The dividends were immediate. By the following night, a fresh message was waiting for Helen behind the brick in the playground. She pried it loose after dark, when the only possible witness was an old drunk, a neighborhood regular she’d noticed on enough previous visits to have him vetted, just in case.
She didn’t open it until reaching her apartment. It was typed on half a sheet of paper, double-folded, and was a reply to her request the night before to Audra Vollmer for more information about Kathrin, the cryptonym for the agent who’d warned Anneliese Kurz about Gilley.
Magda Elisabeth Henkel (Kathrin), DOB July 8, 1959. Activated: May 12, 1978. Reports on leftist student groups. Case officer: Rick Ford (Linden)
Rick Ford was fairly low on the pecking order of operatives at Berlin station, meaning Kathrin was probably a low-priority agent. If so, then why would she have ever worked with Gilley, the so-called high priest of the Agency’s darkest arts? From the way Baucom described him, Gilley was a professional of such exacting standards that he presumably had access to the most experienced and competent personnel the Agency could offer. Yet, from what Helen had seen he had recently employed two of their most inexperienced agents.
Pasted below Kathrin’s name was a thumbnail photostat mug shot—narrow face, large eyes, dark spiky hair—next to a telephone number and an address in Kreuzberg. Helen decided to again use a phone booth. This time she chose one four blocks from her apartment.
A young woman answered in a somewhat shy tone, but in the German fashion, by stating her last name.
“Henkel.”
“I am a friend of Mr. Linden. He suggested that we meet.”
“We should not speak of this here.”
“I understand, but this is somewhat urgent. We need to…to adjust your protocols.”
“My what?”
“Your protocols.”
It was bullshit, of course, but during her time in Berlin Helen had learned that if there was one sure way to appeal to a German’s sense of duty, even one who ran with a crowd as supposedly countercultural as Kathrin’s, it was by citing some sort of bureaucratic necessity.
The young woman sighed.
“All right, then. Where, and at what hour?”
Helen had previously decided that it would be best to meet at the scene of the original crime. She had already put in the proper forms to reserve a block of time, just in case.
“Alt-Moabit, you know this location?”
“Yes.”
“Seven tomorrow night, then.”
“Okay.”
Helen placed her fingertips against the chilly windowpane of the darkened room as she peered into the night. Outside, snowflakes fell from the late-October sky, drifting like ash through the beam of a street lamp.
She spotted Kathrin approaching from around the corner, the young woman’s gestures giving her away—looking over her shoulder, quickening her pace, a bad actor trying too hard. The opposite of how an agent should deport herself on the way to a rendezvous. No wonder she’d been farmed out to Rick Ford, and even he probably thought of her as a throwaway. Helen moved away from the window and headed downstairs.
The day had passed with agonizing slowness. Word had filtered through the office that Baucom was back in town, but he hadn’t yet been in touch. She supposed he was feeling awkward about his thievery. Just as well. If Helen were to meet him now, he’d probably sense within minutes that she was up to something.
He might also ask about her progress in investigating Lewis and the wheezing man, and she had none to report. Her query for information on recent cable traffic involving “Lewis” had been returned with a terse, unsigned note informing her that such information was beyond her clearance. There was no longer any record of the requisition of the Macallan Scotch, so that was another dead end.
She had arrived at the safe house an hour ahead of schedule to narrow her margin of error. She spent most of the extra time nervously tidying up. She also searched every room, half convinced she would discover someone in stocking feet preparing to turn the tables on her, the tape recorder already running.
When she checked the liquor cabinet, she would have sworn that the Macallan was an inch or two lower than before, although her own records said there had been no official activity in the house since her last visit.
Helen considered pouring some of the Scotch for herself before opting for the vodka, which made her think of her mother. In the fridge she found a carton of orange juice, which she poured atop the vodka. Her glass was empty, rinsed and drying on the draining board by the time Helen went upstairs to watch for Kathrin. She was standing by the front door for the first tentative knock.
“You’re Kathrin,” she said, recognizing her from the photo—a frightened and ghostly face. A girl, really, cut from the same mold as Anneliese, in clothes that she might have picked up from a charity table at a homeless shelter.
