A Good German

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The first part of Shaeffer’s plan was to get the location moved.

“They’ve got too many men at Burgstrasse.”

“You mean you can’t do it?”

“We can do it. It might get messy, that’s all. Then we’ve got an incident. Hell of a lot easier if you get him moved.” He scratched his bandage through his shirt, dressed now. “An apartment, maybe.”

“They’d have guards there too.”

“But not as many. Burgstrasse’s a trap. There’s only one entrance. To think he’s been there all along- How did you find out, by the way? You never said.”

“A tip. Don’t worry, he’s there. Somebody saw him.”

“Somebody who?” Schaeffer said, then looked at Jake’s face and let it go. “A tip. What did that cost you?”

One small boy. “Enough. Anyway, you wanted to know. Now all you have to do is get him out.”

“We’ll get him. But let’s do it right. I don’t like her at Burgstrasse. That’s cutting it close, even for us.”

“I still don’t see why you need her at all. You know where he is. Just go in and get him.”

Shaeffer shook his head. “We need the diversion, if we want to do it right.”

“That’s what she is, a diversion?”

“You said she agreed to do it.”

“I haven’t.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? Come on, stop wasting time. I’ve got things to work out. But first, see if you can get him moved.”

“Why would Sikorsky do that?”

Shaeffer shrugged. “The lady’s got delicate feelings. She won’t want to start her new life in a cell-gives a bad taste to it. Might make her think twice. I don’t know, figure something out. You’re the one with the smart mouth-use it on them for a change. Maybe you don’t like it, since you’re making the delivery. That still the way you want it?”

“I go with her or she doesn’t go.”

“Suit yourself. Just cover your own ass. I can’t worry about you too-just Brandt. Understand?”

“If anything happens to her—”

“I know, I know. You’ll hunt me down like a dog.” Shaeffer picked up his hat, eager to go. “Nothing’s going to happen if we do it right. Now, how about it? First have your little talk with Sikorsky. You’re in luck, too,” he said, glancing at his watch. “He’s in the zone. Control Council meets today, so you won’t even have to go out to Karlshorst. You can see him at the banquet. There’s always a banquet. Nobody’ll even know it’s a meeting-you just happened to run into him. With something to offer. How much are you going to ask, have you decided?”

“How much?”

“It plays better if you’re selling her. Just don’t go overboard-she’s not the husband. You want this to happen. The point is to set it up, not make a score.”

Jake looked away, disgusted. “Fuck you.”

“Try to get him moved,” Shaeffer said, ignoring him. “But either way, give me a day or two. I still have to lay my hands on some Russian uniforms.”

“What for?”

“Well, we can’t go in with American uniforms, can we? Might look a little conspicuous in the Russian zone.“

Cowboy stuff. Improbable. “I don’t like this. Any of it.”

“Let’s just get it done, okay?” Shaeffer said. “You can grouse later.

Right now you just sweet-talk the Russian and get the door open.

We’ll do the rest.“ He grinned at Jake. ”I told you we’d make a good team. Takes all kinds, doesn’t it?“

Guards had been posted at the driveway entrance to the Conrol Council building, but Muller’s name got him through. He swung around to the gravel forecourt facing the park, then had to find a place in the crowd of jeeps and official cars. The work party had done its job-the park had been cleaned up, everything neat and polished, like the white-scarved sentries. Officers with briefcases rushed through the heavy doors, late or just self-important, a blur of motion. Jake followed one group into the chandeliered hall without drawing a glance. The meeting room, off-limits to press, would be another matter, but Muller’s name had worked once and might work again, so he headed down the corridor to his office. His secretary, nails still bright red, was just on her way to lunch.

“He won’t be out for hours. The Russians don’t start till late, then they go on all afternoon. Want to leave a name? I remember you-the reporter, right? How did you get in here?”

“Could you take a message in?”

“Not if I want to keep my job. No press on meeting days. He’d kill me.”

“Not him. One of the Russians. Sikorsky. He’s—”

“I know who he is. You want to see him? Why not ask the Russians?”

“I’d like to see him today,” he said, smiling. “You know what they’re like. If you could take in a note? It’s official business.”

“Whose official business?” she said dryly.

“One note?”

She sighed and handed him a piece of paper. “Make it quick. On my lunch hour, yet.” As if she were on her way to Schrafft’s.

“I appreciate it,” he said, writing. “Jeanie, right?”

“Corporal,” she said, but smiled back, pleased.

“By the way, you ever find that dispatcher?”

She put her hand on her hip. “Is that a line, or is it supposed to mean something?”

“Airport dispatcher in Frankfurt. Muller was going to find him for me. Ring a bell?”

He looked up at her face, still puzzled, then saw it clear.

“Oh, the transfer. Right,” she said. “We just got the paperwork. Was I supposed to let you know?”

“He was transferred? What name?”

“Who remembers? You know how much comes through here?” she said, cocking her head toward the filing cabinets. “Just another one going home. I only noticed because of Oakland.”

“Oakland?”

“Where he was from. Me too. I thought, well, at least one of us is going home. Who is he?”

“Friend of a friend. I said I’d look him up and then I forgot his name.”

“Well, he’s on his way now, so what’s the diff? Wait a minute, maybe it’s still in pending.” She opened a file drawer, a quick riffle through. “No, it’s filed,” she said, closing it, another dead end. “Oh well. Does it matter?”

“Not anymore.” A transport ship somewhere in the Atlantic. “I’ll ask Muller-maybe he remembers.”

“Him? Half the time he doesn’t know what comes in. It’s just paper to him. The army. And they said it would be a great way to meet people.”

“Did you?” Jake said, smiling.

“Hundreds. You writing a book there or what? It is my lunch hour.”

She led him down the corridor to the old court chamber, breezing past the guards by holding up the note. Through the open door Jake could see the four meeting tables pushed together to form a square, smoke rising from the ashtrays like steam escaping from vents. Muller was sitting next to General Clay, sharp-featured and grim, whose face had the tight forbearance of someone listening to a sermon. The Russian speaking seemed to be hectoring everyone, even those at his own table, who sat stonily, heads down, as if they too were waiting for the translation. Jake watched Jeanie walk over to the Russian side of the room, surprising Muller, then followed the pantomime of gestures as she leaned over to hand Sikorsky the note-a quick glance up, a finger pointing to the corridor, a nod, a careful sliding back of his chair as the Russian delegate droned on.

“Mr. Geismar,” he said in the hall, his eyebrows raised, intrigued.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“No matter. Coal deliveries.” He nodded his head toward the closed door, then looked at Jake expectantly. “You wanted something?”

“A meeting.”

“A meeting. This is not perhaps the best time—”

“You pick. We need to talk. I have something for you.”

“And what is that?”

“Emil Brandt’s wife.”

Sikorsky said nothing, his hard eyes moving over Jake’s face.

“You surprise me,” he said finally.

“I don’t see why. You made a deal for Emil. Now you can make one for her.”

“You’re mistaken,” he said evenly. “Emil Brandt is in the west.”

“Is he? Try Burgstrasse. He’d probably appreciate hearing from you. Especially if you told him his wife was coming to visit. That ought to cheer him up.”

Sikorsky turned away, marking time by lighting a cigarette. “You know, it sometimes happens that people come to us. For political reasons. The Soviet future. They see things as we do. That would not, I take it, be the case with her?”

“That’s up to her. Maybe you can talk her into it-tell her how much everybody likes it on the collective farm. Maybe Emil can. He’s her husband.”

“And who exactly are you?”

“I’m an old friend of the family. Think of it as a kind of coal delivery. ”

“From such an unexpected source. May I ask what prompts you to make this offer? Not, I think, Allied cooperation.”

“Not quite. I said a deal.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not as expensive as Tully.”

“You’re talking in riddles, Mr. Geismar.”

“No, I’m trying to solve one. I’ll deliver the wife, you deliver some information. Not so expensive, just some information.”

“Information,” Sikorsky repeated, noncommittal.

“Little things that have been on my mind. Why you met Tully at the airport. Where you took him. What you were doing in the Potsdam market. A few questions like that.”

“A press interview.”

“No, private. Just me and you. A good friend of mine got killed that day in Potsdam. Nice girl, no harm to anybody. I want to know why. It’s worth it to me.”

“Sometimes-it’s regrettable-there are accidents.”

“Sometimes. Tully wasn’t. I want to know who killed him. That’s my price.”

“And for that you would deliver Frau Brandt? For this family reunion.”

“I said I’d deliver her. I didn’t say you could keep her. There are conditions.”

“More negotiations,” Sikorsky said, glancing behind him at the door. “In my experience, these are never satisfactory. We don’t get what we want, you don’t get what you want. A tiresome process.”

“You’ll get her.”

“What makes you think I’m interested in Frau Brandt?”

“You’ve been looking for her. You had a man watching Emil’s father in case she showed up.”

“With you,” he said pointedly.

“And if I know Emil, he’s been mooning over her. Hard to debrief a man who wants to see his wife. Awkward.”

“You think that’s the case.”

“He did the same thing to us when we had him. Won’t go anywhere without her. Otherwise, you’d have shipped him east weeks ago.”

“If we had him.”

“Are you interested or not?”

Behind them the door opened, a summoning burst of Russian. Sikorsky turned and nodded to an aide.

“The British are responding. Now it’s grain. Our grain. Everybody, it seems, wants something.”

“Even you,” Jake said.

Sikorsky looked at him, then dropped his cigarette on the marble floor and ground it out with his boot, an unnervingly crude gesture, a peasant under the shellac of manners.

“Come to the Adlon. Around eight. We’ll talk. Privately,” he said, pointing to Jeanie’s pen, still in Jake’s hand. “Without notes. Perhaps something can be arranged.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Yes? Then let me surprise you. A riddle for you this time. I can’t meet your price. I want to know who killed Lieutenant Tully too.” He smiled at Jake’s expression, as if he had just won the round. “So, at eight.”

Jake backtracked down the hall, nervously turning Jeanie’s pen over in his hand. None of it would work, not Shaeffer with his borrowed Soviet cap, not even this meeting, another negotiation in which the pieces never moved. I can’t meet your price. Then why had he agreed? A sly Slavic smile, squashing a cigarette as easily as a bug.

The office door was closed but not locked, the desk just as Jeanie had left it, tidied up for lunch. He put the pen back in its holder, then looked over at the files. Where did she eat lunch? A mess somewhere in the basement? He pulled open the drawer where the pending folder had been to find a thick wad of carbons, the rest a row of alphabetical tabs. Frankfurt to Oakland. Even without the name to help, it must be here somewhere. And then what? A message through channels, a cable to Hal Reidy to track him down? Weeks either way. Whoever he was sailed nameless on the Atlantic, another t uncrossed. Jake slid the drawer shut.

He put his hand on the next cabinet, where Jeanie had filed the police report weeks ago, and, curious, flicked the drawer open to see if it was still there. Tully had a thin folder to himself. The CID report, all of it, with ballistics; an official condolence letter to the mother; a shipping receipt for the coffin and special effects; nothing else, as if he really had been swallowed up in the Havel, out of sight. He looked at the report again, but it was the same one he’d seen, service record, previous assignments, promotions. Why is Sikorsky still interested in you? he wondered, flipping the pages and getting the usual blank reply.

He opened the drawer below, rummaging now. Something cross-referenced, perhaps, like the files at the Document Center. Kom-mandatura minutes, food supply estimates, all the real business of the occupation, drawers of it. He worked his way back up to the transfer file and opened it again, automatically reaching for the T’s, idly thumbing through and then stopping, surprised, when the name leaped out at him. Maybe another Patrick Tully, luckier. But the serial number was the same.

He took the sheet out. Traveling orders, Bremen to Boston, a July 21 sail date. Home to Natick at the end of that week. A new wrinkle, but what kind? Why come to Berlin? Not to fly on to Bremen, with no luggage. The obvious answer was payday, to collect the traveling money for the trip home. Then why go to the Document Center? Jake stared at the flimsy. There hadn’t been any orders in his effects. Was it possible that Tully hadn’t known? Still up to business as usual while his ticket home floated through the paper channels that crisscrossed Germany?

“Find what you’re looking for?”

