Straits of Power

no attack by American special operations forces, even if the consulate itself technically was sovereign German territory.

Mohr was also feeling down, racked by remorse and depression, because he was actually happily married, and had three lovely kids back at home in Berlin. His sexaholic behavior was all an act, a subterfuge on several levels. It had let him shop around until he found a prostitute who was a plant of the Americans’. He also meant for his frequent nocturnal excursions to make it look like he was callously abandoning his wife — his real aim was to protect her from Axis retribution if he did succeed in defecting, or got caught. He’d been censured repeatedly by his superiors for the marital infidelity, but it always came down to dismissing his penchant for hookers as a character flaw that paled compared to his rare brand of genius.

This whole multitiered gambit was increasingly wearing and draining on Mohr, even before the twin mortal perils of possibly being found out by Imperial German State Security, or being killed by the too-suspicious and ever- vigilant Mossad.

Mohr’s secretary knocked on the door.

“Come!”

The young man stuck his head in and told Mohr his eleven o’clock appointment had arrived five minutes early. Mohr said he’d see the man now.

His secretary showed the guest in and closed the door. The slender man wore a fine white linen business suit. He introduced himself.

Awais Iqbal was Pakistani, in his mid-forties, and seemed the nervous and excitable type. Iqbal spoke good English, as did Mohr, so Mohr decided a translator wouldn’t be needed.

He showed Iqbal to an opulent, overstuffed guest chair in front of his desk, then sat in his own expensive leather high-backed swivel chair.

A bit much, but we do have to make a good impression on the outside world.

Iqbal tried to move his chair, but it was so heavy he had no luck. He seemed flustered and embarrassed. Mohr offered to have coffee or soft drinks brought in, but Iqbal declined.

After brief pleasantries they got down to details. Iqbal, a long-term resident of Istanbul employed by a Pakistani firm, said his company wanted to do business with Germany.

Mohr asked what his business was, exactly.

The man said it was sensitive, which was why his firm preferred not to deal directly with Berlin. Since Pakistan was neutral, doing so would be legal, but doing so directly might have negative diplomatic, economic, and even military ramifications with certain other countries. Mohr took him to mean Allied countries, or maybe India, also neutral but on a hairpin trigger with Pakistan these days — a serious problem since both were nuclear powers, and psychological restraints against using nuclear weapons had been badly weakened lately by world events.

Mohr saw where Iqbal was going, but let him speak: dummy corporations, as cutouts routing trade from Pakistan by air to Istanbul, from there by ship across the Black Sea to Odessa in Ukraine — part of the pseudo- neutral expanded Russian Federation — and from there sent up the long, navigable part of the Danube River, or by rail, into German turf. All this made sense to Mohr. It wouldn’t be the first time such deals were made and devious routes were used.

Mohr asked Iqbal what product he proposed to sell to Germany. Iqbal said missile parts, and other weapons.

“I’ll need to refer this to my superiors,” Mohr said, which was true. “Do you have any documentation I can show them about your products?”

“Not at this stage.”

Mohr wasn’t surprised. Usually there’d be a courtship ritual first, establishing rapport, building trust, the usual salesman dance.

“I do have something else for you.” Iqbal smiled, and began to reach into his briefcase.

Here it comes.

Iqbal brought out something wrapped in bubble pack, with brown paper under that. He placed it on Mohr’s desk. “Open it, please. It’s a personal present.”

The item was flat, rectangular, and heavy. Mohr carefully undid the tape until there was quite a pile of wrapping material on his desk.

Inside it all was a book. The book was bound in maroon leather. The lettering and cover art looked like gold inlay. The book was obviously very old, the binding certainly handmade. The title was in classic, florid Germanic script.

Mohr read the title. His heart began to pound.

The book was a treatise on ancient Greek history and mythology.

“Go ahead, open it,” Iqbal said. “Admire it.”

Mohr took a paper napkin out of a desk drawer and carefully wiped the skin oils from his hands. He knew this book was something you didn’t want to get greasy fingerprints on. The title page said the book had been printed in Mannheim in 1752.

Iqbal stood up. “May I?” He reached for the book. Mohr nodded.

“Let me show you the quality of the printing, the exquisite etchings. Some are in color, hand painted, you know? Read it to yourself, not aloud, or you’ll spoil the whole effect.”

There was something strange behind how Iqbal said that. He opened the book to one page, and held it for Mohr to look. Beneath a rather dramatic and beautifully done illustration was an entry discussing the myth of Pandora’s box.

Mohr blinked. It might be just a coincidence.

“Allow me to show you something else.” Iqbal turned to a different page. He made eye contact with Mohr and held it, and his gaze seemed to bore into Mohr’s soul. “This is for you. For you.”

Mohr was almost afraid to look, because of what the page might show — or what it might not show.

He looked. The entry covered the philosopher and mathematician Zeno. He was surprised to learn that Zeno was really Italian, and hadn’t moved to Athens until he was forty.

Mohr did everything he could to cover up his emotions. He was sure the room was rigged with listening devices, and feared there might be hidden miniature video cameras too. He noticed that Iqbal was carefully shielding the book against his body as he held it out for Mohr to read.

Klaus Mohr knew he had to think very fast. The Americans are making contact! How do I respond? What am I supposed to say? What do I do next?

He decided to try a dangerous gambit.

“I, I can’t possibly accept this. It must be worth thousands. This belongs in a museum.”

“Yes, it is very valuable, I’m told.”

Told by whom?

“We’re not permitted to accept personal gifts of more than nominal cost.”

“Why not take it on behalf of your government, and if it belongs in a museum, why not one in Germany?”

Again Mohr had to think fast. Then he caught on. He was meant to say no. He had to say no.

“The, uh, the paperwork involved, the approvals needed, delays for something like this in time of war… Mr. Iqbal, you have no idea how much trouble that would cause. Why don’t you, or your company, donate it somewhere yourselves?”

Iqbal sighed, his exhalation a bit overdone, even ragged. Mohr saw that he was under terrible stress, going through this ritual.

“I suppose I shall have to do something like that.” Iqbal began to gather up the wrapping material, and put the rare book back in his briefcase.

“You’re permitted to have dinner with people, at least, aren’t you? The theater, sporting events, and even… parties?”

Iqbal once again made that intense eye contact with Mohr. But this time as he spoke he seemed confident and knowing, suggestive even, experienced, almost… leering?

Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

Of course! The book was just to prove his covert purpose for being here. He knew I’d have to