The Good Thief's Guide to Berlin (16 page)

I cracked my eyes open just a fraction, grimacing against the traitorous urge that had taken over my sinuses.

And that’s when I saw him step out into the hallway.

The lurker was a cat. A ginger tom. I’m allergic to cats at the best of times, but in a confined space like an apartment, my sensitivity is at its worst.

The sneeze detonated in my nostrils, jerking my head forward.

The cat arched his back and bared his fangs. His eyes were green. They were piercing. And they were mean. This was one hostile feline.

And he wasn’t alone. Two more cats followed from behind the doorway. One gray and one black with white flashes. They crowded together, claws extended, hackles raised. They had all the attitude of a team of thugs craving a knife fight in a slum alley.

My eyes were beginning to water, and my nose was starting to run. I wiped a gloved finger across my top lip and fought the impulse to sniff. I pinched my nostrils hard and breathed through my mouth. It was probably just my imagination, but it felt as if my tongue was beginning to swell.

There was a galley kitchen on my right. I dived for the sink and turned on the cold tap and ducked my head beneath the flow. I splashed my face and my streaming eyes. Then I blinked and glanced to my left, and saw another cat curled up on the windowsill. It had a tortoiseshell coat and its backside was pointed toward me.

I reached for a stained dishcloth and soaked it in the water until it was very wet. I pressed it under my nose like a gas mask. It smelled foul, but I turned off the tap and found myself grinning.

This was the fourth cat I’d seen so far, and there were a varied collection of dishes and water bowls down on the linoleum floor. Some of the dishes contained meat paste. Some contained a biscuit mixture. But one thing was clear. The ambassador’s office cleaner was a woman who loved cats. She was a lady who was content for her home to smell like a cattery. She allowed her pets to roam freely and to lounge around on her kitchen surfaces. And that made me certain of one thing.

She lived by herself.

Yes, it’s a cliché, but hey, I’m a mystery novelist and I trade in them. I felt confident that I was right and I began to relax. Because if the cleaner was a spinster, then I had until she finished her shift to search her home. That gave me ninety minutes, minimum. And ninety minutes would be more than enough.

TWENTY-ONE

I was finished in under an hour. The apartment wasn’t large. There were two compact bedrooms, an even more compact bathroom, and a modest living room to add to the kitchen and hallway. I found plenty of evidence to suggest that the cleaner lived by herself and no sign whatsoever of a companion or a lodger. I counted six cats in all, but as the damn things kept moving around, I suppose it’s possible that my math shouldn’t be trusted.

There wasn’t much of value. The television was dated, the VCR was practically an antique, and it might have been more accurate to call the radio a wireless. I uncovered a modest stash of money in a shoe box in the wardrobe, and despite my better instincts, I left it untouched. There was a set of porcelain bear figurines in the spare room that might have fetched a small sum if I’d been inclined to swipe them. But I hadn’t been inclined. I’d been depressed and dejected. I was feeling that way because I hadn’t found any sign of an object that could conceivably have belonged to the British ambassador.

I was congested, too. My allergies had really come up trumps. My eyes were stinging and rheumy. My nostrils were sore beyond the point of itching and my lungs felt like they were filled with wire wool. All things considered, it had been a miserable trip.

Like a doctor giving up on a prolonged but ill-fated resuscitation, I called off my search at the fifty-five-minute mark. There was no denying the ambassador’s cleaner could use some extra money, but there wasn’t any indication that she’d resorted to theft. I had the feeling she lived an entirely respectable, entirely solitary life, and for the first time in a long while I felt more than a little sordid about having poked my nose into it.

Before I left, I hunted through the kitchen cupboards to find a replacement dishcloth to set out on the side that wouldn’t be impregnated with my germs, and then I took one final tour to make sure I hadn’t left any trace of my presence. I couldn’t spot any mistakes. I’d done a thoroughly professional, thoroughly unproductive job, and now I could be on my way.

The peephole revealed an unthreatening slice of the Allee when I set my eye to it, so I hauled back the front door and locked it securely behind me with my picks. Then I checked both ways, whipped my gloves off my hands, hurdled the low balcony wall, and marched away toward the U-Bahn station.