He turned to see Jeanie standing in the door with a sandwich and a Coke.

“You’ve got a nerve.”

“Sorry. It’s just that I did remember his name, after you left. So I thought I’d get the address. I didn’t think you’d mind—”

“Next time you want something, ask. Now how about getting out of here before I find out what you’re really up to.”

He shrugged, a schoolboy with his hand in the principal’s file. “Well, I said I was sorry,” he said, putting the paper back and closing the drawer. “It’s not exactly a state secret.”

“I mean it, blow. He finds you in here, he’ll have both our heads. You’re nice, but you’re not that nice.”

Jake held up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay.” He went to the door, then stopped, his fingers on the knob. “Can you tell me something, though?”

“Such as?”

“How long does it usually take for orders to come through? Copies, I mean.”

“Why?” she said, suspicious, then put the Coke on the desk and leaned against the edge. “Look, things get here when they get here. Depends where they started. Your friend was in Frankfurt? Any time. Frankfurt’s a mess. Munich comes right away, but Frankfurt, who knows?”

“And if they were canceled?”

“Same answer. What is this, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, then smiled. “Just wondering. Thanks for the help. You’ve been a peach. Maybe we can have that drink sometime.”

“I’ll hold my breath,” she said.

He left the office and started down the sweep of opera house stairs. Any time from Frankfurt. But the dispatcher’s orders were already here-why not Tully’s cancellation, which must have been earlier? Unless no one had bothered, letting death cancel itself out, a no-show on the manifest, one less paper to send.

Outside he took in the line of jeeps stretched across the forecourt like one of the old taxi ranks at Zoo Station or the Kaiserhof. Now they parked here, or at headquarters in Dahlem, motor pool branches, waiting for different fares. If you wanted a ride, this would be the place to come. Unless you already had a Russian driver.

He got back to Savignyplatz to find Erich playing with some of the girls from down the hall, their new pet. More attention, Jake thought, than he’d probably had in his life. Rosen was there with his medical bag, drinking tea, the whole room oddly domestic. Lena followed him into the bedroom.

“What happened?”

“Nothing yet. Sikorsky wants to have dinner at the Adlon.”

“Well, the Adlon,” she said ironically, patting her hair. “Like old times.”

“Not for you. Dinner for two.”

“You’re going alone? What about Shaeffer?”

“First I have to set things up.”

“And then I go?”

“Let’s see what he has to say first.”

He took Liz’s gun from the bureau and opened the chamber, checking it.

“You mean he won’t do it?”

“Well, at the moment he says Emil’s in the west.”

“The west?”

“He says,” Jake said, catching her anxious expression in the mirror. “Don’t worry, he’ll do it. He just wants to do a little fencing.”

“He doesn’t believe you,” she said, still agitated.

He turned to her. “He believes me. It’s his game, that’s all, so we play by his rules.” He took her shoulder. “Now stop. I said I’d get Emil out and I will. This is the way we do it. He’s the kind of guy who likes a little dinner first, to break the ice.”

She turned away. “It’s true? That’s all, dinner?”

“That’s all.”

“They why are you taking the gun?”

“Seen the Adlon lately?” She looked at him blankly. “Lots of rats.” Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It went wrong from the start. The Russians, for no apparent reason, had set up a checkpoint at the Brandenburg Gate, and by the time Jake had shown his ID and was waved through he was late. He lost more time trying to find his way through the deserted shell of the Adlon, rescued finally by a man in a formal cutaway who appeared out of the dark like a ghost from the old days, a desk clerk without a desk. Given the damage, it seemed a miracle that anyone still lived here at all. The lobby and main block facing the Linden were smashed, but a rough path had been cleared through the rubble to a wing in the back. The clerk led him with a flashlight past small heaps of brick, stepping over them as if they were just something the hall maid hadn’t got around to yet, then up a flight of service stairs to a dim corridor. At the end, as surreal as the rest of it, was a brightly lit dining room, buzzing with Soviet uniforms and waiters in white jackets carrying serving dishes. The open windows looked down on the gaping hole where Goebbels’ garden had been, and Sikorsky sat near one of them, blowing smoke out into the night air. Jake had barely started toward him when a hand caught his sleeve.

“Whatever are you doing here?”

Jake jumped, more nervous than he’d realized. “Brian,” he said numbly, the florid face somehow surreal too, out of place. He was sitting at a table for four, with two Russian soldiers and a pale civilian.

“Not the food, I hope. Although Dieter here swears by the kohlrabi. Have a drink?”

“Can’t. I’m meeting someone. Interview.”

“You couldn’t do better than this lot. Took the Reichstag. This chap here actually planted the flag.”

“He did.”

“Well, he says he did, which comes to the same thing.” He glanced across the room. “Not Sikorsky, is it?”

“Mind your own business,” Jake said.

“You won’t get anything there. Blood out of a stone. You’ll be at the camp later? Ought to be quite a blowout.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t you heard? The Rising Sun’s about to set. They’re just waiting for the cable. Be all over then but the shouting, won’t it? Six bloody years.”

“Yeah, all over.”

“Cheers,” Brian said, lifting his eyes toward Sikorsky as he raised his glass. “Watch your back. Killed his own men, that one did.”

“Says who?”

“Everybody. Ask him.” He drained the glass. “Actually, better not. Just watch the back.”

Jake clamped him on the shoulder and moved away. Sikorsky was standing now, waiting for him. He didn’t offer to shake hands, just nodded as Jake took off his hat and placed it on the table facing his, brim to brim, as if even the hats expected a standoff.

“A colleague?” Sikorsky said, sitting down.

“Yes.”

“He drinks too much.”

“He just pretends to. It’s an old newspaperman’s trick.”

“The British,” Sikorsky said, flicking an ash. “Russians drink for real.” He poured a glass from the vodka bottle and pushed it toward Jake, his own eyes clear and sober. “Well, Mr. Geismar, you have your meeting. But you don’t speak.” He took a puff from his brown cigarette, holding Jake’s eyes. “Something is wrong?”

“I’ve never looked at a man who wanted to kill me before. It’s a strange feeling.”

“You weren’t in the war, then. I’ve looked at hundreds. Of course, they also looked at me.”

“Including Russians?” Jake said, poking for a reaction. “I heard you killed your own men.”

“Not Russians. Saboteurs,” he said easily, unaffected.

“Deserters, you mean.”

“There were no deserters at Stalingrad. Only saboteurs. It was not an option. Is this what you want to discuss? The war? You know nothing about it. We held the line. Guns in front, guns at your back. A powerful inducement to fight. It was necessary to win. And we did win.”

“Some of you did.”

“Let me tell you a story, since you are interested. We had to supply the line from across the Volga, and the Germans had the shore covered from the cliffs. We unload the boats, they shoot at us. But we had to unload. So we used boys. Not soldiers. We used the children.”

“And?”

“They shot them.”

Jake looked away. “What’s your point?”

“That you cannot possibly know what it was like. You cannot know what we had to do. We had to make ourselves steel. A few saboteurs? That was nothing. Nothing.”

“I wonder if they thought so.”

“You’re being sentimental. We didn’t have that luxury. Ah,” he said to the waiter, handing him some coupons. “Two. There is no menu, I’m afraid. You like cabbage soup?” “It’s one of my favorites.”

Sikorsky raised his eyebrows, then waved the waiter away. “It’s as Gunther says. Fond of jokes. A cynic, like all sentimentalists.” “You’ve discussed me with him.”

“Of course. Such a curious mix. Persistent. What did you want? That, I still don’t know.” “Did you pay him too?”

“To discuss you?” A thin smile. “Don’t concern yourself. He is not corrupt. A thief, but not corrupt. Another sentimentalist.” “Maybe we don’t want to be steel.”

“Then you will not win,” Sikorsky said simply. “You’ll break.”

Jake sat back, staring at the hard soldier’s face, the shine of sweat literally metallic in the bright light. “Tell me something,” he said, almost to himself. “What happens when it’s over?” The old question, turned around. “The Japanese are going to surrender. What happens to it all then? All the steel?”

Sikorsky looked at him, intrigued. “Does it feel over to you?”

Before he could say anything, the waiter came with the food, his frayed white sleeve too long for him, almost dipping into the soup. Sikorsky began to eat noisily, not bothering to put out his cigarette.

“So, shall we begin?” he said, dropping a chunk of bread into, the soup. “You want to make conditions, you say, but you really have no intention of bringing Frau Brandt to us. So what are you playing at?”

“What makes you say that?” Jake said, thrown off-balance.

“She’s the woman I met in the Linden? Not just a friend, I think.” He shook his head. “No, no intention.”

“You’re wrong,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice firm.

“Please. But it’s of no importance. I’m not interested in whether Herr Brandt has his wife. Pleasant for him, perhaps; of no importance to me. You see, you have brought the wrong thing to the table. Next time, try coal, something that’s wanted. You can’t negotiate with this.”

“Then why haven’t you moved him?”

“I have moved him. The minute you told me where he was. If you knew, perhaps others know too. A precaution. Of course, perhaps not. You work on your own, Gunther says. He admires that in you. A man like himself, maybe. But he’s a fool.” He looked up from the soup. “We are not fools. So many make that mistake. The Germans, until we destroyed them.” He took the soaked piece of bread into his mouth and sucked it.

“But you kept him in Berlin,” Jake said, not letting it go.

“Yes. Too long. That was your Lieutenant Tully. Keep him, I may need his help, he said. A mistake.”

“Help in doing what?”

“Get the others,” Sikorsky said simply.

“Emil would never—”

“You think not? Don’t be too sure what a man will do. But as it happens, I agree with you. Not like Tully. Now there was a man who would do anything.”

“Like use Lena. To make Emil help.”

“I thought this too-that it was his plan. So, as you say, I looked for her-the bargaining chip. But now I see it was a mistake. Tully didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“About you. What use is a wife with another man? No use. The unfaithful Frau Brandt. You see, Mr. Geismar, you have come on a fool’s errand. You offer her-you pretend to offer her-but I want his colleagues, not his wife. She’s of no use to me anymore. She never was, it seems. Thank you for clarifying this matter. It’s time Brandt left Berlin. There’s no reason to keep him here now. Not at Burgstrasse. You knew that how? ”

“He was seen,” Jake said.

“By the Americans? Well, as I thought-better to move him. And he has work to do. A mistake, this waiting. Eat your soup, it’s getting cold.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You don’t mind, then?” Sikorsky reached over to switch the plates. “To waste food—”

“Help yourself,” Jake said, his mind still wandering, trying to sort things out. The bargaining chip. But Tully hadn’t looked for her. He’d gone to the Document Center. Had Sikorsky known? Still giving away nothing, eating soup. Behind them, Brian’s table had got louder, glasses clinking in a toast, a spurt of laughter reaching him like an echo as he stared at the soup plate. You’ve brought the wrong thing to the table.

“Why did you ask me here, then?”

“It was you who asked me,” Sikorsky said blandly, tipping his plate to spoon the soup.

“And you thought it would be amusing to tell me to go fly a kite.”

“Amusing, no. I’m not so fond of jokes as you. An idea of mine. A different negotiation. Something we both want. Shall I surprise you?” Try me.

“I’m going to take you to Emil Brandt.”

Jake looked down quickly, not trusting his own reaction. A white tablecloth, stained, Sikorsky’s blunt fingers resting against the spoon.

“Really. And why would you want to do that?”

“It would be useful. He is-what did you call it? Mooning. It’s true, he speaks of her. ‘When is she coming?’” he said, raising his voice in a falsetto. “It would be better for his work not to have these false hopes now. Would he believe me? But you, her sweetheart,” he said, twisting his mouth over the word. “You can say goodbye for her, and he can leave in peace. A small service.” He wiped the corner of his mouth, then crumpled the napkin on the table.

“You’re a real prick, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Geismar,” Sikorsky said, his eyes almost twinkling. “I’m not the one sleeping with his wife.”

“And when does all this happen?” Jake said, pretending to be calm.

“Now. He leaves tomorrow. It’s better, if the Americans know Burgstrasse. They will excite themselves. You can put their minds at rest too. He’s not coming back.”

“They’ll protest.”

