Western world's one big Islamic pile o' camel dung. But…'Lang was truly astonished when Reavers stood, leading them to the door. 'You know my ass'd be in th' crack, Ah git caught providin' false ID. Hell, Ah git caught, I'll claim Gurt here threatened to shoot me. C'mon downstairs, git your picture took, an' we'll have you fixed up in an hour. An' you can be on your way to…?'
'Heidelberg,' Gurt said. 'There's a man there Huff worked with.'
The Agency man gallantly held the door for Gurt. 'Wherever, I jes' hope this damned drizzle stops 'fore I mildew.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Heidelberg, Germany (Hauptstrasse)
Haus zum Ritter
That evening
The eighty-four-kilometer drive from Frankfurt had been uneventful. Their newly minted identities showed them to be Mary and Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia. The stamp on the passports showed they had arrived at Frankfurt that very morning. The document was given careless scrutiny by a desk clerk wearing striped pants and a cutaway coat. The Agency-issued credit, card was duly imprinted and returned. The only question was whether they wished to reserve a table at the hotel's restaurant for dinner. Lang's response had been an immediate affirmative.
From the windows of their third-floor suite, Lang could see across the empty marktplatz to the fourteenth century church and, beyond, the slow-moving waters of the Nekar reflecting the dull sky of the dying-day. Gurt, smoking what Lang hoped was only her first cigarette of the day, was less interested in the view than observing how a home built in 1592 had been converted into a luxury hotel.
She was studying a gilt sconce that had lightbulbs screwed into what had once been candleholders. 'You did not even think when asked about dinner. You have eaten here before?'
Lang was leaning to his left in a vain attempt to get a glimpse of the bluff behind the town, the one crowned with the ruins of a castle. ''Years ago, the Agency had a research team here, German college professors who had studied the Russkies, figured out what the Commies would do in certain situations. I came about once a month, always stayed here. One of our tame Germans recommended the restaurant. Best sauerbraten in Germany. They use apples.'
Gurt made a face at the mention of the traditional dish of marinated beef served with dumplings in a rich brown sauce. ''You will go home fat.'
He gave her an exaggerated leer, running his eyes from her to the bed. 'I'm planning on you keeping me slim.'
'You can eat more often than you can love.'
He sat on the Federbett, the soft eiderdown that served as top sheet and cover on German beds, pulling her with him. 'Really? Let's try a predinner workout.'
She lay beside him. 'Should we not call Herr Blucher? He is the reason we are here, no?'
Lang sighed as the romance of the hotel in the old city evaporated like the morning mist. Gurt's priorities were always in order. They were also frequently a nuisance.
'Okay, okay, I've got his number right here.'
He scrolled down the list on his BlackBerry and handed the cell phone to Gurt.
She spoke for a few minutes before asking, 'What is this place named?'
'Haus zum Ritter on Hauptstrasse. Does he want to come here?'
She shook her head and spoke a few more words, ending with a cheery auf Wiedersehen, turned the phone off, and handed it back. 'No, ten o'clock tomorrow at the castle.'
'The castle, not here? Or his house? He wants plenty of people around, doesn't trust us yet despite Jacob's introduction.'
Gurt pushed him back against the comforter. 'And your workout?'
Lang ate too much.
'Now I know what a Thanksgiving turkey feels like,' he said as they drained the last of their after-dinner schnapps. 'Let's take a walk.'
Outside, the day's drizzle had washed the skies clean. A myriad of stars hovered just out of reach of the town's lights. Hand in hand, they walked the block over to the church, its Gothic facade gleaming in strategically placed spotlights. A block over, Lauerstrasse fronted the river in the periphery of the town's lights. Swaying gently at their moorings, two glass-canopied tour boats, each a hundred or so feet long, rocked gently at their moorings.
'Do you have with you the gun you took from the policemen at the Frankfurt airport?' Gurt's question was so out of place in the peace of the night, Lang thought he had misunderstood.
'Huh?'
'The gun, the one from the airport, you have it with you?' Instinctively, Lang's hand went to small of his back to touch the hard metal of the Glock he had jammed into his belt. ''Yeah, but why?'
Gurt laughed, the sound of a woman enjoying an amorous evening. She nuzzled Lang's face as though to give him a kiss. 'One, perhaps two, men follow us,' she whispered.
The surroundings suddenly became threatening rather than romantic. The darkness, the absence of any other strollers, even the black river, all seemed the perfect spot to kill and escape. His left hand still in hers, leaving his right free to use the gun if necessary, he moved in a seemingly aimless fashion so their backs were against a wall rather than unprotected.
Other than the river's sucking at the pilings along the dock and an occasional automobile a block over, there was no sound. A quick glance around confirmed Lang's impression: an ideal spot for an ambush. The church was between the river and town, shielding the riverside area from the town's lights. Only shops, shuttered for the night, lined the dock. It was unlikely there was another living soul within blocks.
Other than whoever was following them.
Backing deeper into the doubly dark shadow, Lang took the Glock from his belt and released the clip. By touch, he counted the shells in the magazine before pushing it back into the grip with a resounding click.
The sound of a clip being loaded, into an automatic pistol is both unmistakable and authoritative. In the quiet night, it also carried farther than would ordinarily be the case.
Almost instantly, a blurred figure stepped into an area where a small stream of the town's glow leaked onto the cobblestones beside the river.
He held both hands high. 'Don't shoot, Mr. Reilly.
It's me, Franz Blucher.'
Wordlessly, Lang handed the Glock to Gurt and walked away at an angle to avoid her line of fire toward the stranger. 'Stay where you are, Herr Blucher,' he said. ''And keep your hands where I can see them.'
Franz Blucher was a smallish, elderly man in worn tweed pants, a sweater missing one elbow, and unruly hair that caught just enough illumination to form a halo around the man's head.
It took Lang only a few seconds to ascertain that he was unarmed. 'Sprechen Sie Englese?'
He asked -mainly as a courtesy, Blucher having already spoken in English. Lang was unable to remember the last time he encountered a German, at least a West German, who did not speak English far better than Lang spoke their language.
'I speak English reasonably well,' the old man said, pulling a pair of wireless spectacles from the pocket of his sweater and giving Lang a stare. 'You are Mr. Reilly, are you not?'
The English had a trace of upper-class British in it.
'Just as you are Franz Blucher.'
Blucher nodded slowly, probably remembering a time when showing one's papers was common. He fumbled in a hip pocket and produced a worn passport.
With it in his hand, Lang walked closer to the light flowing around the corner of the church. He still couldn't read it.
