I picked up my shoes, which were right inside the door, sat down to put them on, but stopped cold when I spotted my jacket. It lay in a crumpled pile on the floor behind the sofa, the manila envelope protruding halfway out of the inside pocket. Had it been removed and hastily put back? Possibly, but I couldn't be sure. I tried to recall where the jacket had fallen the previous night, but it wasn't something I'd been particularly aware of as Hanna was undressing me.

"I hope it's not too sweet," Horst said, balancing an overfilled cup as he entered the room. "I didn't know how many sugars you like."

"Actually, I'll have to take a rain check," I said, "I didn't realize what time it was." I scooped the jacket off the floor, allowing the envelope to fall out, and headed for the door.

"You've forgotten something," he called after me. I turned around and he handed me the envelope. "It might be important."

"Not really," I said, but I was pretty sure by the way he avoided looking at it that he'd already seen its contents. Maybe it was just innocent thievery and he was disappointed that it hadn't been filled with hundred-dollar bills.

Then again, maybe not.

THIRTEEN.

My brother was right, Kovinski wasn't hard to find. In fact, he turned out to be a listed spy. I came across a public phone a couple of blocks from where Horst and Hanna lived, decided to start there, see if I got lucky. And there he was-"Kovinski, A," sandwiched between "Kosche, G" and "Krause, H." I tore the page out, stuffed it in my pocket, and jumped into a taxi. Kovinski wasn't hard to find. In fact, he turned out to be a listed spy. I came across a public phone a couple of blocks from where Horst and Hanna lived, decided to start there, see if I got lucky. And there he was-"Kovinski, A," sandwiched between "Kosche, G" and "Krause, H." I tore the page out, stuffed it in my pocket, and jumped into a taxi.

In the ride over, I took the photo out and studied his face, thought about how I should handle him. He was a weasel, the kind of clown who thinks he's playing all the angles when in fact they're playing him. He'd act tough at first, but fold under pressure. I had an idea about how to play him, but I wasn't gonna f.u.c.k around if he didn't go for it. There wasn't time and I wasn't in the mood.

Kovinski lived in a low-rent neighborhood, in a cl.u.s.ter of concrete high-rises built in the Josef Stalin style of architecture. The buildings were grouped around a sad-looking common that was probably planned as an urban oasis, where residents could get away from their drab, airless apartments, but ended up as an empty patch of dust and overgrown weeds. There wasn't a soul in sight.

I paid Melik, my Turkish cabby, double the meter and told him to keep it running. A young immigrant with a twinkle in his eye and pa.s.sable English, he nodded squarely when I told him to follow at a discreet distance if I went anywhere. I found my way to Kovinski's building and rang the bell for apartment 5C.

"Wer ist es?" came a voice over the speaker. came a voice over the speaker.

"I'm looking for Aleks Kovinski," I said. There was a beat of silence before he responded, this time in heavily accented English.

"Who is asking?"

"I'm looking for a lost lamb," I said, knowing that would cut through a lot of bulls.h.i.t. An even longer pause followed.

"I come down," he finally said.

It was turning out to be a perfect June day, sunny and bright, but the stillness of the area was kind of spooky. I felt like I was being watched, but shook it off. Pregame jitters, I told myself. When Kovinski appeared he didn't hang around, flew out the door and right past me. I caught up after a few yards.

"Who are you?" he asked, glancing over without slowing his pace.

"A friend." He gave me a contemptuous look, with good reason.

"Do you have a name?"

"Not one you need to know."

"Some friend," he scoffed.

"Maybe the only one you have."

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

"Go ahead," he said. "Talk."

"Can we slow down a little?"

He eased up a bit, looked me over more thoroughly. He was pretty much what I'd expected, only more so. I hadn't even said "boo" yet and he was ready to panic.

"No one is suppose come here," he said. "They don't tell you?"

"Who are 'they'?"

He stopped walking, looked at me, and frowned. He had said too much and realized it. "Who do you work for?" he demanded.

"Same as you," I smiled.

"You make mistake," he sputtered, taking a step back. "Maybe you look for someone else."

"You're 'lamb,' aren't you?"

"You find wrong person." He turned around and started back toward his building.

"That's a shame," I called after him. "Because the Aleks Kovinski I'm looking for needs help."

"Go to h.e.l.l!" he yelled back.

"Ever had your picture in the paper?" He kept walking. I took the envelope out of my pocket, waved it in the air. "Because I thought you might wanna see the one that's gonna go with your obituary! ... You know what obituary means?" Apparently he did, because he stopped walking and turned around. I took the photograph out of the envelope and held it out to him.

"Take a look," I said. "Should make tomorrow's evening edition." He hesitated, not sure what to make of it. "Because if you don't talk to me now, tomorrow's the day you die."

"Show me," he demanded, edging nearer. I complied, without handing it over. His whole body seemed to tense up when he saw himself standing in front of the flag with the rifle in his hands.

"It's not the most flattering angle," I said breezily. "But it makes a statement. The sidearm's a nice touch."

"Where you get this?" he said, voice shaking.

"Somebody you know gave it to me," I said, and he looked at me sideways.

"Who?"

"How about I buy you a cup of coffee?"

