“I’d appreciate it. I’m off to a black tie dinner in an hour.”

“Black tie?”

“American consulate, and they don’t appreciate lateness. Grab your coat. I’m dying for a cigarette.”

He waited patiently, watching her close the folder she’d been browsing and then work her way into a standing position.

He peered around the office. “Oskar not in?”

“Interviewing some new applicants.”

“Anything promising?”

She shrugged as she slipped into the vast quilted coat that hid her own frame. “Too early to know.”

“That’s how it always is,” he said pointlessly, then stepped aside so that she could leave the office first. As they continued down the long corridor, he remained behind her, which gave her the unsettling sense that she was being shadowed. He said, “This should only take a few minutes.”

“It’s no problem at all.”

They nodded at the front-door guards hovering around the metal detectors and crossed the empty lane to a small park on the edge of the grounds lit in the early evening darkness by lamp poles amid the trees. By the time they arrived, Erika was out of breath, and he suggested they share a nearby bench. She was very aware of her own weight when the bench creaked and sagged and Wartmüller had to take the far end lest he slide into her.

“So,” she said.

“Yes,” Wartmüller answered, then peered across the shadowy grounds. He licked his teeth and took out his Marlboros. “It was a nice trick, cornering Dieter like that, but I don’t think that’s the way we should be running things here.”

“No?”

“No. And I’d like you to give back the American.”

“American?”

He lit a cigarette, taking his time. “Milo Weaver.”

“Oh, Milo Weaver,” she said. “I don’t know where he is.”

Wartmüller pursed his lips and gave a disappointed tsk-tsk. “Please, Erika. He’s in your basement. Oskar is probably tending to him now. I certainly hope he’s not damaging the man-he’s not, is he?”

Erika didn’t answer. Had she let something slip? Perhaps all it had taken was a bit of suspicion and a review of the neighborhood security tapes-the excuse for the van had probably been weak. Perhaps Weaver had been visible from the road when they transferred him into the house. Or maybe Gustav had stupidly stepped outside for a smoke. “Listen, Theodor. If I did have Milo Weaver, I wouldn’t keep him in my house. I’d use one of our nice, secure cells.”

He continued to smoke, staring into the distance. “You want to play it this way, fine. Don’t admit a thing. Remember that I’m a friend. I’m not interested in undermining your career. I simply want the man set free-no paperwork on this at all. I’ve also received assurances that the Americans won’t seek retribution. Just make sure he’s in one piece, okay?”

She stared hard at the side of his face. “The Americans talked to you about him? Are they the ones who say I have him?”

“Do you really think there’s anything you can do without the Americans knowing, Erika? If they really want to know? We have a staff of six thousand. The CIA? At least twenty thousand. Not to mention their technology: A satellite can follow you home and take pictures of your house, while the infrared watches you go to bed.”

“That’s ludicrous, and you know it.”

He flicked away his cigarette. “Don’t ask me how they know. To someone my age, it’s all magic. Just know that they know, and please give them back their man. None of us can afford their wrath just now.”

Erika watched him head back to the building. She breathed in the cold. She wasn’t prone to cursing, but at that moment a stream spewed from her. Then she got up and put all her frustration into stamping out Wartmüller’s smoldering cigarette.

She bought her wine and Snickers from Herr al-Akir, making no effort to ease his anxiety, then picked up Oskar. He began with his complaints, but she cut him off and explained the situation.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “So fast?”

“We made a mistake. We were stupid.”

“How long do we have?”

“Until tomorrow afternoon, I’d guess. Any longer and they’ll send GSG 9 to knock down my door. Probably burn down the house while they’re at it.”

“So can we do it my way now?”

“We beat him, and he’ll just tell more stories.”

“If we don’t, he won’t say a thing.”

Image

He was taped into the chair again when Erika Schwartz descended the stairs holding wine and two glasses, but something was different. She moved faster, and there was an air of confusion about her, or panic. She began from the beginning again, with the simple questions. Why did you kill Adriana Stanescu? Who do you work for?

It had been a long day with these two men who sometimes took random pops at him as he watched the Stanescu story over and over, but it had also given him time to think. The truth was that he and Erika Schwartz were seeking the same answers. They were both disgusted by what the Department of Tourism had done, and both needed to know what could possibly justify it. Milo had received a vague answer from Drummond, but it wasn’t enough, and it wouldn’t be enough for Schwartz either, so he didn’t bother telling her.

His silence now seemed to upset Schwartz. A look of despair overcame her, and she turned to Oskar. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right,” she said, then got up and settled on the sofa. “Go ahead.”

Oskar stood. “Gustav, why don’t you give Mr. Weaver a cigarette?”

While Gustav lit one, Heinrich tugged at Milo’s dirty shirtsleeves until his forearms were exposed, and Milo closed his eyes. He’d known it might come to this, but he’d expected a longer wait.

Gustav had done this before. He blew on the cherry before each touch and knew how much pressure to use so that the burn went deep but the cigarette didn’t go out. He was an expert of sorts.

Milo screamed a few times, but worse than the pain was the stink. The sulfurous smell of his hair melting, then the flesh, like charcoal. His stomach convulsed, but there wasn’t enough food in him to follow through on the action. Then he screamed again.

In their business, no one wasted time or energy pretending something didn’t hurt. Facts were facts, and denying the truth of pain was a wasteful show of braggadocio. Their business had no time for braggarts.

“Talk,” Oskar said after five burns, as he used a paper towel to roughly mop up the blood lest it stain the furniture.

Oskar was blurry through his tears; Schwartz, beyond him, was reclining. He couldn’t focus enough to see her expression. “Who’s doing it?”

“Excuse me?” said Schwartz.

“This. Who’s making you rush this? You were doing well before. You were taking your time. You even had me convinced you had all the time in the world. But it’s changed, hasn’t it? Someone’s telling you to get rid of me.”

“Gustav,” she said. “I think Mr. Weaver could use another smoke.”

Milo stiffened, though his face went slack, waiting for the pain. Gustav blew on the end of the cigarette while Heinrich again held the arm still, and when he placed another burn among the red and black spots Milo screamed freely. It was all so damned professional.

Oskar waved a wisp of smoke from his face and leaned closer. “Talk.”

From the sofa, Schwartz explained, “Mr. Weaver, we may be rushed, but we have all night. Gustav has a carton of cigarettes in his bag.”

Milo stared at his taped knees. He heard Gustav blow on the cigarette behind him, but when he looked up the man was stepping back, sticking the cigarette between his lips.

Milo said, “It was for you.”

“Me?” said Schwartz.

“The plural you. German intelligence. I don’t know what department, just German intelligence. Adriana was killed so that the Company’s relationship with German intelligence could continue.”

While Oskar stared doubtfully, Erika Schwartz squinted at him. “What does that mean, Mr. Weaver?”