Helen arrived at Berlin station early the next morning in hopes of finding a reply to her query on the whereabouts of Edward Stone. Instead, she encountered Herrington prowling the hallway outside her office. It was an uncharacteristically early hour for him, and he already looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept. His tie was loosened and his face was unshaven.
“In my office,” he said.
Helen put down her purse and began taking off her coat. Before she could finish, Herrington moved up in her face and put a hand on her arm.
“Now,” he said. “As in, right this moment.”
So much for everything going smoothly. Had someone spilled the beans on her work over Gilley? Had her new mail drop been discovered?
There was an unmistakable air of crisis outside Herrington’s office. A younger man, unfamiliar to her, stood in a pose of readiness, with arms folded and rolled-up sleeves. He looked up as she approached but wouldn’t meet her gaze. Neither he nor Herrington spoke to each other as the station chief passed by on his way to his desk.
Herrington shut the door behind her as she entered. He gestured to a chair, where she seated herself as meekly as possible. This time he did not bother to rub Lenin’s head for luck, nor did he even glance at her chest. He locked his fingers in a prayerful pose atop his blotter, looked her straight in the eye, and delivered the blow.
“We’re letting you go.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“As of when?”
“As of now. That gentleman you saw outside will be escorting you from the premises.”
“I have to at least clean out my desk.”
“You’ll take nothing from this office.”
“Not even my purse?”
“He’ll collect that for you. Along with your official ID.”
“But—”
“There will be no discussion. You will contact no one, here or at Langley or anywhere else. Failure to heed this order will result in prosecution, and we’ll spare no expense in pursuing charges. Do you understand?”
“What charges? What have I done?”
“As if you needed to ask.”
“But—”
“I told you. There’s nothing to discuss.” Then he raised his voice to shout to the man outside. “Allen?”
The door opened immediately. The fellow with rolled-up sleeves stepped inside.
“She’s all yours.” Herrington stood. “Allen here will escort you home to gather your belongings. You’re allowed a single suitcase. Anything that doesn’t fit will be shipped to you later, and be advised that whatever you do take will be thoroughly searched upon arrival.”
“Arrival where?”
“Allen will drive you to Templehof for a military flight back to the States. Any further word on the plane, Allen?”
“Gassed up and waiting on the tarmac, sir.”
“Good.” He turned back to Helen. “You’ll be landing in about nine hours. Someone from Langley will be waiting, and they’ll sort it out from there.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but the only thought that came to mind was that it was over—everything, and on every front. Not just her investigations but her career, her life, her hopes, her great European adventure—all of it was ashes, emptiness. She wanted to vomit.
Allen gripped her arm, a bit roughly at first, and then with a gentle nudge as he seemed to realize how stunned she was.
“Miss?”
She turned to face him. He was about her age, probably an ex-jock, but his eyes showed intelligence, maybe even compassion.
“We have a plane to catch. Come with me.”
He made it sound like he was taking her on a date, and her first impulse was to laugh. Then she noticed Herrington’s look of triumph—the smug set of his mouth, the gleam in his eyes, and she wanted to lash out. But an outburst was probably what he was hoping for, something to share later with the others over celebratory drinks. So she turned away from him, shook off Allen’s grip on her arm, and walked out of the office with as much fortitude as she could muster.
A car from the consular section was waiting outside at the curb. A Marine guard in full dress uniform was at the wheel, which made it look like she was a government big shot, a visiting celebrity here to toss a bouquet of roses at the base of the Wall. She swallowed hard, still feeling nauseated as she slid onto the seat with Allen close in her wake. In the confined space of the car she could smell his cologne, a brand she detested, so she pressed the button on the armrest to open her window. It would only lower by a few inches, just enough to allow the raw dampness of a Berlin morning, which usually made her bones ache, to pour in.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t do that.” Allen said.
“I’d prefer if you hadn’t doused yourself in a quart of English Leather. I can’t exactly climb out the opening. It stays.”
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride, and she left the window open even after she had to hold herself rigid to keep from shivering.