Call After Midnight (24 page)

One look at the Citroën told her her driver could not have survived. She had time for only a twinge of regret, but no tears. She had trusted the man. While they hadn't been lovers, they had been colleagues and they had worked well together these past five years. Now he was dead.

She grabbed the satchel and walked briskly down the street. A block away she broke into a run. To remain in Berlin any longer would be foolish. She had made one costly mistake, and she had survived; next time she might not be so lucky.

* * *

B
LOOD WAS EVERYWHERE
.

Nick shoved through the crowd of onlookers, across a street littered with broken glass, toward the black Citroën. Voices were shouting around him in German; on the sidewalk ahead, ambulance attendants crouched next to a body. Nick fought to get through, only to find himself blocked by a policeman. But he was close enough to see the dead man lying on the sidewalk, face exposed, eyes wide and staring.

“Potter!” he shouted. But there were too many other voices, too many sirens. His cry was lost in the noise. He was utterly paralyzed, unable to move or think, just another stunned body in a crowd of onlookers, all staring at the blood. The man beside him suddenly sank to his knees and began to retch.

“O'Hara!” It was Potter, calling to him from across the street. “She's not here! There're only two men, the driver and another guy, over by the porch. Both dead.”

Nick shouted back, “Then where is she?”

Potter shrugged and turned as Tarasoff approached.

Enraged by his own helplessness, Nick pushed through the crowd and walked aimlessly down the street. He didn't know or care where he was headed; the sight of blood was more than he could bear. It could just as easily have been Sarah's body lying in the street, Sarah's blood splattered all over that Citroën.

A few yards away, he sank to the curb and dropped his head in his hands. There was nothing he could do. All his hopes rested on the skills of a man he'd never trusted and an organization he'd always despised. Roy Potter and the good old CIA. Potter had never been bothered by moral questions of right or wrong; he just did what he had to, and the rules be damned. For the first time in his life, Nick could appreciate such amoral practicality. With Sarah's life at stake, he didn't care how Potter did his job, either, as long as he got her back alive.

“O'Hara?” Potter was waving at him. “Let's move it! We've got a lead!”

“What?” Nick scrambled to his feet and followed Potter and Tarasoff to the car.

“KLM Airlines,” said Potter. “She used her credit card.”

“You mean she's leaving Berlin? Roy, you've gotta stop that plane!”

Potter shook his head. “We're too late for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The plane landed ten minutes ago. In Amsterdam.”

* * *

T
HE
D
UTCH, IT
is said, never close their curtains. To do so would imply that one has something to hide. At night, when the houses are lighted, anyone who walks down an Amsterdam street can look through the windows, straight into the soul of a Dutch home, and see supper tables where well-scrubbed children sit watching as their mothers spoon
out applesauce and potatoes. The hours will pass, and the children will disappear to their beds. Mother and father will go to their accustomed chairs. There they will watch TV or read, all in plain view of the world.

This open-curtain policy extends even to the Wallen district of Amsterdam, where members of the world's oldest profession display their charms. In the brothel windows, ladies knit or read novels, or they look out the windows and smile at the men gawking from the street. To them it is only a business, and they have nothing to hide.

It was in this neighborhood that Sarah found the Casa Morro. The afternoon had already slipped toward dusk by the time she crossed the small canal bridge to Oude Zijds Voorburgwal. In the sunlight the city had glowed with the gentle patina of age. But with the darkness came neon lights and throbbing music and all the strange and restless people who do not sleep at night. Sarah was just one more in a street of wanderers.

In the shadows by the low stone bridge, she stood and watched the passersby. The dark waters of the canal gently slapped the boats behind her. A young man shambled by with the bent shuffle of a street addict. In the window across from her, four women in various stages of undress were displayed, the human offerings of Casa Morro. They looked like altogether ordinary women. The tallest one glanced around as someone called her name. Then, putting down her book, she rose and disappeared through the blue curtains. The other three women did not even look up.
Don't be shocked,
Helga had said. This is what she had meant. After living on the edge of death, something as commonplace as a brothel could hardly shock Sarah.

