The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [90]
Dimpel put the camera in the chest pocket of his parka, draped a coil of rope over his shoulder, and handed Christopher the extra rope. He ran up the stairs to the hotel roof; once in the open air, he spread his arms and took deep breaths one after the other, exhaling noisily through his nose. Snowflakes gathered in his thick eyebrows. He showed Christopher with gestures how he wanted him to assist.
Christopher, braced at the edge of the roof with the rope belayed around his waist, felt only a slight strain as Dimpel rappelled down the wall of the building. He was lost from sight for a moment, then Christopher saw him on the roof of the bank, running up the steep pitch of the gambrel, his weight thrown into the slope.
Dimpel reached the top, swung his arms for balance, and walked across the roof, leaving footprints behind him. At the base of the farthest chimney, he uncoiled the second rope and cast it toward the top of the chimney; Christopher heard the faint rattle of the grappling hook. Dimpel tugged on the rope and walked up the bricks, his body nearly horizontal. He sat on the top for a moment with the snow drifting down around him before he adjusted the grappling hook, seized the rope, and dropped out of sight down the chimney.
While Dimpel was inside the bank the storm worsened. Christopher, waiting on the roof, was unable to see the street six stories below, and he glimpsed Dimpel’s climbing figure only faintly when it emerged from the chimney and came back across the housetops.
Dimpel didn’t speak until they were inside Christopher’s hotel room again. Dimpel’s face was blackened like a commando’s as a result of his passage through the chimney and he smelled of coal smoke. He bent his arm with a brisk movement and looked at the large sporting watch on his wrist.
“Thirty-one minutes exactly, from start to finish,” he said with a satisfied nod. He dropped the coil of rope on the floor and handed Christopher the camera.
Dimpel stripped off his climbing clothes and stuffed them in his rucksack. Thick blond hair grew on his chest and shoulders, and his skin, pink and healthy from many baths, shone with sweat. He went into the bathroom, and Christopher heard him clearing his throat and spitting, and then the rush of the shower.
When Dimpel came out again, his hair was slicked down and he had wrapped a towel around his waist. He put on his street clothes, brushing imaginary specks of dust from each garment, and tied his silk necktie with great attention to the size of the knot.
“There were five documents in the file you wanted,” he said. “A deposit slip, a memorandum of identity, an explanation of the withdrawal code, a withdrawal slip, and a police report. I took four photographs of each, as there was no brace for the camera and the light was not good. If the film was fast enough, you’ll have readable copies.”
“Thank you,” Christopher said. “That was very quick work.”
“It was simple work, and therefore very dirty.” Dimpel looked at his fingernails, took a gold penknife from his pocket, and began to clean them.
“The matter of payment,” Christopher said. “How do you want that arranged?”
“I have no need for money.” Dimpel closed his penknife and threw his head back with a snap. “Do you have German blood?” he asked.
“Half, from my mother.”
“I thought so. You look German. You have the manner, the confidence, of a German officer.”
Christopher had never been paid a compliment that he desired less. He made no reply. What Dimpel said next he said in his ordinary brisk tone of voice.
“Major Johnson may have told you about my early connection with Adolf Hitler.”
“Yes.”
“You’re hiding a smile. I see you know the entire story. No, don’t protest—I understand. I’ve thought much about that man. He was an obvious fool. Yet he was permitted to make history—destroy Germany. I mean its architecture, which was a work of art, and its name.”
Dimpel paused