“Yes.”
“I’m Betty.” Helen had settled on her mother’s name for her cryptonym, since Herrington had never felt the need to assign her one. Having never run an agent before, she wasn’t sure how to begin, although at least her German was good.
“Anything to drink?”
“No, please.”
Kathrin lit a cigarette and sat on the couch, the very one where Gilley had assaulted Anneliese a few nights ago. The thought was enough to keep Helen from sitting down. Instead she began pacing slowly back and forth. Kathrin spoke first.
“You said something about my protocols?”
“Yes.” Helen stopped and looked her in the eye. “That was for cover. What I really want to do is talk to you about Robert.”
Kathrin emphatically shook her head.
“I cannot speak with you about that.”
“Kathrin, it’s all right.”
“I cannot speak with you!”
Helen sat next to her on the couch. Kathrin looked away until Helen touched her forearm.
“The first thing you should know is that I am not a friend of Robert’s. The second is that your case officer, Mr. Linden, does not know of this meeting, nor should you ever tell him. But I am operating under the highest authority on behalf of Mr. Linden’s firm, and I will do what I can to keep you safe.”
A couple of whoppers, but she needed to know Kathrin’s story. Kathrin looked away from her, drew a deep breath, and spoke toward the far wall.
“If I speak with you of Robert, then you must supply me with an escape and evasion kit.”
“With a what?”
“A kit for leaving this place, with a new identity. Linden told me he had one for himself. For use in an emergency, he said. A passport from another country, and with another name. He said you have people who make these things for you. Cobblers, he called them.”
Good lord. Linden had been showing off, puffing up his importance to this low-level agent, probably just to impress her, and in the process he’d revealed matters he should’ve kept to himself. It made her wonder what else he might have said.
“Even if we could do that for you, Kathrin, it would take days, maybe weeks.”
“Then I cannot speak. I will not.”
“There are other ways of keeping you safe.”
Were there? Not really. Not when you were up against someone with the purported skills of a Kevin Gilley. The only safe way forward was to keep this meeting a secret, so Helen would do her damnedest to ensure that.
“I’m not asking just for me, Kathrin. This is for Anneliese. Frieda, I mean. You’ll be doing this for her.”
“Why for Frieda?” Kathrin’s brow furrowed. “Has something happened to Frieda?”
“Have you truly not heard?” The girl shook her head. “It was in the newspaper, just the other day.”
Kathrin’s eyes widened at the mention of the newspaper. Helen gently took her hand.
“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but she was killed.”
Kathrin pushed her away. She looked down at the floor, gasping as if she’d just broken the surface from a deep dive into the ocean.
“Was it him?” she said, looking up suddenly. “Was it Robert?”
“The witness described someone else.” True, but misleading, and she hated herself for the deception.
“But does this not mean that Robert’s people…? Well, you know what I am asking.”
“I do. And that is why you must speak with me. So that this will not happen again. When I last saw Frieda, she said that you had warned her. About Robert, I mean.”
Kathrin lowered her head and nodded slowly.
“She said you had told her not to be alone with him. Had he tried something with you? Sexually, I mean.”
Kathrin nodded again, still with her head lowered. Then she spoke, barely audible.
“In a friend’s apartment, where he had arranged to meet me. He had business to do, a job to discuss, and that is what we did. Then, when that part was done…” She hesitated.
“It’s all right. I am quite aware of what he’s like.”
“He began trying to remove my clothes. I stood. I tried to push him away. But, well, he is very strong. He said he would report me, would tell the others.”
“The others?”
“His employer. Our employer. And the student groups, the ones I was reporting on. He would tell them all and then, well…” She shrugged. “So what could I do?”
“I understand.”
“And then…” Kathrin looked away.
“And then what, Kathrin? What did he do?”
“Do I really need to say it? Do I really need to describe it, moment by moment? It happened for five minutes, maybe longer, and even then he kept laying on top of me, sweating on me, breathing into my face. And smiling, always smiling, like he thought that would make everything okay for me.”
Then she seemed to deflate, folding in on herself at the end of the couch. Kathrin pulled up her knees and clasped them with her arms. Helen placed a hand on her back but Kathrin pushed it away.