My march didn’t last long. It was interrupted before I’d taken more than a handful of strides. I was passing a row of parked vehicles at the side of the road when a door opened in front of me. The door was black. So was the town car it belonged to. So was the man who stepped out onto the curb.

The man was very large, in a weighty, very wide sort of way, and the town car rose up on its suspension once he’d vacated it. He had the type of neck that begins at the shoulders and ends at the chin with nothing very much in between, and his thick, dark hair was clipped close to his scalp. He was wearing a badly crumpled black suit over a white shirt and black tie, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses with a dark tint that matched the windows of the car exactly.

“Get in,” he said, and opened a door at the rear of the vehicle. He had a deep voice, loaded with gravel, and a bass American accent. East Coast, maybe. New Jersey, perhaps.

“Crikey,” I said. “It’s awfully kind of you to offer me a lift, but I’m fine walking.”

“I ain’t offering. I’m telling. Now
get
in the car.”

He tightened his grip on the door, as if it was a telephone directory he planned to rip in a show of strength.

“Listen, I’m flattered,” I told him. “But you’re really not my type. And if I might offer you a friendly word of advice, this is a very odd way to pick up men.”

He glared at me over the top of his shades. “Just get in the damn car,” he said. “I hate hurting English guys. They squeal too much.”

I gave some thought to the idea of legging it, but I wasn’t sure what good it would do. People in Berlin seemed to find it alarmingly easy to track me down, and I didn’t relish the idea of being made to squeal.

“Where do you plan on taking me?”

“Your place. Come on, man. Be cool. I’m a safe driver.”

I didn’t doubt it. You’d have to be a complete moron to crash into this guy.

“Fine,” I said, “but if you’re hoping I’ll invite you inside for coffee, you should brace yourself for a major disappointment.”

The inside of the town car was only a touch smaller than the apartment I’d just vacated, but it was a lot more beige. Beige leather seat upholstery and door panels. Beige upholstery in the roof. Beige carpets.

I dropped onto a rear-facing seat and was nearly swallowed whole by the supple leather. My generously proportioned friend in the chauffeur outfit slammed the door behind me, and the tinted windows dyed the world outside in sepia tones. The soundproofing was impressive, and the heavy traffic sped by in a muted blur. It felt like my ears had popped.

A small, slim woman in business attire, age about fifty, was perched in the seat opposite my own. Her hair was styled into a no-nonsense bob, the color nut brown with streaks of gray. Her skin was heavily pouched and wrinkled, reminding me of dried fruit. The navy blue suit she had on had been tailored in a masculine style, and her shoes were as flat and as unremarkable as her chest.

A zipped document wallet lay open on her lap, and she gripped a bulbous fountain pen in her clawlike hand. She didn’t look up from her papers at me. She didn’t even bother to speak until our driver had lumbered inside and swung the car into the flow of vehicles with all the patience and grace of a guy riding the bumper cars at a carnival.

“So you’re Charlie Howard,” she said, in an offhand American drawl.

“Terrific,” I replied. “Another complete stranger who knows my name.”

“Tell me. Did you find what you were hired to steal?”

“Oh, and my business. Whatever happened to a person’s right to privacy?”

Her eyes flicked up from her documents. Her expression was neutral, even bored. I got the impression I was only a very minor entry on the busy agenda she was working through that day.

“My team tells me you’re not without talent.” There was a monotone quality to her voice. I got the impression she didn’t have a lot of time for intonation.

“Your team?”

She grimaced, as if I’d failed to understand my role in our impromptu meeting. Evidently, I wasn’t supposed to pose questions. “I’m informed that your IQ rates above average. Though we deducted a few percentiles for your profession.”

“Burglar?”

“Mystery writer.”

She returned her attention to her papers, and I gazed out the tinted window, trying to act nonchalant as we swerved between a moped and a delivery van on a trajectory that looked certain to end at the emergency room. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, we were swinging onto a side road at such velocity that I feared my retinas might become detached. A hapless pedestrian jumped out of the way like a man diving backward into a swimming pool, and I decided to focus my attention back inside the car.