“Yes, they like that. But he’ll be gone. Another who has chosen the Soviet future. Shall we go?” He reached for his hat.

“You’re going too fast.”

Sikorsky smiled. “The element of surprise. Very effective.”

“I mean we’re not finished. I still don’t have what I want.”

Sikorsky looked at him blankly.

“Information. That was the deal.”

“Mr. Geismar,” he said, sighing. “At such a moment.” He dropped the hat and took out another brown cigarette instead, checking his watch. “Five minutes. Your friend at the market? I’ve told you, an unfortunate—”

“You were there to point me out. Why?”

“Because you were a nuisance,” he said quickly, bored, waving some smoke away. “You’re still a nuisance.”

“To whom? Not to you.”

Sikorsky looked at him, not answering, then turned to the open window. “What else?”

“You said you wanted to know who killed Tully. Why?”

“Isn’t that obvious to you? My partner in crime, as you would say. Now we’ll have to arrange another source of supply. An inconvenient death.” He turned back. “What else?”

“You met him at Tempelhof. Where did you take him?”

“This matters to you?”

“It’s my story. I want to know the details. Where?”

Sikorsky shrugged. “To get a jeep. He wanted a jeep.”

“At the Control Council?” Jake said, taking a shot.

“Yes. Kleist Park. There are jeeps there.”

“And after?”

“After? It’s your idea that we should make a tour of Berlin? Be seen together?”

“You were seen at Tempelhof.”

“By whom?” he said, suddenly alert.

“By the woman you killed at Potsdam.”

“Ah,” he said, frowning, not quite knowing what to make of this, then brushed it away with some ash on the table. “Well, she’s dead.”

“But you were seen. So why meet him in the first place?”

“You can guess that, I think.”

“To give him money.”

Sikorsky nodded. “Of course. With him it was always money. Such a love of money. An American failing.”

“That’s easy for you to say when you print it with our plates.”

“Paid for with blood. You envy us that bookkeeping? We paid for every mark.”

“All right. So you paid him off for Brandt.”

“As a matter of fact, no. It’s important to you, these details? He was paid for Brandt when they arrived at the border. Cash on delivery.”

“Tully drove him to the Russian zone?” Not a weekend in Frankfurt after all.

Sikorsky leaned back, almost smug, a veteran telling war stories. “It was safer. To fly Brandt out would have been risky-easier to trace. He had to disappear, no trail. So Tully drove him. Not such a great distance. Even so, you know he demanded gasoline for the return trip? Always a little something extra. He was that kind of man. Another detail for you. He went back on Russian gas.”

“So why pay him at Tempelhof?”

“For future deliveries.”

“In advance? You trusted him?”

Sikorsky smiled. “You didn’t know him. Give him a little, he’d be back for more. You could trust him to do that. A safe investment.”

“Which you lost.”

“Regrettably. But it’s not important. As you say, we can print more. Now, you’re satisfied? Come, you can see the end of the story.”

“Just one more thing. Why do you care who killed him? That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it? To see what I could tell you.”

“And you have. You’ve told me what I want to know. You don’t know.”

“But why should it matter at all? You’ve got Brandt. You didn’t care about the money. Revenge? You didn’t give a damn about Tully.”

“About him, no. About his death, yes. A man drives off and is killed. A victim of bad company? In this case, I must say, nothing could be more likely-a man like him, not a surprising end. But the money is still there. Not so likely. Unless, instead, it’s something else. The Americans. If they know about our arrangement. In that case, some action would need to be taken before-well, before anything else happened. So what does our Mr. Geismar want? I wonder. Is he working for them? Then I watch your face as you move your pieces up, your questions, and I know. It’s only you. When you play chess with a Russian, keep something in reserve, Mr. Geismar, a piece in the back row. Now, enough foolishness.”

He reached again for his hat. Jake gripped the edge of the cloth, as if the table itself, like everything else, was slipping away. Do something.

“Sit down,” Jake said.

Sikorsky glanced up sharply, bristling, not used to taking orders, then slowly moved his hand back.

“That’s better. I don’t play chess. And you’re not as good at reading faces as you think you are. What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you? A man who tried to kill me?”

“Is that all? If I wanted to kill you, I could do it here. I still could.”

“I doubt it. Not with witnesses.” He jerked his head toward Brian’s table. “An accident in the market, that’s more your line. Too bad you didn’t do it yourself. I’ll bet you’re a good shot.”

“Excellent,” Sikorsky said, exhaling smoke.

“But a lousy judge of character. Let’s watch your face now and see what comes up. Tully wasn’t going to deliver anything, he was playing you for a sap. He was going home at the end of the week-don’t bother, it’s true, I’ve seen his orders. He was just collecting a little something extra before he ran out on you.”

Sikorsky stared at him stonily, his face showing no reaction at all.

“Mm. I thought so. Want more? He also had an appointment with a Public Safety officer. That interest you? It should. He liked to collect twice. Maybe you weren’t the highest bidder.”

“For what?” Sikorsky said quietly.

“What he was going to use to get to the others at Kransberg. A little going-out-of-business sale. And you can take my word for it, it wasn’t Emil or his wife.”

“Why should I take your word for anything?”

“Because I know where he went that day and you don’t. You just told me so yourself.”

“Where?”

“Well, if I told you, then both of us would know. What would be the sense in that? This way, I can buy a little insurance-something to keep your finger off the trigger. I’m too valuable to shoot.”

Sikorsky stubbed out his cigarette, rubbing it back and forth. “What do you want?” he said finally.

Jake shook his head. “Your information isn’t good enough. You see, you brought the wrong thing to the table. I don’t want to see Emil. You can tell him goodbye yourself.”

“You don’t want to see him,” he said skeptically.

“Not especially. But his wife does. All I wanted was to make an arrangement, as a favor to her. No skin off your nose, as far as I could see. But no. You just want to prove what a tough guy you are. Steel. So nobody gets what he wants.” He paused, then looked up. “She wants to see him. That’s still the deal. If I were you, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to move him-if you want us to have another little talk.”

There was a roar behind them as Brian, in his cups now, laughed at one of his own jokes.

“An old newspaperman’s trick,” Sikorsky said sarcastically. “This too, I think.”

“Suit yourself. I’d give it some thought. You know, suspicion’s a funny thing-it eats everything up. Even steel can rust. A Russian failing.” Now it was his turn to reach for his hat. “Anyway, thanks for the soup. When you change your mind, let me know.”

He stood up, so that Sikorsky was forced to rise as well, eyes still locked on his.

“It seems we’ve wasted our time, Mr. Geismar.”

“Not exactly. There was only one thing I wanted to know, and now I do.”

“One thing. Yet so many questions.”

“A newspaperman’s trick. Get people talking and they’ll usually tell you what you’re looking for.”

“Is that so?” Sikorsky said dryly. “And what have you learned?”

Jake leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “That it’s still going on. It didn’t end with Tully-you just want us to think so. That’s why you want me to see Emil-so I can tell everybody I saw him go and I know who his delivery boy was. Case closed. But it isn’t. You just told me so. Future deliveries. Emil had to disappear, no trace. Why? Tully gets killed. Game over? No, an inconvenience, just a hitch in the operation. Was he going home? Not the end of the world either. Why? Because he wasn’t working alone.” Jake leaned back. “It’s like Stalingrad, isn’t it? You’re still protecting your supply line. Tully wasn’t your partner, he was just one of those kids the Germans could pick off. Expendable. As long as the boats kept running. You don’t care who killed him, just whether we know how it all worked. And now here’s Geismar, sticking his nose in. He makes the connection to Tully, half the story. So let’s let him think he’s got it all, let’s even give him a goodbye interview. I told you you were a lousy judge of character. Do you think I’m going to stop? When this started, I thought I had a bad apple in the black market. Then it kept getting bigger and bigger. Not just Tully, not just Brandt. Not even just you. Now it’s a whole rotten barrel. With your supplier still in place, selling us out. That’s the story I want.”

Sikorsky stood still, expressionless. “If you live to write it.”

“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?” Jake said, nodding toward Sikorsky’s holster. “If you’re sure I’m the only one who knows. Are you?”

They stood facing each other for another second, not moving.

Jake put on his hat. “Checkmate.”

Sikorsky stared at him, then slowly raised his hand palm out in a stop sign. Then, resigned, he turned it down toward the table, gesturing to Jake to take his seat. “You are attracting attention.”

Sikorsky sat down, but even after Jake followed he said nothing, looking away toward the room, as if he were sifting through his options. Jake waited him out. How would he start? But Sikorsky stayed silent, apparently at a loss, his gaze stuck over Jake’s shoulder. Then, unexpectedly, he raised his eyebrows and smiled oddly, no more than a tremor of his closed mouth.

“You’re a poor chess player, Mr. Geismar,” he said, still looking past Jake.

“Am I?”

“Very. Even a poor player knows not to move up the queen.”

Now the smile broadened, almost a smirk, so that Jake turned to follow it, feeling some new disturbance in the room.

She was standing near Brian’s table, letting him take her hand, hair pinned up, the palm of sequins glittering on the front of her dress, the whole room quiet, looking at her. In the startled second that followed, Jake saw everything in a rush, a jerky loop of film-Brian kissing her hand, offering a drink, the Russians getting up, Lena shaking her head politely, then finally her face coming toward him, bold and determined, flushed with its own daring, the same face that had jumped off the sailboat into the Havel. He felt himself rise, the room skidding around him, but in the panic of everything going wrong what struck him, and wouldn’t let go, was the sequins, that she had dressed for Emil.

“Frau Brandt,” Sikorsky said, moving a chair. “An opportune visit. You’ve come to see your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Good. He’ll be pleased. Mr. Geismar here has refused our invitation. But you, I think, may feel differently.”

“Refused?” she said to Jake.

“The general isn’t interested in a meeting. They’re taking Emil east tomorrow,” Jake said evenly.

“East? But then—” She halted, stopped by his glance.

“Yes,” Sikorsky said. “So you see, opportune. Of course, you would be welcome too. An honored guest of the state.”

“You mean he’s leaving?” She turned to Jake, glaring. “Did you know this?”

“A little surprise from the general. We were just discussing a different arrangement. A later departure date.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down, finally aware. “A later date.”

“Unnecessary now,” Sikorsky said.

“I thought he wouldn’t believe you,” she said weakly, still looking down at the table.

“You were correct. My apologies,” Sikorsky said to Jake. He poured some vodka and moved the glass to Lena. “A drink?”

She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “Leaving. So I won’t see him.”

“No, no. Dear lady, you can see him now. That’s what I’m telling you.” He turned to Jake, enjoying himself. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he said smoothly.

Lena answered for him. “Yes. I want to see him. You can arrange that?”

Sikorsky nodded. “Come with me.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Jake said, moving his hand to cover hers. “You think I’m going to let her walk out of here with you?”

Sikorsky rolled his eyes. “Your friend is suspicious. Like a Russian,” he said, playing. “Calm yourself. We don’t go far. Upstairs. Then I’ll bring Frau Brandt back to you and we can finish our talk. An interesting conversation,” he said to Lena. “Mr. Geismar still has things to tell me.” He looked at Jake. “You’ll be the guarantee for her return.”

“Upstairs?” Jake said. “You mean he’s here?”

“I thought it better to keep him close. For his safety. And you see how convenient.”

“Had it all figured out, didn’t you?”

“Well, I did not expect Frau Brandt. Sometimes—”

“Then figure again. She doesn’t go. Not like this.”

Sikorsky sighed. “A pity. But it’s of no importance.”

Lena looked at Jake, then slipped her hand out from under his. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t.”

“It’s my choice,” she said to him.

“As you say, Frau Brandt,” Sikorsky said. “Your choice. Have a drink, Mr. Geismar. We won’t be long.”

Jake looked from one to the other, cornered. Sikorsky moved his chair back.

“If she goes, I go with her.”

“You don’t think your presence would be intrusive?” Sikorsky said, amused.

“I won’t be watching them, just you. Try one move—”

Sikorsky waved his hand, brushing this away.

“All right,” Jake said, “then sit here nice and quiet while I tell Brian where we’re going. If we’re not back down in fifteen minutes, he’ll—”

“What? Bring in reinforcements? But you came alone.”

