He'd been forced at gunpoint to make the call to Dorothea, the man from the sidewalk telling him exactly what to say. The barrel of a 9mm automatic had been nestled close to his left temple, and he'd been warned that any variation in the script would result in the trigger being pulled.
But he'd done exactly as instructed.
He'd then been driven across Munich in the rear of a Mercedes coupe, his hands cuffed behind his back, his kidnapper at the wheel. They'd lingered awhile, his captor leaving him alone in the car while he spoke on a cell phone outside.
Several hours had passed.
Dorothea should be at the train station soon, but they were nowhere near its location. In fact, they were driving away from the city center, heading south, out of the city, toward Garmisch and the Alps, sixty miles away.
"How about one thing?" he asked the driver.
The man said nothing.
"Since you're not going to tell me who you work for, how about your name? That a secret, too?"
He'd been taught that to engage your captors was the first step in learning about them. The Mercedes veered right, onto a ramp for the autobahn and sped ahead, merging onto the superhighway.
"My name is Ulrich Henn," the man finally said.