She certainly never wanted to have to attempt that again. Yet, seeing how Red-hat had carried on the way he had did make her feel awfully good about herself. She would never, ever, ever admit it to anyone, but the look of rage and embarrassment written across his face had been more than worth the effort.
“As I told you during the first days of your training,” Patrick began, “There isn’t always a standard or method for arranging secret meetings. They are all situational, and have to be creatively orchestrated per-meeting, taking everything into account. This meeting will be even more difficult, since it involves not only your case officer, but a safe house.”
“I want you to understand that the security of a safe house is a delicate thing,” Red-hat said, “Quite frankly, Patrick here is the only one that trusts you enough with that information. If it were up to anyone else on this team, we’d put a black bag over your head, so you wouldn’t be able to retrace your steps back to it. Alas, that would arouse suspicion, so we will have to make do with the hand we are dealt.”
“Again, don’t take this personally,” Patrick interjected. “It’s just a matter of security.”
“I’m going to slip you a piece of paper,” Red-hat said, casually reaching into his pocket. “This paper will contain an address for this Thursday. Like today, you will go there and await further instructions. And Lena, this isn’t training—this is the real deal. So really keep a lookout for anyone you might know.”
“Whichever one of us approaches you,” Patrick explained, “you will call him Adam if you feel the coast is clear. If you feel you are being watched, or if it’s not a good time to meet, you will call him Aldrik. If you call him by that name, we will enjoy a cup of coffee, and wait for you to use the name, Mr. Weber. Once you use that name, we will begin our route. If you don’t use the name by the end of our cup of coffee, or you use the name Mr. Schmidt, we will assume that the meeting is not safe to conduct, and we will break contact. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” Lena responded, trying to remember all of the code-words. They changed every single time they needed to be used, and Lena was sure that they used them only to mess with her.
“What is the name for breaking contact?” Patrick asked.
“It’s Ald… no, no… it’s…” Lena stuttered.
“What is the word for continuing the route after discovery?”
“Mr. Weber.”
“Good,” Patrick said sternly. “Don’t mess this up. Grandfather is a very important and busy man. He’s making sacrifices to meet with you, and there’s a lot riding on your meeting. So, remember what you are told to remember.”
Vivika watched the reflection in the set of sunglasses. She had placed them on the table at such an angle so that she could see the room quite clearly, while also preventing the occupants in the booth behind her from seeing her face. She knew Lena was meeting with them, and she knew that they (like all agents) always sat in the rear-most seats they could find in meeting places. So, she had resolved to beat them to the punch.
She noticed immediately as Patrick and the other man left. First the other man left, stepping outside to smoke a cigarette. She knew he was scanning the crowd to make sure that no one was acting suspicious. Then Patrick left. He walked outside and began walking down the street. The other man watched intently to make sure no one was following Patrick, before starting off down the street in the opposite direction.
Vivika was dressed like an older woman. She wore a darker foundation, a graying wig she had cultured herself, and a headscarf just in case. She also hunched over in contrast to her regular posture. Patrick had taught her well… it wasn’t always about looking like the character you wanted to portray—more like obscuring trademark aspects about yourself.
She always felt just a hair silly whenever she played dress-up. Yet this meeting not only re-affirmed the importance of it, but made her take notice of the corners she had cut. If Lena knew that Vivika was spying on her, the friendship would be over; but if the two men knew, Vivika would likely die a screaming death somewhere. She had to be ever so careful—especially now that she was so close to her goal.
Räder in Den Rädern
Lena arrived at Gustavo’s at about 8:45 am on Tuesday. It was a restaurant on the other side of Berlin that Lena rarely frequented. Mrs. Schroeder was right—this place was relatively busy this early in the morning. With its faux-fancy wooden decorations, embroidered steins and pseudo-traditional dressings, the restaurant felt strangely out of place in the dour realm of Eastern Germany. Honestly, it felt more like a Western-designed, Bavarian-themed tourist-trap for folks from the West than anything else. She didn’t like it, and didn’t think any of her fellow townspeople would either. Yet here everyone was, disagreeing with her.
“Ah well,” she thought to herself, as she picked a booth near the rear, “Might as well enjoy it like everyone else.”
As she sat, she watched the hustle and bustle of people eating, drinking, and conversing with their mouths full of food. Thick spittle flew everywhere as people laughed and joked obnoxiously with each other. And the children… the children were a sonic force to be reckoned with. They emitted an ear-piercing onslaught of such cacophonous force and eruptive pitch, Lena honestly wondered if taking up toddler-murdering would be a more profitable vocation than super-sleuthing,
“Why in the hell do people make these stupid things?!?” Lena raged silently. “It’s like taking all of the hate and misery in the world and personifying it into a tiny, brooding monster that poops and screams.” Just like that, Lena realized that motherhood wasn’t for her. She also realized why she hated restaurants.
“May I help you today, dear?” a middle-aged woman with a certain stately beauty said as she approached Lena’s table. Lena marveled at how well this woman had aged. She had the most piercing blue eyes and youthful skin that she had yet seen on anyone over thirty-five, “Some people get all the luck,” she muttered to herself.
“Um, yes,” she replied, “What are your specials for the day?”
“Well ma’am, we have a…” The woman rattled off several dishes that Lena didn’t know, and could hardly be bothered to remember. Phrases like, “Glazed with a…” and “drizzled in a fine…” were utterly lost on her.
“Do you have currywurst?” Lena interrupted.
“You don’t like restaurants very much do you?” the lady asked, grinning slightly.
“I, uh…” Lena stuttered, not wanting to be insulting.
“Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll have your food out to you soon enough.” The lady winked at her, and then sauntered into the maelstrom of children puking on themselves, off to parts unknown.
“What a wonderful life,” Lena thought sarcastically, “Getting to be surrounded by these little mutants every day? Count me out.” She felt bad about thinking it, though. The woman seemed so graceful in the midst of what must have been a certain and insurmountable misery. Lena decided to do what she could to give a chance to the large group of obnoxious strangers and their extremely audible chewing.
Over at one table sat a morbidly fat couple, stuffing their faces with prodigious quantities of meat while soaking it down with gallons of beer apiece. At another table sat another morbidly fat couple, this time with disturbingly loud children. Even the rotund little brats were cramming their faces full of wurst, letting the juices drip onto their puke-soaked pants. Of course, they made time to squeal at random, mid-munch. They did so in an octave that Lena thought for sure signified subsequent defecation, and a volume that threatened to lobotomize. At another table sat a lone woman with graying hair, hunched over and wearing a headscarf that looked to be just as upset about everything as Lena was. Lena noticed that the woman winced every time a child screeched for no reason, and glowered at them in return. “Finally, someone that gets it,” she laughed to herself.