As the Palestinians were doing now.
But no cops were interested in a gray Mercedes careening through eastern Berlin.
All the cops in the city, it seemed, were standing guard around the rubble of the Brandenburg Gate.
Fingers fumbled at the cloth around her eyes.
“You may get out now, Jane Hathaway.”
He was already standing at the open car door, one hand politely extended. She placed her own within it and allowed him to help her out of the car. Arab courtesy, she thought. There would probably be a plate of dates and figs in the room beyond.
What she found, however, was a space as deliberately innocuous as an Agency safe house. Whatever their problem with mobile surveillance, the Palestinians had absorbed some form of tradecraft.
Three windows, blinds drawn. One couch, quite characterless, and two armchairs at correct angles beside it. A coffee table with an ashtray in the event that she smoked. Beyond this, a small cubicle that was probably a bathroom.
No family photographs, no magazines with address labels, no books that might reveal a personal taste. No telephone. No television. She was certain she would find the windows and front door locked.
She took off her coat and threw it over a chair.
“Which of you is Sharif?”
The tidy man in the leather jacket smiled slightly.
“None of us, Jane Hathaway. You may call me Akbar.”
The names of the other two were not for her keeping, it seemed.
“How did you hear of this .. . Mahmoud Sharif?” Akbar asked her.
She frowned, as though puzzled.
“From my cousin Michael, of course. Michael O'Shaughnessy. He's done some favors for Sharif in the past.”
“Sharif is beholden only to Allah,” he replied.
“Then perhaps the obligation was my cousin's,” Caroline suggested graciously. “But Michael told me that if I ever needed to reach him, Mahmoud was the one man in Europe who would know where he was.”
Akbar perched on the arm of the sofa and studied Caroline. She continued to stand, her back to the wall and her eyes on the door.
“Why is this Michael so difficult to find?” he asked.
“Aren't most of Mahmoud's friends?”
“But no.” He spread his arms out wide to include the silent pair ranged behind him. “We are as you see. Present when you required us. Without even the demand of a proof or a demonstration of good faith”
“Other than the little matter of a blindfold,” Caroline pointed out.
His expression did not change.
“Why do you wish to see Mahmoud?”
“I told you. I need to find my cousin. His father has just died. There was no way to contact Michael, and I need to speak to him about the family.”
“Perhaps a message could be passed.”
“Perhaps. But I don't think that's for you to say, Akbar. Unless you really are Sharif.”
Mirth flooded the dark eyes. It was gone before Caroline had a chance to interpret it.
“And now I must beg to examine the contents of your purse, Jane Hathaway.”
It was a large black leather shoulder bag in the shape of a backpack. It fairly screamed Knightsbridge. She handed it to him wordlessly and sank down onto the couch.
He carried the purse to the bare table and shook out its contents. Caroline could have recited them in her sleep.
The sunglasses, on top.
A red leather wallet, with about one hundred and fifty-three marks in bills and small change, a Visa card, a Harrods credit card, a British driver's license, and a long-distance calling card.
A picture of Eric from Nicosia.
A U.S. passport with the usual navy blue cover, bearing the name of Jane Hathaway and an address in London. The picture had been taken at the Agency; it was a good likeness, despite the wig. Three Chanel lipsticks, all of them well used.
A pen and pencil in a case.
A matchbook from last night's bar at the Tacheles.
A cell phone.
A small hairbrush, with several black hairs from the wig wound around its bristles.
A few phone numbers (London exchange) and jottings on crinkled slips of paper, some of them receipts from Jane's favorite pub in Hampstead.
“And what is this?” Akbar inquired, his index finger thrust through an olive green metal ring. He held it up and twirled it slightly around his knuckle. A single rod about an inch long swung from its middle.
“Don't you know?” Caroline asked him blandly. “It's a grenade pin.”
The black brows lifted.
“A curious item for a lady's purse, surely?”
Caroline smiled.
“My cousin Michael gave it to me years ago. He was a Green Beret.”
Akbar twirled the pin once more around his finger, thoughtfully this time, then set it down beside the lipsticks.
“Saleh will remain with you, Jane Hathaway. I shall go for a time and return. You must be patient. Sharif is a busy man.”
He thrust her things back into the bag and, with a curt bow, turned for the door.
Three
Budapest, 9 a.m.
“How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Payne?”
He always spoke to her in English, although the others used German. Sophie suspected that he thought her unworthy of his adored tongue. The electronic door had slid back so noiselessly that she had had no warning. He leaned there against the jamb with a newspaper in his hand. She sat up in bed and stared at him.
Sophie had not been sleeping. She had been studying the ceiling in an effort to detect whether it had any stains on its surface, and if so, whether they would start to move. This might, she thought, be an indication of the recurrence of her illness. But for all her vigilance, the effects of anthrax would probably surprise her. As had Krucevic.
“Considering the past twelve hours,” she said in answer to his question, “I'm fine.”
It was a patent lie, but she had no intention of rewarding him with the truth.
The mad surge for the door, her head bound in a blanket, her mouth stuffed with somebody's socks, her
