At nine in the morning I drove to the outskirts of the city, to Niendorf. Franz, an old acquaintance of mine, dealt in used cars there. He and I had come together six years back on the basis of a shared love for the football club «St. Pauli». Since then we had kept up good relations as far as possible and met regularly at the stadium. Franz was an imperturbable, severe man of about fifty. A true Aryan who, once every two weeks, regardless of wife or weather, lapsed into childhood: pumped himself full of beer to the brim and came crawling to the stadium with a horn and a drum. We used to blow off steam together, I remember, something wonderful, until we saw brown-and-white devils.
I said hello to Franz, answered a couple of standard questions about how life was going and what my plans were, and then set about the process of choosing a car. For a long time I wandered around the lot in the company of my stone-faced friend, racking my brains: what set of wheels to buy for carrying out the assignment? Clearly what was needed was a powerful and maneuverable machine. The «Beemer Compact» gleaming in silver metallic by the entrance I ruled out at once. It would be stolen in a moment. I was choosing between an inconspicuous dark blue «Subaru Legacy» and a bright lettuce-green «Golf GTI». There was something about both cars I did not like. What? I could not work it out. I walked from one to the other, looked under the hood, climbed into the cabin, started the engine, drove around Niendorf, twice went out of town and tore along the autobahn in a rush of wind – a gale of wind, even – opening it up for all the money was worth. The cars were first-rate, genuine pieces of sporting equipment that need fear no pursuit. My heart rejoiced and my soul sang, so perfect did the machinery that had fallen into my hands seem. Damn! To a rally, to a race, anywhere at all I was ready to go tearing off in those supermobiles – anywhere but Russia! At last I understood what did not suit me about either set of wheels. What did not suit me was precisely what I liked so madly about them – their uncompromising sportiness, from which followed the stiff suspension, the low ground clearance and the other technical bits and pieces, all excellent on Germany’s ideal roads but absolutely superfluous across the boundless Russian expanses. I was facing no less than two days on the road. A long journey, and what was required was not a sports car but a comfortable one. All the more so since I was not intending to take part in any pursuits whatsoever. What for? I was planning to do the job quietly and peaceably and fly back to Hamburg. So my eye fell on a cherry-colored «Ford Mondeo» parked away in the farthest corner.
Franz, preserving his composure, rattled off:
– Two years old. Twenty-five thousand on the clock. The engine is no ordinary one – two and a half liters. A hundred sixty-eight horsepower. I guarantee it, the car is good. Just the thing.
– How do you know what I need? – I gave him a sidelong look. – How much?
– Fourteen thousand, – Franz walked over to the «Ford» and patted the hood with his palm. – Brought in the day before yesterday.
– Vot abaut diskaunt?
– What? – Franz threw up his pale eyebrows. Aha, I’d stumped him after all. My friend doesn’t know English, and here he is trading in American cars. Benighted…
– Will there be a discount? – I repeated in a normal language, in German.
– Of course. The insurance at my expense. – Franz smiled: – You’ve been carried a long way, devil.
– A long way. By the way, do you ever get a «Lamborghini Diablo» in?
– We’ll arrange it if you need one, – Franz was not in the least surprised, only scratched his chin. Apparently selling a set of wheels worth half a million marks was, for him, like knocking two fingers on the asphalt.
– All right, that was a joke. For now, wrap up the «Ford».
Franz shrugged:
– If you get serious about taking a «Lamborghini», come by. I know a certain macaroni-eater. He’ll bring in whatever you want.
Franz took some slip of paper off the «Ford’s» windshield and disappeared into his little office. I went out onto the street meaning to get a bite somewhere. Time allowed for it. All the formalities were bound to take Franz about twenty minutes… Hm.
I stopped, looked around, stood a while, thought. Strange. Some obscure wariness had taken hold of me. Somebody’s unfriendly gaze was drilling into my back.
What was it?
I looked around once more and caught myself thinking that I was being followed. Two… Yes, two characters had apparently been following me since the hotel. Or hadn’t they?
I looked around again.
Imagination? Maybe…
I went back to Franz and, with great difficulty, all but wetting myself with impatience, waited for him to sort out all the papers. The moment the last squiggle was in place I jumped without delay into the cabin, pulled out onto the street and drove away out of Hamburg. I squeezed the accelerator to the floor, turned the wheel and kept my eyes on the rearview mirror. There was nothing police-like back there. Nothing suspicious either.
I calmed down a little. Apparently I’d imagined it.
What now? Driving to Russia wasn’t convenient just yet. But Holland – that was just the thing. There, in the wondrous city of Essen, there was, as I recalled, a small bank called «Heidemann». The bank’s staff, affable and obliging, never asked their clients stupid questions and were always glad to see them. Hans had once used the services of the «Heidemann» bank, and following his example, so had I. It was precisely there that my four hundred and twenty thousand marks had sat for a time before I transferred them to the Caribbean a year ago. Pleasant memories, damn it all!
Having untangled the intricacies of the road signs, I came out onto the autobahn I needed and drove into the Kingdom of the Netherlands, to the glorious «Heidemann» bank. The spontaneously arisen desire to become its client a second time pleased me. There would be somewhere to forward eight melons to.
No adventures whatsoever befell me in Essen.
Late in the evening I got back to the hotel and, in good spirits, fell asleep. Fell asleep keeping a pistol under the pillow just in case. In equally good spirits I woke up, washed and had breakfast. Two hours later I was at old Heinrich’s place – underground gunsmith and master of the locksmith’s trade, in civilian life the owner of an auto repair shop. Heinrich was delighted at my arrival and bellowed: «Crossbow, you swine! You still owe me eight marks! Cough up the dough, you parasite!» That was his idea of a joke. I did no bellowing in reply. I walked over and whispered in his ear that there was a certain small piece of business that tolerated no witnesses. Heinrich understood everything, canceled the day’s work and sent his men home. Then he made a fastidious inspection of my new four-wheeled friend.
– What did you name him? – Heinrich asked first thing, knowing my quirk about automobile names.
– Friedrich. Or just Fritz. Or Fedya.
– A good name for a “Ford”. Simple and severe, – Heinrich snorted; he had no respect for American cars. Complained that they were oaken and unmanageable. Though I knew what the matter was: his voluminous seat could not tolerate soft American upholstery, it demanded firm, springy support. As they say, on taste and color…
– Here’s the thing, Heiko, – I said to him. – First, go over Fritz so that everything is in working order. I need no problems with him for a month. Second…
I sketched out the essence of the matter briefly and took ten thousand marks out of my pocket.
Heinrich the expert nodded in agreement, ran Fyodor up onto the rack and set about digging around in his innards. About three hours later, after all the servicing and then some, a set of listening equipment had been tossed into Fedya’s trunk, and into the sills and box sections there were soldered, in a single go, a pistol, ten loaded magazines for it and a silencer.
Having flooded the whole arsenal with oil, at exactly fifteen hundred hours Heinrich said: «Ready.»
I got into the car, sighed «God be with us» and drove off. Into complete uncertainty, into Russia…