“DESCRIBE HIM TO ME,” Bulgakov said.
“Tall, well-built. Late thirties. Short dark hair. Wears steel-rimmed tinted glasses. Quietly dressed. Travels light.”
Captain Fichte read from his notes.
“Rawls,” Bulgakov said. “It has to be. What does his shoe say?”
“His passport gives the name Thompson Clarke. He claims to be a flower salesman.”
Bulgakov grinned.
“Clearly Mr Rawls does have a sense of humour, despite all appearances.”
“We get many such people coming to Erfurt, Herr Major. The International Flower Show—”
“I know, I know,” Bulgakov snapped impatiently. “Did you follow him?”
“He’s staying at the Interhotel Kosmos, Herr Major.”
“Don’t put a tail on him,” Bulgakov said thoughtfully. “He’d spot that at once. Just keep an eye on the hotel.”
“What are you going to do, Herr Major?”
“For the time being, nothing. Try to get a photograph of him as he leaves the hotel, but do be discreet.”
“Of course, Herr Major,” Fichte said, deeply shocked that the major should regard him capable of an indiscretion.
“Is his phone tapped?”
“All the telephones in the hotel are tapped.”
“Yes,” Bulgakov said. “He’ll expect that, I suppose.”
His eyes narrowed in concentration.
“He’ll have to move about in public, especially if he’s posing as a businessman. Very well, once you have the photograph, circulate it among the police at the railway station and bus depots, as well as the car-hire centre. Emphasize that he is not to be apprehended or detained. Tell them to let us know whenever he is spotted. For the time being, I simply wish to keep an eye on his movements.”
“Is he a dangerous man, Herr Major?”
“He eats your sort for breakfast,” Bulgakov growled, noting with satisfaction the look of horror on Fichte’s face.
“Do we know what he’s going to do?”
“I don’t think even he knows, Hauptmann. With the Americans strategy is all and tactics are ignored.”
“You seem to have personal knowledge of this man.”
“I have,” Bulgakov said. “We first met in Chile about ten years ago. In those days, things were going entirely his way. I suspect the positions are now reversed.”
“I presume he will be shot, Herr Major?”
“Don’t presume anything, Hauptmann,” Bulgakov smiled. “After all, he might shoot you.”
Fichte paled.
“Will that be all, Herr Major?”
“Yes, for now. Thank you, Hauptmann.”
Fichte left the office.
“Prick,” said Bulgakov, in Russian.