He led us to a bar around the corner, where we ordered coffee and sat at a wobbly wooden table in the back, away from the window. The place wasn't doing much business, just an old man and his lame dog who looked like they were settling in for the day. Kovinski pulled out a pack of nonfilters and started puffing away nervously. b.u.mming one was out of the question, so I convinced myself I wasn't interested.

"Is not me," he said.

"What's not you?"

"This picture ... Is not me." His leg was bouncing up and down like a Mexican jumping bean.

"You're a bit high-strung for this business, aren't you?" I said.

"What business?"

"The playing-both-sides-of-the-fence business. You don't exactly have nerves of steel."

"Go to h.e.l.l," he said, leaning back in his chair and blowing smoke rings, proving that he was as cool as a cuc.u.mber.

"Yeah, you said that before."

"I dunno this picture. Is not me."

"You said that, too."

"Is truth," he shrugged. I pulled the photo out again, made a big show of looking back and forth between it and his face.

"It sure as h.e.l.l looks like you," I said.

"Is fake," he said, trying to look bored. "My head maybe, not the rest." He glanced nervously toward the old man and his dog. He was looking everywhere except in my eye.

I took another look at the photo. It looked real enough to me, but what did I know? If it was a fake, it was a d.a.m.ned good one. It did strike me that Kovinski's shock when he saw it had been genuine. Then again, Kovinski was a natural-born liar. In the end, it didn't make much difference. Bogus or not, its purpose was the same.

"You're being set up, Aleks," I said. "If the picture's really a phony, it should be all the more obvious to you."

"I dunno nothing."

"I can help you, if you cooperate."

He blew smoke in my face, which was stupid beyond belief. It was hard to believe the guy could have survived this long in the game he was playing. Of course, his future prospects weren't looking too bright.

"If I get out of this chair, you're dead tomorrow," I said. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"This is bulls.h.i.t," he said, stubbing out his cigarette, leg still going a mile a minute.

"You saw the picture."

"So what? A picture! Maybe you make it!"

"Come on, Aleks, I hope you're smarter than that. You already know who made it. Shall I tell you why why they made it?" they made it?"

He tipped his head back and looked at me out of the bottom of his eyes. I waited. "Okay ..." he finally said. "You tell."

"The CIA is planning the a.s.sa.s.sination of a senior official in the West German government," I said. "It will take place tomorrow, while Kennedy is in Berlin. The picture's part of a plan to frame you. It looks like you're being set up to take the fall."

He froze. Even his leg stopped moving. He leaned forward. "American CIA to kill West West German official?" German official?"

"That's right," I said. It was out of the question to tell him that the target was Kennedy, so I'd come up with this story in the taxi on the way over. And if he already had an inkling that he was being set up for something, it would ring true.

"I don't believe...." Kovinski shook his head. "Why they do this? CIA is ally with West Germany."

"The Americans think the West Germans are getting a little too cozy with the Russians. The idea is to make it look like the official was. .h.i.t by a KGB agent. And you're it."

"Bulls.h.i.t," he said, leaning forward.

"How much do you wanna bet that you're holding the murder weapon in that picture?"

"I never saw this gun!"

"Sure, I believe you, but you won't be around to clear that up after tomorrow. Killed while trying to get away, probably by some cop who's working with them."

The poor jerk sat there with a look of bewilderment on his face. He was trying to fit the pieces together, but his head was spinning. I leaned in and landed the knockout punch.

"Sasha knows you double-crossed us," I whispered. "He knows you've been working for the Americans." Kovinski went chalk white.

"But you-? How do you-?" He looked helpless, truly lost.

"I work for him," I said, sipping black coffee.

"Sasha sent you?" he said, almost breathless. "What does he think-?"

"He doesn't think, Aleks. He knows. knows. How do you suppose I got your CIA code name? Sasha has people everywhere, you ought to know that. I'm one of them." How do you suppose I got your CIA code name? Sasha has people everywhere, you ought to know that. I'm one of them."

"I never told anything important. ... I swear! Never!" He said it with desperate sincerity. Watching him squirm was turning my stomach, so I put an end to his misery.

"Sasha is willing to give you a second chance," I said. "A chance to clean the slate."

"Anything ..." he said, suddenly eager to please. "You tell me what and I do!"

At this point, of course, I could have told him to give me the name of his CIA controller. Chances are, though, he would've bulls.h.i.tted or stalled me, even as frightened as he was. It was his nature. Even if he had played it straight, he wouldn't have the guy's real name, so I had to take a chance.

"I want you to make contact," I said. "Arrange a meeting as soon as possible. This morning. Say it's an emergency. Can you do that?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Tell him your cover is blown, that the Russians are on to you but they're giving you one last chance. Say you've been sent back to get information about an a.s.sa.s.sination plot, that the KGB knows someone's gonna be hit-they don't know who or when, but they're sure it's somebody important. Don't say anything about me or the photograph. Tell them if you don't get some information to bring back, you'll be killed. Have you got that?"

He nodded.

"Tell me."

"Sasha found out I'm double agent, but he gives another chance if I get information ... about plot to kill important man, but he don't know who."

"What about the photograph?"

"I say nothing."