Now upright and alert, he looked on from the street while Inselheim got out of his car and marched inside, dragging his travel luggage behind him on wheels. The blond-haired Inselheim had on a fitted navy blue suit and a black tie. He was tall, fit and carried himself confidently. Frederich could not see his face, but he did not doubt that the man was Inselheim.
It was a cold, clear evening, which meant this time he had no torrential rain to give him cover. If things went as he expected, he would not need to leave his car. In any case, his target was not Inselheim, but the person Frederich and Ida hoped would be sent to make the pick-up in place of Khartoum, offering an opening into The League in the process.
Frederich waited and watched. Nothing happened. Inselheim’s lights remained on until 11:34 pm then the house fell dark. Save for a handful of passing cars, the neighbourhood remained perfectly still into the early morning. Frederich and Ida had admitted it was a long shot. The pickup might have already happened, or it might have been carried out somewhere else. There was even the slim possibility that it was the wrong Inselheim, but that was doubtful. At 5 am Frederich watched Inselheim drive away to work before starting his Renault and making back to his apartment in Charlottenburg.
He took a three-hour nap, then went and purchased a prepaid phone to communicate with Ida. After that, he walked to the KaDeWe department store on Kurfürstendamm and bought clothing for Ida including underwear, t-shirts and loose-fitting pants. She raised an eyebrow upon seeing his selection but said nothing. Frederich took another nap and then returned to Dahlem to continue the stakeout.
He arrived at 8:13 pm. Turning into Inselheim’s street, he tightened his grip around the steering wheel. He approached the house and continued driving without slowing down. There was a black Mercedes E-Class with tinted windows parked by the side of the road in the same spot Frederich had been the previous night. He recognised the outline of two men in the front seats and noted the license plate. Fifty metres down the road he turned his car around so it faced Inselheim’s house and parked. He took out his smartphone and studied the map of the area again before settling in.
At 9:47 pm, a pair of headlights approached in the distance then disappeared down Inselheim’s driveway. Frederich sat up and paid close attention. He was not surprised to see the doors of the black Mercedes open and the two men get out. The pick up would take no longer than five minutes, he figured. Four minutes later, the two men returned, one of them holding a duffle bag. Frederich switched on the engine, and leaving his lights off, made a U-turn and sped away from Inselheim’s house. He took a hard left followed by another left then stopped at the turnoff to Clayallee. The map had shown that the men would either come from behind Frederich or pull out of Inselheim’s street and turn left or right. Either way, Frederich could see them while appearing as a random car turning. Seconds later, he saw headlights coming out of Inselheim’s street, and the black Mercedes turn right into Clayallee. They were going to drive right past him. Frederich put the Renault into gear and followed. He settled in twenty metres behind then let out a slow breath and allowed his shoulders to relax.
Traffic was light heading into the centre of Berlin. The black Mercedes led Frederich north through Wilmersdorf and Schöneberg. It then turned east into Kreuzberg and continued toward Neukölln. Near Hermannplatz the traffic increased, and Frederich took turns driving behind different cars to remain concealed. He was stuck in the left lane when the Mercedes made a sudden right. He braked hard, and the car behind him honked aggressively. He held up traffic for a few more seconds as cars rushed by in the right lane. More honks followed, accompanied by the fading sound of a man swearing as Frederich turned into the street.
He stayed focused, spotting the taillights of the black Mercedes a hundred metres ahead. He remained as far back as possible while the Mercedes took random turns through the backstreets. Then it tailed off and parked just off Karl-Marx-Strasse by the side of the street. He pulled over immediately and exited his car. The two men were finally in range. He studied them. They both wore black trench coats. One of them carried the bag, the other had a black ponytail and abnormally pale skin, which fit Ida’s description of the man in Khartoum’s apartment. Bingo.
The two men marched toward Karl-Marx-Strasse and went into a döner kebab shop near the Rathaus Neukölln underground train station. Across the intersection was town hall, and Frederich waited at the courtyard where he could see the front of the store. After a few minutes, the two men walked out lazily, each of them chewing on a kebab. The bag was gone. After hours drop-off point. In any case, the spot was perfect; crowded and exposed. Frederich marched over the intersection and approached them.
“Hello, gentlemen,” he said unapologetically.
The men froze and looked sternly at Frederich, one of them having lowered his kebab mid-bite. They lifted their heads and pushed out their chests. Frederich knew he was not intimidating. He had on his black leather jacket and black jeans. He was dense but not overly broad. His unkempt, light brown hair, green eyes and soft features were disarming, and he preferred it that way. In critical situations, it bought him a split second while the other person weighed up the threat. But these men were professionals. They would never let their guard down, not even at dinner time, and especially not after dropping off a bundle of cash only metres away. The man with the ponytail reached for the inside of his coat. Frederich