For half an hour, she observed the steady flow of men in and out the door. The three women in the window eventually
departed through the curtain; two others emerged in their place. Casa Morro appeared to be a thriving business.

At last Sarah went inside.

Even the scent of perfume could not hide the building's smell of age. The odor hung like a heavy curtain over what had once been an elegant seventeenth century home. Narrow wooden stairs led to a dim hallway above. Persian carpets, worn from years of traffic, muffled Sarah's footsteps as she walked from the foyer into a sitting room.

A woman looked up from a desk. She was in her forties, black-haired, elegantly tall and rawboned. Her gaze swept across Sarah in a swift look of assessment.
“Kan ik u helpen?”

“I am looking for Corrie.”

After a pause the woman nodded. “You are American, aren't you?” she asked in perfect English.

Sarah didn't answer. Slowly she circled the room, taking in the low couch, the fireplace with its brightly polished grate, the bookcase with its shelves of obscenely humorous knickknacks. At last she turned back to the woman. “Helga sent me,” she said.

The woman's face remained absolutely expressionless.

“I want to find Simon. Where is he?”

The woman was silent for a moment. “Perhaps Simon does not wish to be found,” she said softly.

“Please. It's important.”

The woman shrugged. “With Simon everything is important.”

“Is he in the city?”

“Perhaps.”

“He'll want to see me.”

“Why?”

“I'm his wife. Sarah.”

For the first time, the woman looked perturbed. She
went to her desk and sat down. Tapping a pencil nervously, she studied Sarah. “Leave me your wedding ring,” she said. “Then come back tonight. Midnight.”

“Will he be here?”

“Simon is a cautious man. He'll want proof before he comes anywhere near you.”

Sarah removed her ring and gave it to the woman. Her hand felt naked without it. “I'll be back at midnight,” she said.

“Madame!” the woman called as Sarah turned to leave. “There are no guarantees.”

Sarah nodded. “I know.” The woman's warning had not been necessary; Sarah had learned that nothing was guaranteed. Not even her next heartbeat.

* * *

C
ORRIE WAITED ONLY
a moment after Sarah left. Then she walked outside and down the block, to a pay telephone where she dialed an Amsterdam number. It was answered immediately.

“The woman Helga called about was just here,” said Corrie. “Long hair, brown eyes, early thirties. I have her wedding ring. It is gold, inscribed Geoffrey, 2-14. She will be back at midnight.”

“She's alone?”

“I saw no one else.”

“And that man Helga mentioned—O'Hara—what did your friends find out?”

“He's not CIA. His involvement appears to be purely… personal.”

There was a pause. Corrie listened carefully to the instructions that followed. Then she hung up and returned to the Casa Morro, where she placed the wedding ring on a pedestal in the front window where it would be easily visible from the street.

Corrie smiled when she thought of what would happen when the woman returned. Sarah looked like all the other straitlaced types who so despised working women like Corrie. All of her life, Corrie had sensed the disdain of those “virtuous women.” She'd wanted to fight back, but how can one spar with cold silence? Tonight the tables would be turned. It was a brazen way to do things, putting this woman Sarah on display, but Corrie didn't question her instructions.

In fact, she rather relished them.

* * *

I
N A QUIET
coffeehouse a mile away, Sarah sat on a hard wooden bench and stared at the candle on the table. Her life—what there was of it—had somehow come to this strange and lonely point in time. Outside, the world went about its business. Cars honked on the street, young men and women laughed and shouted as they walked in the night. But Sarah's universe was made up of this table and this room. Had she ever existed before this moment? She could hardly remember.
Was I ever a child?
she wondered.
Did I ever laugh and dance and sing? Was there ever a time when I wasn't afraid?

She didn't ask these questions out of self-pity. She felt only bewilderment. In two weeks she'd lost touch with everything she'd once called familiar. Closing her eyes, she hungrily pictured her old bedroom, the mahogany nightstand, the brass alarm clock, the chipped china lamp. She went over every detail, the way one goes over a favorite photograph. Her old life, before fear had swept it away forever.

