When Massimiliani came back on the phone line, it was with another person. ‘Alec, I’m on speakerphone here with Weissmann.’ ‘Schiess los,’ said Blume. Weissmann laughed heartily, ‘Aber du sprichst gut Deutsch!’ ‘Ein bisschen,’ said Blume modestly. He removed the battery from Konrad’s phone, opened the window, and dropped it out. Bad for the environment, apparently. Couldn’t be as bad as the car batteries left on the pavement outside his apartment in Rome. Massimiliani cut in. ‘I already find difficult English, but speak no German. Please use English.’ ‘Ja, doch!’ said Weissmann. ‘Sorry,’ said Blume, raising his voice against the inrush of air from the open window beside him. He flicked Konrad’s SIM card out, then crooking his arm and cupping his wrist, tossed the phone itself towards the back wheel of the car. If his wheels didn’t crush it, maybe the bastard tailgating him behind would, or someone after that. He rolled up the window. ‘OK, now . .
