Nell parked her Beetle in front of a dirty black BMW that looked as though it had spent its life in ploughed fields.
It was three minutes to nine.
Punctuality was not one of Jiří’s finer points. Stupidity was.
But on the dot of nine the passenger door was yanked open, and Jiří slid into the seat.
“Did anyone see you?”
“No one that matters. I didn’t run. I walked at a normal pace. I didn’t look suspicious.”
She handed him his passport.
“Learn who you are supposed to be.”
“Horst Burkhardt, born 21.9.52, Wiesbaden.”
“You’re my nephew. You understand?”
“Yes, but … I’m eighteen, not sixteen.”
“For God’s sake, Jiří, think! Who are the border patrols more likely to be interested in? A sixteen-year-old schoolboy or an eighteen-year-old student. It drops you neatly below the line of interest.”
“OK. OK.”
Nell started the car. Felt her bumper thump the BMW behind her, but drove on.
“Nell. Where are we going?”
“Berlin.”