In a few minutes, he had made a large omelette, which he sectioned into three pieces and slid onto the plates.
Teresa had brought out a bottle of white Mosel wine from the Black Cat vineyard down in Zell. She poured it into the tin cups, which were the only things they had from which to drink.
They sat down at the bare wooden table.
‘You are full of surprises,’ said Carter.
Dasch grinned and picked up a fork. ‘Eat,’ he commanded, ‘before it gets cold.’
With his first mouthful, Carter thought back to what the chef at Logan’s had told him during one of his summers working as a dish washer: You want to know if a chef can really cook? Just get them to fry you an egg. You can eat eggs all your life and never know for sure how they can taste until a good chef cooks them up for you.
And here, in this dingy little hut on a rusted enamel plate, was proof of what the chef had told him. Now Carter stared in amazement at his plate.
Teresa still wasn’t speaking, so they sat there saying nothing, the only sound the scrape of the forks on the plates and the splash in their mugs of the sharp, sweet wine. But it was not an uncomfortable silence. It seemed clear to Carter that Dasch and Teresa were used to it, perhaps that they even preferred it, and this was such a contrast to the rapid chatter Carter had come to expect from Dasch that he realised it was the first moment in which he had actually seen them as they really were.
At last, Dasch pushed his plate away and settled back into his chair. From around his neck he pulled a leather cord, from which dangled something small and glittery. He set it down upon the table before Teresa. Looped onto the cord was a gold ring fitted with a single lozenge-shaped diamond. ‘I suppose you had better wear this,’ he said.
Teresa stared at it for a while. Then finally she spoke. ‘Is that Mother’s?’ she asked.
‘It is,’ Dasch confirmed, ‘but it will not be enough to convince anyone that the two of you are married.’
‘Why not?’ asked Teresa.
‘Because first you must master the art of looking at him’◦– he waved his fork at Carter◦– ‘as if the only thought in your head is not to shoot him and leave him for dead.’
She glanced at Carter and then back to her father. ‘You ask a lot,’ she said.
Ritter returned just as their meal was ending, bringing a file decorated with the logo of the Josef Schmieder travel bureau. ‘I know a man who works for them,’ he said. ‘I had to wake him up. But it’s all here. They are booked in for one night in the presidential suite at the Orlovsky hotel. Full meal plan. Unlimited access to the spas.’
Dasch took the file from Ritter’s hand and opened it. He made approving grunts as he inspected the tickets. Then he lifted out the itinerary and squinted at the print. A frown appeared on his face, the creases to his forehead deepening as he read to the bottom of the page. Then he looked up suddenly and glared at Ritter. ‘This is what it costs for a single night!’ he shouted. ‘Are you trying to bankrupt me, Ritter?’
‘You told me to make the arrangements,’ answered Ritter, ‘and that is precisely what I did. They are on their honeymoon. It is the most magical time of their lives! Why would you settle for anything less?’
‘Because it’s not true!’ wailed Dasch.
‘And you would want people to know that?’
‘Of course not,’ spluttered Dasch.
Ritter leaned over the table and set one finger on the travel agent’s file, as if to stop it from blowing away in an imaginary breeze. ‘Then this is exactly as it should be.’ He straightened up, indignant, but as he turned to leave he caught Carter’s gaze. For a fraction of a second, Ritter arched one eyebrow and then, before anyone else could notice, his face returned to its usual stony self.
After the meal, Carter cycled back towards his apartment, the dynamo headlight casting a weak, wavering glow upon the dirt road. Arriving, he parked his bicycle next to the old staircase, but did not climb the stairs. Instead, he stepped back to where the alleyway connected with the street. For a while, he just stood there in the shadows, looking up and down the road. It was deserted. Clouds slipped past the gibbous moon, filling the street with a steely blue light and then snatching it away again. The cafe across the road, where he was due to meet with Eckberg, was dark and empty. He wondered if Eckberg was even going to make the rendezvous. Carter felt sick to his stomach at the thought of going behind Wilby’s back, but the man had given him no choice.
Carter dashed across the street and into the alley that ran behind the cafe. He came around the corner, next to a row of garbage cans set out behind the building, and almost collided with Eckberg. It took Carter a moment to realise that Eckberg was holding a gun.
‘Right on time,’ said Eckberg, tucking the pistol back into his jacket.
‘Are you sure about this place?’ asked Carter.
Eckberg dangled a key on the end of his finger. ‘I guess we’ll find out.’ He opened the back door, which was plated with iron, and the two men stepped inside.
The air was still and greasy-smelling. The chairs had been stacked on the tables. Carter could see out into the street, where the cobblestones were outlined with moonlight.
Eckberg showed him to a small table at which the employees could take their breaks. The only light came from the pilot on the grill used for cooking the sausages. It was enough to cast a pale, orangey glow across the faces of the men.
‘So somebody got hurt,’ said Eckberg.
‘Before I tell you anything,’ replied Carter, ‘I need to know that the station chief has approved my talking to you.’
‘I told you he did.’
‘And he knows you’re talking to me now?’
‘You want to call him?’ asked Eckberg. ‘There’s a payphone down the street. How much time have you got?’
‘Not enough,’ admitted Carter. ‘I was just making sure. I don’t know what this is going to do to Wilby.’
Eckberg breathed out sharply. ‘Look, Carter, you need to stop thinking about him and start worrying about yourself. Whatever happens to Wilby he has brought upon himself by withholding information from people he’s supposed to be working with. Not just me. I’m the low man on the totem pole. He can cut me out of the loop if he wants. But the station chief◦– that’s another matter altogether. Nobody’s faulting you for anything.’
‘When Wilby finds out, he will.’
‘But he isn’t going to,’ insisted Eckberg. ‘In fact, it’s very important that you don’t mention any of this to him. That’s for your own security. He’s still running this operation. If he finds out that we suspect him, either of not sharing information or, even worse, of leaking it, that could jeopardise the whole station. So until you hear otherwise, the station chief’s orders are for you to carry on as if everything is fine between the two of you.’
‘It’s never been fine. You know that.’
‘Well, as normal as it’s ever been◦– you understand?’
‘All right. So how much do you need to know?’
‘I’ll take whatever you’ve got,’ replied Eckberg, ‘starting with the reason you called me.’
Carter sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers lightly on the table. ‘How much do you know about Galton?’ he asked.
‘Who?’ Eckberg narrowed his eyes.
‘Sergeant Galton, the guy Wilby set me up with for the purchase of black market goods.’
Eckberg shook his head. ‘I guess you’d better start from the beginning.’
So Carter told him everything◦– about Galton, about the plane with its cargo of whisky and counterfeit currency, and then about the meeting with Garlinsky.
While he listened, Eckberg cupped his hands over his mouth and nose, struggling to take in all that he was hearing.