YOU,” CAROLINE SAID BRIEFLY. “I might say the same,” Shephard replied, “only I’d be lying. Who are you trying to be, anyway? Liza Minnelli does Sally Bowles?” “You were following me.” “Right again. Boy, you Agency broads are quick.” She didn’t move. “Oh, for crying out loud, get in. We’re due at the Interior Ministry in fifteen minutes, and unless you want to sing ‘Cabaret’ for all of Voekl’s boys—which I don’t think is politically correct, frankly—you’re going to have to change your clothes. Which means we have no time at all.” Caroline got in. Shephard peeled away from the curb, leaving tire tread in his wake. Not bad for a Trabant. “So explain this to me.” She was controlling her anger with difficulty. “You just happened to be driving by Alexanderplatz this morning and knew in an instant that the dark-haired woman reading the paper by the television tower was in fact me. Is that what I’m supposed to believe?” “You’re not supposed to believe anything.