“You sure?” Jake said, standing.

“Oh yes,” Sikorsky said easily. “My men had instructions to inform me if you were followed. At the checkpoint.”

Jake stopped for a minute, taking this in. All figured out. And what else?

Sikorsky nodded toward the other table, where Brian was laughing. “A poor choice of hero.”

“Good enough to pull an alarm. I don’t intend to disappear without a trace. And you don’t want to make that kind of noise. Not you.”

“As you wish. And give him your gun.” He smiled. “Or did you intend to use it upstairs?” He wagged his forefinger. “A little trust, Mr. Geismar. Please.” He pointed to the gun, holding his gaze until Jake took it out and put it on the table.

Lena sat up, rigid, as if it were something alive, waiting to strike, there all along under the words. Jake watched her as he moved to the other table to speak to Brian. Her shoulders were straight and tense, and he saw that she was finally frightened, but as he came back, leaving an open-mouthed Brian, she got up without a word. When Sikorsky led them out of the room, even the waiters stopped to watch, caught by the flash of sequins.

The walk down the hall felt like a forced march, quiet and plodding. When they started up the stairs, Lena grabbed his arm, as if she were about to trip.

“I didn’t know,” she said, almost whispering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve ruined everything.”

“No, I’ll think of something,” he said in English. “He still wants to talk to me. Just see Emil and get out. Don’t wait.”

“But what about—”

“There’s enough light?” Sikorsky said from above.

“I’ll think of something,” he said, hushing her.

But what? The checkpoint, arranged. Emil ready to go. All the pieces moved into place. But Sikorsky wanted to talk, not sure what Jake knew. Ready for a bargaining chip, if Jake could think of one, something that might threaten the supply line. Where Tully had gone in his jeep that day, maybe, anything to play it out a little further, until Lena was safely away. Just one more move. Except Sikorsky always seemed one ahead.

There was no mistaking where they were going-a door with two guards in front carrying machine guns, menacing in an ordinary hotel corridor. The guards came to attention as Sikorsky approached, looking straight ahead as he swept past, ignoring them, and reached for the handle.

“Wait a minute,” Lena said, hesitating, flustered. “It’s just-so silly. I don’t know what to say.”

“Frau Brandt,” Sikorsky said, with almost comic exasperation, as if she were rummaging through her purse.

Lena took a breath. “Yes, all right.”

Sikorsky opened the door, letting her go first.

Emil was reading at a table near the window, jacketless, looking exactly the same, the only person Jake had seen in Germany who seemed not to have lost weight. The same dark hair and wire glasses, the same pale skin and drooping shoulders, all the same. When he turned and started to get up, too astonished to smile, his face turned soft. He gripped the back of the chair.

“Lena.”

For an instant, Jake could see him take in the good dress, the pile of blond hair, like the ghost of some old Adlon evening, his eyes moist, not yet ready to believe his happiness.

“Visitors, Herr Brandt,” Sikorsky said, but Emil seemed not to have heard him, moving toward her, still dazzled.

“They found you. I thought—” Then he was there, his face against her hair, his hand scarcely touching the back of her neck, as if a stronger physical contact would make her disappear. “How you look,” he said, his voice low and familiar. Jake felt a tiny nick, like a paper cut.

Lena moved back, his arm still around her, and reached up to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You’re well?”

He nodded. “And now you’re here.”

She dropped her hand to his shoulder. “It’s just for a little while. I can’t stay.” She saw his confused face and took another step back, out of the embrace, then turned to Sikorsky. “Oh, I don’t know what to say. What have you told him?”

Emil finally looked at the others, stopping, dumbfounded, when he saw Jake, a different kind of ghost.

“Hello, Emil,” Jake said.

“Jacob?” he said, uncertain, almost sputtering.

Jake stepped closer so that they were literally head to head, the same height, and now he saw that Emil had changed after all, the eyes no longer just shortsighted and vague but hollow, the life behind them scraped away.

“I don’t understand,” Emil said.

“Mr. Geismar has brought Frau Brandt to visit,” Sikorsky said. “He was concerned that she be returned safely.”

“Returned?”

“She has decided to remain in Germany. A patriot,” he said dryly.

“Remain? But she’s my wife.” Emil turned back to Lena. “What does it mean?”

“You will have things to say to each other,” Sikorsky said, glancing at his watch. “So little time. Sit.” He indicated a frayed couch. “Mr. Geismar, come with me. These are private matters, you agree? It’s safe-the same room.” He nodded to an open connecting door.

“He’s staying with you?” Jake said.

“A suite. Convenient for guests.”

For the first time, Jake looked around the small sitting room, shabby from the war, a crack running up the wall, the couch covered with Emil’s rumpled sheet. Guards outside.

“I don’t understand,” Emil said again.

“They’re sending you east,” Lena said. “It was a chance to see you. Before it was too late. There-how else to say it?”

“East?”

She nodded. “And it’s because of me, I know it. You were safe there. And now-all this,” she said, her voice catching. “Oh, why did you leave? Why did you believe that man?”

Emil looked at her, shaken. “I wanted to believe him.”

“Yes, for me. Like before. That last week, to come to Berlin-I thought you were dead. My fault. All these things, for me.” She stopped, lowering her head. “Emil, I can’t.”

“You’re my wife,” he said numbly.

“No.” She put her hand gently on his arm. “No. We have to make an end.”

“An end?”

“Come,” Sikorsky said to Jake, suddenly embarrassed. “We have other matters.”

“Later.”

Sikorsky narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “As you wish. In fact, it’s better. You can stay until he’s away. No one to pull the alarm. You can have the couch. You don’t mind? He says it’s not bad. Then we can talk as long as you like.”

“You said he was leaving tomorrow.”

“I lied. Tonight.” One step ahead.

“Talk about what?” Emil said, distracted. “Why is he here?”

“Why are you here, Mr. Geismar?” Sikorsky said playfully. “Would you like to explain?”

“Yes, why do you come with her?” Emil said.

But Jake didn’t hear him, his mind fixed instead on the hard eyes above Sikorsky’s smile. As long as you like. All night, waiting to hear something Jake didn’t know. Locked up here until he did. Worse than cornered-caught.

“But she leaves,” Jake said, looking directly at Sikorsky.

“Of course. That was the agreement.”

But why believe this either? He saw Lena being bundled onto a train with Emil, while he sat, helpless, in his Adlon cell, making up stories. I lied. They’d never let her go now.

Sikorsky put his finger on Jake’s chest, almost poking it. “A little trust, Mr. Geismar. We’ll give her to your friend. Then we’ll have a brandy. It loosens the tongue. You can tell me all about Lieutenant Tully.”

“Tully? You know Tully?” Emil said.

Before he could answer, there was an abrupt knock on the door, so unexpected that he jumped. Two Russians, chests half covered with medals, started talking to Sikorsky even before they were in the room. For a second Jake thought they’d come for Emil, but their attention was elsewhere, some crisis that involved quick spurts of Russian back and forth, a blur of hands, until Sikorsky, annoyed, waved them to the bedroom door. He glanced at his watch again.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to miss your explanation,” he said to Jake. “An interesting moment. Frau Brandt, there isn’t much time. I suggest you save the details for later.” He looked at Jake. “Send your husband a letter. Perhaps Mr. Geismar will help you with it.“ He raised his head and barked out something in Russian to the other room, evidently answering a question only he had understood. ”Of course, it’s better like this. The personal touch. But hurry, please. I’ll only be a moment-a small office matter, not so dramatic as yours.“ He turned to go.

“Why should he help you with a letter?” Emil said. “Lena?”

Sikorsky smiled at Jake. “A good starting point,” he said, then crossed over to the bedroom with another burst of Russian, leaving the door open so that the sound of him was still in the room.

Jake looked away from the door, his eyes stopping at the crack in the wall, another collapsing house, suddenly back there again, the creak of joists whistling inside his head. No newsreel cameras waiting outside this time, machine guns, but the same calm panic. Get her out before it comes down. Don’t think, do it.

“Why do you bring her?” Emil said. “What do you have to do with all this?”

“Stop it,” Lena said. “He came to help you. Oh god, and now look. Jake, what are we going to do? They’re going to take him. There isn’t time—”

He could hear the sound of Russian through the open door, low, like the rumbling of the settling wall in Gelferstrasse. He’d just walked out the door. A hero. People saw what they wanted to see. I’ll only be a moment.

“Time for what?” Emil said. “You come here together and—”

“Stop it, stop it,” Lena said, tugging at his sleeve. “You don’t understand. It was for you.”

He did stop, surprised by the force of her hand, so that in the sudden quiet the sound of Russian in the next room seemed louder. Jake glanced again at the crack. One more move. The element of surprise.

“No, keep talking,” Jake said quickly. “Just say anything. It doesn’t matter what, as long as they think we’re talking.” He took off his hat and put it on Emil’s head, lowering the brim, testing it.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. Keep talking. Lena, say something. They need to know you’re here.” He started tearing off his tie. “Come on,” he said to Emil, “strip. Hurry.”

“Oh, Jake—”

“He’s crazy,” Emil said.

“Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“Get out? It’s not possible.”

“Take off the goddamn shirt. What have you got to lose? They’re giving you a one-way ticket to Nordhausen, except this time you’re one of the guys in the tunnel.”

Emil looked at him, amazed. “No. They promised—”

“The Soviets? Don’t be an ass. Lena, help. And say something.”

She looked at him for an instant, too frightened to move, then Jake nudged her toward Emil and she started unbuttoning his shirt. Pale white skin. “Do what he says. Please,” she said. Then, raising her public voice, “You know, Emil, it’s so difficult, all this.” The words dribbled out, a kind of nervous gibberish.

Jake dropped the holster belt on the couch and unzipped his pants. “We’re the same size. Just keep the brim down on the hat. They don’t know me. All they’ll see is the uniform.”

Lena was keeping up a patter, but flagging. Jake stepped out of the trousers. This would be the moment. Caught literally with his pants down.

“Quick, for Christ’s sake.”

“You know about Nordhausen?” Emil said.

“I was there.” He flung the pants at him. “I saw your work.”

Emil said nothing, staring.

“Jake, I can’t do it,” Lena said, struggling with the buckle.

Wordlessly, almost in a trance, Emil unhitched it and dropped his pants.

“Right. Now it’s your turn,” Jake said to Emil. “Put these on and say something. Loud, but not too loud. Just a little spat. Lena, come here.” He nodded at Emil to start talking and took her by the shoulders. “Now listen to me.”

“Jake—”

“Ssh. You walk out of here with the uniform.” He jerked his head toward Emil, putting on Jake’s pants. “Like nothing happened. The guards don’t care about us, just him. We’re the visitors. Don’t say anything, just go. Casual, see. Then you go downstairs to Brian and get out fast. Tell him it’s an emergency, now, understand? But keep him with you. If Brian doesn’t have a car, take the jeep. It’s on the Linden, keys in the pants there, got that? Then go like hell. They’ll follow.

Don’t go through the Brandenburg, they’ve got a checkpoint. Okay? But fast. Pull Brian away if you have to. Go to the flat and stay there and keep him out of sight.“ He pointed his thumb to Emil, dressed now. ”Ready?“ he said to him, straightening the army tie. ”See, a real American.“

“What about you?” Lena said.

“Let’s get him out first. I told you I would, didn’t I? Now get going.”

“Jake,” she said, reaching for him.

“Later. Come on, say something,” he said to Emil. “And keep the hat down.”

“And if they stop us?” Emil said.

“They stop you.”

“You’ll get us all killed.”

“No, I’m saving your life.” Jake looked up at him. “Now we’re quits.”

“Quits,” Emil said.

“That’s right. For everything.” He reached up and took off Emil’s glasses.

“I can’t see,” Emil said feebly.

“Then take her arm. Move.” He reached for the door handle.

“If you do this, they’ll kill you,” Lena said quietly, a pleading.

“No, they won’t. I’m famous,” he said, trying for a smile but meeting her eyes instead. “Now, quick.” He turned the handle, careful not to make noise. “Don’t say goodbye. Just go.”

