Chapter Eleven
It was a brush past, a thing that they had completed dozens of times before. It was the passing of secret information from the agent to the agent runner.
The venue was Hermann's Book Emporium on Passauerstrasse, a broad establishment that catered for all the modern tastes as well as the classics and a special section that furnished the more avant-garde. Downstairs was the mainstream of the day; Hemingway, Fleming, Steinbeck and others, while upstairs there was the reference section with a full selection of maps, history, technical and mathematical tomes. But connecting the two floors was a narrow, winding staircase and it was here that the agreed brush past was to take place.
They had their time; 2.30 in the afternoon. They had their recognition codes – for her a green sc