“Why were you meeting him, Kathrin? Had Linden arranged it?”
“No, no. Robert called on the telephone. He said he had an operation to run, one that Linden should never be told about, the same as you said tonight. I was to help arrange it.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“A small thing. I was to obtain two keys. One to a garage, and one to a car inside of it. I was to steal them from a man’s coat pocket, a man who I would meet in a bar. I only had to keep them long enough to make wax impressions. The garage key would be red, he told me. The car key would be for a BMW.”
“Did Robert arrange the meeting at the bar?”
“No. The target was a regular at this bar on Tuesdays. We were to go there because Robert said that we were both ‘his type,’ and that if we approached him, he would want to talk with us.”
“We?”
“Frieda and I.”
“You were working together?”
“Yes. But only this one time. I had not met her before. I did not know her. You said her real name was Anneliese?”
“Yes. Anneliese Kurz.”
She nodded, but her expression did not change.
“So the two of you went to the bar, then, on a Tuesday night?”
“Yes.”
“Together, or did you meet her there?”
“Together. Someone picked us up in a van, on two different corners.”
“Robert?”
“No. Someone else.”
“Who?”
“He did not say his name. He only said that he was working with Robert.”
“Why two of you?”
“To distract this man. Whichever one of us was closest to his coat would reach in for the keys and then make the impression, for copying, while the other one kept his attention.”
“Had you ever done anything like this before?”
She shrugged and lowered her head.
“It’s all right, Kathrin, you can tell me.”
“When I was younger.”
“Shoplifting?”
“Yes.”
“And you were caught, too, I’m guessing, which is how Robert would’ve known.”
“Yes, I was caught once. In my hometown in Sachsen-Anhalt, when I was seventeen. It is why I ran away to Berlin.”
Another waif on the run from family and boredom, alone and especially vulnerable, like Anneliese.
“Did the plan work? Did one of you get this man’s keys?”
“Frieda took them. It was easy. She didn’t even have to sneak it. We just waited until he went to the men’s room, and he left his coat on the bar stool. We pressed both keys into the wax and were done. She put the key ring back into his coat pocket well before he returned.”
“Do you know why Robert wanted them?”
She shook her head.
“How did you know who the target would be?”
“Robert had showed me a photo.”
“Did he tell you the man’s name?”
“No, but the man told us himself. It was Werner. Werner something, maybe with a ‘G.’ Gernhardt or Gernholz, I cannot remember. But he was wealthy, or dressed that way. And, well, he drove a BMW. Or at least that was one of his keys. He liked to brag about his work.”
“What did he do?”
“Something political, for the SPD.”
“The Social Democrats?”
“Yes, a policy job, he said. He tried to make us believe he was very important, but Frieda and I had never seen him on television.”
“Did you leave with him?”
“No. That was not the plan. We were only to imprint the keys, and then deliver the wax kit to the van.”
“And that was the night when you warned Frieda about Robert?”
“Yes, as we were leaving the bar. She had told me she would be meeting him soon.”
“What for?”
“She did not know. But she said it would be at a safe house. This one.”
“The man who was working for Robert, the one in the van, what did he look like?”
“He was younger, more like one of us.”
“Like you and Frieda, you mean?”
“Yes. Longer hair, a leather jacket, like someone you’d meet in the clubs.”
“A German?”
“No. American. Or his accent was American.”
Helen felt a cold spot at the base of her stomach.
“Long hair, you said, and a leather jacket?”
“Yes.”
“Black leather? With silver studs up the sleeves?”
“How do you know this?”
“And his hair. Black? Stringy?”
“Yes. You know this man?”
“Possibly.”
Delacroix again. It seemed obvious. No wonder Erickson had asked Detective Schnapp to back off.
“Have you seen him since then?”
“No.”
“But you would recognize him if you did?”
“Yes.”
“If you do see him, Kathrin, you must contact me right away. Not later, but right away, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“But do not approach him, do not try to follow him.”
Kathrin grew very still.
“Did this man kill Frieda?”
“I don’t know. He might have.”
She put a hand to her mouth.