He stood behind the door, opening it for them, waving them out with a frantic shooing motion. A second of hesitation, more dangerous even than going; then she looked at him once more, biting her lip, and slipped her arm under Emil’s and led him out. Jake closed the door and started talking, so that his voice would reach the other room, reassuring everyone, even the guards, with the sound of conversation. Use your smart mouth. But how long would the Russians keep talking? In the hall by now, approaching the stairs. Just a few minutes, a little luck. Until Sikorsky came out and reached for his gun. Because of course Lena was right-they’d kill him. No more moves left.

He started buttoning Emil’s shirt, trying to think and talk at the same time. A holster belt on the couch. Why hadn’t he told them to pick up the gun downstairs, or would Brian be sober enough to grab it on his way out? Making his excuses at the table, following them across the field of rubble to the street, not running, stumbling in the dark. They’d need time. He looked around the room. Nothing. Not even a closet, a Wilhelmine armoire. The bathroom was next door, off the bedroom. Nothing but a door to the machine guns and a window to Goebbels’ garden. A soft landing, but not from two stories up. No, three, a hopeless drop. In prison movies they tied sheets together, a white braid, like Rapunzel’s hair. Fairy tales. He glanced again at the couch-one sheet, nothing to anchor it but the radiator under the windowsill, visible to the Russians through the open door. Even the simplest knot would take too long. They’d shoot before he made the first hitch.

He reached for the belt to Emil’s pants, wondering why he was bothering to dress at all. There had to be something, some way to talk himself past the guards. They all wanted watches, like the Russian behind the Alex. But he was Emil now, not a GI with something to trade. He looked toward the window again. An old radiator that probably hadn’t felt heat in a year, even with the control handle all the way open. Old-fashioned, shaped to match the door handle. From the next room there was a sudden burst of laughter. They’d be breaking up soon. How long had it been? Enough time for Brian to get them to the Linden? He talked again to the empty room, the scene Sikorsky had been sorry to miss.

He started threading the belt through the pants loops then stopped, looking up again at the window. Why not? At least it was something to minimize the drop. He picked up the holster belt. Thicker, not the same size. Still. He pushed the end into Emil’s buckle, squeezing it to fit, forcing the metal prong through the thick leather, then pulling it tight. If it held, the double length would give him-what? six feet? “Do you have any better ideas?” he said aloud, as if Emil were still there arguing with him. And the holster buckle was an open square, big enough to slip over the radiator handle, if he was lucky. I’m saving your life.

More laughter. He moved silently toward the doorway, sweating. He wiped his palm dry, wrapped the end of the belt around it, gripping it, and held out the buckle, fixing his eye on the radiator. If it took more than a second, he’d be dead. A short intake of breath for good luck, then he darted forward, slipped the buckle on the handle, and scrambled over the sill. A small clink of metal as it hooked on, evidently unheard over the Russian talk, then a strained grunt as he dropped, catching the belt with his other hand, holding on, trying not to fall, his feet dangling in open air. He held tight for an instant, not trusting the belt yet, then felt himself slipping, a raw burning as the leather slid through his hand until it reached the other buckle, something to grip. Both hands now, his entire weight hanging by a single brass prong, his arms beginning to cramp.

He looked below. Rubble, not a flower bed. He’d need all of the belt, every foot a hedge against a broken ankle. The windows in the back were holes in a smooth facade, no lintels, nothing to break his fall but a pipe that branched off from the corner and snaked across the wall. Europe, where they put the pipes outside. He tried to guess the distance. Maybe just close enough if he let the belt out, something to hold his feet until his arms came back. Then a close slide down, grabbing the pipe in time, a drop in stages. A cat burglar could do it.

He moved his hands carefully off the buckle, just an inch, to the thinner leather of Emil’s belt. One over the other, his hands stinging from the leather burn, as if he were gripping nettles. Still no sound from above, just his own ragged panting and the scrape of his shoes against the plaster. Almost at the pipe.

And then it gave. Either the radiator handle or the other buckle, impossible to tell which, broke off, and he plunged with the belt, his feet hitting the pipe and bouncing off, his hands reaching out for anything on the wall until they met the pipe and clutched, stopping his body with a wrench of his shoulders. He held on, his body jerking, trying to stop his legs from flailing, and then he was going lower again, the pipe bending, weakened, too light for his weight, a groan at the joint near the corner and then a crack, like a shot, as it snapped and a loud crash as he went down with it, metal clanging against the rubble and his own cry as his body smashed against the ground. For a moment he seemed to black out, an absolute stillness between breaths, then another piece of pipe clattered down and he heard shouts from the window, the air filled with noisy alarm, as if dogs had started barking.

Move. He raised his head, wet at the back, a flash of nausea, and rolled slightly on his shoulder, wincing from a sharp pain. His feet, however, seemed all right-just a dull ache in one of the ankles, throbbing with the shock of the fall but not broken. A white shirt anyone could pick out in the darkness. He rolled toward the wall and pulled himself up, bracing against it so that if he fainted he’d be falling backward, not into firing range. Louder shouts now, probably the guards. He sidled toward the recess of a doorway, still in shadow, then jumped, startled at the sound of the blasts, a machine gun firing at random down into the yard. The first thing he’d learned about combat-how the sound exploded in your ears, loud enough to reach inside you, right into the blood.

He pressed into the doorway, away from the bullets. Was it open? But the hotel was a trap, the last place he’d be safe. And what if they weren’t out yet? Head away from the Linden, a few more seconds of diversion. He looked around the yard, trying to fix its layout. An unbroken wall to the corner, then another, seamless. No, a gap where it had been damaged by shelling. Which might not lead anywhere, a rat hole. But the yard itself was impossible-one streak of his white shirt and the bullets would have him. And now there was more light, slim shafts from flashlights, darting in confusion, then raking steadily across the rubble, strong enough to poke into corners, picking up piles of debris and the dull gleam of the pipe, coming toward him. In a minute he’d be in the beam, trapped, like one of the boys huddling against the Volga cliffs, easy target practice.

He bent down, picked up a piece of brick, and hurled it right toward the broken pipe, a desperate ring toss. It hit. A sharp clang, with the flashlight beams jerking back, another burst of shots. Without even testing his ankle, he bolted left toward the gap, hearing the crunch of broken plaster under his feet, more shouts in Russian. Just a few more steps. Endless. Then the light was back, shining against the wall and the shelling hole, drawing fire again. He crouched down in a feint, making the light follow him, then leaped away from it and dived into the gap, rolling downward on his bad shoulder and covering his head as the bullets ripped into the plaster at the opening, a furious ricochet whistling, just a foot or so too high. His whole body shaking now, finally in the war.

He rolled again, away from the opening, on a floor covered with glass and scattered papers, office litter. Bullets still tore into the room, one of them hitting metal with an echoing zing. He took his hand away from the back of his head, sticky with blood, opened when he’d hit the ground in the fall, and thought of Liz’s throat, gushing. Just one bullet. All it would take.

And then suddenly the bullets stopped, replaced by more shouting. He kept rolling until he reached a hulk of metal, a filing cabinet, and crawled behind it, raising his head to look out. There were heads at all the windows now, looking at the yard, yelling to each other, but none at Sikorsky’s, the machine guns redeployed, no doubt racing down the stairs, already after him.

He felt his way through the dark room to another, heading toward what he thought must be Wilhelmstrasse, a diagonal from the Adlon wing. Keep going away from the Linden. The next room was lighter, open to the sky, and he saw that he had left the standing part of the building behind. Now there was just a small hill of rubble, then an open patch to the ruined shell of the front. He started running toward the street. They’d come through the courtyard behind. He’d have a few seconds to get out, melt into the ruins while they searched the back of the Adlon. But when he came to an opening, ready to spring, he could hear the boots clomping in the street. Front and behind.

He headed right, snaking his way around another mound of bricks, still parallel to the street. They’d go first to the room with the filing cabinet, hoping to find him dead, not down Wilhelmstrasse. He took in the street again through the building shell. Just keep going. Another room, big, with twisted girders sticking up like teepee frames. Behind him, he could hear the boots entering the building. All of them? One more room, quietly. He stopped. Not just rubble; a small mountain, even the shell collapsed in, a dead end in the maze. He’d have to go back. But the boots were there again, crunching, fanning out through the building. He looked up toward the dark sky. The only way out was over.

He started up the pile, terrified that a slip would dislodge the bricks, send them tumbling down like alarms. If he could make the top, he could get to the next building, breathing space while they searched this one. He reached up, shoulder aching, scrambling on all fours. Bricks moved, settling and falling away as he found one foothold after another, but no louder than small clinks, not as loud as the Russians, still yelling from room to room. But what if the mound dropped sheer on the other side, propped up by a standing wall?

It didn’t. When he reached the top, lying down, he saw that it became one of those aprons of rubble that spilled into the street, without a connection to the next building. He also saw, ducking his head, lights sweep into the street, an open Soviet military car, Sikorsky jumping out, gun in hand, then pointing the car down the street, away from the Linden. Sikorsky stood for a minute, looking everywhere but up, and it occurred to Jake that he could just lie here, perched on his mountain, the one place they’d never look. Until when? The morning sun caught his white shirt and they surrounded him with guns? Another car came down the street, idled while Sikorsky gave a direction, and moved on to Behrenstrasse, the next cross street down, blocking that route. Now the only way out was the unbroken western side of Wilhelmstrasse, if he could get there before the headlights lit up the street. He watched Sikorsky take one of the soldiers and head into the building. Now, while the car was still turning into Behrenstrasse.

He inched down the rubble on his back, as if he were sliding down a sand dune, but the bricks rolled with him, a small avalanche, not sand. In a few seconds they’d hear the clattering over their engine. He crouched, then took a breath and started running down the slope, pitched forward by gravity, flying, so that he thought he’d reach the pavement face first. He staggered from the jolt of hitting flat ground, then hurled himself down the street. How long before they turned? His shoes smacking the pavement now, in shadow and racing south, putting space between him and the wrecked ministry. Getting away with it. Until the air exploded again with a spray of bullets. The Behrenstrasse car, catching his shirt in its lights. He ducked but kept running, looking frantically for another open space in the wall of rubble. Shouts behind him, more boots-probably Sikorsky and his men responding to the gunfire, back in the street.

One long dark stretch, the other Soviet car visible now at the end, standing in the middle of the Voss Strasse intersection, by the Chancellery. Head right somewhere, behind the buildings, the wasteland near Hitler’s bunker. But the rubble ran in an unbroken line here. Shouts in the dark. There would be guards at the bunker, even at night, watching for looters. Who would they think he was, running away from guns? The street would end any second now, with the roadblock, and someone had started firing again, maybe at random, maybe at the pale glow of his shirt.

He swerved right off the pavement into a dark space in the rubble. A cul-de-sac, like a moon crater, one of its rims backing onto the Chancellery itself. He thought of Liz snapping pictures. The long gallery and then the smashed office opening out to the back. No one would be collecting souvenirs now. He clambered up another apron of rubble to the ground-floor window and vaulted through, finally out of the street. He stayed down for a minute, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and started across the room, hitting his shin against an overturned chair, then retreated back to the wall, feeling his way toward the next window. More light here, just faint enough to see that the long gallery was still a mess, a minefield of broken furniture and fallen chandeliers. He moved farther along the wall, avoiding the booby traps of debris in the center. Shouts outside again. They would have reached the roadblock, would be doubling back now to pick their way through the ruins, a rat hunt. Get to the end of the room somehow, toward the bunker. Maybe the guards hadn’t been alerted yet. The element of surprise.

He had reached another chair, stuffing spilling out of the ripped upholstery, when the tall doors banged open, flung back in a hurry. He dived behind the chair, holding his breath, as if even a slight rasp would give him away. Sikorsky with a few men, one of them a Mongol guard from outside. Machine guns and flashlights waving around the still hall. Sikorsky motioned with his hands for them to spread out. For another second no one moved, letting the noisy echo of their entrance die down, then Sikorsky took a step toward the wall with the chair and Jake froze, the back of his neck tingling. Not fear; a trickle of blood running down, soaking into the shirt. How much had he lost?

