“Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “I’ve even been to the other side. Through Checkpoint Charlie—that was an experience. It’s depressing over there. Smoggy and dark. No one would talk to me.”
“You look too American,” she said.
“Do I?”
“It’s quite charming,” she said.
“You’ve been across, of course,” he said.
She shook her head. “Someone escaped over the wall several days ago. One of the guards. They shot at him, but missed. He went straight to a bar. Of course, he had no money, but everyone treated him to drinks to celebrate his bravery. They had to take him to the hospital afterward.” She smiled and raised her drink. “Willkommen in Berlin.” He clinked his martini glass against hers.
“I think I saw you this morning at breakfast,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“A trade show,” Anna said. “Also boring. Mostly they just want me to stand in a booth and smile at the customers.” It was her stock answer. There was always a convention of some sort going on. If he wanted to know more, she could fill in the details, but most men weren’t interested. Their questions were gambits toward their end games. “I’m Petra, by the way.”
By now, Weatherly had turned to face her, and she had done the same. Their knees brushed against each other from time to time. They talked a while longer about inconsequential things. He leaned forward when he spoke, as if they were part of a conspiracy, which in a way they were—only not the same one. He was trying to bed her and she was trying to trap him.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he asked. He blushed. “Or dinner, perhaps?”
She had to hold back a laugh at the eager-puppy look on his face. She waited long enough to make it seem like she was giving serious thought to the question. “How about room service instead?” she replied. Her hand went to the front of her dress, as if her audaciousness had taken her by surprise.
“My room is a little messy,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.” He signaled the bartender for his tab.
“Let’s use mine instead,” she said. And just like that she had him. From this point forward, everything was predetermined.
She let Weatherly kiss her in the elevator. His lips were soft. This was a job, but it had its moments. Now that he was on the hook, she could relax and enjoy herself.
She rarely allowed herself to think about the consequences of what she was doing. Life as this man knew it was about to end. Here he was, thinking he was having such good luck. In a way, he was, she supposed. His job had brought him to the attention of some very dangerous people, and she could just as easily have been preparing to slip a stiletto between his ribs. But killing him wasn’t the plan. That would bring unwanted attention, and he wasn’t irreplaceable. Her handlers wanted something to hold over his head so he would surrender information. Knowledge was the most valuable commodity in this city. The events of the next few hours would cause a subtle shift in power between two vast nations intent on expunging each other.
After they entered her room and started to undress, he reached out to turn off the lights, but she asked him to leave them on. “All the better to see you with,” she said, but what she really meant was “all the better to photograph you with.” He relented. They always did. The promise of sex turned them into overeager and compliant teenagers.
Later, she did turn the lights off, but by then the damage was done. She held him in her arms for a while—another of the job’s benefits—and listened as his breathing slowed to a deep, steady rhythm. She quietly dressed and slipped out of the room. Her handlers would clean up in the morning, after they explained to Weatherly how things were about to change for him.
How many had stood up to them over the years? There was a Frenchman, she’d heard, who’d laughed and asked for copies of the photographs to share with his friends, but very few resisted, she suspected. Shame was a powerful weapon.
Two men she didn’t recognize were waiting for her downstairs. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning and, though there were still distant sounds of revelry out on the street, the hotel lobby was quiet, the lights dimmed. Her new handlers, she assumed. They were changed out every month or two. None had ever met her after an assignation before, but they all did things differently.
They led her to a car waiting by the curb. One of the men held the back door open for her. He was young, bright-eyed, and eager. Not her type.
He was still in bed, admiring the patterns the morning light was creating on the ceiling and luxuriating in the afterglow, when the door burst open and two men stormed in. They wore dark suits, dark hats, and the grim demeanors of the oppressed nation they represented. One man held a gun. They dragged him from bed and shoved him into a padded chair in the corner of the room.
The gunman stood in front of him while the other man pulled the chair from the desk across the room and stood on it to remove something from a panel in the ceiling. A few minutes later, he handed it to the gunman, who held it out for Weatherly to see. A canister of film.
“If you’re looking for money, I have a little cash,” Weatherly said.
“He thinks we want money,” the man with the gun said to his companion. He had a heavy German accent. The other man snorted but said nothing. “This,” he said, waving the film in front of Weatherly’s nose, “is your future.”
Weatherly said nothing.
“It could be a dream, or it could be your worst nightmare.” He paused. “Wasn’t she beautiful, our little Anna?” the man said. “I hope she was worth it.”
Weatherly maintained his silence.
“Our cameras are very good, you know. Crisp, clear pictures, every time. Imagine what your boss will think when he finds out what you’ve been up to.” He winked at Weatherly. “Never mind him—maybe he doesn’t care. But what about your wife? Or your kids. Your little boy and your daughter. We know everything about you, Donald Weatherly. Where you work. Where you live. Where you go to church, even. Everyone will find out what kind of man you are. We’ll plaster your neighborhood with pictures. You’ll lose everything.”
Weatherly remained quiet but attentive. He licked his lips.
“Or we could just keep this little roll of film hidden away.” He placed it in a pocket inside his jacket. He patted his chest. “Nice and safe. It’s up to you.”
“What do you want?” Weatherly asked.
“Only a little information. We understand you are designing some tunnels. Never mind how we know that—we do. Tell us where they are going to be built and when, and what they’re for, and this can all be our little secret.” He smiled. “There might even be a little money in it for you. If you provide satisfactory results.” He paused. “Now, and in the future, of course.”
It was a lot to take in. Another man might have been overwhelmed by the unexpected situation and the decisions he was being forced to make under duress. However, he’d heard the same threats at least a dozen times before, in Vienna, London, Washington, Helsinki, Oslo, Geneva, Bonn, and Paris. If his name had been Donald Weatherly and if he’d had a family in Norfolk, Virginia, he might have been concerned. He didn’t say a word. He simply crossed his legs, folded his arms, and waited.
The gunman said, “Do you understand what I’m saying?” He moved in, holding the gun at waist level, close to his body.
The hotel room door swung open and several armed men swarmed into the room. The gunman dropped his weapon and raised his hands. The other man, taken equally by surprise, offered no resistance. Less than a minute later, he and his confederate were escorted from the room in handcuffs. Where they went and what happened to them—or to “Petra,” who would have been scooped up as she was leaving the hotel—was of no real interest to him. His job was over, for the time being.