Five
Berlin, 10:15 a.m.
“You,” Caroline said briefly.
“I might say the same,” Shephard replied, “only I'd be lying. Who are you trying to be, anyway? Liza Minnelli does Sally Bowles?”
“You were following me.”
“Right again. Boy, you Agency broads are quick.”
She didn't move.
“Oh, for crying out loud, get in. We're due at the Interior Ministry in fifteen minutes, and unless you want to sing “Cabaret' for all of Voekl's boys — which I don't think is politically correct, frankly — you're going to have to change your clothes. Which means we have no time at all.”
Caroline got in.
Shephard peeled away from the curb, leaving tire tread in his wake. Not bad for a Trabant.
“So explain this to me.” She was controlling her anger with difficulty. “You just happened to be driving by Alexanderplatz this morning and knew in an instant that the dark-haired woman reading the paper by the television tower was in fact me. Is that what I'm supposed to believe?”
“You're not supposed to believe anything. I'm not as devious as your employers. I'm quite happy to offer you the truth.”
“You know the bartender at the Tacheles.”
He shot her a glance.
“The Tacheles? You do get around. The only bartender I know runs a dark little hole near my house in Dahlem.”
“How, then?”
“I stopped by the Hyatt this morning to invite you to breakfast,” he replied. “I thought we could talk about the Brandenburg Gate without the entire embassy listening in. I wanted to hear what you had to say about 30 April. Guesstimate where they might be headed.”
Caroline studied him.
“You've hit a wall, haven't you? The bomb crater isn't giving up its secrets.”
“Not a wall,” he corrected, “a minor plateau. Nothing we couldn't surmount given a normal pace of investigation. But normal doesn't apply to this baby. Normal is when the Veep is having breakfast in bed in D.C. instead of in somebody's trunk. The entire weight of Washington is sitting on my shoulders right now, and I need a lead worse than a drunk needs detox.”
“You should write this stuff down. It's pure Hammett.”
He ignored her.
“It was clear from your cloak-and-dagger getup that you were already booked this morning. As I was pulling up to the hotel, you were walking out.”
She glared at him.
“You can change your hair and you can change your clothes, darling', but the walk's a dead giveaway. Some legs I don't forget.”
The anger fused.
“What in the hell were you doing following me? And don't give me that bullshit about hoping for a lead”
“I thought I was doing you a favor,” he said piously.
“A favor? You nearly got me killed. Shephard, you can't even surveil somebody discreetly. My friends spotted you the minute you pulled out behind them.”
“Your friends, as you choose to call them, would think a day without surveillance was like a day without sunshine. They'll get over it, believe me. And I had no intention of being discreet. That would have destroyed the purpose.”
“Which was?”
He swerved to avoid a furniture van parked in the middle of Grunerstrasse.
“I wanted them to know you were being tailed. Maybe they'd think twice before they killed you.”
“Oh, right,” Caroline said dryly. “Thanks.”
“Now, if you're done having a hissy fit,” he continued, “it's my turn. Why the clandestine meeting with a bunch of rag heads? Does Wally Aronson know about this?”
Shephard, Caroline noticed, had yet to mention Sharif's name. He had no idea whom she had met with, or why.
She began to relax.
“Should Wally know?”
“That's not for me to say. I'm not exactly in the Agency loop.”
“How true. End of interrogation.”
“Look.” He pulled the Trabant over to the curb and slammed on the brakes. Now he was angry.
“I enjoy the repartee, Carmichael, as much as anyone. It helps me hone my dating skills — ”
“What skills?”
“But I haven't slept in thirty-six hours, and I've had about enough of the attitude. I'm the head of this investigation.” Shephard's hand was on her arm. “The Vice President is missing. You fly in as the 30 April expert. And next thing I know, you're wearing a wig and getting into a car with three men of Arab extraction. I don't think it was a social call. I think it was an agent meeting. And I'm certain you're holding out on me.”
“I'll see you at the Interior Ministry,” Caroline said, and shook him off. She reached for the door.
“I have their license plate number, you know,” he shot back as she got out of the car. “All I have to do is call one of my friends in the Berlin police, and I've got an ID.”
“Call away, Shephard.” She slammed the door shut and leaned through the open window. “I'll be making a few calls myself. The Bureau might wonder why you wasted two hours trailing an Agency colleague this morning instead of supervising the crater.”
“Oh, I'm scared,” he deadpanned.
“Well, I'm not,” she said, and walked away.
“Good morning, Mr. Aronson.”
Christian Schoettler, the Interior Minister, was a trim man in his late thirties. He rose from his desk chair and offered his hand to Wally.
“I see that Mr. Shephard is late, as usual.”
“We were hardly on time ourselves,” Wally replied apologetically. “The traffic today — ”
“Yes, yes, it is because of the curfew. We have had the very devil of a time enforcing it, I'm afraid. Most of the Turks have been sensible and remained at home. But a few extremists thought to test the government's resolve.”
He spoke English, Caroline noticed, with a British accent. An old Oxonian.
“May I present my colleague from Washington, Caroline Carmichael?”
“Ah, yes.” Schoettler gave her a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “The Department of State's terrorism expert.”
“Merely one of them, I'm afraid,” she told him.
“But the one they chose to send here,” Schoettler pointed out. “That must mean a great deal. Please have a seat.”
The door behind them burst open under the force of Schoettler's harried male secretary.
“Herr Bundesminister, Herr Shephard is arrived.”
“So I see,” the minister said as Tom Shephard swung into the room. “How are you, Tom?”
“Just fine, Christian. Could use a little coffee, though.”
“Georg, a cup for Mr. Shephard, if you would be so good.”