“Geismar!” Sikorsky shouted into the air, another echo, looking now toward the end of the gallery, where the office and garden windows were. “You cannot leave here.” Not through the garden anyway, and not back into the street either. “No more shooting. You have my word.” All the while motioning to the others to begin their sweep, guns ready. In Stalingrad they’d fought building by building, a war of snipers. “We have Brandt,” he said, cocking his head to hear a reply. Jake let out a breath, half expecting it to echo. But did they? No, they’d raced around the Adlon too fast, not stopping for anything. A poor chess player.

Sikorsky nodded and his men began to move with their flashlights, only one of them left stationed by the door. But armed. Jake followed the lights. They’d sweep to the end, then back, until they were sure. No way to get to the garden. He raised his head a little, glancing out the window. Distract the Mongol, make a break for it across Voss Strasse. But the open car was there at the corner, ready to fire, maybe a second Mongol still posted on the steps. Back the way he had come, to the moon crater? Every step echoing in the giant room, no weapon except a splintered armrest. Endgame.

The Russians were nearing the end of the hall, shining lights into the office where GIs had chipped off pieces of Hitler’s desk. Two of them dispatched to check the room, then back, returning now toward Jake’s end. How many? Four, plus Sikorsky. He heard the crunch of glass, a chandelier globe caught underfoot. Minutes. Then they stopped, heads swiveling, alert to a sound. Had Jake moved, paralyzed behind his chair? No, a different sound, not in the room, getting louder-a pop, a grind of motors, raucous whoops. Jake strained a little closer to the window, looking out. Rumbling down Wilhelmstrasse, almost in the headlights. “It’s over!” he heard in English. “It’s over!” Football game yelling. Then he could see the jeep, soldiers standing with beer bottles, fingers raised in Churchill Vs. In the light now. Americans, like some phantom rescue party out of Gunther’s westerns. If he could get through the window, he’d be almost there. The Russians at the roadblock, too stunned to react, looked around in bewilderment, not knowing what to do. Then, before Jake could move, the GIs, still whooping, started firing into the air, victory fireworks. “It’s over!”

But all the Russians heard was gunfire. Startled, they started firing back, a machine gun strafing the jeep, one GI flung back, then whirling, falling forward over the windshield.

“What the fuck are you doing?” a GI screamed, the reply lost under another barrage of shots.

Then the GIs were crouching, firing too, into the roadblock, and Jake saw, horrified, that it was the Potsdam market again, a confusion of screams and bullets, real combat, men actually going down in the crossfire.

Inside the Chancellery, Sikorsky’s men raced toward the doors, stumbling over pieces of debris, shouting to each other. Gunfire must mean that Jake was out there. They ran out onto the steps, saw the American jeep at the roadblock, and started firing. The Russians in the street, caught by surprise shots from the side, automatically swerved and fired back. Open stairs, nowhere to hide. The Mongol was hit first, falling headlong, the others ducking. Sikorsky yelled out something in Russian, then clutched his stomach. Jake watched, amazed, as he sank to his knees, bullets still raking the columns behind him. “Fuck! Ed’s hit!” somebody yelled. Another round into the blockade from the jeep. Then a hoarse scream in Russian from the steps, and all at once it stopped, the soldiers in the roadblock looking, dazed, at the Chancellery, Sikorsky still kneeling there, his uniform finally visible to them as he rolled over.

“Are you fucking crazy?” the GI yelled, bent over his friend. “You shot him!”

The Russians, crouching for cover, held their guns out, waiting to see what would happen, not ready to believe they weren’t under attack.

“You shoot!” one yelled in broken English.

“You idiot! We’re not shooting. You’re shooting. It’s over!” The soldier took out a handkerchief and waved it, then stepped tentatively out of the jeep. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

A Russian stood up beside the car and took a step toward him, both holding their guns. Then no one said anything, a stillness you could touch, the others beginning to move from their places in slow motion, staring at the bodies in the street, appalled. The Russian looked toward the steps, terrified, as if he expected to be punished, still not sure what had happened. The Mongol, not dead, called out something, and the Russian just kept looking, stupefied, not even moving when Jake limped out of the building, went over to Sikorsky, and picked up the revolver near his hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” the GI called, spotting him. A man in civilian clothes.

Jake looked down at Sikorsky. His eyes were glazed but he was still alive, breathing hard, struggling for air, his front coated with blood. Jake knelt down next to him, holding the revolver. The other Russians still didn’t move, confused, as if Jake were another inexplicable phantom.

Sikorsky twisted his mouth in a sneer. “You.”

Jake shook his head. “Your own men. It was your own men.”

Sikorsky looked toward the street. “Shaeffer?”

“No. Nobody. The war’s over, that’s all. The war’s over.”

Sikorsky grunted.

Jake looked at the stomach wound, welling blood. Not long. “Tell me who he was working with. The other American.”

Sikorsky said nothing. Jake moved the revolver in front of his face. The Russian in the street stirred but made no move, still waiting. What would they do if he fired? Start killing each other again?

“Who?” Jake said. “Tell me. It can’t matter now.”

Sikorsky opened his mouth and spit at him, but weakly, without force, so that the strand of saliva fell back on his own lips.

Jake put the gun closer to his chin. “Who?”

Sikorsky glared at him, still sneering, then looked directly into the gun. “Finish it,” he said, closing his eyes.

The only one who could tell him, slipping away, the last thing that would go wrong. Jake looked at the closed eyes for another second, then took the gun away from Sikorsky’s face, drained.

“Finish it yourself. It took my friend about a minute to die. The one you killed. I hope it takes you two. One to think about her. I hope you see her face.”

Sikorsky opened his eyes wide, as if in fact he were looking at something.

“That’s right, like that. Scared.” Jake stood up. “Now take another for the kids in the boat. See them?” He stared for another second, Sikorsky’s eyes locked on his, even wider. “Steel,” he said, then walked down the stairs, not turning even when he heard the strangled gasp behind him. He handed the gun to the stunned Russian.

“Will somebody tell me what the fuck is going on here?” the GI said.

“Speak German?” Jake said to the Russian. “Get your men out of here.”

“Why did they shoot?”

“The Japs surrendered.” The Russian looked at him, dumbfounded. “These men are wounded,” Jake said, suddenly dizzy. “So are yours. We have to get them out. Move the car.”

“But what do I say? To explain?”

Jake looked down at a Russian in the street, spattered with blood. As stupid and pointless as it always was.

“I don’t know,” he said, then turned to the GI, feeling the back of his head. He brought his hand back down, bloody. “I’m hurt. I need a ride.”

“Jesus.” The GI turned to the Russian. “Move, you fuck.”

The Russians looked at them both, uncertain, then waved his hand at the driver to start the car.

In the party jeep, the men moved to make a place, one of them still holding a beer bottle.

“So the war’s over?” Jake said to the GI.

“It was.” Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

He awoke to find Lena’s face floating over his.

“What time is it?”

A faint smile. “After noon.” She reached up and felt his forehead. “A good sleep. Erich, go get Dr. Rosen. Tell him he’s awake.”

There was a scampering in the corner, then a blur as the boy darted out of the room.

“How did you do it?” she said. “Can you talk?”

How? A bumpy ride in the jeep, getting off in a Ku’damm swarming with headlights and blaring horns, packs of rowdy GIs with girls dancing out of the clubs into the street, then a blank.

“Where’s Emil?” Jake said.

“Here. It’s all right. No, don’t get up. Rosen says—” She smoothed his forehead again. “Can I get you something?”

He shook his head. “You got out.”

Rosen came through the door with Erich by his side and sat down on the bed, taking a pinpoint light out of his bag and shining it into each of Jake’s eyes.

“How do you feel?”

“Peachy.”

He reached behind, checking the bandage on the back of Jake’s head. “The stitches are good. But you should see an American doctor. An injury to the head, there’s always a risk. Sit up. Any dizziness?” He felt below the bandage, freeing his other hand by passing the light to Erich, who put it carefully into the bag. “My new assistant,” Rosen said fondly. “An excellent medical man.”

Jake bent forward as Rosen prodded with his fingers.

“A little swelling, not bad. Still. The Americans have; an X ray? For the shoulder too.”

Jake glanced down and saw an ugly splotch of bruise, and moved the shoulder, testing. Not dislocated.

“You got this how?” Rosen said.

“I fell.”

Rosen looked at him, dubious. “A long fall.”

“About two stories.” He squinted at the bright afternoon light. “How long have I been out? Did you give me something;?”

“No. The body is a good doctor. Sometimes, when it’s too much, it shuts down to rest. Erich, would you check for fever?”

The boy reached up and rested his dry palm on Jake’s forehead, looking at him solemnly. “Normal,” he said finally, his voice as small as his hand.

“You see? An excellent medical man.”

“Yes, and now sleepy,” Lena said, her hands on his shoulders. “He stayed up all night, watching you. To make sure.”

“You mean you did,” Jake said, imagining him slumped next to her in the easy chair.

“Both. He likes you,” she said pointedly.

“Thank you,” Jake said to him.

The boy nodded gravely, pleased.

“So you’ll live,” Rosen said, gathering his bag. “A day in bed, please. In case.”

“You too,” Lena said, moving the boy. “Time to rest. Come, I have coffee for you,” she said to Rosen, busy, organizing them, so that they followed without protest. “And you,” she said to Jake. “I’ll be right back.”

But it was Emil who brought the coffee, closing the door behind him. Back in his own clothes again, a frayed shirt and thin cardigan.

He handed Jake the mug stiffly, averting his eyes, his movements shy and prickly at the same time.

“She’s putting the boy to sleep,” he said. “It’s a Jewish child?”

“It’s a child,” Jake said over the mug.

Emil raised his head, bristling a little, then took off his glasses and wiped them.

“You look different.”

“Four years. People change,” Jake said, raising his hand to touch his receding hair, then wincing in surprise.

“Broken?” Emil said, looking at the bruised shoulder.

“No.”

“It’s a terrible color. It hurts?”

“And you call yourself a scientist,” Jake said lightly. “Yes, it hurts.”

Emil nodded. “So I should thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you. They would have taken her too.”

“And that’s why you changed the clothes,” he said skeptically. “So thank you.” He looked down, still wiping. “It’s awkward, to thank a man who—” He stopped, putting away the handkerchief. “How things turn out. You find your wife, then she’s not your wife. I have you to thank for this too.”

“Listen, Emil—”

“Don’t explain. Lena has told me. This is what happens now in Germany, I think. You hear it many times. A woman alone, the husband dead maybe. An old friend. Food. There’s no one to blame for this. Just to live—”

Was this what she’d told him, or simply what he wanted to believe?

“She’s not here for the rations,” Jake said.

Emil looked at him steadily, then turned away, moving over to sit on the arm of the chair, still toying with the glasses. “And now? What are you going to do?”

“About you? I don’t know yet.”

“You’re not sending me back to Kransberg?”

“Not until I know who took you out in the first place. They might try again.”

“So I’m a prisoner here?”

“It could be worse. You could be in Moscow.”

“With you? With Lena? I can’t stay here.”

“They’d grab you the minute you hit the streets.”

“Not if I’m with the Americans. You don’t trust your own people?”

“Not with you. You trusted them, look where it got you.”

“Yes, I trusted them. How could I know? He was-sympathetic. He was going to take me to her. To Berlin.”

“Where you could pick up some files while you were at it. Von Braun send you this time too?”

Emil looked at him, uncertain, then shook his head. “He thought they were destroyed.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I thought so. But my father-I couldn’t be sure, not with him. And of course I was right. He gave them to you.”

“No. He never gave me anything. I took them. He protected you right to the end. God knows why.”

Emil looked at the floor, embarrassed. “Well, no difference.”

“It is to him.”

Emil took this in for a moment, then let it go. “Anyway, you have them.”

“But Tully didn’t. Now why is that? You tell him about the files and then you don’t tell him where they are.”

The first hint of a smile, oddly superior. “I didn’t have to. He thought he knew. He said, I know where they are, all the files. Where the Americans have them. He was going to help, if you can imagine such a thing. He said only an American could get them. So I let him think that. He was going to get them for me,” he said, shaking his head.

“Out of the kindness of his heart?” Collecting twice.

