himself in the darkness near the screen, he decided that he might well have found the most anonymous place in the city to decide what to do with the Spandau papers.
Six rows behind Hans, a tall, thin shadow slipped noiselessly into a frayed theater seat. The shadow reached into a worn leather bag on its lap and withdrew an orange. While Hans watched the tides roll, the shadow peeled the orange and watched him.
Thirty blocks away in the Liitzenstrasse, Ilse Apfel set her market basket down in the uncarpeted hallway and let herself into apartment 40.
The operation took three keys-one for the knob and two for the heavy deadbolts Hans insisted upon. She went straight to the kitchen and put away her grocenes, singing tunefully all the while.
The song was an old one, Walking on the Moon by the Police. Ilse always sang when she was happy, and today she was ecstatic. The news about the baby meant far more than fulfillment of her desire to have a family. It meant that Hans might finally agree to settle permanently in Berlin. For the past five months he had talked of little else but his desire to try out for Germany's elite counterteffor force, the Grenzschutzgruppe-9
(GSG-9), oddly enough, the unit whose marksmen his estranged father coached. Hans claimed he was tired of routine police work, that he wanted something more exciting and meaningful.
Ilse didn't like this idea at all. For on@ thing, it would seriously disrupt her career. Policemen in Berlin made little money; most police wives worked as hairdressers, secretaries, or even housekeepers-low-paying jobs, but jobs that could be done anywhere.
Ilse was different. Her parents had died when she was very young, and she had been raised by her grandfather, an eminent history professor and author.
She'd practically grown up in the Free University and hadtaken degrees in both Modern Languages and Finance. She'd
T
even spent a semester in the United States, studying French and teaching German. Her job as interpreter for a prominent brokerage house gave Hans and her a more comfortable life than most police families. They were not rich, but their life was good.
If Hans qualified for GSG-9, however, they would have to move to one of the four towns that housed the active GSG-9
units: Kassel, Munich, Hannover, or Kiel. Not exactly financial meccas.
Ilse knew she could adapt to a new city if she had to, but not to the heightened danger. Assignment to a GSG-9 unit virtually guaranteed that Hans would be put into life-threatening situations.
GSG-9 teams were Germany's forward weapon in the battle against hijackers, assassins, and God only knew what other madmen. Ilse didn't want that kind of life for the father of her child, and she didn't understand how Hans could either. She despised amateur psychology, but she suspected that Hans's reckless impulse was driven by one of two things: a desire to prove something to his father, or his failure to become a father himself.
No more conversations about stun grenades and storming airplanes, she told herself. Because she was finally pregnant, and because today was just that kind of day. Returning to work from the doctor's office, she'd it)und that her boss had realized a small fortune for his clients that morning by following a suggestion she had made before leaving. Of course by market close the cretin had convinced himself that the clever bit of arbitrage was entirely his own idea. And who really cares? she thought. When I open my brokerage house, he'll be carrying coffee to my assistants!
Ilse stepped into the bedroom to change out of her business clothes. The first thing she saw was the half-eaten plate of Weisswurst on the unmade bed. Melted ice and dirt from Hans's uniform had left the sheets a muddy mess. Then she saw the uniform itself, draped over the boots in the corner.
That's odd, she thought. Hans was as human as the next man, but he usually managed to keep his dirty
Six rows behind Hans, a tall, thin shadow slipped noiselessly into a frayed theater seat. The shadow reached into a worn leather bag on its lap and withdrew an orange. While Hans watched the tides roll, the shadow peeled the orange and watched him.
Thirty blocks away in the Liitzenstrasse, Ilse Apfel set her market basket down in the uncarpeted hallway and let herself into apartment 40.
The operation took three keys-one for the knob and two for the heavy deadbolts Hans insisted upon. She went straight to the kitchen and put away her grocenes, singing tunefully all the while.
The song was an old one, Walking on the Moon by the Police. Ilse always sang when she was happy, and today she was ecstatic. The news about the baby meant far more than fulfillment of her desire to have a family. It meant that Hans might finally agree to settle permanently in Berlin. For the past five months he had talked of little else but his desire to try out for Germany's elite counterteffor force, the Grenzschutzgruppe-9
(GSG-9), oddly enough, the unit whose marksmen his estranged father coached. Hans claimed he was tired of routine police work, that he wanted something more exciting and meaningful.
Ilse didn't like this idea at all. For on@ thing, it would seriously disrupt her career. Policemen in Berlin made little money; most police wives worked as hairdressers, secretaries, or even housekeepers-low-paying jobs, but jobs that could be done anywhere.
Ilse was different. Her parents had died when she was very young, and she had been raised by her grandfather, an eminent history professor and author.
She'd practically grown up in the Free University and hadtaken degrees in both Modern Languages and Finance. She'd
T
even spent a semester in the United States, studying French and teaching German. Her job as interpreter for a prominent brokerage house gave Hans and her a more comfortable life than most police families. They were not rich, but their life was good.
If Hans qualified for GSG-9, however, they would have to move to one of the four towns that housed the active GSG-9
units: Kassel, Munich, Hannover, or Kiel. Not exactly financial meccas.
Ilse knew she could adapt to a new city if she had to, but not to the heightened danger. Assignment to a GSG-9 unit virtually guaranteed that Hans would be put into life-threatening situations.
GSG-9 teams were Germany's forward weapon in the battle against hijackers, assassins, and God only knew what other madmen. Ilse didn't want that kind of life for the father of her child, and she didn't understand how Hans could either. She despised amateur psychology, but she suspected that Hans's reckless impulse was driven by one of two things: a desire to prove something to his father, or his failure to become a father himself.
No more conversations about stun grenades and storming airplanes, she told herself. Because she was finally pregnant, and because today was just that kind of day. Returning to work from the doctor's office, she'd it)und that her boss had realized a small fortune for his clients that morning by following a suggestion she had made before leaving. Of course by market close the cretin had convinced himself that the clever bit of arbitrage was entirely his own idea. And who really cares? she thought. When I open my brokerage house, he'll be carrying coffee to my assistants!
Ilse stepped into the bedroom to change out of her business clothes. The first thing she saw was the half-eaten plate of Weisswurst on the unmade bed. Melted ice and dirt from Hans's uniform had left the sheets a muddy mess. Then she saw the uniform itself, draped over the boots in the corner.
That's odd, she thought. Hans was as human as the next man, but he usually managed to keep his dirty
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