The French border, four hundred and fifty miles west, was a fantasy. He could barely walk. Nor could he go home to his Pension. It was filled with busybody boarders and a nosy dragon of a landlady. Anyone who saw him in the lighted foyer would report his condition. Kicking himself for not trading the convenience of the boarding house for the privacy of a furnished apartment, and with panic rising, Arthur Curtis convinced himself that he could hole up in his office. There he could rest, regain his strength, and then light out for the border in the morning—or maybe the North Sea coast. A million and a half people lived in Berlin, and when they all rushed to work in the morning the railroad stations would be too crowded for the police to check everyone. Concentrating on placing one foot after another, he headed for the tram. They stopped running at eleven. He had time. He pulled himself aboard with a herculean effort, staggered off at his stop, managing not to fall, and walked toward his office.

A man in a macintosh was standing across the street.

Art Curtis reached deep into his pocket and closed his hand around his Browning, which had a round in the chamber and two left in the magazine. He looked for the man’s partner and spotted him in a doorway. He veered off the sidewalk into the street, drawing both from their cover. They exchanged looks and moved quickly. He let them come close. When they drew their weapons—Army Lugars again—he fired twice through the cloth of his coat, dropped both men, and staggered into his building. He hauled himself up the steps, fumbled his key into his lock, pushed inside, and locked the door, wondering whether he still had the strength in his hands to reload. There’d be more of them coming any minute.

The desk lamp flared on, and he whirled to fire his last bullet.

“What happened?” asked Pauline. Her eyes were clouded with sleep, her face creased where she had rested her cheek on her sleeve.

30

“NOTHING. GO HOME. GO ON. GET OUT OF HERE!”

“I’m sorry. I was doing my homework, and I fell asleep. I can’t go home, my mother’s friend—”

“Get out of here!” Curtis roared. The girl flinched and tears of hurt filled her eyes. Curtis started coughing. He pressed his hand to his mouth, and it came away full of blood.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’ve been shot.”

“Turn out the light.”

She did, instantly. “Are they coming?”

“Soon,” he said. “Get out. Use the window.”

She had jumped up from the chair and was standing behind his desk. He could see her silhouetted against the light in the alley. She stood stock-still.

“Quickly,” he urged. “Get away.”

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“Go!”

“Come with me.”