“Of course for money. I said yes. I knew they weren’t there-I would never have to pay. And if he could take me out- So I was the clever one. Then he delivered me to the Russians.”

“Quite a pair. Why the hell did you tell him in the first place?”

“I never had a head for drink. It was-a despair. How can I explain it? All those weeks, waiting, why didn’t they send us to America? Then we heard about the trials, how the Americans were looking for Nazis everywhere, and I thought, we’ll never get out, they won’t send us. And maybe I said something like that, that the Americans would call us Nazis, us, because in the war we had to do things, and how would it look now? There were files, everything we did. What files? SS, I said, they kept everything. I don’t know, I was a little drunk maybe, to say that much. And he said it was only the Jews who were doing that, hunting Nazis-the Americans wanted us. To continue our work. He understood how important that was.“ His voice firmer now, sure of something at last. ”And it’s right, you know. To stop now, for this-“

Jake put down the mug and reached for a cigarette. “And the next thing you knew, you were off to Berlin. Tell me how that worked.”

“It’s another debriefing?” Emil said, annoyed.

“You’ve got the time. Have a seat. Don’t leave anything out.”

Emil sank back onto the armrest, rubbing his temples as if he were trying to arrange his memory. But the story he had to tell was the one Jake already knew, without surprises. No other Americans, the secret of Tully’s partner still safe with Sikorsky. Only a few new details of the border crossing. The guards, apparently, had been courteous. “Even then, I didn’t know,” Emil said. “Not until Berlin. Then I knew it was finished for me.”

“But not for Tully,” Jake said, thinking aloud. “Now he had some other fish to fry, thanks to your little talk. Lots of possibilities there. Did the others at Kransberg know about this, by the way?”

“My group? Of course not. They wouldn’t—” He stopped, nervous.

“What? Be as understanding as Tully was? They’d have a mess on their hands, wouldn’t they? Explaining things.”

“I didn’t know he would have this idea. I thought the files were destroyed. I would never betray them. Never,” he said, louder, aroused. “You understand, we are a team. It’s how we work. Von Braun did everything to keep us together, everything. You can’t know what it was like. Once they even arrested him-a man like that. But together, all through the war. When you share that-no one else knows what it was like. What we had to do.”

“What you had to do. Christ, Emil. I read the file.”

“Yes, what we had to do. What do you think? I’m SS too? Me?”

“I don’t know. People change.”

Emil stood up. “I don’t have to answer to you. You, of all people.”

“You’ll have to answer to someone,” Jake said calmly. “You might as well start with me.”

“So it’s a trial now. Ha, in this whorehouse.”

“The girls weren’t at Nordhausen. You were.”

“Nordhausen. You read something in a file—”

“I was there. In the camps. I saw your workers.”

“My workers? You want us to answer for that? That was SS, not us. We had nothing to do with that.”

“Except to let it happen.”

“And what should we do? File a complaint? You don’t know what it was like.”

“Then tell me.”

“Tell you what? What is it you want to know? What?”

Jake looked at him, suddenly at a loss. The same glasses and soft eyes, now wide and defiant, besieged. What, finally?

“I guess, what happened to you,” he said quietly. “I used to know you.”

Emil’s face trembled, as if he’d been stung. “Yes, we used to know each other. It seems, both wrong. Lena’s friend.” He held Jake’s eyes for a second, then retreated to the chair, subdued. “What happened. You ask that? You were here. You know what it was like in Germany. Do you think I wanted that?”

“No.”

“No. But then what? Turn my back, like my father, until it was over? When was that? Maybe never. My life was then, not when it was over. All my training. You don’t wait until the politics are convenient. We were just at the beginning. How could we wait?”

“So you worked for them.”

“No, we survived them. Their stupid interference. The demands, always crazy. Reports. All of it. They took away Dornberger, our leader, and we survived that too. So the work would survive, even after the war. Do you understand what it means? To leave the earth? To make something new. But difficult, expensive. How else could we do it? They gave us the money, not enough, but enough to keep going, to survive them.”

“By building their weapons.”

“Yes, weapons. It was the war by then. Do you think I’m ashamed of that?” He looked down. “It’s my homeland. What I am. Lena too,” he said, glancing up. “The same blood. You do things in wartime—” He trailed off.

“I saw it, Emil,” Jake said. “That wasn’t war, not in Nordhausen. That was something else. You saw it.”

“They said it was the only way. There was a schedule. They needed the workers.”

“And killed them. To meet your schedule.”

“Ours, no. Their schedule. Impossible, crazy, like everything else. Was it crazy to mistreat the workers? Yes, everything was crazy. When I saw it, I couldn’t believe it, what they were doing. In Germany. But by then we were living in a madhouse. You become crazy yourself, living like that. How can it be, one sane person in the asylum? No, all crazy. All normal. They ask for estimates, crazy estimates, but you are crazy if you refuse. And they do terrible things to you, your family, so you become crazy too. We knew it was hopeless, all of us in the program. Even their numbers. Even numbers they made crazy. You don’t believe me? Listen to this. A little mathematical exercise,” he said, getting up to pace, the boy who could do numbers in his head.

“The original plan, you know, was for nine hundred rockets a month, thirty tons of explosives per day for England. This was 1943. Hitler wanted two thousand rockets per month, an impossible target, we could never come close. But that was the target, so we needed more workers, more workers for this crazy number. Never close. And if we had done it? That would mean sixty-six tons per day. Sixty-six. In 1944, the Allies were dropping three thousand tons a day on Germany. Sixty-six against three thousand, that is the mathematics they were working with. And to do this, forty thousand prisoners finally. More and more for this number. You want me to explain what happened? They were crazy. They made us crazy. I don’t know what else to tell you. How can I answer this?” He stopped pacing, turning his hands up in question.

“I wish somebody could. Everybody in Germany has an explanation. And no answer.”

“To what?”

“Eleven hundred calories a day. Another number.”

Emil looked away. “And you think I did that?”

“No, you just did the numbers.”

Emil was still for a moment, then came over to the bedside table and picked up the cup. “You’ve finished your coffee?” He stood near the bed, staring down at the cup. “So now I’m to blame. That makes it easy for you? To take my wife.”

“I’m not blaming you for anything,” Jake said, looking up into his glasses. “You do it.”

Emil nodded to himself. “Our new judges. You blame us, then you go home, so we can accuse each other. That’s what you want. So it s never over.”

“Except for you. You go to the States with the rest of your group and go on with your fine work. That’s the idea, isn’t it? You and von Braun and the rest of them. No questions there. All forgotten. No files.”

Emil peered over his glasses. “You’re so sure the Americans want these files?”

“Some of them do.”

“And the others at Kransberg? You would do this to them too? It’s not enough to accuse me?”

“This isn’t just about you.”

“No? I think so, yes. For Lena.”

“You’re wrong. About that, too.”

“You think it would make her happy? To send me to jail?”

Jake said nothing.

Emil raised his head, letting out a breath. “Then do it. I can’t stay here. They’re looking for me, she told me this. So send me. What difference where I’m a prisoner?”

“Don’t be too anxious to go. You’re a liability now, undelivered goods. He’ll have to do something.”

“Who?”

“Tully’s partner.”

“I told you, there was no one else.”

“Yes, there was.” Jake looked up, a new idea. “You talk to anyone else at Kransberg?”

“Americans? No. Just Tully,” Emil said absently, not interested.

“And Shaeffer. The debriefing,” Jake said, explaining. “Ever meet his friend Breimer? ”

“I don’t know the name. They were all the same to us.”

“Big man, government, not a soldier?”

“That one? Yes, he was there. To meet the group. He was interested in the program.”

“I’ll bet. He talk to you?”

“No, only von Braun. The Americans, they like a von,” he said, shrugging a little.

Jake sat back for a moment, thinking. But how could it be? Another column that wouldn’t add up.

Emil took his silence for an answer and moved toward the door, carrying the mug. “You’ll at least send word to Kransberg? My colleagues will worry—”

“They’ll keep. I want you missing a little while longer. A little bait.”

“Bait?”

“That’s right. Like Lena was for you. Now you can be the bait. We’ll see who bites.”

Emil turned at the door, blinking behind his glasses. “It’s no good, talking. The way you are now. What is it, some idea of justice? For whom, I wonder. Not for Lena. You think I ask for myself-for her too. Think what it means for her.”

“I see. For her.”

“Yes, for her. You think she wants this trouble for me?” He opened his hand, taking in not just the room but the files, the whole clouded future.

“No, she thinks she owes you something.”

“Maybe it’s you who owes something.”

Jake looked up at him. “Maybe,” he said. “But she doesn’t.”

Emil shook his head. “How things turn out. To think I left Kransberg for her. And now this-all our work. So you can prove something to her. Wave these files in my face. ‘You see what kind of man he is. Leave him.’”

“She has left you,” Jake said.

“For you,” Emil said, shaking his head at the implausibility of it, drawing his round shoulders back, upright, the way they must have looked in uniform. “But how different you are. Not the same man. I thought you would understand how it was here-leave me my work, that much. No, you want that too. Your pound of flesh. Make all of us Nazis. She won’t thank you for this. Does she even know, how different you are?”

Jake stared at him for a minute, the same man on the station platform, no longer blurry, as if the train had slowed so he could really see.

“But you’re not,” he said, suddenly weary, the dull ache in his shoulder spreading to his voice. “I just didn’t know you. Your father did. Some missing piece, he called it.”

“My father—”

“You never had anything in your head but numbers. Not her. She was your excuse. Even Tully bought it. Maybe you believe it yourself. The way you think Nordhausen just happened. All by itself. But that doesn’t make it true. Owes you something? You didn’t come to Berlin for her-you came to get the files again.”

“No.”

“Just like the first time. She thinks you risked your life to get her. It wasn’t for her. Von Braun sent you. It was his car, his assignment. To keep the work going. No embarrassing pieces of paper. You never even tried to get her, just save your own sorry skin.”

“You weren’t there,” Emil said angrily. “Get through that hell? How could I do that? I had the other men to think of. There was only one bridge left—”

“And you drove right out with them. I don’t blame you. But you don’t blame yourself either. Why not? You were in charge. It was your party. How long did it take you to get the files? That was your priority. Passengers? Well, if there was time. And then there wasn’t.”

“She was at the hospital,” Emil said, raising his voice. “Safe.”

“She was raped. She almost died. She tell you that?”

“No,” he said, looking down.

“But you got what you really came for. You left her and saved the team. And now you want to do it again, even make her help this time, because she thinks she owes you something. She’s lucky she got the phone call.”

“It’s a lie,” Emil said.

“Is it? Then why didn’t you tell von Braun you were leaving Kransberg with Tully? You couldn’t, could you? Not the real reason. He thought you’d already taken care of the files. But you had to be sure. That’s why you came. It’s always been about the files. Not her.”

Emil kept staring at the floor. “You’d do anything to turn her against me,” he said, his tone aggrieved, closed off. He looked up. “You’ve told her this?”

“You tell her,” Jake said steadily. “I wasn’t there, remember? You were. Tell her how it was.” He watched Emil stand there, shaking his head numbly in the sudden stillness, and sank back against the pillow. “Then maybe she’ll figure it out for herself.”

Brian turned up after dinner, bringing a newspaper and a bottle of NAAFI scotch.

“Well, safe and sound. That looks nasty,” he said, pointing to the shoulder. “You ought to see to that.” He opened the bottle and poured two drinks. “Quite a hidey-hole, I must say. I saw a lovely thing in the hall. Nothing under the wrapper, by the looks of it. I don’t suppose they give out samples. Cheers.“ He tossed back the shot. ”How’d you find it?“

“It’s British owned.”

“Really? That’s the stuff.”

“Anybody see you come here?”

“Well, what’s to that? At my age I’m expected to pay for it.” He glanced over. “No, no one. Jeep’s in the courtyard behind, by the way. I thought you might like it off the street. Tempting.”

“Thanks.”

“I take it that’s the husband,” he said, nodding toward the living room. “The one moping on the couch. What are the sleeping arrangements, or am I being prurient?”

“Thanks for that too. I owe you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll collect. Your stunt, my exclusive. Fair?”

Jake smiled.

