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she knew it was her brain that would make or break the deal. According to the employment listing that had first caught Desk Three’s attention last month, Feng was looking for an advisor in cultural affairs and public relations, and that was how she intended to sell herself.
Feng glanced up from her chest, and their gazes locked. “So, Ms. Lau. Is this your first time in Berlin?”
“Not at all,” she replied truthfully. She’d passed through the German capital several times in the past five years on various missions. “I love this city.”
“We have something in common, then.” He nodded toward the monument against the western skyline. “The Brandenburg Gate. Magnificent. Though … I have to admit that my favorite piece of history connected with it is your President Kennedy giving a speech right over there on the far side of the monument … was it 1962? After the Berlin Wall went up, anyway.” He laughed. “ ‘I am a jelly doughnut’!”
“ Ich bin ein Berliner ,” Lia said, nodding. “That was 1963. But you do know that the whole jelly-filled doughnut thing is an urban legend, right?”
“Lia, what are you doing?” the voice of Thomas Blake said in her ear. Blake was one of the Desk Three handlers and would be running her during this mission. “That Kennedy story is well attested—”
“What do you mean, Ms. Lau?” Feng said at the same time.
“Kennedy was identifying himself with the German people,” Lia said patiently. “The story went around—I think it was even in the New York Times —about how his use of the indefinite article, ein , made it seem like he was calling himself a pastry. In fact, in German the indefinite article is left out when you’re talking about someone’s profession or place of residence, but it’s absolutely necessary when you’re speaking figuratively, as Kennedy was. He wasn’t literally from Berlin. He was only declaring his solidarity with the city’s citizens, in a city divided and barricaded by the Soviets. So ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ was completely correct.”
“I’ve heard that people in Berlin don’t call themselves Berliners,” Feng said. “They reserve that name for jelly-filled doughnuts.”
“Not true,” Lia told him. “The things are called Berliners elsewhere in Germany, but here they’re called Pfannkuchen —pancakes, for some odd reason.”
“I hope you’re sure of your facts, Lia,” Blake told her over the communications link. “That’s not what it says here.” Blake and the other Art Room personnel had access to various guidebooks and reference works, as well as the entire Internet to call upon. If Feng asked her something she didn’t know, they would be able to provide the answer in seconds.
But Blake, Lia knew, was wrong. She was relying on a different source, one she trusted.
“So … you speak German?” Feng asked her.
“Some,” she admitted.
“You seem unusually well versed in the language for an American.”
“ Danke . I’m interested in people, Mr. Feng, and in their stories. Urban legends like that Kennedy story fascinate me, because of what they tell us about people.”
“Oh? And what does I-am-a-doughnut tell you about people, Ms. Lau?”
“That too often they jump to conclusions or generalizations, or rely on outright bad information, without checking the source. One of the biggest challenges I face working in PR is cleaning up the mess after someone important puts his foot in it—usually because that someone spoke first and checked his sources later.”
The waiter appeared with the cappuccinos Feng had ordered. After he paid the man, Feng’s gaze dropped to her chest again, and she leaned forward just a bit, “accidentally” giving him a better view. The idiot could look all he wanted—and if he cared more about that than her experience and her brains, so much the better. It just gave her another weapon in her arsenal.
“Diane … may I call you Diane?”
“It’s Ms. Lau,” she told him. “At least