Monday. A serious-looking man in a hat, sitting in a brown Mercedes-Benz four-door saloon. Dirty street, after lunchtime. “Knock knock”, the sound of leather glove clad knuckles on a window. Just like every time when it had been Günther’s turn to go get some coffee. Hans wound the window down.
“Yes”, he replied, “zwei stücke Zucker, ohne Milch, just like every time.”
“Nein, Hans, I have got to tell you something.”
“Was? Was ist los?”
“I don’t know what is los, but I have found out something disturbing.”