CHAPTER SEVEN

The violinist waited in the man’s apartment.

The Sicherheitsdienst had obtained the man’s address from the telephone number provided by the whore. Kleist still did not know the location of the wireless station the whore, of course, had no idea. And their informant, who had alerted them to the parachute drop in the first place, did not know, either: information was strictly compartmentalized. During the hours he had spent waiting for the British agent to return, he had had ample opportunity to search the man’s apartment carefully. He now knew the Brit’s true identity, which was a start. He knew that the Brit worked at night and slept during the day.

Kleist would just have to wait.

At a little after seven o’clock in the morning he heard a key turn in the lock. The Brit hummed to himself as he bustled about, put on water for tea, went into his bedroom to change into pajamas. He opened the door to his clothes closet, and as he parted the clothes hangers he barely had time to scream before Kleist leaped forward out of the closet, both of his hands grabbing the Brit’s throat, slamming him to the floor.

The Brit gurgled, his face deep red. “What the !” But Kleist shoved a knee hard into the man’s groin, so hard that he could hear the coccyx snap.

Now the Brit moaned. His tears flowed copiously. He was crying like a girl.

“All I want to know is the location of your wireless station,” said Kleist. His English had a heavy German accent; he had learned English too late in life. Now he released one hand from the man’s throat.

“Fuck you!” the Brit said in a high, gurgling voice.

The Brit must have thought he had removed his hand from the man’s throat in order to allow him to speak, but in fact Kleist did so to reach into his pocket for the coiled violin string. He snapped it open and had it against the man’s throat in a matter of seconds, just above the cartilage of the laryngeal prominence and below the floating hyoid bone. It was the point of greatest vulnerability. As he compressed both the airway and the carotid artery, he could see the Brit’s eyes bulge.

The young man was not exactly meticulous about his personal hygiene, Kleist realized. He had probably not bathed for several days. True, hot water was limited, but that was no excuse.

“I ask you again,” Kleist said slowly, deliberately. “I wish to know the location of the wireless station where you work; that is all. If you answer my question, my work is done, and I will leave at once. I will let you live. There is no need to be brave.”

The Brit was trying to say something. Kleist let up on the catgut just enough to let the man speak.

“Aw’right!” the Brit gasped. “Aw’right! I’ll tell you!”

“A false answer will guarantee not only your death, but the deaths of everyone you work with.” Kleist had learned from his years of interrogation and torture that the threat of death was usually ineffective. What worked was guilt, the instinct to protect one’s friends and colleagues. And pain: pain worked most quickly to loosen the tongue. That was why he had positioned the catgut where he had. For maximum pain.

“I’ll tell you!” the Brit shrilled.

And he did.

When he had finished telling Kleist everything he needed to know, Kleist abruptly tightened the violin string against the soft tissue of the Brit’s throat. There was an expression of bewilderment, indignation, in the Brit’s eyes, even before they bulged out. I’ve kept my side of the bargain, his eyes seemed to be saying. Why have you not kept yours?

Kleist never understood why his victims always thought they could make a deal with him. What good was a deal when only one side has the power?

When the Brit was dead, Kleist got up and, with a shudder of disgust, washed the foul odors off of his hands.