Hunter's Rain (8 page)
Authors: Julian Jay Savarin
“Romeo Six,” Müller said.
He had spoken so casually, she almost missed it.
“I know,” she said. “It shook me when Pappi told me.”
“For me, it was an earthquake.”
“I can imagine. He put himself deep into danger.”
“For what he believed in.”
She nodded, and put the photograph down with something close to reverence. She continued to look at it, seeing much of Müller there.
Then with seeming reluctance, she selected another. This time, it was a group photograph. She studied each face, then gave a sharp intake of breath.
“That’s impossible!” she cried in a shocked whisper.
Müller came closer to peer down. “What’s impossible? Have you recognized a face?”
Instead of replying, she asked, “Do you have a loupe?”
“We have many.”
Still staring at the photograph, she held out a hand.
Müller pulled out one of the drawers in the table, and took out a loupe. He shut the drawer as he handed the viewing instrument to her.
She grabbed it without a word, and placed it on a section of the photograph. She then leaned down to put an eye against it.
She remained like that for some time, as if trying to prove beyond doubt that she had not been mistaken.
Abruptly, she straightened. Müller watched her curiously.
She placed the backs of her hands against each hip, and swung from side to side in a slow, yet clearly agitated motion. It was disturbing to watch.
“Carey?” Müller began. “Are you alright?”
“Wow,” she said. “You’ve actually said my name.” It was not bitterly spoken, but there was a sharp dryness to it.
Müller looked uncertain. “Are you going to tell me what you have seen there?”
Carey Bloomfield tightened her lips, and wiped at her right eye.
“You’re
crying
?”
“Of course I’m not crying, damn it!” She did not turn to look at him. “Would you cry if you discovered that the man with whom you’ve been trusting your life for years, was dirty?”
“
What?”
She jabbed a finger at the photograph. “Toby Adams. Younger. But it’s him.”
Müller looked at her steadily. “Who is Toby Adams?”
“Long story Müller.” She gave a short, bitter laugh, and still did not look at him. “Short story…call him my controller. The man who’s supposed to be my home plate backup. Toby Adams is my field controller. When I’m out there, he’s the man with the cavalry if I get exposed. Toby Adams was there when I went – against orders – to rescue my brother, who was being peeled alive by that bastard cousin of yours, somewhere in the Mideast.”
“We killed the bastard cousin.”
“I know we killed him. I was there. Toby Adams was the controller when I first came here…”
“Posing as a journalist.”
“Posing as a journalist,” she admitted flatly. “He was locked into the mission…”
Müller made a face. “’The mission’.
I
was the mission?”
“Not you
per se
…”
“Fine distinction.”
“Don’t roll the tape back, Müller. We’re past that. We have something much more dangerous to deal with. If Toby Adams really is part of the
Semper
…this is major shit.”
“Perhaps like my father, he has infiltrated. My father
was
Romeo Six…”
“Maybe. Maybe Toby has infiltrated them. Then again, as you would say…”
“What if he’s the real thing?”
At last, she turned to face him as she nodded. The was a suspicion of moisture about her eyes.
“That bad, is it?” he asked.
“Not what you think. We weren’t an item. He is…was like a father to me. I
trusted
him with my life…so many times. Yet at any time, if it suited him, he could have betrayed me. Maybe he sent that fake cop today. In the beginning, he may not have known I was here. But he knows the right people, and has all the connections. Toby’s grade is equivalent to general rank. All he’d need is to do some checking…”
“Stop,” Müller said. “You’re running far ahead. You’ve seen a picture where you least expected to. That’s it. All it means with any certainty, is that he is in the photograph…assuming it has not itself been faked. Everything else is conjecture at this stage.”
“I
trusted
him, goddammit!”
“Perhaps you may be able to trust him again.”
“And if not?”
“You are forewarned. He would never expect that and certainly, not from this source. You have an edge. A very big one.”
“I thought that fake cop had made me mad; but
this
…this really does.”
“Then if you later find you have reason to be…use the anger profitably, and get good and even…” Müller gave a tiny smile. “…as
you
would say.”
“Throwing my words back at me, Müller?”
“No.”
Her smile was suddenly tired, and rueful. “I think I’m beginning to understand, just slightly, how you feel. No one’s killed my parents; but the sense of betrayal…”
“Wait, and see. How much have you told him since the time you and I first met?”
“Looking back…too damned much.”
“I see.”
“He was my main contact in the field, Müller: my source, my base, my rescue unit, my communications...” Carey Bloomfield paused. “Get the picture?”
“Too clearly.”
“I got those oak leaves mainly because of what I was able to pass on since you and I met.”
“I see,” Müller repeated.
“It was a mission, Müller. It still is, I suppose…”
“Even now?”
“No! Not now. I came privately.”
“Have you told him about our mysterious, apparent Russian-American, or American-Russian – or possibly neither – contact who calls himself Grogan, and Vladimir, when it suits him?”
“No.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“He does not know about this place, either.”
“That’s a relief. Anything else I should know?”
She gave him a searching look. “What’s this, Müller? Third degree?”
“I am a policeman.”
“I won’t forget.”
A silence descended between them.
