But for a bullet.
Werneuchen: the focus of Trumpeter was on Werneuchen, and I left the bottom drawer unlocked in case there was a chance of taking anything with me when I left here. The whole cabinet was stuffed with the type of classified product worth mounting a specific documentation snatch on its own, but if I took away everything I came across tonight I'd need a truck outside.
I moved to the next corner, where there were three more files, and I had the keys in my hand when a panel of light in the environment went out and I froze. Sound of voices, footsteps. I watched the six reflections and saw them come together and part again where the panels of glass formed a corner. The footsteps were fainter now. Sound of the elevator doors thumping open, thumping shut.
Totally alone, and I got going in earnest, opening the three files and ransacking them for any material in code, because there'd be nothing on Trumpeter in plain text. I still believed there was a safe somewhere, in a wall or in the floor, and I slammed the last drawer of the third cabinet shut and began looking for it, and within the next half hour I'd sounded every inch of the walls and the panels of the desk and the base of the carved ottoman that was the only decorative piece of furniture in the room.
Sound.
Freeze.
Elevators. Not the doors, just the machinery, the low whine of the motors.
Doors now.
This floor.
I'd worked thoroughly but I'd covered my tracks and there was nothing in sight that hadn't been there when I'd first come into the office. From where I was standing now I could see two reflections of the elevator and the three figures in the corridor.
Steady the breathing, stabilise the nerves.
They weren't janitors: I couldn't see clearly through the reflecting panels but their peaked caps were distinct.
Walking steadily, keeping in step, talking; I could hear their voices now.
Didn't move. Watched. It would be ten or twelve seconds before they reached the corner and came into full sight of Room 60 and if one of them raised his head and looked straight in front of him he would see me clearly. One of two things was going to happen. When they reached the corner they would keep straight on and move out of sight, or they would turn and come in this direction and either pass Room 60 or come in.
A gleam of brass on their caps: two of them were high ranking. A civilian in the middle — he could be Melnichenko.
I waited. Tidal breathing, the itch of sweat as it gathered on the scalp. They were still talking. Then they reached the corner and turned in this direction and came on without stopping.
Rat in a trap.
18: VERTIGO
'I would have liked to be presented to him.'
'Of course. But it's my understanding that — Hans, will you sit here? — it's my understanding that the chiefs of service haven't been invited to the press luncheon. They're playing down the military side of things during this particular visit.'
'I shall be over at Werneuchen that day, in any case. The — '
'On the Pabst matter?'
'Yes. It's unsettling — she was highly respected and devoted to the Party. Does anyone feel a draught?'
'Draught?'
'Yes, this window's not quite shut.'
A bus halted at the lights.
The window was shut now; the latch had clicked home.
Traffic was slowing behind the bus: two or three cars and a taxi.
I could still hear voices but they weren't intelligible now that the window was shut.
Cold. It was very cold here.
The lights went to green and the traffic moved off, the bus leaving a cloud of diesel smoke drifting across the street. I couldn't smell it from here.
The ledge was less than a foot wide. I had to angle my feet.
He would be Melnichenko, the man who said he was going over to Werneuchen. He was the only one with a Russian accent, and the others wouldn't be interested in whether Lena Pabst was devoted to the Party or not. So it would have been strictly no go if I'd stayed in the room — Melnichenko's own office. But this might not be any better: I was seventy feet above the street and I could only shuffle sideways and if I put any pressure at all against the concrete behind me I would lose my balance, finis.
The windows of Room 60 had plastic blinds but they weren't totally opaque so I'd crabbed my way along the ledge until there was a wall behind me. I suppose if I felt the onset of fatigue or vertigo I could shuffle back to the windows and knock on them and think up an acceptable reason for being out here and look for a chance of getting clear while the military police were taking me along for questioning, but I didn't like throwing in the towel without trying to find a better way out — an unfortunate metaphor, yes — if you threw a towel from here it would go floating and curling and dipping lower and lower until it met the street. A body would go straight down.
So Melnichenko was reported to have a file on Trumpeter in Room 60 and Lena Pabst had been got out of the way because she'd been infiltrating Trumpeter and Melnichenko himself would be at Werneuchen making enquiries. I was glad I'd phoned Yasolev. If I came unstuck from the side of this building at least I'd reported on Melnichenko and it might give them a clue, even provide a breakthrough.
Bitterly cold. I didn't put my gloves on because I wanted to feel things with my fingertips: the rough concrete and the next window-frame when I worked my way along there. The only chance I'd got was to keep moving and hope to find a handhold somewhere before the tension brought on fatigue and I tipped forward. That could happen at any time, minutes from now, an hour from now.
Nothing below me but the street: no balconies, canopies, guttering, nothing to break a fall. This was a new building with a flat modern facade and only a single ledge jutting at each storey.
The cold alone could finish me, inducing torpor. In still-air conditions it would have been more tolerable, but there was a wind that came in sharp gusts, tugging at my coat.
Move, keep moving. And don't look down. I could hear the traffic and that was all; the wind was taking the exhaust gas away before it reached this height, and bringing in the river smell from the west.
There's a difference between a tight-rope and a ledge along a walclass="underline" on the rope you can swing from one side to the other to keep your balance; on a ledge you can only keep still, and even though this one was wider than a rope the wall itself was the danger because when you feel yourself losing your footing you instantly reach out for support but if I let my hand touch the concrete with more than the slightest pressure it'd pitch me into the void.
I don't like heights. I'd seen a man go down, once, from the twenty-first floor of a construction site. They say you scream but you don't. They call it going down the hole, the construction workers, and when one of them does it the rest of them are told to go home for the day because it's unnerving and therefore dangerous.
One foot, then the other. The ankles had started aching and I wanted to angle the feet the other way but it would mean shifting the body's equilibrium and the nerves were already under stress; I was beginning to feel that the wall had started leaning towards the street, and the ledge tilting. This was normaclass="underline" fear begets illusion; but it would have to be dealt with, combatted.
Like a crab. Moving like a crab along the wall. A dull ache had started at the top of the spine. I was keeping my head to one side, to the left, the way I was moving, because when I turned it to the right the building across the street swung across the vision field and affected the sense of balance.