A blue Peugeot taxi had pulled up on the other side of the glass doors. A grey-haired woman was scrambling out. She was followed by a tall, distinguished-looking man with a slow and ceremonious walk.
"Watch the small pieces, I'll watch the big ones," Rossino told her as he relit his cigar.
The driver was unlocking the boot; Franz, the chasseur, was standing behind him with his trolley. First came two matching suitcases in brown nylon, neither new nor old. Belts round the centre for extra support. Red tie-on labels. Now an old leather suitcase, much bigger, with a pair of wheels at one corner. Followed by yet another suitcase.
Rossino let out a soft Italian oath. "So how long are they staying?" he complained.
The small pieces were stacked on the front passenger seat. Having locked the boot, the driver began unloading them, but Franz's trolley wasn't going to take all of them at once. One shabby carrier bag in patchwork leather, and two umbrellas, his and hers. A paper carrier bag with a black cat on it. Two large boxes in festive wrapping, presumably belated Christmas presents. Then she saw it: a black briefcase. Hard sides, steel frame, leather name-tag. Good old Helg, thought Charlie; spot on. Minkel was paying off the cab. Like someone else Charlie had once known, he kept his coins in a purse, and spilt them into his palm before parting with the unfamiliar currency. Mrs. Minkel picked up the briefcase.
"Shit," said Charlie.
"Wait," said Rossino.
Laden with parcels, Minkel followed his wife through the sliding doors.
"Around now you tell me you think you recognise him," Rossino said quietly. "I tell you, why don't you go down and take a closer look? You hesitate, you're a shy little virgin." He was holding her by the sleeve of her dress. "Don't force it. If it doesn't work, there's lots of other ways. Frown. Adjust your spectacles. Go."
Minkel was approaching the reception desk with small, slightly silly steps, as if he had never done this before. His wife, holding the briefcase, was at his side. There was only one receptionist on duty and she was occupied with two other guests. Waiting, Minkel gazed round in confusion. His wife, unimpressed, sized the place up. Across the lobby from them, behind a smoked-glass partition, a group of well-dressed Germans was assembling for some kind of function. She studied the guests disapprovingly, muttered something to her husband. The reception desk became vacant and Minkel took the briefcase from her hand: a tacit, instinctive transaction between partners. The receptionist was a blonde in a black dress. She checked the card index with her red fingernails before passing Minkel a form to fill in. The stairs were hitting Charlie's heels, her damp hand was sticking on the wide banister, Minkel was a misted abstraction through her astigmatic spectacles. The floor lifted to her and she started her hesitant journey towards the reception desk. Minkel was stooped over the counter, filling in his form. He had put his Israeli passport at his elbow and was copying out its number. The briefcase stood on the floor beside his left foot; Mrs. Minkel was out of shot. Placing herself on Minkel's right, Charlie peered crookedly over his shoulder as he wrote. Mrs. Minkel entered left, and was looking at Charlie in puzzlement. She nudged her husband. Aware finally that he was being studied at close quarters, Minkel slowly raised his venerable head and turned to her. Charlie cleared her throat, acting shy, which was no hardship. Now.
"Professor Minkel?" she said.
He had grey troubled eyes and looked even more embarrassed than Charlie was. It was suddenly like supporting a bad actor.
"I am Professor Minkel," he conceded, as if he were not quite sure. "Yes. I am he. Why?"
The sheer badness of his performance gave her strength. She took a deep breath.
"Professor, my name is Imogen Baastrup from Johannesburg and I'm a graduate in social studies from Witwatersrand University," she said, all of a rush. Her accent was less South African than vaguely Antipodean; her manner mawkish but determined. "I had the great good fortune to hear your centenary lecture last year on minority rights in racially determined societies. That was a fine lecture. It changed my life, in fact. I meant to write to you but never got around to it. Do you mind, please, if I shake your hand?"
She practically had to take it from him. He stared foolishly at his wife, but she had the better talent and was at least giving Charlie a smile. Taking his cue from her, Minkel smiled too, if wanly. If Charlie was sweating, she was nothing to Minkeclass="underline" it was like dipping her hand in an oil pot.
"Are you staying here long, Professor? What are you doing here? Don't say you're lecturing again?"
In the background, out of focus, Rossino was asking the receptionist in English whether a Mr. Boccaccio had checked in from Milan yet.
Again Mrs. Minkel came to the rescue: "My husband is making a European tour," she explained. "We are having a holiday, lecturing a little, visiting friends. We are really looking forward."
Thus encouraged, Minkel himself managed finally to speak: "And what brings you to Freiburg-Miss Baastrup?" he asked, in the thickest German accent she had ever heard off stage.
"Oh, I just thought I'd better see a little of the world before I decided what to do with my life," said Charlie.
Get me out. Christ get me out. The receptionist was regretting that no reservation could be found for Mr. Boccaccio, and alas the hotel was full; with the other half of herself, she was handing Mrs. Minkel a room key. Somehow Charlie was thanking the Professor again for a really stimulating and instructive lecture, Minkel was thanking her for her kind words; Rossino, having thanked the receptionist, was heading briskly for the main entrance, Minkel's briefcase mostly hidden by the smart black raincoat over his arm. With a last bashful effusion of thanks and apologies, Charlie went out after him, careful to show no sign of haste. As she reached the glass doors, she was in time to see the reflected image of the Minkels peering helplessly round them, trying to remember who had it last and where.
Stepping between the parked taxis, Charlie reached the hotel car park, where Helga, wearing a loden cape with horn buttons, sat waiting in a green Citroen. Charlie got in beside her; Helga drove sedately to the car park exit, put in her ticket and money. As the boom lifted, Charlie began laughing, as if the boom had triggered off her laughter. She gulped, she put her knuckles in her mouth and her head on Helga's shoulder, and broke into helpless, glorious mirth.
"I was incredible, Helg! You should have seen me-Jesus!" At the junction, a young traffic policeman stared in puzzlement at the sight of two grown women weeping and laughing their heads off. Lowering her window, Helga blew him a kiss.
In the operations room, Litvak sat over the radio, Becker and Kurtz stood behind him. Litvak seemed frightened of himself, muted and pale. He wore a headset with one earpiece, and a throat-pad microphone.
"Rossino has taken a cab to the station," Litvak said. "He has the briefcase with him. He's going to collect his bike."
"I don't want him followed," Becker said across Litvak's back to Kurtz.
Litvak pulled off his throat pad and acted as though he couldn't believe his ears. "Not followed? We're got six men round that bike. Alexis has like fifty. We've put a homer on it and we've got cars standing by all over town. Follow the bike, we follow the briefcase. The briefcase takes us to our man!" He swung to Kurtz, appealing for his support.
"Gadi?" said Kurtz.
"He'll use cut-outs," Becker said. "He always has done. Rossino will take it so far, hand it over, somebody else will take it on the next stage. By this afternoon, they'll have dragged us through small streets, open country, and empty restaurants. There's not a surveillance team in the world that could survive that without being recognised."
"And your special interest, Gadi?" Kurtz enquired.
"Berger will stay on Charlie all day long. Khalil will phone her at agreed intervals and places. If Khalil smells a rat, he'll order Berger to kill her. If he doesn't call for two hours, three hours, whatever their arrangement is, Berger will kill her anyway."