time since the confrontation. “You are apologizing? To me?”
Jake looked down at the man, found his deflation unsettling. “Five minutes. No more. Then we’ll have to set up shop.”
Now Jake looked into the truck’s shadowy depths and satisfied himself that Hechter was both hidden and silent. “What about you, Rolf?”
“Ignition and fuel, those are my specialties,” he replied quietly, his eyes also scanning the crowd. “Important, but not crucial. I am the equivalent of a five years’ advantage, if you see what I mean. Hans, though, he represents a lifetime. A full generation’s difference in rocket technology to whoever controls that remarkable brain.”
Jake looked out over the crowd, glanced at his watch, resigned himself to a night in the open and another day of waiting and hoping. “So why didn’t he stay?”
“Resigning the party does not erase the reason for his having joined in the first place,” Rolf answered. “The Communists who were put in control of our project need him, but they loathe him as well. Given half a chance, they would execute him on the spot. To make matters worse, we were told in no uncertain terms that we were soon to be relocated to the wilds of Siberia.”
Their conversation was cut short as a pair of heavy, bearded men lumbered over. Jake straightened from his slouch and stepped one pace from the truck. Granting himself a little extra room in case the swinging started. Their presence shouted danger.
The taller of the two had one eye turned milky. He had allowed his beard to grow up and cover most of that cheek in a vague attempt to hide a ferocious scar. He reached forward and picked up one of the pans. “Nice wares. From the West?”
“Let’s see your money,” Jake said, “and I’ll tell you all the stories you’ve got time to hear.”
“No, stranger, let’s see yours, ” the man said, hefting the pan like a weapon while his shorter companion, a barrel-chested man with the battered face of a barroom brawler, took a step toward Rolf. “There’s a charge for displaying your wares here. We’re the collection committee.”
Jake stood his ground and replied in German, “You can try to make me pay. But it’ll probably cost you your other eye.”
The tension crackling between the two men was enough to push the crowd of would-be shoppers far away. All eyes were suddenly elsewhere, all attention focused on something safe. The taller man glanced about, then cast the pan back on the tailgate and said quietly, “You do that well for a Yank. Maybe you should consider a different profession.”
Jake had difficulty shifting from one danger to the other. “What?”
“Hand me some bills. There are eyes on us. Did you know you were being observed?”
Jake fumbled in his pocket, came up with a handful, passed it over unseen. “No.”
“The Soviet minions are paid to check everything new. Yet it appears you two are attracting more than your share of attention.” He stuffed the bills in his pocket, pointed with his head. “There is something else. Another stranger. This one’s clearly from the West. Been hovering around the outskirts of the market for almost an hour, stopped twice by the police, checked, then let go. Red passport, probably Swiss. You expecting anybody?”
“Not that I was told,” Jake said, totally confused by too much too fast.
The big man put a casual hand the size of a bear paw on Jake’s shoulder, turned him about. “Let’s take a little stroll, I’ll just be showing the new man around, pointing out where he’s going to be setting up tomorrow.” Together they walked down the lot, the crowd parting in fearful waves before them. The man pointed into an empty space between two other metal traders. Jake responded with a single nod. Then as they turned back, the man directed his eyes with pressure on his shoulder, said softly, “There. Beside the curb with the two coppers eying her. In the scarf and macintosh.”
Jake felt a blow
Jake looked down at the man, found his deflation unsettling. “Five minutes. No more. Then we’ll have to set up shop.”
Now Jake looked into the truck’s shadowy depths and satisfied himself that Hechter was both hidden and silent. “What about you, Rolf?”
“Ignition and fuel, those are my specialties,” he replied quietly, his eyes also scanning the crowd. “Important, but not crucial. I am the equivalent of a five years’ advantage, if you see what I mean. Hans, though, he represents a lifetime. A full generation’s difference in rocket technology to whoever controls that remarkable brain.”
Jake looked out over the crowd, glanced at his watch, resigned himself to a night in the open and another day of waiting and hoping. “So why didn’t he stay?”
“Resigning the party does not erase the reason for his having joined in the first place,” Rolf answered. “The Communists who were put in control of our project need him, but they loathe him as well. Given half a chance, they would execute him on the spot. To make matters worse, we were told in no uncertain terms that we were soon to be relocated to the wilds of Siberia.”
Their conversation was cut short as a pair of heavy, bearded men lumbered over. Jake straightened from his slouch and stepped one pace from the truck. Granting himself a little extra room in case the swinging started. Their presence shouted danger.
The taller of the two had one eye turned milky. He had allowed his beard to grow up and cover most of that cheek in a vague attempt to hide a ferocious scar. He reached forward and picked up one of the pans. “Nice wares. From the West?”
“Let’s see your money,” Jake said, “and I’ll tell you all the stories you’ve got time to hear.”
“No, stranger, let’s see yours, ” the man said, hefting the pan like a weapon while his shorter companion, a barrel-chested man with the battered face of a barroom brawler, took a step toward Rolf. “There’s a charge for displaying your wares here. We’re the collection committee.”
Jake stood his ground and replied in German, “You can try to make me pay. But it’ll probably cost you your other eye.”
The tension crackling between the two men was enough to push the crowd of would-be shoppers far away. All eyes were suddenly elsewhere, all attention focused on something safe. The taller man glanced about, then cast the pan back on the tailgate and said quietly, “You do that well for a Yank. Maybe you should consider a different profession.”
Jake had difficulty shifting from one danger to the other. “What?”
“Hand me some bills. There are eyes on us. Did you know you were being observed?”
Jake fumbled in his pocket, came up with a handful, passed it over unseen. “No.”
“The Soviet minions are paid to check everything new. Yet it appears you two are attracting more than your share of attention.” He stuffed the bills in his pocket, pointed with his head. “There is something else. Another stranger. This one’s clearly from the West. Been hovering around the outskirts of the market for almost an hour, stopped twice by the police, checked, then let go. Red passport, probably Swiss. You expecting anybody?”
“Not that I was told,” Jake said, totally confused by too much too fast.
The big man put a casual hand the size of a bear paw on Jake’s shoulder, turned him about. “Let’s take a little stroll, I’ll just be showing the new man around, pointing out where he’s going to be setting up tomorrow.” Together they walked down the lot, the crowd parting in fearful waves before them. The man pointed into an empty space between two other metal traders. Jake responded with a single nod. Then as they turned back, the man directed his eyes with pressure on his shoulder, said softly, “There. Beside the curb with the two coppers eying her. In the scarf and macintosh.”
Jake felt a blow
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