The interesting thing was that unless that car had been simply an isolated murder-patrol out for a killing to keep its hand in, the orders to get me had come from on high. So I wasn't going to have to stick my neck out to draw their fire: it was already drawn. Within twenty-four hours of my decision to hunt Zossen, Zossen was hunting me.
5: PHOENIX
Distrusting me in the open street she was prepared to trust me in the more dangerous confines of her flat and I assumed there was someone there to protect her.
It was a five-year-old Blue Oberschwaben wolfhound, a killer. Once inside the room I kept still. It stood with its head low and the great hindquarters braced for a leap, the jaws slightly parted but soundless. The eyes were on my throat.
I'd seen them at Belsen and Dachau. They would kill an Alsatian of equal age and weight, given ten minutes on mountain ground. I had seen them kill men.
The girl took off her coat without hurry, so that I should get the message. This would have been clear even to anyone without experience of the breed: if I lifted my hand suddenly in the girl's direction by one inch I'd be dead meat. I kept my arms folded and my face towards the dog. There was no fear-odour on me to provoke it, because I knew it wouldn't attack unless she ordered it.
She said at last, quietly, "Easy, Jurgen. Easy."
It backed from me and I knew that I could move.
"Police-trained," I said.
"Yes." She stood inspecting me, as she had in the street. She was thin, with the hard lines of her body unsoftened by the black polo-sweater and slacks; and she stood arrogantly, her hair like a gold helmet. In her stance and her brittle voice there was evident the defencelessness that you mark in a man with a gun: he shows it is all he has.