"OK. chief, I see what you're driving at. Not a chance. I have nothing to do with any of it, I don't know any fifth man, and I'm not the least bit interested."
He crossed his arms and looked me up and down. More down than up. He was about thirty-five, lived in a run-down apartment, and knew that his train had been and gone. It was obvious that he felt somewhat illegal because he knew the fifth man's name but did divulge it, and he was proud of that, without having the faintest idea who it was he was protecting. He was the kind of guy who walks down the street with you and at some point, a tear glittering in his eye, points at a window and whispers, "That's where Ulrike Meinhof hid for a while."