Jeffery Deaver - Ice Cold

Anna and Ines shared a two-bedroom flat on the top floor of a nineteenth-century building overlooking Beethovenplatz. Sitting on their balcony, they enjoyed the views across Munich’s church spires and red-tile roofs as they ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee.

“Simple, good food,” Ines commented.

“Delicious. But I was going to make lunch for you.” Anna’s eyes searched her mother. “How do you feel today?” She saw how stiffly her mother held herself, how carefully she moved.

“Wonderful. Excellent. Better all the time.”

Anna shook her head. Then she smiled. “You’re impossible.” But that was Mamma, upbeat, optimistic. From what the doctor had explained about Hodgkin’s disease, Ines was probably in constant pain, but she never complained, in fact wouldn’t even talk about it. Her bravery strengthened Anna’s resolve. “I think I’ve found a way to send you to the Mayo Clinic in the United States.” The renowned hospital was considered the preeminent treatment center for Hodgkin’s. Nothing in Europe was nearly as good.

Ines shook her head. “Darling, don’t bother. You can’t afford it. I’ve had a good run, a good life.” She changed the subject. “I heard a funny joke this morning from Frau Dingmann down the hall.” Her eyes danced as she launched into it: “Two workers of the state were assigned to improve a street in East Berlin. One dug a hole, and the other came along behind and filled it. This went on all day, digging holes and filling them, with timeouts for the usual schnapps and cigarettes. Finally someone from around here, who was visiting relatives over there, asked what they were doing. One of the East Germans said, ‘Just because the comrade who sticks the trees in the holes didn’t show up, that doesn’t mean the state is going to let us off work, too.’” Ines laughed hard, her eyes watering.

Anna laughed, too. Then she reached across the table and took her hand. “I love you, Mamma.”

“When are you going to find a nice man and make your own life again? You mentioned a ‘Hari.’ Is he your beau?”

Anna felt a chill. “Hari?”

“You were talking in your sleep again last night. I was worried, so I went into your room. You were muttering the name Hari. It seemed to me you were having a long conversation with him.”

“Oh, just someone I work with.” Anna patted her mother’s hand. “Speaking of which, I’m going to be a little late tonight. Don’t cook. I’ll bring you dinner.”

Following a long afternoon at her desk, Anna arrived at Karlsplatz at 5:30 p.m., just as the bus pulled up. From the corner of her eye she saw Hari Bander sitting on a sidewalk bench reading a newspaper. She had signaled him she wanted a treff —a meeting—by leaving half of the five of diamonds in the ladies’ toilet in the train station that morning. The suit—diamonds—meant the Karlsplatz bus stop. The number—five—meant five o’clock, and half of the card meant half past the hour. One of Hari’s associates, undoubtedly a woman, would have picked up Anna’s message and left it at another dead drop for him.

Anna hurried to the queue waiting to board. He stood up and ambled toward it, too. He was small and gangly, with a clean-shaved face and a ski-jump nose. He looked like a shop owner or perhaps a college professor, dressed as he was in a tweed sports jacket, brown silk tie, and fawn-colored homburg. He joined the queue three people behind her. She boarded and sat in front on the right side. Passing her, he sat in the rear on the left. The bus drove east, jostling through the traffic. After ten blocks, she disembarked and turned north, walking casually. She passed restaurants and pubs then went around the corner, heading east again, feeling the sun’s warmth on her back. She stopped to peer into the display window of a dress shop. Soon he came around the same corner.

Hari had an easy walk, the gait of a confident man.

If he passed her, she’d know they’d been followed.

With the slightest smile, he tipped his hat to her. “I’ll meet you at the macaws.” And he was gone, walking off, lighting a cigarette.

Now that she had their final destination, she hailed a taxi.

In the middle of the city, Tierpark Hellabrunn was an oasis of serenity. A vast open space with a zoo and surrounding park, it was renowned for its grassy hills, specimen trees, and bright flowerbeds. Following signs, Anna took a winding path past a picnic area to the macaw exhibit. A dozen colorful males and females sat on tree branches, preening.

An older couple paused at the display. They glanced at Anna, and she exchanged nods and smiles with them. Over the woman’s shoulder, Anna saw Hari approaching.

With a flicker of his eyes, he took in the situation. “Hello, Anna,” he called. “Is that really you?” With a large smile, he hurried over and shook her hand.

“How lovely to see you, Hari,” she said, playing the game. “It’s been a while.”

The older couple moved on, her arm in his.

Glancing around, Hari lowered his voice. “Why did you want to meet?”

“Let’s walk.”

He nodded, and they headed off. There was something nice about Hari, something charming. Yet he carried a pistol, in a shoulder holster under his jacket, that he’d admitted to using. He’d told her he was the child of German artists who were members of the Communist Party. They’d believed communism was the only humane political system, and if Germans followed Marxist rules the nation would be set right. Instead, Adolf Hitler rose to power, and the family left, emigrating to southern Russia. Hari’s father served in the Soviet Army, while Hari and his sister attended Russian schools. When the war ended, Hari was sent to Moscow University. Afterward the Soviet government assigned him to work in the German Democratic Republic—East Germany. Like his parents, Hari was a true believer in communism.

“I have something your bosses will want.” As they walked, she took a gift-wrapped package from her briefcase and handed it to Hari.

He felt the package. “A book?”

“On page 37, the dot over the third i on the seventh line is a microdot. It shows a problem we’re working out on our turbofan engine.”

He frowned. “What’s a turbofan engine?”

“It’s a new jet engine design. It can increase the range of a bomber or a fighter up to twenty-five percent, which means NATO will have much deeper penetration into Soviet airspace.”

Hari’s eyebrows rose. “Shit!”

She gave a grim smile. “Exactly.”

They paused to let a crush of locals pass them. Chatty and friendly, the group was exuberant, as if the world was theirs, but then the country was finally experiencing prosperity again. An awful taste gathered in her mouth. They were her people—and she was betraying them. She looked away. It had all begun six years earlier when she was writing her PhD dissertation. Since East German doctoral students weren’t allowed to publish their theses, many sold them for much-needed cash to students in the West. The buyers felt safe that their professors or colleagues would never be able to identify the work as someone else’s. Anna had bought one and hadn’t attributed the portions she’d used. Then a year ago, East Germany’s dreaded state security agency, the Stasi, had discovered her plagiarism and threatened to reveal it to Caltech, jeopardizing her degree, and to Siemens, jeopardizing her career.

“I always liked Goethe.” Hari had opened the package— Selected Poetry by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Anna took a deep breath, collecting herself. “You’ll like him even more now. What I’ve given you is only a sample. Your engineers will salivate over the prototype data. You’re going to be a hero, Hari.”