Strange, she thought, how one learns to keep going. Now her money was running low. She was alone. She didn't know where she was headed or how she would get there. But she had learned one thing about herself: She was a survivor.

Today had proved it. The pain of Nick's betrayal still cut like a knife; she would never recover from a wound that deep. Yet somehow she'd found the strength to move on. Surviving had turned into something automatic, something one did by way of instinct. All those false, pretty dreams of love had been left behind. Now she had only one clear goal in mind: to live long enough to end this nightmare.

In a few hours, she'd be with Geoffrey again. He would see to her safety. Moving in this world of shadows was second nature to him. And even if there was no love between them, she did believe he cared, just a little. It was the one hope she had left.

She dropped her head as a profound weariness settled on her shoulders. She'd walked for miles through the streets of Amsterdam. Both body and soul had been battered, and she longed to sleep, to forget. But as she closed her eyes, the memories returned: the taste of Nick's mouth, the way he laughed so gently when they made love. Angrily she forced the images from her mind. What had once been love was now turning to cold fury. At Nick for betraying her. At herself for being unable to give up the memories. Or the longing.

He had used her, and she'd never forget that. Never.

* * *

“T
HERE'S NO WORD
on Sarah,” said Potter as he walked into Nick's Amsterdam hotel room. He was carrying two cups of coffee. He closed the door with his foot and handed a cup to Nick.

Nick watched Potter flop into a chair and wearily rub his eyes. They were both dead beat. And hungry. Somehow they'd forgotten about supper; probably a first for Potter, judging by his girth. Since leaving Berlin they'd consumed nothing more substantial than black coffee. A quick shot of caffeine was what they both needed, thought Nick as
he downed his cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. It was going to be a sleepless night.

“Slow down, O'Hara,” said Potter. “You're gonna eat up your stomach, gulping it fast like that!”

Nick grunted. “You don't know my stomach.”

“Yeah, well, the last thing I need is to get blamed for your bleeding ulcer, too.” Potter glanced at his watch. “Damn. That deli down the street just closed. I could've used a sandwich.” He fished a package of broken crackers from his pocket. “Saltines. Want some?” Nick shook his head. Potter tossed the broken crackers into his mouth and crumpled the cellophane. “Bad for my blood pressure. Too much sodium but, what the hell, when you're hungry, you're hungry.” He brushed the crumbs off his suit and watched Nick pace the floor. “Look, things are moving fine without you having a nervous breakdown. Why don't you just turn in?”

“I can't.” Nick stopped at the window. The city of Amsterdam stretched out in an endless sea of light. “She's out there somewhere. If I only knew where…”

Potter lighted a cigarette and strode across the room for an ashtray. After sixteen hours on the job, he was looking a little frayed. His suit was rumpled and his face was pastier than usual. But if he was discouraged by the recent turn of events, he didn't show it. Potter, the bulldog. No style, no charm, just a thick body with a thick head, all dressed up in a polyester suit. “For God's sake, O'Hara.” He sighed. “Turn in! Finding her is our job.”

Nick said nothing.

“Still don't trust us,” said Potter.

“No. Why should I?”

Potter sat down and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Something's always eating you, isn't it? What is it about you career guys in the foreign service? You go around
the world nursing your ulcers, whining about the idiots in Washington. Then you turn around in public and put on that patriotic face. Hell, no wonder our foreign policy's so screwed up. It's administered by schizophrenics.”

“Unlike central intelligence, which is run by sociopaths.”

Potter laughed. “Yeah? At least we get things done. Matter of fact, you might be interested to hear I just got off the line to Berlin. We've turned up some info on those two dead men.”

“Who were they?”

“The driver of the Citroën was German, once connected to Mossad. The neighbors had a notion he and Helga Steinberg were brother and sister, but it's obvious now they were just associates.”