Gideon smiled. “Not a chance. Well, I think I will get off to bed now.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” He patted Gideon’s shoulder again. “I’m going too. Can I give you a ride?”
“No thanks. A walk will do me good. Thanks for talking with me, sir.” He was trying to make amends for putting the chancellor through an undeservedly uncomfortable time.
“Not at all, Gideon, not at all. Glad to have you on board. Get a good night’s sleep now.”
The night air of Heidelberg was indeed just what he needed. To step from the noise and stale smoke of the Weinstube into the dark, open courtyard of the castle was like walking into another century—a clear, cool, tranquil century. Gideon knew well enough that the 1300s, when the existing castle had been built, had been no less traumatic than the 1900s. But now, with the courtyard empty and the air, damp with river mist, on his face, Gideon found the scene wonderfully peaceful. His breath came more easily; his nerves almost perceptibly stopped jangling. He stood in the deserted courtyard, thinking of nothing, letting his mind resettle itself into its usual, placid mode.
Slowly, he walked down the curving road that descended to the Old Town, stopping now and then to look out over the rooftops and the glistening river, or to run his hand over the jumbled piles of smooth stone blocks that gleamed like pewter in the moonlight: all that remained of the once-formidable castle outposts.
The jittery, near-paranoid state he had fallen into now seemed absurd and a little embarrassing; he had been unreasonably rude to people trying to be friendly.
When he had been offered the visiting fellowship six months before, he had jumped at the chance and had begun to talk about it as his Great Adventure. And then, at the first hint of danger—if you could call it that—he had developed the raving heebie-jeebies. It had to be the lack of sleep. And all that wine.
The job was perfect; his course material was stimulating, the places he was going were exciting—much more exciting than his original assignment—and his working hours were unbelievable. Each seminar would run for four evenings, Monday through Thursday, leaving the daytime hours free for exploring, and giving him four whole days to travel to the next location and see some more of Europe on the way.
At the bottom of the hill, along the quiet Zwingerstrasse, he looked with pleasure at the scattered buildings of grand old Heidelberg University. Some of the walls were spray-painted with political slogans, a sight that caused him mild pain. It was one thing to scrawl graffiti on the buildings of Northern Cal; but Heidelberg University… ! It just didn’t seem right. A sign of the times, he thought to himself, then chuckled at the pun. He was more than a little tight, he realized.
Twice during his walk, cars full of mildly boisterous USOC’rs went by on their way from the castle to the hotel. Both times he stepped into the shadows. Not that he was trying to avoid them, exactly, but it was nice to be by himself.
Reaching Rohrbacherstrasse he was plumped abruptly back into the twentieth century. Even at midnight, the traffic whizzed by steadily at the alarming speed that appeared to be customary for city driving. Forty miles an hour? Fifty? With more prudence than he would have shown on a San Francisco street, he waited at the corner for the traffic light to change, looking at the dark, second-floor windows of the Hotel Ballman across the street. He thought he had identified the one belonging to his room, but realized he was wrong when he saw someone move behind it.
In the darkened room, the tall man dozed in the chair, both hands dangling over the sides, knuckles touching the floor. The other one stood at the window, a little to one side. “Here he is,” he said.
The first man stood up at once. “God damn it, it’s about time,” he said. He moved to the window. “What the hell is he staring up here for, dumb bastard?”
“He’s just looking,” said the sleek-headed man. “He’s plastered; he can’t see anything. Don’t worry.”
“Who’s worried?” the tall man said.
They watched him cross the street on unsteady legs. Then, silently, they walked across the room. The tall one stood against the wall to the side of the door, a thin silken cord with a leather ratchet in his hand. The other one stood in the closet alcove a few feet away. They didn’t look at each other.
When he stepped into the little lobby of the hotel, Gideon expected to find it full of USOC’rs, but they had evidently gone on to do some bar-hopping, or weinstube-hopping, more likely. Only the landlady was there, dour and indifferent to his nodded greeting. He climbed the stairs wearily, fatigued to his bones. At the door to his room, he searched unsuccessfully through his pockets for the key. He rattled the handle of the heavy door, also without success. For a few moments he remained befuddled, checking his pockets again and again, grumpily lecturing himself on the counterproductivity of fixated behavior. At last he remembered that he didn’t have the key. In a scene that had amused some of the old-timers, it had been wrestled from him by the proprietress when he had left that afternoon. Odd, with all the reading he’d done on European customs, he had overlooked the fact that you didn’t take your key with you when you left your hotel.
With a grumble and a sigh he went back downstairs and approached the landlady, who watched him with a malevolent eye. He took a breath and drew for the first time on his recent months of self-study.
She turned, plucked the key and its large attached brass plate from the rack behind her, and plunked them on the desk.
Then back upstairs, under her suspicious glower, with heavy feet and a stomach beginning to go queasy. The second piece of Black Forest cake had been a mistake. Or maybe it was the twelfth glass of wine. With a hand less steady than it had been even an hour before, he inserted the big key in the lock and opened the door.
When he flicked on the lights, things happened so fast they barely registered. He found himself looking into a
