Free A Game of Spies by John Altman Page B

greedily.
    She dropped the paper into the sink and watched it turn to ash.
    Stood for one more moment, thinking.
    Then she started to move.

5
    LAKE WANNSEE
    Hagen stood in the arched doorway of the villa’s dining room, considering.
    The crystal chandelier overhead was dark. The Oriental carpet underfoot smelled of antiseptic cleaning fluid. Eight Queen Anne chairs stood neatly lined against one wall. Yet even in its current state of disuse, the room gave an impression of muted opulence. It took only a small leap of imagination to picture the space as it had been during the villa’s glory days: voices raised in warm conversation, the chime of champagne glasses following a toast. It must have been quite a sight in those days, Hagen thought. He would have liked to see it—to raise his own glass of champagne and, for a fleeting moment, to worry about nothing.
    A woman came up behind him, preceded by a waft of perfume. “Gerhard,” she said.
    He turned. “Angelika.”
    â€œHerr Frick is waiting in your office.”
    He frowned with surprise. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
    The woman departed silently; after a moment her perfume followed. Hagen took another few seconds before leaving the dining room, trying to organize his thoughts. There was too much on his mind these days. Too many secrets, too many half-truths, to keep straight. Had he scheduled an appointment with Herr Frick this morning? He was certain he had not. So why was the man here?
    Could it be news about Hobbs, so soon?
    There was only one way to find out.
    He spent a last moment looking at the quiet dining room, imagining the phantom toasts and the voices raised in cozy camaraderie; then he turned, and moved slowly down the corridor to his office.
    â€œWe paid a visit to Wilmersdorf this morning,” Frick said. “The man had been there, beyond any doubt. When we came through the door, Frau Gehl was in the process of disposing of bloody bandages. If we’d been an hour faster, we would have him right now.”
    For some reason, Frick’s eyes gave a guilty flicker as he said it. Hagen noticed this, then dismissed it. He and Frick had been running in very different circles for the past few months. It would be a mistake to think that he could read the man’s tacit signals as if nothing had changed. Hagen was more on the wavelength of a bureaucrat, these days, than a soldier. He had sunk that far.
    â€œA radio transmitter was discovered in the attic,” Frick continued. “And so it seems fair to assume that Hobbs has been in contact, via the airwaves, with his spymasters in Britain. I am of the opinion that Herr Gehl will be able to enlighten us as to the man’s destination—with the proper encouragement. The Gehls are in our custody at Number Eight Prinz Albrecht Strasse. My associate is interrogating them even as we speak.”
    Hagen nodded approvingly.
    â€œHobbs has taken their car—a blue Talta. And judging from the bandages, he’s been rather seriously wounded. Soon, now, we’ll have our man.”
    â€œExcellent,” Hagen said.
    â€œI thought you would be pleased—and would want to be kept advised of my progress.”
    Had there been another guilty flicker there? No; it was only in Hagen’s mind.
    â€œThank you, Herr Kriminal Inspektor. You’ve done well.”
    Frick stood, saluted. “The next time we speak,” he said, “I will have even better news.”
    He left the office, and Hagen looked after him for a few seconds. Then he spun in his chair, to look out through the open window at Lake Wannsee.
    Frick had found the man’s trail more quickly than he had anticipated. Almost too quickly. Perhaps it had been an error in judgment, to set him on Hobbs’ track so soon.
    A thin smile flickered across Hagen’s face. Error or not, he was pleased that Frick had moved so efficiently. It confirmed