“Kathrin, listen to me. I’m going to help you leave here safely, all right?”
She nodded slowly.
“There is a back way out of this house. Did Linden ever show you how to use it?”
Kathrin shook her head.
“I’ll show you now. Come with me, let’s get you going, and I’ll watch to make sure you’re away safely and securely, all right?”
They stood, Kathrin a bit unsteadily. Helen took her gently by the shoulders and steered her through the kitchen to the back door, where she pulled back the curtains. It was no longer snowing. The clouds had thinned and were racing across the sky, lit by a half-moon. The spindly limbs of the plum tree waved in a cold breeze.
“At the back of the garden there is a steel gate into an alley. It’s locked, so you’ll need to punch in a key code, okay?”
“Okay.” Her body was rigid, but she was paying close attention.
Helen told her the numbers and had Kathrin repeat them back.
“Very good. Would you like something to drink first?”
“No. I only wish to leave.”
Kathrin had never bothered to take off her shabby overcoat, but it was hanging open in the front. Helen helped her button it up, feeling like a mom on the first day of school, sending her child out into the unknown. She clasped the girl by the shoulders and looked into her face.
“When you reach the alley, turn right.”
Kathrin nodded.
“That will take you to Alt-Moabit, where there should be plenty of people. Turn left when you get there. Don’t linger, don’t look over your shoulder. Act as if you know exactly where you’re going and as if you don’t have a care in the world. And be in touch if you have to be. You have my number, yes?”
“Yes.” Barely audible. She was trembling now.
“It’s going to be all right, Kathrin. And thank you. Because of your help, I think we can stop Robert. Okay, it’s time to get going.”
Helen shut off the light in the kitchen and opened the back door. Kathrin stepped carefully down into the garden. Helen watched through a gap in the curtains as the girl crossed the narrow lawn in the stilted motions of someone traversing a cemetery at midnight. Not a promising start, but what could you do? When she reached the keypad it took her two tries to open the gate. She stepped into the alley, headed right, and disappeared into the shadows.
Helen relocked the door and swallowed hard. She poured another vodka, and this time didn’t bother to add orange juice. Half an hour later, having steadied her nerves and reassured herself that she was doing the right thing, she headed home. Checking behind her on the way to the U-Bahn station, she noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No black leather jackets with studs up the sleeves. No young men with long, stringy hair.
Yet, the moment she entered her apartment, the buzzer sounded from the door downstairs, meaning that someone had either been waiting nearby or had followed her home. Too close for comfort. She reluctantly pressed the button for the speaker.
“Who is it?”
“Otto Schnapp.”
She sighed in relief and buzzed him in. His footsteps echoed up the stairwell in a rhythm that was steady and precise, almost military. Or did she think that only because he was a German cop with a buzz cut?
He entered frowning, and stopped only a few feet inside the door.
“Can I get you something? Coffee maybe?”
“Nein. No, thank you. I have information for you, then I must go.”
Helen nodded, a bit breathless. Finally, some help.
“Kurt Delacroix. I have found him.”
She reached instinctively for her handbag to pull out a notebook and a pen.
“Yes?”
“I have no address for you.”
“But—”
“I know only his present whereabouts.” Schnapp pointed at her window, with its view of the street below. “He is down there, a block away. Or was when I last saw him. He was following you, directly from the U-Bahn station at Dahlem-Dorf.”
Helen’s pen fell from her hands and clattered on the bare wood floor.
“You’re sure it was him?”
Schnapp nodded.
“He is dressed differently tonight. A green army coat with a torn collar. His hair is gathered in a horse tail—”
“Ponytail?”
“Yes, ponytail, and it is pushed beneath a woolen cap. But it is him. It is Delacroix. Of this I am quite sure.”
“Did he see you?”
Schnapp shook his head.
“He did not bother to check behind him. I think this is because he was so intent upon watching you.”
“I see.”
She glanced down at the pen on the floor. She had no idea what to say next.
“I am sorry. But I thought that you should know.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you. Do you mind if I sit down?”
Her cautious optimism from half an hour earlier was gone. In all her worrying on Kathrin’s behalf, she had neglected to worry about herself. A mistake. A grave and serious mistake.