The woman was scrawling a note on the bottom of a page. I tried to read her writing but she turned the paper before I had a chance.

I sniffed, and my nostrils twitched. I dug inside my pocket for the wet dishcloth I’d taken from the apartment and clamped it beneath my nose.

The woman shot me a wary look. “You’re sick?”

“Allergies,” I told her. “Cats don’t agree with me.”

She relaxed a fraction. “So how come you didn’t pop a pill before you entered the apartment?”

“I wasn’t warned.”

“My, my.” She shook her head. “Poor Freddy. Talk is he only got the role because of his brother’s connections.”

“And what is his role, exactly?”

She smiled. It took some concentration. Not a group of muscles she used very often, I didn’t think. The effect was reminiscent of a death rictus.

“I guess you might say that he’s a protector.”

“Come again?”

“His job is to make sure your ambassador doesn’t embarrass himself or the UK. But if something goes wrong, Freddy needs to fix it. And fast.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds.” She shrugged. “For Freddy, anyhow. Poor guy is too easily distracted by his libido. Won’t be long until some backwater state snares him in a honey trap.”

It surprised me that I didn’t appreciate the way she was talking about Freddy. Was it possible that I was experiencing some misplaced sense of loyalty to him?

“And you?” I asked. “What’s your involvement in this? What’s your interest in me?’

“Well, now. Why don’t you apply some of your rumored intellect and figure it out for yourself?”

I didn’t particularly want to play her game. I’ve never enjoyed dancing to other people’s tunes. But I didn’t feel like I had a lot of alternatives.

“Fine,” I mumbled, reaching for my tap shoes. “You’re American, obviously. You know Freddy and you’re keen to create the impression that you know what he hired me to do. You’re in a black town car, and although I didn’t happen to spot the plates before your rent-a-heavy obliged me to join you, I’d guess they’d suggest that you’re a diplomat or possibly even an intelligence officer of some kind. And I imagine you want me to give you what Freddy hired me to find.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I had a Russian crew pull this routine on me last night. They beat you to the drop.”

“Oh, I don’t believe so. You wouldn’t still be searching, if that was the deal.”

I paused, then wiggled my finger toward her papers. “You know, you’re not so intimidating. Your Russian competitors pulled a gun on me. They roughed me up a little, too.”

“You want me to do the same?”

“No need. Your driver already threatened to make me squeal.”

“He’s real good at it, too. Believe me.”

I avoided her eyes and checked outside to judge our progress. We were speeding by the green expanse of the Volkspark Friedrichshain. A few minutes more, and we’d be outside my front door.

“So what happens when we get to my place?” I asked.

“That kinda depends. Did you find the item?”

I shook my head.

“That’s a little disappointing, don’t you think? Three apartments. Three blanks.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Sure I believe you. Why would you lie?”

I puffed out my chest. “Well, I
am
British. I’m working on behalf of my government.”

“Quaint. But my people tell me you’re really no more than a common thief.”

I bristled at that. “Maybe not so common. A lot of people seem to be interested in what I’ve been hired to find. You included.”

“Me, in particular.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

She closed her file. Stabbed the leather folio with her pen. “The truth? Curiosity, mostly. The diplomatic world is kinda small in Berlin. We all live in each other’s pockets. We all hear rumors and tall tales. Most of it doesn’t mean squat. But Freddy? Well, he’s made a real scene about this theft from your ambassador’s office.”

“He has?”

“Unintentionally, I guess. But sometimes that’s all it takes. And like it or not—and personally, I truly don’t—we’re allies with you guys. If your ambassador embarrasses himself, it could impact on the U.S. Plus, when I heard that Freddy had approached you for help, it sounded so wackadoo that I figured it had to be worth finding out more.”

“You’re not alone in that.”

“Your Russian friends?”

“Plus more besides.”

I found myself telling her about my visit from Henri, the Frenchman, and my mysterious phone call of the previous night.

“Your German caller sounds mighty intriguing.”

“You could say.”

“He hasn’t approached you yet?”

“Not directly.”

“Well, don’t worry. He will.”