The Gordian Knot - Bernhard Schlink [82]
Georg was nervous. The police car. The Lincoln. What he needed was two pairs of eyes so he could watch both the intersection in front of him and the Lincoln behind him. He kept asking himself whether the Russians were playing along, or whether they thought all this was just a prank—or a trap. “Wait and keep cool,” he said to himself. “What kind of a prank could this be, or what kind of trap? The Americans could hardly corner a Soviet agent waiting by the bay for an unknown man.”
To his relief, Georg saw the Lincoln backing up onto Twenty-fourth Street and then turn at the intersection and drive away along Third. It was quarter to eleven.
At ten to eleven a cab stopped at the corner of Third and Twenty-fourth. A man got out, paid through the open window, and looked around. Having gotten his bearings, he walked toward the intersection. With every step Georg could see him more clearly. He wasn’t one of those Soviet musclemen with white blond hair and Slavic cheekbones, but a thin, balding, older man in a dark blue suit with a blue-and-white striped shirt and a patterned tie. He walked carefully, as if he had recently sprained his ankle.
There were no backup men following him, stealthily hiding behind parked cars. Georg could hear the man’s footsteps as he walked past the terrace, one foot with a strong tread, the other with a light shuffle. He saw him go to the end of Twenty-fourth Street and disappear behind the berm. Again Georg’s eyes scanned the streets, the parked cars, the wrecks, but he didn’t see anything suspicious. It was five to eleven.
He climbed down from the roof onto the terrace, grabbed his jacket, in which the pistol lay heavily in a side pocket, and hurried down the stairs. He opened the front door a crack and peered out at the intersection one more time. There was no sign of the distinguished-looking gentleman.
Georg walked down Twenty-fourth Street and up the berm. The man was standing on the shore looking out on to the bay. Georg put his foot up on the berm, rested his elbow on his knee, and waited. After a while the man turned and looked back, saw Georg, and came up to him. As they stood facing each other Georg noticed that his tie was covered with a host of tiny white garden gnomes—standing, sitting, lying—all wearing pointed red hats.
“Shall we stay here?” the Russian said, eyeing Georg over the rimless spectacles perched on his nose. He looks like a professor, Georg thought.
“Yes, here’s fine,” Georg replied. He took his hand with the pistol out of his pocket. “May I?” He frisked the “professor,” who stood there shaking his head. Georg found no weapon.
“Doesn’t one do this sort of thing?” Georg asked with a smile. “I’m not up on the etiquette of this kind of meeting.” They sat down. “I’ve brought along the merchandise,” Georg continued, taking out the can with the negatives and giving them to the professor. “There are, altogether, fourteen rolls of film.”
The professor took the negatives out of the can and held them up to the sky. He slowly eyed one frame after another. Georg looked at the sailboats. When the professor was finished with the first roll, he handed it back without comment and Georg gave him the next. Two boats, one with red sails and one with blue, were racing past. A ship with an array of brightly colored containers on its deck came by, then a fast, gray warship. Georg kept handing him can after can. The sun glittered on the shivering waves.
“What price are you asking?” the professor inquired in