The engine was less than five yards away when he felt a hand shove him hard in the small of the back. He stumbled then fell on to the track, his scream silenced abruptly as he disappeared beneath the screeching wheels.
Karen Schendel walked into the Hilton foyer punctually at eight o’clock. Whitlock, who had been watching the entrance from the comfort of an armchair for the past ten minutes, got to his feet and shook her extended hand.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said with a smile. ‘I thought you might have written me off as a crackpot after my performance this morning.’
‘Hardly, but I do admit to being both baffled and intrigued. I must say you’re looking lovely tonight.’
She was wearing a turquoise silk dress, her newly washed black hair spilling on to her narrow shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, fidgeting with her pearls.
‘Well, shall we go through or would you prefer a drink first?’
‘Let’s go through to the restaurant, we’ll have more privacy to talk there.’
The maître d'hôtel beamed at her. ‘Ah, guten Abend, Fräulein Schendel.’
‘Guten Abend, Franz. I believe Mr Whitlock booked a table for us,’ she said, subtly switching to English.
‘Please don’t change to English just because I’m here. I do speak German, only it needs a major overhaul to set it right.’
‘Your German was word perfect when we spoke earlier, Mr Whitlock,’ Franz said.
‘I should hope so. I practised it enough times in the car coming here,’ Whitlock replied with a grin.
Karen chuckled. ‘Hidden talents?’
‘Some talents are better left that way,’ Whitlock replied as they followed Franz to a table for two in the corner of the restaurant.
‘Is this one of your regular haunts?’ Whitlock asked after their order had been taken.
‘When the company’s paying. I’m not really one for dining out. You might find this hard to believe but I’m the kind of person who likes nothing more than to potter about the house in a pair of jeans and a sweater and eat spaghetti Bolognese. I guess I never really grew out of the tomboy stage.’
‘Where did you pick up your English?’
‘In Britain. After graduating from Mainz University I went over there for three years as a lab assistant, first at Dounreay then at Calder Hall. I only became interested in public relations once I had come back to Germany.’
‘How long have you been involved in PR work?’
‘Five years now, the last two as head of PR here in Mainz. I’m also in charge of the hiring of the plant’s non-technical staff. Guards, drivers, cleaners, personnel like that.’
The wine steward presented the wine bottle for Whitlock’s inspection. He nodded.
Karen watched the steward opening the bottle at the sideboard. ‘How long have you been with the New York Times?’
‘About four years.’
‘Then you’ll probably know a friend of mine. John Marsh?’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do, but you must remember I’m only there in a freelance capacity. I’ve never been on the permanent staff.’
‘Of course, it said you were a freelance writer in your introductory letter. So, as you’d say in journalism, you’re a stringer.’
‘Right,’ Whitlock replied, returning her smile.
The wine steward returned with the open bottle and poured a measure for Whitlock to taste.
On receiving the customary nod he filled both glasses and left the bottle in the ice bucket by the side of the table.
‘You’re not really a journalist, are you?’ she said quietly.
Whitlock felt cornered. His stomach was churning but he knew he could elude her if only he could remain calm and call her bluff. ‘You’re an intriguing person. This morning you mysteriously slide me a note telling me to ask you out and now you claim I’m not really a journalist even though my credentials were thoroughly checked out by your plant manager before he let me near the place. I feel as though I’m disintegrating before my very eyes. By the end of the night I won’t know who I am or what I do any more. You don’t work for the KGB by any chance?’
She ignored his gentle sarcasm. ‘If you worked for the Times you’d have known John. He writes a daily showbiz column for them. He’s the epitome of the extrovert, he knows everyone and everyone knows him.’ She noticed the lingering doubt in his eyes. ‘When I heard you were coming I made some discreet enquiries about you at the newspaper. John’s never heard of you.’
She stopped talking when the waiter arrived with the food, then picked up the conversation again after he had left.
‘You probably think I’m making this up. We can phone John if you like: he’ll be putting the finishing touches to his column for the morning edition. You can speak to him yourself.’
Whitlock stared at his plate, his appetite suddenly gone.
‘Also, if you’d really been a journalist you’d have known what a “stringer” is. You didn’t. A “stringer” isn’t just a freelance – it’s a correspondent based away from head office whose local contacts give him an on-the-spot usefulness which far surpasses that of a reporter sent out from head office.’
‘So how come you know so much about journalism?’
‘I used to date John when he was stationed in Berlin. He was supposed to be the paper’s foreign correspondent but instead of filing everyday reports like the other journalists he became obsessed with chasing after so-called spies and spent most of the time commuting between East and West Germany hoping to land the big scoop.’
‘And did he?’
She put her hand to her lips, trying not to laugh with her mouth full. ‘Sorry,’ she said after swallowing. ‘He wrote a story, with pictures to back it up, about an American general supposedly handing over documents to a beautiful KGB agent on Hamburg’s Kennedy Bridge. The KGB agent turned out to be a Reeperbahn hooker and the documents a couple of hundred marks for services rendered. He was hauled back to New York and given that column to keep him out of any more mischief.’
Whitlock smiled politely, his mind still reeling from the way she had dissected his cover story, piece by piece, until there was nothing left for him to hide behind. Nothing like it had ever happened at UNACO. He felt humiliated. Outclassed and outmanoeuvred by a pretty face – or rather by what lay behind it. As he watched her eating he knew what would have to be done if she tried to expose him publicly. His hand brushed against the holstered Browning Mk2–
‘What intrigues me most of all is how you managed to get someone like the editor of the New York Times to agree to back up your cover story.’
He could have answered her in one word. Philpott. He had a sneaking suspicion Philpott had members of staff whose sole function was to dig up the personal indiscretions of those people who could be beneficial to UNACO, then use them as a form of blackmail to get what he wanted. It was only a theory but it had always amazed him, and the other field operatives, how Philpott could come up with solid cover stories at such short notice. Solid, that is, until now–
‘Is there something wrong with the Sauerbraten, sir?’ Franz asked anxiously at Whitlock’s shoulder. ‘You’ve hardly touched it.’
‘On the contrary, my compliments to the chef. I think I’ve got a touch of indigestion.’ He looked at Karen. ‘Acidity, I believe?’
‘Can I get you something for it, sir?’
‘No, thank you, just take the plate away.’