They drove in from the west, on the 243 through Gunzerode, and along the cracked road that led past the IFA Motorenwerk where they once made bicycles and now were being upgraded to motorbikes. It was nearly five in the evening when they finally reached the centre of Nordhausen.
The car rattled along, crossing the myriad narrow gauge loco tracks that ran between the factories lining the route. Three sets of lights later, they came into the town centre, a wide boulevard that sloped up a hill with the shops and offices set back from the pavement. There was the usual panoply of McDonald's and other American fast food imports mixed with the traditional shops.
'Can we get a hamburger or a pizza?' asked a famished Billie.
'At the hotel. We'll be there soon.' It was a decision he was later to regret.
Adam pulled up and climbed out of the Audi Quattro to ask the way. Unlike their counterparts, East Germans had little opportunity to speak English and showed even less interest in remedying the situation. It took Adam nearly five minutes to find someone who could direct him to the Kurhotel in Yorckstrasse.
He drove back the way he had come and turned right just before the IFA Motorenwerk. Nine blocks down there, in the middle of the mass of square slabbed, drab yellow-and-green workers' apartments, he turned into Yorckstrasse. The Kurhotel was on the next block, a 1950's five-storey tower of glass and unpainted concrete that had once been the pride of East German architecture.
The receptionist, fat, well fed and dismissive of all before her, followed in the tradition of her countrymen and spoke little English. It suited Adam not to reply in German and he gesticulated wildly as he tried to make her understand. Eventually, after she had been joined by two others whose grasp of the English language was as poor as hers, they booked in to two rooms.
'Why two rooms?' asked Billie as they waited for the slow moving lift to ascend to the third floor.
'It's safer.'
'Who for?'
'For both of us. If somebody comes after us, then we've always got cover.'
'Bullshit,' she remarked and punched him in the arm as he grinned.
Their rooms were next to each other and identical. Shabby exercises in spartan comfort, designed to keep you out of the room and in the hotel lounge.
'I don't believe these beds,' groaned Billie, throwing her case on hers and seeing a cloud of dust rising from it. It was a single, narrow affair with a wafer thin mattress that sagged in the middle and was covered by a brown woolen blanket that had probably been there since the hotel was built. She looked round the room, furnished only with a small table, a steel chair with a plastic seat and a chest of drawers with a Formica top. The wardrobe was a hole in the wall with no door and a metal bar stretched across it.
She went next door to Adam who was hanging up his few belongings in his hole in the wall.
'Is this what they call European hospitality?' she asked.
'No. European culture.'
'I can't stay here. It's worse than that place in New Orleans.'
'It's all we've got.'
'Shit!' she swore, sitting on the chair. 'You really know how to treat a girl, tough guy.'
'Listen, this is luxury to some of the places I've dossed down in.'
'Dossed?'
'It means just as it sounds. You can't live much rougher.'
'I don't suppose they have room service?'
'Another filthy capitalist habit.'
'I'm hungry.'
'Then let's eat.'
The food was as bad as they expected. Sausages and sauerkraut with brown bread. It was the traditional fare and they had agreed it might be something worth trying.
'We could've had a pizza in town,' she reminded him. 'I've decided I'm not always going to follow you from now on.'
When they returned to reception there was no one on duty. Adam quickly crossed to the desk, leant behind it and pulled up the register. He flicked it open and searched through it.
'Look out!' warned Billie, seeing a movement from the room behind.
Adam put the book back and stepped away from the counter as the fat receptionist came out to the counter.
'Bitte?'
Adam smiled, shook his head to signify he wanted nothing, took Billie's arm and pushed her towards the lift.
'Well?' she asked once the door had closed on them.
'Floor above us. 416.'
'So you were right.' She felt the tingle of excitement. 'You were right. You were fucking right.' She punched his arm in a show of victory. 'You found him, tough guy. Let's go get him.'
'Not yet. He's out.'
'How'd you know?'
'Key was hanging up in reception.'
'You don't miss much, do you?'
It was eight p.m. when Adam saw Goodenache coming up Yorckstrasse. He was wearing an overcoat and leant forward to protect himself against the biting wind. He limped just as Adam remembered. He was also weaving and Adam realised he’d been drinking. Goodenache entered the hotel, but Adam didn't leave his post, waited for almost five minutes to make sure no-one was following. Then he and Billie climbed to the next floor and walked down the corridor to Room 416.
When he was sure that they were alone, Adam knocked on the door.
'Bitte?' he heard the scientist ask from inside.
'Police,' he answered.
There was silence for a moment, then he heard the safety chain being withdrawn and the door opened slightly. Goodenache reacted quickly as he recognised Adam, and tried to close the door again. But Adam had his foot against the frame. He pushed hard, too hard for the scientist to resist.
'What do you want?' shouted a frightened Goodenache as the two of them came into the room. 'You have no jurisdiction here.'
'We're here to help, Mr Goodenache,' said Adam, closing the door behind him. 'Nothing else. You could be in danger.' He could smell the drink; it had obviously been a heavy session.
Goodenache watched them, not knowing in his befuddled state what to do.
'Just relax, Mr Goodenache,' Billie said from behind Adam. Maybe a woman wouldn't present such a threat, wouldn't panic the man. Her training in Dissemination would be of help now. 'I'm an American. Adam here is British. We were assigned to protect your friend, Mr Trimmler. We simply want to find out what happened. And to help. If you need it.
As she spoke she crossed past Adam and put her arm on Goodenache's. 'We really are here to help,' she comforted him
'Who else knows I am here?'
'Nobody. As far as I can be sure.'
'Your people. They will know.'
'Not yet.'
He pulled away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. 'How did you find me?'
'The authorities traced you to Frankfurt, sir,' interjected Adam.
'So where are they?'
'Still looking for you.'
'I don't understand. Why are you both here? How did you know…?'
Billy held her hand up to interrupt him. ‘Adam overheard the conversation between you and Mr Trimmler.'
'Which conversation?'
'In your hotel bedroom,' interjected Adam, then continued, lying as he did so. 'My room was next door. It was pure chance, nothing else.'
'You were spying on us?'
'No.'
'Don't insult my intelligence. People don't just hear conversations in hotel rooms.'
'Okay. I wanted to hear you. Not spying. Just curiosity. Hell, I was meant to be looking after him and then you both start talking in the room next to mine. So, I listened. I heard you talk about this hotel. About Nordhausen. When Mr Trimmler was murdered, and you vanished, I thought this was where you might head for.'