«Confidential?»
«Let’s say … a family matter.»
«Hans? Did something happen to Hans?»
«No…»
«I have no other family, Mr. Holcroft.»
«It goes back a number of years. I’m afraid I can’t say any more over the telephone. Please, trust me; it’s urgent. Could you possibly meet me tonight?»
«Tonight?» Kessler paused. «Did you arrive in Berlin today?»
«Late this afternoon.»
«And you want to see me tonight … This matter must, indeed, be urgent. I have to return to my office for an hour or so this evening. Would nine o’clock be satisfactory?»
«Yes,» said Noel, relieved. «Very satisfactory. Anyplace you say.»
«I’d ask you to my house, but I’m afraid I have guests. There’s a Lokal on the Kurfürstendamm. It’s often crowded, but they have quiet booths in the back and the manager knows me.»
«It sounds perfect.»
Kessler gave him the name and address. «Ask for my table.»
«I will. And thanks very much.»
«You’re quite welcome. I should warn you: I keep telling the manager that the food is grand. It isn’t, really, but he’s such a pleasant fellow and good to the students. See you at nine o’clock.»
«I’ll be there. Thanks again.» Holcroft put the phone back in its cradle, swept by a sudden feeling of confidence. If the man matched the voice over the telephone, Erich Kessler was intelligent, humorous, immensely likable. What a relief!
Noel hung up and smiled at the woman. «Thanks,» he said, giving her an additional ten marks.
«Auf wiedersehen.»
The whore turned and walked off. Holcroft watched her for a moment, but his attention was suddenly drawn to a man in a black leather jacket halfway down the short block. He stood in front of a bookstore, but he was not interested in the pornography displayed in the window. Instead, he was staring directly at Noel. As their eyes met, the man turned away.
Was he one of the enemy? A fanatic from the Rache? A maniac of the ODESSA?
Or perhaps someone assigned to him from the ranks of Wolfsschanze? He had to find out.
A confrontation is often the last thing surveillance wants. But if he does want it, you might as well know it…
Helden’s words. He would try to remember the tactics; he would use them now. He felt the bulges in the cloth of his mackinaw; weapon and silencer were there. He pulled the visor of his cap free of its snap, gripped the handle of his attaché case, and walked away from the man in the black leather jacket.
He hurried down the street, staying close to the curb, prepared to race out into the traffic. He reached the corner and turned right, walking swiftly into a crowd of spectators watching two life-size plastic manikins performing the sex act on a black bearskin rug. Holcroft was jostled; his attaché case was crushed against his leg, then pulled, as if being yanked aside by a victim of its sharp corners… Yanked, pulled—taken; his attaché case could be taken, the papers inside read by those who should never read them. He had not been totally stupid; he had removed Heinrich Clausen’s letter and the more informative sections of the Geneva document. No figures, no sources, only the bank’s letterhead and the names—meaningless legal gibberish to an ordinary thief, but something else entirely to the extraordinary one.
Helden had warned him about carrying even these, but he had countered with the possibility that the unknown Erich Kessler might think him a madman, and he needed fragments, at least, to substantiate his incredible story.
But now, if he was being followed, he had to leave the case in a place where it would not be stolen. Where? Certainly not at the hotel. A locker in a train station or bus depot? Unacceptable, because both were accessible; such places would be child’s play for the experienced thief.
Besides, he needed those papers—those fragments—for Erich Kessler. Kessler. The «Lokal.» The manager there knows me. Ask for my table.
The pub on the Kurfürstendamm. Going there now would serve two purposes: On the way, he could see if he was actually being followed; once there, he could either stay or leave his case with the manager.
He pushed his way into the street, looking for an empty taxi, glancing behind him for signs of surveillance—for a man in a black leather jacket. There was a cab in the middle of the block. He ran toward it.
As he entered, he spun around quickly. And he saw the man in the black leather jacket. He was not walking now. Instead, he was in the saddle of a small motorbike, propelling it along the curb with his left foot. There were a number of other bikes in the street, cruising in and out between the traffic.
The man in the black leather jacket stopped pushing his machine, turned away, and pretended to be talking with someone on the sidewalk. The pretense was too obvious; there was no one responding to his conversation. Noel climbed in the cab and gave the name and address of the pub. They drove off.
So did the man in the black leather jacket. Noel watched him through the rear window. Like the man in the green Fiat in Paris, this Berliner was an expert. He stayed several car lengths behind the taxi, swerving quickly at odd moments to make sure the object of his surveillance was still there.
It was pointless to keep watching. Holcroft settled back in the seat and tried to figure out his next move.
A confrontation is often the last thing surveillance wants… If he does … you might as well know it.
Did he want to know it? Was he prepared for confrontation? The answers were not easy. He was not someone who cared to test his courage deliberately. But in the forefront of his imagination was the sight of Richard Holcroft crushed into a building on a sidewalk in New York.
Fear provided caution; rage provided strength. The single answer was clear. He wanted the man in the black leather jacket. And he would get him.
24
He paid the driver and got out of the cab, making sure he could be seen by the man on the motorbike, who had stopped down the block.
Noel walked casually across the pavement to the pub and went inside. He stood on a platformed staircase and studied the restaurant. The ceilings were high, the dining area on a lower floor. The place was half full; layers of smoke were suspended in the air, and the pungent smell of aromatic beer drifted up the staircase. From the speaker system, Bavarian Biermusik could be heard. The wooden tables were placed in ranks throughout the central area. The furnishings were heavy, massive.
He saw the booths Kessler had described. They were along the rear wall and the sides: tables flanked by high-backed seats. Running across the fronts of the booths were brass rods holding red-checked curtains. Each booth could be isolated from its surroundings by drawing a curtain across the table, but with the curtains open one could sit at almost any booth and observe whoever came through the door at the top of the staircase.
Holcroft descended the stairs to a lectern at the bottom and spoke to a heavyset man behind it. «Pardon me, do you speak English?»
The man looked up from the reservation book in front of him. «Is there a restaurateur in Berlin who doesn’t, sir?»
Noel smiled. «Good. I’m looking for the manager.»
«You’ve found him. What can I do for you? Do you wish a table?»
«I think one’s been reserved. The name is Kessler.»
The manager’s eyes showed immediate recognition. «Oh, yes. He called not fifteen minutes ago. But the reservation was for nine o’clock. It is only—»
«I know,» interrupted Holcroft. «I’m early. You see, I’ve got a favor to ask.» He held up the attaché case. «I brought this for Professor Kessler. Some historical papers lent him by the university in America where I teach. I have to meet some people for an hour or so, and wondered if I could leave it here.»