Hawn preferred to think that if he had been with her it might have been different. Either they wouldn’t have risked it, or he’d have spotted them in time and he would have been able to drag her into some doorway or down an alley where they couldn’t follow.
But the hell with it, he hadn’t been there. He’d been in bed asleep. He’d let her go on her own, and now there was less than fifteen minutes left before they were due to meet Pol at the Hotel Kempinski. It was only a couple of minutes’ walk up the street, so he decided to wait in the lobby until 5.57.
He put on his boots and sweater, with his French raincoat over his arm; made sure he had his passport and new wallet, containing several hundred marks — Pol’s most recent gift of pocket money, in exchange for the vast sum in Turkish lire which Hawn had returned to him — and slipped out into the corridor. Both lifts were engaged, one coming up, the other going down. He waited next to the one coming up. His watch said 5.49. He had checked it that morning against the clock on the Pan-Am building, and again down in the lobby.
They were only on the fifth floor, but the lift seemed to take an interminable time. He felt his adrenalin beginning to rise again, and at the last moment stepped back to the right of the lift, pressing himself against the wall, his raincoat over his left arm, while his right hand groped in his pocket, wedging several one-mark pieces between his fingers, just below the knuckles. He heard the lift hum to a halt, the doors slide open, and a tall blond man stepped out carrying a black attaché case. He looked behind him, smiled and gave a little bow. ‘Verzeihen Sie mir, gnadige Frau!’ Anna stepped past him, with a little smile. She did not see Hawn until he had grabbed her wrist.
He waited until the man was out of earshot before he pulled her close to him. ‘And just where the hell have you been?’
He saw she was flushed and slightly out of breath. He heard the lift doors begin to close, and jammed them with his foot. ‘Get in. You can explain on the way down.’ He pushed the ground-floor button.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Tom. I went to the Tutankhamen Exhibition at the Charlottenburg Palace. Then I couldn’t get a taxi, and I got on the wrong tram. I had to walk most of the way back.’
‘You certainly managed to cut it pretty fine!’ The hand in his pocket belatedly released the coins between his fingers. ‘Got your passport?’
‘Yes. I’m not making that mistake again.’
The lift stopped. They got out and began to walk towards the entrance. The lobby was surprisingly empty: it was the cocktail hour, the obligatory watering-time for all West Berliners, and only a few tourists and businessmen were busy at the desk. The receptionists ignored them both.
Hawn pushed Anna through the revolving door, and began to follow: then at the last moment stepped smartly back and bumped into a man behind him. He swung round, half inside the door, and pulled the man in after him; and kicked out with all his strength. Anna was in the street and the door had stopped moving. In the closed space there was a scream and the man stumbled and began to sink down on to the felt carpet.
He was wearing a fur hat and a long coat with a fur collar. The coat had protected his groin, so Hawn had gone for his kneecap. He brought both fists up, smashed one into the middle of the man’s face, while he brought the other down in a chopping blow just behind his ear. The man slouched on to his knees, his gloved hands half covering his face, and Hawn felt a pang of shame as he remembered his victim had been wearing glasses. They now lay crunched on the carpet under Hawn’s feet.
Blood was seeping down the leather fingers of the man’s gloves, his fur hat had slid off his balding head and he had begun whimpering. Hawn checked quickly that there was no one near, grabbed the man under the arms and hauled him back onto his feet.
‘Sorry, Otto. But I’m surprised at you. At least, I’m surprised at your organization. Using the same man twice, on a job like this. Surely they’re not that short-staffed?’
‘Ach, meine Nase!’ The man gulped and peered at Hawn through his weeping eyes. His gloves were wet with blood and mucus, and drops of blood were falling on the floor.
‘It was an accident, Herr Dietrich. You banged into the door. You have to be careful where you’re going.’ As he spoke, Hawn retrieved the broken spectacles and dragged the man into the street. One of his legs hung limp on the slushy pavement. Anna stood a few yards away, watching, perplexed. A few passers-by glanced at them, a few hesitated, but Hawn was now holding Dietrich up and seemed to be soothing him. ‘A little accident — nothing serious,’ Hawn told them.
An old woman stopped and said, ‘Oh, the poor man — should I call a doctor?’
‘He’ll be all right — he just bumped his nose.’ Hawn nodded reassuringly.
Otto Dietrich made no effort to contradict him; the last thing a BND man would want was to be the centre of a sordid punch-up with his quarry in broad daylight.
‘What are you after, Otto? Working for your own people this time? Or still running errands for Mr Robak and his friends?’
‘Ach, my leg!’ the Austrian gasped. ‘You have ruined my leg!’
‘Tell me what you’re doing here. Quick! Or
