those sex tapes floating around.”
Herrmann kept his face impassive, but his stomach turned over. Sex tapes? Dear God, what sex tapes? He affected mild surprise and poured more wine.
“Got that far, has it? I must have been out of the office when the latest details arrived. Mind filling me in?”
Prinz did so. Herrmann lost all his appetite. The odor in his nostrils was not so much of the claret as of a scandal of cataclysmic proportions.
“And still no clues,” he murmured sorrowfully.
“Not a lot,” agreed Prinz. “First K have been told to pull every man off every case and put them onto this one. The search, of course, is for the gun and the owner of the fingerprints.”
Lothar Herrmann sighed. “I wonder if the culprit could be a foreigner?” he suggested.
Prinz scooped up the last of his ice cream and put down his spoon. He grinned. “Ah, now I see. Our external intelligence service has an interest?”
Herrmann shrugged dismissively. “My dear friend, we both accomplish much the same task. Protecting our political masters.”
Like all senior civil servants, both of these men had a view of their political masters that wisely was seldom shared with the politicians themselves.
“We do, of course, have some records of our own,” said Herrmann. “Fingerprints of foreigners who have come to our attention. … Alas, we haven’t got copies of the prints our friends in the KA are seeking.”
“You could ask officially,” Prinz pointed out.
“Yes, but then why start a hare that will probably lead nowhere? Now, unofficially—”
“I don’t like the word unofficial ,” said Prinz.
“No more do I, my friend, but … now and again—for old times’ sake. You have my word, if I turn anything up, it comes straight back to you. A joint effort by the two services. My word on it. If nothing turns up, then no harm done.” Prinz rose. “All right, for old times’ sake. Just this once.” As he left the hotel, he wondered what the hell Herrmann knew, or suspected, that he did not.
In the Braunschweiger Hof in Münchberg, Sam McCready sat at the bar. He drank alone and stared at the dark paneling. He was worried, deeply so. Again and again he wondered if he should have sent Morenz over.
There was something wrong about the man. A summer cold? More like the flu. But that doesn’t make you nervous. His old friend had seemed very nervous. Was his nerve gone? No, not old Bruno. He had done it many times before. And he was “clean”—as far as McCready knew.
McCready tried to justify sending Bruno. He had had no time to find a younger man. And Pankratin would not “show” for a strange face. It was Pankratin’s life on the line, too. If he’d refused to send Morenz, they’d have lost the Soviet War Book. He had had no choice … but he could not stop worrying.
Seventy miles north, Bruno Morenz was in the bar of the Black Bear Hotel in Jena. He too drank, and alone, and too much.
Across the street he could see the main entrance to the centuries-old Schiller University. Outside was a bust of Karl Marx. A plaque revealed that Marx had taught in the philosophy faculty there in 1841. Morenz wished the bearded philosopher had dropped dead while doing it. Then he would never have gone to London and written Das Kapital , and Morenz would not now be going through his misery so far from home.
At one A.M. Wednesday, a sealed brown envelope arrived at the Dom Hotel for Dr. Herrmann. He was still up. The envelope contained three large photographs: two of various 9mm slugs, one of a set of thumb, finger, and palm prints. He resolved not to wire them down to Pullach but to take them himself that morning. If the tiny scratches along the sides of the bullets, and the prints, matched up with his expectations, he was going to face a very major quandary. Whom to tell, and how much. If only that bastard Morenz would show up. … At nine A.M. he caught the first flight back to Munich.
At ten Major Vanavskaya in
Herrmann kept his face impassive, but his stomach turned over. Sex tapes? Dear God, what sex tapes? He affected mild surprise and poured more wine.
“Got that far, has it? I must have been out of the office when the latest details arrived. Mind filling me in?”
Prinz did so. Herrmann lost all his appetite. The odor in his nostrils was not so much of the claret as of a scandal of cataclysmic proportions.
“And still no clues,” he murmured sorrowfully.
“Not a lot,” agreed Prinz. “First K have been told to pull every man off every case and put them onto this one. The search, of course, is for the gun and the owner of the fingerprints.”
Lothar Herrmann sighed. “I wonder if the culprit could be a foreigner?” he suggested.
Prinz scooped up the last of his ice cream and put down his spoon. He grinned. “Ah, now I see. Our external intelligence service has an interest?”
Herrmann shrugged dismissively. “My dear friend, we both accomplish much the same task. Protecting our political masters.”
Like all senior civil servants, both of these men had a view of their political masters that wisely was seldom shared with the politicians themselves.
“We do, of course, have some records of our own,” said Herrmann. “Fingerprints of foreigners who have come to our attention. … Alas, we haven’t got copies of the prints our friends in the KA are seeking.”
“You could ask officially,” Prinz pointed out.
“Yes, but then why start a hare that will probably lead nowhere? Now, unofficially—”
“I don’t like the word unofficial ,” said Prinz.
“No more do I, my friend, but … now and again—for old times’ sake. You have my word, if I turn anything up, it comes straight back to you. A joint effort by the two services. My word on it. If nothing turns up, then no harm done.” Prinz rose. “All right, for old times’ sake. Just this once.” As he left the hotel, he wondered what the hell Herrmann knew, or suspected, that he did not.
In the Braunschweiger Hof in Münchberg, Sam McCready sat at the bar. He drank alone and stared at the dark paneling. He was worried, deeply so. Again and again he wondered if he should have sent Morenz over.
There was something wrong about the man. A summer cold? More like the flu. But that doesn’t make you nervous. His old friend had seemed very nervous. Was his nerve gone? No, not old Bruno. He had done it many times before. And he was “clean”—as far as McCready knew.
McCready tried to justify sending Bruno. He had had no time to find a younger man. And Pankratin would not “show” for a strange face. It was Pankratin’s life on the line, too. If he’d refused to send Morenz, they’d have lost the Soviet War Book. He had had no choice … but he could not stop worrying.
Seventy miles north, Bruno Morenz was in the bar of the Black Bear Hotel in Jena. He too drank, and alone, and too much.
Across the street he could see the main entrance to the centuries-old Schiller University. Outside was a bust of Karl Marx. A plaque revealed that Marx had taught in the philosophy faculty there in 1841. Morenz wished the bearded philosopher had dropped dead while doing it. Then he would never have gone to London and written Das Kapital , and Morenz would not now be going through his misery so far from home.
At one A.M. Wednesday, a sealed brown envelope arrived at the Dom Hotel for Dr. Herrmann. He was still up. The envelope contained three large photographs: two of various 9mm slugs, one of a set of thumb, finger, and palm prints. He resolved not to wire them down to Pullach but to take them himself that morning. If the tiny scratches along the sides of the bullets, and the prints, matched up with his expectations, he was going to face a very major quandary. Whom to tell, and how much. If only that bastard Morenz would show up. … At nine A.M. he caught the first flight back to Munich.
At ten Major Vanavskaya in
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