And then she lapsed into German, talking to the person on the other end of the phone. Barclay heard her mention the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz, Germany’s security service, the BfV. Even in German, she was able to charm whoever she was speaking with. She laughed, she apologized for her accent and her lack of vocabulary (not that either, to Barclay’s ear, needed apologizing for). And eventually, after some quibbling, she had a day — Sunday — and a time — two in the afternoon.
For a meeting with the terrorist Wolfgang Bandorff, Witch’s old lover.
She looked distinctly pleased with herself when she came off the phone, and hummed a little triumphant tune.
“What was that about the BfV?” asked Barclay.
“Michael, you are so... astute. That was my one little white lie. I told Herr Grunner I had liaised with the BfV. I think this means he takes me more seriously.”
“Don’t tell me, when we turn up there, I’m going to pretend to be a German secret agent?”
“Of course not, Michael. But sometimes bureaucracy has to be...” She sought the word.
“Gotten around?” he suggested.
She liked that, and nodded. “Yes,” she said, “like swerving to avoid another car, yes?”
“Bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving.”
As now, hours later, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling above his bed, he feels his stomach diving. He might not be able to keep anything down at dinner. Maybe he’ll have to cry wolf on the whole thing. Let Dominique cover herself with glory; he could ship out on the first hovercraft or cross-Channel ferry. But he knows he won’t. He can’t. He’s already told Joyce Parry too many white lies.
So they’re going to Germany, driving there in the awful 2CV. Hanover wasn’t just across the border either. It is hard driving. And both of them out of their territory — even Elder had said as much. He didn’t think they’d learn anything from Bandorff. And they’d have to be careful, too. If he found out how keen they were to track down Witch, he might start throwing them off her scent, laying false trails.
Jesus, what if this whole thing was an extended false trail? No, no, best not to think about that. She couldn’t be that clever, could she? No one was that clever, clever enough to lay a trail backwards through Europe, a trail with a trap lying at the end of it.
Jesus, don’t think about it!
Dominique came in unannounced. She looked sensational, in a clinging woolen red dress and black tights. She wasn’t wearing shoes or makeup yet.
“I thought you were being quiet,” she said. She closed the door before settling herself on the edge of his bed. “What’s the matter?”
“Pre-match jitters.”
“What?”
“It’s a football term. The nerves you get before a game.”
“Ah.” She nodded understanding and took his hand in hers. “But I am nervous, too, Michael. We must plan carefully what we will say to Herr Bandorff. We must... like actors, you know?”
“Rehearse.”
“Yes, rehearse. We must be word perfect. We will set off in the morning, and stay overnight at a hotel. We will rehearse and rehearse and rehearse. The leading man and leading woman.” She smiled, and squeezed his hand.
“It’s all right for you,” said Barclay, “your department’s behind you. I’ve lied through my teeth to mine.”
“Because you want to stay with me, yes?”
He stared into her eyes and nodded. She stood up, dropping his hand.
“And you are right to stay with me,” she said. “Because I am going to find out about this Witch woman, I am going to discover all about her from Herr Bandorff. Just you wait and see. Besides, Mr. Elder is behind you.”
“Yes, and pushing hard.”
She was at the door now, opening it. She turned back to him. “Rendezvous in five minutes,” she said, “whether you’re ready or not.”
And with a final carefree smile, she was gone. Barclay sat up on the bed, clasping his arms around his knees. From the living room came the sound of an accordion. Madame Herault was listening to her radio. Madame Herault, who had already lost a husband to the terrorist threat, and whose daughter now might be in danger. He got up off the bed and stood in front of the dressing table, where the Witch file sat surrounded by bits of wire and solder, unused diodes, and broken bits of circuit board. He touched the cover of the file for luck.
Back in her room, Dominique studied herself in her mirror. Her employers had attached her to Michael Barclay because she was persistent. She had been brought up to be stubborn in pursuit of her goal, and her goal had been an assignment. She wanted to prove herself. How could you prove yourself in an office? She touched a framed photograph of her father. He had proved himself on the streets of the city, not behind a desk. He was her hero, and always would be, his life snuffed out by terrorists. And now she was in pursuit of terrorists, of people like those who had murdered her father. She kept her mind focused on that fact.
She didn’t mind cutting corners. She didn’t mind lying to her employers. She gave them daily reports on the British agent’s actions and whereabouts. As long as he was around, she was to stick close to him, nothing more than that. They did not know how fascinated she had become, fascinated by this creature called Witch, conjured up from scattered events and rumors. It was as though the creature stood for all the terrorists in the world. Dominique wanted to get closer to it still. She examined her hair, her face, her body, and she smiled. She knew she was just about beautiful.
She knew, too, that Witch, not she, was the real femme fatale.
She had spent much of the past few days in London, watching. At times she had been a tourist, clutching her street map and her carrier bag from Fortnum’s, her head arched up to take in the sights, while those around her kept their eyes either firmly straight ahead or else angled downwards, checking the paving stones for cracks to be avoided.
At other times, she’d been a busy office worker, rushing with the best of them, with only enough free time for a lunch of a take-away burger. And she’d been unemployed, too, with too much time on her hands, sitting against a wall with her knees hugged to her beneath her chin. All these things she had been. Nobody paid much attention to her several incarnations. To passersby, the tourist was merely another obstacle in their way as they maneuvered past her while she stood in Victoria Street, staring up in the direction of Westminster Abbey. And as the office worker ate her burger, seated in the plaza between Victoria Street and Westminster Cathedral, only one young man attempted to chat her up. But he was in a hurry, too, and so a single shake of her head was enough to deter him.
While the unemployed girl, the pale and tired-looking girl — well, everybody chose to ignore her existence. She was moved on once or twice by doormen and police officers. The police asked her where she stayed.
“Lewisham.”
“Well, bugger off back there, then. And don’t go hanging around Victoria Station either. We’ll be along there in an hour, and if you’re still there, we’ll take you down the nick. All right?”
She sniffed, nodded, picked up her cheap blue nylon shopping bag. There were tears in her eyes as the policemen moved away. An old man took pity on her and handed her a one-pound coin. She took it with muttered thanks. She wandered off towards Victoria Station, where, in a toilet cubicle, she stripped down and swapped her clothes for another set in the shopping bag. Then the shopping bag itself was folded and slipped into a better-quality bag, along with the clothes. At the wash basin, she combed the snags out of her hair, washed her face, dried it, and applied makeup. Girl about town again. In the station concourse, true to their word but half an hour ahead of schedule, the two police constables were passing through. She smiled at one as she passed them. He smiled back, and turned to watch her go.