“I don’t think he was buying it at first. I couldn’t get a real good feel for nuance on the Internet.”
“How did you leave it?”
“He wants to meet. I said I’d get back to him. I kept it open, just as you said.” She hesitated. “But Harry, how in the hell could you ever do anything with him again?”
Strand knew what she was thinking.
“We just don’t want to cut him off, that’s all,” he said. “We don’t want to cut off anybody. We need as much flexibility as possible.”
Their sandwiches came, and they stopped talking for a few minutes while they ate, each of them pursuing separate thoughts. The sounds of the brasserie returned to Strand’s consciousness: the low gabble of the couture crowd, the clink of china and flatware, the hum of indistinguishable conversations.
After a while Mara wiped her mouth, took a drink of her coffee, and looked at him.
“Then who’s next? Lodato or Grachev?”
Strand thought a moment. He might as well tell her straight out.
“I’m not going to waste my time with either one of them,” he said. “They’re going to give me the same reasons for not going after Schrade as the other two did. Schrade’s way out ahead of me on this. He’s made sure that all of them are finding him to be very useful right now. I’ve told you, he understands the psychology of revenge. Money, enough of it, will even buy off hate. As long as it keeps coming in.”
Mara leaned toward him. “Harry, go to the FIS. They can get between you and Schrade. I know they can.”
“It would never happen.”
“You can hand them a mole, for God’s sake!”
“And I worked for that mole for a dozen years. What kinds of questions does that raise, Mara? After stealing millions from Schrade, what kind of credibility do I have? You want to know the truth? They’d rather have the money I took from Schrade than the mole. Exposing Howard would mean tons of bad publicity for them. Getting the money would mean tons of good publicity. They can retire Howard and sweep him under the carpet. He can be made to go away very easily.”
“Then you expose him. Threaten to go public if they don’t give you-us-protection.”
“Going public is character suicide. It wouldn’t take much at all for the FIS to provide ‘proof ’ to the media that I was part of Howard’s rogue operations. Don’t forget, I was already one step in that direction by agreeing to run Schrade in the first place.”
She looked at him steadily across the table. “You’re making a lot of assumptions again,” she said.
“I worked for them for twenty years.”
She paused. “Then… what, Harry?”
“I’m working on a couple of ideas.”
“Like what?”
“Mara, I’ve really got to sort some things out in my mind, okay? Give me some breathing room.”
Her dark eyes searched his. As they looked at each other he had the feeling that she knew exactly where he was going with this. She knew, but she didn’t press him on it. She was giving him room, giving him time to get his mind around an unthinkable alternative. She knew what he was dealing with, and he guessed that it frightened her as much as it did him. It had to. But she waited.
“I love you, Harry.”
It wasn’t what he had expected.
They lay together, awake, in the dark, listening to the sounds of the Quatre Septembre. They each drifted off to sleep at different times and then stirred again, reassuring each other that they were there.
Once during the night he awoke and heard her whispering to him. He missed what she was saying, except the last part, “I love you.” He thought he answered her with the same words, or maybe he dreamed it.
CHAPTER 38
BERLIN, SCHWANENWERDER
Howard was summoned to Schrade’s villa just after nightfall, and he already knew that it was going to be a tense meeting. A lot had happened during the day and not much of it any good.
When he arrived, chauffeured as always, in one of Schrade’s Mercedes, he was not surprised to see a number of cars in the motor court. Schrade’s surveillance and intelligence apparatus was good everywhere, but in Berlin it was an absolute ghost machine. Howard never had to worry that any other intelligence operatives-even the FIS- would detect him doing business with Schrade.
Howard had been at the villa at night before, and he did not find it a pleasant experience. Mainly because Schrade, for all his self-restraint and detachment and understatement, treated his nighttime villa with a good deal more drama than Howard could stand. Tonight, as in times before, the place was not lighted in the normal way, in which rooms were provided a generalized lighting with visibility being pretty much consistent throughout. In Schrade’s villa every room and corridor and stairway was lighted by dappled luminescence. There were only pockets of light, and one moved through the large spaces of the villa as through pervasive shadow, negotiating one’s way to random areas of soft illumination. And these islands of light were not static, for Howard had seen them shift slowly, rearranging the mottled patterns of glow and murk.
And there was another attribute in the villa at night that Howard disliked: There was constant movement, though Howard rarely saw anyone. As evidenced by the cars in the motor court, there were always more people here at night than during the day. But he never saw anyone. He heard doors open and close. He heard voices, sometimes murmurs, sometimes sharp ejaculations. He heard footsteps. He heard movement. And sometimes, as the snappily dressed young man ushered him through this dim netherworld, he thought he sensed activity suddenly stop, waiting until he had passed.
Tonight was no different, and by the time Howard was shown into the long salon of Schrade’s work space, he felt as though he had journeyed through a landscape of secrets and had arrived in a sorcerer’s castle.
Schrade was at his desk and did not get up. The large hall was dark except for the pools of glow that hung over each lime wood cabinet and lighted the way down the long approach to Schrade’s presence. The seating area was not lighted, which meant Howard was supposed to go to one of the large chairs anchored in front of Schrade’s heavily carved baroque desk, which seemed to levitate in a slightly brighter spill of incandescence. He sat down and waited for Schrade to acknowledge him.
Schrade, dressed in a dark, formal suit with a sparkling white shirt and a dark tie that seemed to have been finely embroidered with gold threads, was reading. Stacked on either side of him were red leather folders bulging with documents that protruded from them, each folder tied closed with a broad crimson ribbon. Computer screens winked and glowed behind him. Beyond, through the wide window, the Havel River, bathed in the blue of night, stretched away, flanked by glittering cinders of light that receded into invisibility.
Schrade closed the red leather folder from which he had been reading.
“It is difficult to articulate how stupid the United States Foreign Intelligence Service can be,” he said placidly, removing his reading glasses and clasping his hands together, his forearms resting on his desk, white French cuffs extending precisely from beneath the dark coat sleeves. The light sifting down from above him made his pale hair appear to iridesce. Howard had the horrible sense of being able to actually see through Schrade’s clear eyes into the abyss of his head.
“But we know damn well your people have been looking over our shoulders this whole time,” Howard said. “We’ve picked them up. I wouldn’t feel too superior. When Mara left the homing device in Bellagio, why didn’t your elite cadre of operatives intercept them? I’ve always had enough sense not to let another intelligence group do my work for me. They might not do it right.”
“Obviously. They are lost?”
“We don’t know where they are,” Howard admitted, “but I’m in communication with Mara Song.” He told Schrade about the Internet exchanges, of Mara’s ambivalence, her desire to stay in touch.
Schrade was motionless. This interested him.
