Fellowship of Fear

“No, I leave Sunday morning for Sicily. I have to give some lectures there next week. But I’ll be back in Heidelberg the week after. Probably arrive a week from Sunday.”

“Fine. I might want to get in touch with you.”

“Okay, but I won’t be staying here. I’ll be at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Cheaper. And a lot more convenient to the classes.”

“Good idea. The BOQ will be safer, too.”

“What do you mean? You don’t think they’ll come again?”

“No, no,” said Lau, “I doubt it.” A pause, then the sudden grin again. “I was thinking about your landlady over there by the sideboard. She looks like she’d like to poison you.”

Gideon smiled thinly. “Yes. I think she holds me responsible for that broken mirror.”

“It’s not only that,” said Lau. “She doesn’t trust you.”

“She doesn’t trust me?”

“Uh uh. She never found the key you broke the mirror with, you know.”

“Well, yes, I assume one of those two guys—”

“And she says you tried to steal it from her yesterday afternoon. You know she turned in a police report on that?”

This was news to Gideon. “You’re kidding!” he said. “No, I’m not kidding,” said Lau, but he was laughing again, and Gideon laughed along.

3

THE AFTERNOON WAS FREE of business. There was a bus tour to the gardens at Schwetzingen, arranged for the new faculty with the compliments of the administration, but Gideon declined to go. Aside from a constitutional aversion to group tours, he didn’t relish the idea of further questions on the attack. He told Dr. Rufus he would use the afternoon to catch up on his sleep. Actually, he was looking forward to spending the time alone, going back to Heidelberg Castle to explore the vast, turreted ruins and terraced gardens at his own leisurely pace.

He lunched at a busy seafood bar on the Haupstrasse, dining happily on little sandwiches of marinated herring—Bismarck-hering—at one mark each. When he went back to the hotel to pick up his guidebook to the castle, John Lau was waiting in the lobby, joking with Frau Gross. He actually had her laughing, but Gideon’s entrance had its usual sobering effect.

“Hi, Doc,” Lau said, sounding glad to see him. “You got some time to go over to NSD headquarters with me? There’s somebody else who’d like to talk to you.”

“Sure.” Questions from the police were a different thing than questions from curious colleagues. He had enjoyed the earlier talk with Lau and looked forward to more of the same, plus an inside glimpse of the NATO Security Directorate.

Expecting them to drive to the USAREUR command complex at the edge of town, he was surprised when John walked him two blocks down Rohrbacherstrasse to a two-story brownstone building, heavy, dingy, and cheerless.

“This is your headquarters?”

“In Germany, yes.”

“Boy, as far as I can see, you picked the only genuinely ugly building in Heidelberg. I mean, that is an ugly building.”

“It figures. It was Gestapo headquarters during the war. I think we got it cheap.” He smiled.

Inside there was a small vestibule, vacant except for a few wooden benches and an armed soldier who nodded balefully at Lau’s ID from behind a glass partition. Grayish-green corridors ran off in three directions. It looked as if it were still Gestapo headquarters: gloomy, tacky, smelling of disinfectant and old plumbing, and single-mindedly utilitarian. Gideon felt a small shiver at the back of his neck. It was hard to picture John Lau actually working there.

Lau, in fact, seemed subdued once they were in the building. He walked with Gideon down one of the corridors to an office made marginally less bleak by a wall calendar with a color picture of a Bavarian village. A big-boned, middle-aged woman sat erectly at a typewriter near a window.

“Frau Stetten, this is Dr. Oliver to see Mr. Marks,” Lau said, his voice, it seemed to Gideon, lacking its usual friendliness. Then, to Gideon’s surprise, he left.

“Please sit down, Dr. Oliver. Mr. Marks will in a minute be with you.” She spoke without looking up from her typing, with a strong German accent and a distinctly chilly manner. Gideon couldn’t help wondering, with uncharacteristic lack of charity, if she had come with the building.

In a few minutes, at some sign that he failed to perceive, she said, “Mr. Marks can see you now. Go in, please.” She gestured with her head toward a door behind her.

Gideon opened it and entered a medium-sized office with a single old-fashioned window and plain, fairly presentable gray metal furniture: a desk, three file cabinets, two chairs with cracked green plastic seat cushions. It reminded him of his own office at Northern Cal. A neat small man in suit and tie sat behind the desk. He didn’t greet Gideon, but continued to write with a slow, precise hand on a yellow lined tablet. Gideon could see from the format that he was composing a memorandum. He came to the end of a sentence and placed the period carefully.

Gideon waited for him to look up, but the man put the tip of his pencil to his tongue and then began another sentence.

Gideon, who was not slow to take offense when warranted, spoke somewhat sharply. “Mr. Marks? You wanted to see me, I think?”