NINE

      10:35 P.M. Goethestrasse: West Berlin

      “There,” Hauer grunted. He had wedged Hans’s Volkswagen so tightly between two parked cars that the one behind would have to be moved to reveal the license plate. “All right, where’s the house?”

      “I’m not sure,” Hans replied, peering through his window. “I’ve never been here before.”

      “Are you joking?”

      “No.”

      Hauer stared in disbelief. “So why are we here?”

      “Because it’s just what you asked for—a place we can’t be traced to.”

      Hans climbed out of the VW and started up the deserted street, skirting the pools of light from the street lamps. “That’s it,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. Hauer followed a few paces behind. “See it? Eleven-fifty.”

      “Quiet!” said Hauer. “You’ll wake the whole block.”

      Hans was already halfway up the walk. He rapped loudly on the front door, waited half a minute, then knocked again. Finally, a muffled voice came from behind the wood.

      “I’m coming already!”

      Someone fumbled with the latch, then the door opened wide. Standing in a pair of blue silk pajamas, a tiny man with silver hair and a tuft of beard squinted through the darkness. He reached for a light switch.

      “Please leave the light off, Herr Ochs,” Hans said.

      “What? Who are you?” Finally the uniform registered in the old man’s brain. “Polizei,” he murmured. “Is there some problem?”

      Hans stepped closer. He took the tattered business card from his pocket and handed it to the old man. “I don’t know if you remember me, Herr Ochs, but you said that if I ever needed a favor—”

      “Gott im Himmel!” Ochs cried, his eyes wide. “Sergeant Apfel!”

      Hans nodded. “That’s right. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but there’s an emergency. My captain and I need to make some telephone calls. We can’t use the station just now—”

      “Say no more, Sergeant. Come inside. Did I not tell you? Ben Ochs knows how to return a favor. And what a favor! Bernice!”

      An even tinier gray-haired woman appeared behind Ochs. She stared at the uniforms with trepidation. “What is it, Benjamin?”

      “It’s young Hans Apfel! He needs our help. Get your slippers, Bernice. We’ll need some tea and …” Ochs trailed off, noticing the large bruise at the base of Hans’s skull, a souvenir of Rolf’s lead pipe. “Something stronger, I think.”

      “Please,” said Hans, following the old man inside, “all we need is a telephone.”

      “Nonsense, you look terrible. You need food, and something to calm your nerves. Bernice?”

      Frau Ochs bustled into the kitchen, talking all the way. “There’s chicken in the refrigerator, boys, and cabbage too. It’s no feast, but this is very short notice.”

      The old tailor pulled two chairs from beneath the kitchen table; Hans immediately collapsed into one. The Ochses’ kindness seemed otherworldly after the events of the past four hours. Hans felt as if he’d been running for days.

      Hauer had been too amazed by the warm reception to say anything. Summoning a smile, he extended his hand to Ochs. “Guten Abend, Herr Ochs. I’m Captain Dieter Hauer.”

      Ochs nodded respectfully.

      “I’m afraid Hans is right. A rather special situation has arisen. I myself believe it’s just another of the endless exercises they put us through, but of course we never know for sure. If we could just use your telephone for a few minutes, we would be gone before you know it.”

      Ochs nodded again, slower this time. “You are a poor liar, Captain. But I count that in your favor. Most honest men make poor liars. If you’re anything like your young friend, you are always welcome in my house. This boy”—Ochs grinned and patted Hans on the shoulder—“this boy saved my life. Three years ago I was trapped in a burning car, and Hans was the only man who had the nerve to get me out.”

      The light of realization dawned on Hauer’s face. Only now did he notice the old man’s left hand; it was withered and covered with scar tissue from a deep burn.

      Ochs shook his head in wonder. “I thought he was trying to kill me! He blasted out the window right over my head!” The old man laughed and stepped over to the counter. “Here is the chicken,” he said. Then he held up a dark bottle his wife had pulled from a high cabinet. “And here is some bromfn—brandy—for the nerves. We’ll leave you to your business now. Come along, Bernice.” Taking his wife under his silk-covered arm, Benjamin Ochs left the kitchen without looking back.