“Look,” Müller said at last, “let’s not stand here facing each other like antagonists. We have an unexpected development. Let us attend to it calmly. We cannot change the circumstances under which we first met. Neither can we change what we are. You, Intelligence officer…me, policeman. Right now, our interests converge: survival…”
“Truce?”
“As far as I am concerned,” Müller said, “we were never at war.”
“Watchful wariness, then.”
“Quite possibly. And now,” Müller went on, “where do you go from here?”
“To Toby Adams.”
“So he is in Berlin. Is that wise?”
“He’d expect me to,” Carey Bloomsfield replied. “As this is a private visit, I did not plan to see him. But that photo changes everything…”
“Will you be able to face him without giving an indication…”
“Oh I can do that. Believe you me.”
“Yes. I know you can.”
She shot him a look that carried more than a trace of guilt. “I could see that arrow.”
“But you have also been very helpful to me,” Muller added, soothing the barb.
“That was diplomatic.”
“The truth.”
She nodded to herself, and began to replace the photographs. “I don’t need to see more, for now.” She began to put everything back into the briefcase, taking her time about it while she thought out her strategy. Then she paused. “Do you remember seeing any document with his name on it?”
“I did wonder when you would ask,” he said, “as soon as I heard you say the name. There is just the one mention. As I had nothing else to go on, I simply ringed it. Here. Let me…” Müller searched through the documents, then pulled out a single sheet. “Here it is.” He passed it to her. “Your German is excellent, so you don’t need me to translate.”
She took the typed sheet, and began to read the paragraph bearing the name ringed by a yellow marker pen.
“’
The American
,” she read, translating as she went, “
’was introduced as Toby Adams. It may well not be his real name, as would be expected in these circumstances. He was looked upon as an important member
…’”
She stopped, and returned the paper. “I don’t need to see more.”
Müller put it away, and shut the case.
“Do we have time for me to pay Toby a visit before we go off to Kreuzberg?” Carey Bloomfield asked, expression neutral.
He nodded, watching her closely.
“No tails, Müller. The last time you tried that, you sent Reimer. I lost him. He would not be any luckier this time round. Nor anyone else you sent.”
“I didn’t know you then.”
“That remark can mean anything.”
“It can. But I assure you…no tail.”
“And if you try to find out where Toby is…Toby Adams, as you know, is not his real name.”
“I know. But I do have a positively identified photograph…”
“Old photograph,” she corrected. “He does not look quite like that anymore.”
“Certain things about a person don’t change, no matter how long ago a photograph was taken…unless – barring accidents, or illness - that person has undergone deliberate, radical surgery.”
“No surgery. That’s for sure. So, Müller…do I go clean?”
“You have my word.”
“Okay. Give me an hour.”
“You’ve got it.”
“I’ll need my coat. I guess it’s still pouring out there like it’s the last day on Earth.”
“Quite possibly.”
The innocuous building near the Jannowitz Bridge, overlooked the Spree.
Carey Bloomfield did not go there directly, despite Müller’s assurance. She had found a parked taxi in the teeming rain, not far from Müller’s glass palace, and instructed the driver to take her northwards, in the direction of Berlin-Wedding. She got out at the Amrumer Strasse underground station, near the University Clinic. She did not take the train. Instead, She walked for a while, despite the rain, turning into many side streets along the way.
Her seemingly erratic route had a purpose. After many such turns, she was at last satisfied that she had not been followed. She ended up at the Pekinger Platz, on the edge of the Spandau Canal. There, she picked up another taxi which took her to the Jannowitzbrücke. She was back in Berlin-Mitte and just two kilometres in a straight line, from Müller’s office.
She went up to the unobtrusive building, and pushed open the unlocked, solid wooden door. There was no lift. She made her up a wide, classical winding staircase to the top floor of the three-storey building. Another solid wooden door, plain, with no legend to describe the business being practiced within, was at the end of a wide landing. The inlaid floor gleamed from regular polishing.
She knocked.
“It’s open!” came an American-accented voice, in English.
Carey Bloomfield entered.
The place was a travel bureau for people with lots of money to spend. No budget prices here. Glossy travel posters to all the expensive watering holes of the globe, it seemed, adorned every spare wall space. Racks of brochures were strategically dotted about the large, plant-decorated reception area. Comfortable chairs were placed at low tables. A coffee machine burbled in subdued politeness.
At the wide, curving desk, was a dyed blonde who had worked seriously at being thin. Her face was a paean to the art of make-up, so perfectly had it been applied.
She looked at Carey Bloomfield with a raking gaze that immediately decided this visitor could not afford any of the holidays that were being advertised. She did not turn up her nose at Carey Bloomfield’s attire, but it was all there in the look.
Despite this, her welcoming smile was a searchlight of perfect teeth. “Hi,” she said. “And what can we do for you, Madam?”
“Hi, yourself,” Carey Bloomfield said. She hated being addressed by people who used the royal “we”. It always gave the impression, she felt, of being spoken to by a schizophrenic. “Toby in?”
The perfect blond blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Toby,” Carey Bloomfield repeated. “Toby Adams,” she added for good measure.
