The Company: A Novel of the CIA by Robert Littell

Torriti resumed his prowl, stopping once every orbit to peer over the Fallen Angel s shoulder at the street.
    Another burst of static came from the radio on the floor. "Film ist zu Ende. All must leave. Gute Nacht to you. Please for God's sake remember to deposit the Geld in my account."
    In the street below figures bundled into long overcoats hurried away from the cinema. Sweet Jesus, stamping his feet under a vapor lamp, glanced up at the faint light in the oriel window under the eaves and hiked his shoulders in an apprehensive shrug. Jack pulled the antenna down and started packing it away in the radio's carrying case. "How long do you figure on waiting, Harvey?" he asked.
    The Sorcerer, sweating from alcohol deprivation, turned on Jack. "We wait until I decide to stop waiting," he snapped.
    The Irishman in Jack stood his ground. "He was supposed to get here before the film ended." And he added quietly, "If he hasn't shown up by now chances are he's not going to show. If he hasn't been blown we can reschedule the exfiltration for another night."
    The Fallen Angel said anxiously, "If the Russian was blown, the safe house maybe was blown. Which leaves us up the creek filled with shit, chief."
    Torriti screwed up his face until his eyes were reduced to slits. He knew they were right; not only was the Russian not going to turn up but it had become imprudent for them to hang in there. "Okay, we give him five minutes and we head for home," he said.
    Time passed with excruciating slowness, or so it seemed to Jack as he kept his eyes fixed on the second hand of his Bulova. At the window, Silwan II, rolling his head from side to side, humming an ancient Rumanian liturgical chant under his breath, surveyed the street. Suddenly he pressed his forehead against the pane and grabbed his stomach. "Holy Mother of God," he rasped, "Sweet Jesus went and picked up the dog."
    "Damnation," cried Jack, who knew what the signal meant.
    The Sorcerer, freezing in mid-prowl, decided he badly needed a swig of medicinal whiskey to clear the cobwebs from his head. "Into every life a little rain must fall," he groaned.
    The Fallen Angel called, "Oh, yeah, here they come—one, two, oh shit, seven, wait, eight Volkspolizei wagons have turned into the street. Sweet Jesus is disappearing himself around the corner."
    "Time for us to disappear ourselves around a corner, too," Torriti announced. He grabbed his rumpled overcoat off the back of a chair. Jack crammed the radio into its satchel and the three of them, with Jack in the lead and the Sorcerer puffing along behind him, ducked through the door and started up the narrow stairs. It was the route they would have taken if the Russian defectors had turned up. From three floors below came the clamor of rifle butts pounding on the heavy double doors of the cinema, then muffled shouts in German as the Volkspolizei—accompanied by a handful of KGB agents—spread out through the building.
    At the top of the stairs Jack unbolted the steel door and pushed it open with his shoulder. A gust of wintry night air slammed into his face, bringing tears to his eyes. Overhead a half moon filled the rooftop with shadows. Below, in the toilet off the cinema, heavy boots kicked in the false door at the back of the broom closet and started lumbering up the narrow stairs. Once Jack and Torriti were on the roof, the Fallen Angel eased the door closed and quietly slid home the two bolts on it. The Sorcerer, breathing heavily from the exertion, managed to spit out, "That'll slow the fuckers down." The three made their way diagonally across the slippery shingles. Silwan II helped the Sorcerer over a low wall and led the way across the next roof to a line of brick chimneys, then swung a leg over the side of a wall and scrambled down the wooden ladder he had planted there when the Sorcerer had laid in the plumbing for the exfiltration. When his turn came Jack started down the ladder, then jumped the rest of the way to the roof