and found the paper with the information on Erich Kessler. There was a chair against the wall; he sat down and started to read in the dim light.
«Ein Telephonanruf?» said the woman. «You pay thirty marks for me to do nothing for you but help you mit dem Telephon?»
«That’s right.»
«That is… verrückt!»
«I don’t speak German. I may have trouble reaching the person I’ve got to call.»
«Why do we wait here, then? There is Telephon by the corner.»
«For appearances, I guess.»
The whore smiled. «I am your Deckung.»
«What?»
«You take me up to a room, no one asks questions.»
«I wouldn’t say that,» replied Noel uneasily.
«It’s not my business, mein Herr.» She came over to his chair. «But as long as we’re here … why not have a little fun? You paid. I’m not so bad. I once looked better, but I’m not so bad.»
Holcroft returned her smile. «You’re not so bad at all. But no thanks. I’ve got a lot on my mind.»
«Then you do your work,» said the whore.
Noel read the information given to him by Ernst Manfredi a lifetime ago in Geneva.
Erich Kessler, Professor of History, Free University of Berlin. Dahlen district. Speaks fluent English. Contacts: University telephone—731–426. Residence—824–114. Brother named Hans, a doctor. Lives in Munich…
There followed a brief summary of Kessler’s academic career, the degrees obtained, the honors conferred. They were overwhelming. The professor was a learned man, and learned men often were skeptics. How would Kessler react to the call from an unknown American who traveled to Berlin without prior communication to see him about a matter he would not discuss over the telephone?
It was nearly six-thirty, time to find out the answer. And to change clothes. He got up, went to his suitcase, and took out the mackinaw and the visored cap. «Let’s go,» Noel said.
The prostitute stood by the phone booth while Holcroft dialed. He wanted her nearby in case someone other than Kessler answered, someone who did not speak English.
The line was busy. All around he could hear the sounds of the German language—emphatic conversations as couples and roving packs of pleasure seekers passed the telephone booth.
He wondered. If his mother had been anyone but Althene, would he be one of those outside the glass booth right now? Not where he was right now, but somewhere in Berlin, or Bremerhaven, or Munich? Noel Clausen. German.
What would his life have been like? It was an eerie feeling. Fascinating, repulsive … and obsessive. As if he had gone back in time, through the layers of his personal mist, and found a fork in a fog-bound road he might have taken but did not. That fork was reexamined now; where would it have led?
Helden? Would he have known her in that other life? He knew her now. And he knew that he wanted to get back to her as soon as he could; he wanted to see her again, and hold her again, and tell her that … things… were going to be all right. He wanted to see her laugh and have a life in which three changes of outer clothing and guns with silencers were not crucial to survival. Where the Rache and the ODESSA were no longer threats to sanity and existence.
A man answered the telephone, the voice deep and soft.
«Mr. Kessler? Doctor Kessler?»
«I shan’t cure any diseases, sir,» came the pleasant reply in English, «but the title is correct, if abused. What can I do for you?»
«My name is Holcroft. Noel Holcroft. I’m from New York. I’m an architect.»
«Holcroft? I have a number of American friends and, of course, university people with whom I correspond, but I don’t recognize the name.»
«No reason for you to; you don’t know me. However, I have come to Berlin to see you. There’s a confidential matter to discuss that concerns the two of us.»