retightened the nut. The trickle stopped.
“Wrong wrench,” said the cop. He gazed at the BMW engine. He seemed to be staring straight at the battery. “ Schöner Wagen ,” he said. Nice car. “Where are you staying?”
“In Jena,” said Morenz. “I have to see the foreign sales director at Zeiss tomorrow morning. To buy products for my company.”
The policeman nodded approvingly.
“We have many fine products in the GDR,” he said. It was not true. East Germany had one single factory that produced Western-standard equipment, the Zeiss works.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I wished to see Weimar … the Goethe memorial.”
“You are heading in the wrong direction. Weimar is that way.”
The policeman pointed down the road behind Morenz. A gray-green Soviet GAZ jeep rolled past. The driver, eyes shaded by a forage cap, gazed at Morenz, met his eyes for a second, took in the parked VOPO car, and rolled on. An abort. Smolensk would not approach now.
“Yes. I took a wrong turn out of town. I was looking for a place to turn when I saw the water gauge misbehaving.”
The VOPOs supervised his U-turn and followed him back to Weimar. They peeled off at the entry to the town. Morenz drove on to Jena and checked into the Black Bear Hotel.
At eight, on his hill above the Saale River, Sam McCready put down his binoculars. The gathering dusk made it impossible to see the East German border post and the road behind it. He felt tired, drained. Something had gone wrong up there behind the minefields and the razor-wire. It might be nothing of importance, a blown-out tire, a traffic jam. … Unlikely. Perhaps his man was even now motoring south toward the border. Perhaps Pankratin had not shown up at the first meet, unable to get a jeep, unable to get away. … Waiting was always the worst, the waiting and the not knowing what had gone wrong.
“We’ll go back down to the road,” he told Johnson. “Can’t see anything here anyway.”
He installed Johnson in the parking area of the Frankenwald service station, on the southbound side but facing north toward the border. Johnson would sit there all night, watching for the BMW to appear. McCready found a truck driver heading south, explained that his car had broken down, and hitched a lift six miles south. He got off at the Münchberg junction, walked the mile into the small town, and checked into the Braunschweiger Hof. He had his portable phone in a totebag if Johnson wanted to call him. He ordered a cab for six A.M.
Dr. Herrmann had a contact in the BfV. The two men had met and collaborated years earlier, working on the Guenther Guillaume scandal, when the private secretary of Chancellor Willy Brandt had been revealed as an East German agent. That evening at six, Dr. Herrmann had rung the BfV in Cologne and asked to be put through.
“Johann? This is Lothar Herrmann. … No, I’m not. I’m here in Cologne. … Oh, routine, you know. I was hoping I could offer you dinner. … Excellent. Well, look, I’m at the Dom Hotel. Why don’t you join me in the bar? About eight? I look forward to it.”
Johann Prinz put the phone down and wondered what had brought Herrmann to Cologne. Visiting the troops? Possibly. …
Two hours later, they sat at the corner dining table and ordered. For a while, they fenced gently. How are things? Fine. … Over the crab cocktail, Herrmann moved a little closer.
“I suppose they’ve told you about the call girl affair?” he asked.
Prinz was surprised. When had the BND learned of it? He had only seen the file at five. Herrmann had telephoned at six, and he was already in Cologne.
“Yes,” he said. “Got the file this afternoon.”
Now Herrmann was surprised. Why would a double murder in Cologne have been passed to counterintelligence? He had expected to have to explain it to Prinz before asking for his favor. “Nasty affair,” he murmured as the steak arrived.
“And getting worse,” agreed Prinz. “Bonn won’t like
“Wrong wrench,” said the cop. He gazed at the BMW engine. He seemed to be staring straight at the battery. “ Schöner Wagen ,” he said. Nice car. “Where are you staying?”
“In Jena,” said Morenz. “I have to see the foreign sales director at Zeiss tomorrow morning. To buy products for my company.”
The policeman nodded approvingly.
“We have many fine products in the GDR,” he said. It was not true. East Germany had one single factory that produced Western-standard equipment, the Zeiss works.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I wished to see Weimar … the Goethe memorial.”
“You are heading in the wrong direction. Weimar is that way.”
The policeman pointed down the road behind Morenz. A gray-green Soviet GAZ jeep rolled past. The driver, eyes shaded by a forage cap, gazed at Morenz, met his eyes for a second, took in the parked VOPO car, and rolled on. An abort. Smolensk would not approach now.
“Yes. I took a wrong turn out of town. I was looking for a place to turn when I saw the water gauge misbehaving.”
The VOPOs supervised his U-turn and followed him back to Weimar. They peeled off at the entry to the town. Morenz drove on to Jena and checked into the Black Bear Hotel.
At eight, on his hill above the Saale River, Sam McCready put down his binoculars. The gathering dusk made it impossible to see the East German border post and the road behind it. He felt tired, drained. Something had gone wrong up there behind the minefields and the razor-wire. It might be nothing of importance, a blown-out tire, a traffic jam. … Unlikely. Perhaps his man was even now motoring south toward the border. Perhaps Pankratin had not shown up at the first meet, unable to get a jeep, unable to get away. … Waiting was always the worst, the waiting and the not knowing what had gone wrong.
“We’ll go back down to the road,” he told Johnson. “Can’t see anything here anyway.”
He installed Johnson in the parking area of the Frankenwald service station, on the southbound side but facing north toward the border. Johnson would sit there all night, watching for the BMW to appear. McCready found a truck driver heading south, explained that his car had broken down, and hitched a lift six miles south. He got off at the Münchberg junction, walked the mile into the small town, and checked into the Braunschweiger Hof. He had his portable phone in a totebag if Johnson wanted to call him. He ordered a cab for six A.M.
Dr. Herrmann had a contact in the BfV. The two men had met and collaborated years earlier, working on the Guenther Guillaume scandal, when the private secretary of Chancellor Willy Brandt had been revealed as an East German agent. That evening at six, Dr. Herrmann had rung the BfV in Cologne and asked to be put through.
“Johann? This is Lothar Herrmann. … No, I’m not. I’m here in Cologne. … Oh, routine, you know. I was hoping I could offer you dinner. … Excellent. Well, look, I’m at the Dom Hotel. Why don’t you join me in the bar? About eight? I look forward to it.”
Johann Prinz put the phone down and wondered what had brought Herrmann to Cologne. Visiting the troops? Possibly. …
Two hours later, they sat at the corner dining table and ordered. For a while, they fenced gently. How are things? Fine. … Over the crab cocktail, Herrmann moved a little closer.
“I suppose they’ve told you about the call girl affair?” he asked.
Prinz was surprised. When had the BND learned of it? He had only seen the file at five. Herrmann had telephoned at six, and he was already in Cologne.
“Yes,” he said. “Got the file this afternoon.”
Now Herrmann was surprised. Why would a double murder in Cologne have been passed to counterintelligence? He had expected to have to explain it to Prinz before asking for his favor. “Nasty affair,” he murmured as the steak arrived.
“And getting worse,” agreed Prinz. “Bonn won’t like
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