“You made the papers,” Brian said, handing it to him. “At least, I assume it’s you. No names. Not much sense either.”

Jake opened it up. PEACE headlined in bold across the top, with the picture of Marines raising the flag on I wo Jima. At the bottom right, in smaller type, wwm begins? who fired first? an account of the Chancellery shoot-out as confusing as the crossfire, with the implication that everyone had been drunk.

“You can’t imagine the hullabaloo. Well, maybe you can. Russians have been stamping their feet, cross as anything. Formal notes, want a special Council session, the lot. Say they won’t march in the victory parade-there’s a loss. Want to tell me what really happened?”

“Believe it or not, this is what happened. Except the Russians weren’t drunk.”

“That would be a first.”

“And I’m not in it,” Jake said, finishing the piece.

“Strictly speaking, boyo, you weren’t. You were with me.”

“Is that what you told them?”

“Had to. No end of questions otherwise. You’re the most popular man in Berlin these days. Absolutely belle of the ball-everybody wants to dance with you. If they knew where you were. Damned if I do. Came down to the dining room with a lady, offered me a lift-I might have been a little the worse for wear-dropped me on the

Ku’damm for a nightcap, and that’s the last I saw you. As for this,“ he said, pointing to the paper, ”what I hear is there was a civilian in the middle of it. Nobody knows who. German, would be my guess. Of course, the Russians aren’t saying, but they’re not supposed to be missing anybody in the first place.“

“But I spoke English.”

“Americans think everyone does. You tell them who you were?”

“No. And I spoke German to the Russians. Sikorsky wouldn’t have had time to—”

“You see? Believe me, nobody’s thinking about anything except covering their behinds. Damned silly, when you think of it, going to the bunker for a drink. Wanted to dance on Hitler’s grave, I suppose. Very unwise, all things considered. The point is, you were seen leaving the Adlon with me. Witnesses. And if I don’t know you, who would? That is the way you wanted it, isn’t it?”

Jake smiled at him. “You don’t miss a trick.”

“Not when the story’s mine. Exclusive, remember? It doesn’t do to share with your gang. So fair’s fair? What’s it all about?”

“It’s yours, I promise. Just wait a little.”

“Not even a taste? What in god’s name were you and the general wagging about? The late general, I should say. There’s a service tomorrow, by the way-all the Allies. That awful band of theirs, no doubt. I suppose you won’t be sending a wreath.”

“That’s right,” Jake said, not really listening. “You don’t know.”

“No, I don’t know,” he said, imitating Jake’s voice. “Until you tell me.”

“No, I mean nobody knows. What he said to me. Nobody knows. It could have been anything.”

“But what did he say?”

“Let me think for a minute. It’s important. I need to work this out.”

“You don’t mind, then?” Brian said, pouring another drink. “Always so gripping to watch someone think.”

“Anything. I mean, suppose he had told me?”

“Told you what?”

Jake was quiet for a minute, sipping his scotch.

“Hey, Brian,” he said finally, still brooding. “I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Have a drink at the press camp. My treat.”

“And?”

“Talk loose. Have a few. You saw me and I’ve got hold of a story and wouldn’t cut you in on it so you’re annoyed.”

“So I would be. And the point is?”

“I want everybody to know that I’ve got something. It’s like the village post office there-it won’t take long to get around. Wait, even better. Got some paper?”

Brian took out a notebook and handed it to him, then watched as he wrote.

“Send this to Collier’s for me-here’s the cable address.”

Brian took it and read aloud. “‘Save space next issue big story scandal.’ And when you don’t send one? They won’t like that.”

“Well, I might. So will you. But chances are this won’t go out anyway. They censor the cables. Young Ron’ll take one look and start playing Chicken Little. He’ll be all over the place with it.”

“All over me, you mean.”

“Ask him what the fuss is all about-he’ll go shy on you. Then ask him who Tully was.”

“Someone you mentioned in passing when I saw you.”

“That’s right. I called it my Tully story.”

“And this is going to get you what, exactly?”

“The man who killed him. The other American.”

“The bird in the bush. You’re sure there is one.”

“Somebody tried to have me killed in Potsdam. It wasn’t Tully-he was already dead. Yes, I’m sure.”

“Steady. You don’t want any more excitement, not like this,” Brian said, indicating Jake’s shoulder. “Twice lucky. Third time—”

“Third time he comes to me. He’ll have to. Ever hear of a squeeze play?”

“And this will squeeze him out?” he said, holding the paper.

“Part of the way. The way it works is to get the Russians to do the rest. They think Emil’s loose. He is still loose. What if they had the chance to get him back? Sikorsky’s dead. Tully’s dead. Who else do they send to get him?”

“Especially if he can get you as well? I don’t like that. And how do you intend to manage this, may I ask?”

“Just go have the drink, okay? We’re almost there.”

“With loose talk. Which he’ll hear.”

“He’s heard everything else.”

“One of ours, then.”

“I don’t know. The only one I know it isn’t is you.”

“Very trusting of you.”

“No. It was an American bullet. You buy British,” Jake said, pointing to the bottle.

Brian folded the paper and pocketed it. “Speaking of which, you’ll want this back.” He brought a gun out of the pocket. “If you’re determined to keep asking for trouble.”

“Liz’s gun,” Jake said, taking it.

“Something of a rush at the Adlon, but I managed to pick it up. Just in case.”

“He killed her, you know. Sikorsky.”

“So that’s it?” Brian said. He got up to go. “It’s a fool’s game, getting even. It never turns out the way you expect.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then it’s a lot to do for a story.”

“How about getting away with murder? Is that enough?”

“Dear boy, people get away with murder all the time. You’ve only to look around you. Especially here. Years of it.”

“Then let’s stop it.”

“Now I do feel old. Nothing like the young for putting things right. Well, I’ll leave you to it. And this lovely scotch. Second thought, perhaps I won’t,” he said, picking up the bottle. “Never know how many rounds I’ll have to buy before the old tongue loosens up properly. On my expenses, too.”

“Thanks, Brian.”

“Well, Africa together-it has to count for something. No point in telling you to be careful, I suppose. You never were. Still, Russians. I should have thought you’d have your hands full sorting out your menage.” He nodded to the next room.

“It’ll sort itself out.”

“The young,” Brian said, sighing. “Not in my experience.”

It took Jake ten minutes to dress, his stiff arms fumbling with the buttons, even tying his shoes a small agony.

“You’re going out?” Lena said, looking up from the table where she and Erich were leafing through a magazine rescued from one of the girls. Life, pictures from another world. Emil sat on the couch, his face vacant, lost in himself.

“I won’t be long,” Jake said, starting toward her to kiss her goodbye, then stopping, even the most ordinary gesture somehow awkward now. Instead he rubbed Erich’s head.

“Rosen said to rest,” Lena said.

“I’m all right,” Jake said, feeling Emil watching him so that, like an intruder, he wanted to hurry out, away from them. “Don’t wait up,” he said to Erich, but taking them all in. Only Erich moved, giving him a little wave.

The street was a relief, the comforting anonymity of the dark. A soldier in a jeep. He drove out toward Kreuzberg, not even noticing the ruins. Even Berlin could become normal, a question of what you were used to.

He found Gunther playing solitaire, a half-full bottle on the table beside him, methodically laying out rows of cards like his columns of obvious points.

“A surprise visit,” Gunther said, not sounding surprised at all, barely looking up from the cards.

“I thought I’d bring you up to date,” Jake said, sitting down.

Gunther grunted, continuing to lay out cards as Jake told him about the Adlon, not even pausing when bullets hit the Chancellery steps.

“So once again you’re lucky,” he said when Jake finished. “And we still don’t know.”

“That’s why I’ve come. I have an assignment for you.”

“Leave me alone,” he said, turning over a card. Then he looked up. “What?”

“I want you to go to a funeral tomorrow.”

“Sikorsky’s?”

“A friend. Naturally you’d want to go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And pay your respects to his successor. I assume his number two-they haven’t had time to bring anyone in yet. Maybe his boss. Either way, whoever’s Sikorsky now. It’s good business, for one thing.” He glanced at the stacks of black market boxes.

“And the other?”

“New business.”

“With me,” Gunther said, raising an eyebrow.

“You have to think of it from his point of view-what he knows or what he’s been told. They must have grilled the Russians at the Adlon. What he knows is that Sikorsky saw us there-Lena and me-and let us pay a visit. He knows Brandt escaped and Sikorsky was killed chasing him. He knows the Americans don’t have him-Tully’s partner would have told him. So where is he? The logical place?”

Gunther made a questioning sound, still playing.

“Where he’s always wanted to be-with his wife. Who came with me. And I’m a friend of yours. And you-you kept tabs on me for Sikorsky,” Jake said, slapping the words down in order, jack, ten, nine. “His source.”

Gunther stopped. “I told him nothing. Nothing important.”

“So he said. The point is, they know he got it from you. They know you know me. They might even think you know where I am. Which means—”

“An interesting situation, I agree,” Gunther said, turning a card slowly. “But I don’t know where you are. I have never wanted to know that, if you remember. To be in this position.”

“If they believe that. Maybe they don’t think you’re so high-minded. Maybe they just think you’re a rat.”

Gunther glanced up, then went back to his cards. “Are you trying to provoke me? Don’t bother.”

“I’m trying to show you how he’ll see things. When you talk to him tomorrow.”

“And what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to betray me.”

Gunther put down the cards, reached for his glass, and sat back, looking at Jake over the rim. “Go on.”

“It’s time to move up in the world. Cigarettes, watches, a little bar gossip-there’s no real money in that. But even a small-time crook gets a chance once in a while. Something big to sell. Sometimes it falls right into your lap.”

“I take it Herr Brandt is that opportunity.”

Jake nodded. “I came to you to get some travel permits. To get the happy couple out of town.”

“And I would have these?”

“They’re on the market. You’re in the market. They’ll think you could. But now you’ve got a situation. You want to keep your options open. Your friend Sikorsky is gone-why not make some new friends, and a bundle on the side? Hard to resist.”

“Very.”

“So you arrange to meet us, with the permits. If someone else shows up instead—”

“Where?” Gunther said, oddly precise.

“I don’t know yet,” Jake said, brushing it aside. “But in the American zone. That’s important. They need to send an American. If they’re Russians, I’ll smell a setup right away. It has to be an American, so I won’t suspect until it’s too late.”

“And they’ll send him, your American.”

“He’s the obvious person. He knows who I am. And he’ll want to come. I’ve put the word out that I’m on to something. He can’t take that chance. He’ll come.”

“And then he will have you.”

“I’ll have him. All you have to do is lead him to me.”

“Be your greifer,” Gunther said, his voice low.

“It can work.”

Gunther moved his eyes back to the cards and began to play again. “A pity you weren’t on the force, before the war. Sometimes the bold move—”

“It can work,” Jake said again.

Gunther nodded. “Except for one thing. I have no quarrel with the Russians. As you say, I want to keep my options open. If you succeed, where am I? With no options. The Russians will know I betrayed them. Get someone else.”

“There isn’t anyone else. They’ll believe you. It’s your case too.”

“No, yours. It was interesting to help you, a way to pass the time. Now it’s something else. I don’t make myself conspicuous. Not now.”

Jake looked at him. “That’s right. You never did.”

“That’s right,” Gunther said, refusing to be drawn.

Jake reached over and placed his hand on the cards, stopping the play.

“Move your hand.”

Jake held it there for another minute, staring at him.

“Leave me alone.”

“How long do you intend to stay dead? Years? That’s a lot of time to pass with your head down. You’re still a cop. We’re talking about murder.”

“No, survival.”

“Like this? You tried that once. A good German cop. So you kept your head down and people died. Now you want to stick it down a bottle. For what? A chance to snitch for the Russians? You’d be working for the same people. You think it’ll be any different?” He pushed his chair away, frustrated, and walked over to the wall map. Berlin as it used to be.

Gunther sat stonily for a second, then laid down another card, almost a reflex.

“And the Americans are so much better?”

“Maybe not by much,” Jake said, his eyes moving left, toward Dahlem. “But that’s who’s here. That’s the choice.” He turned from the map. “You have a choice.”

“To work for the Americans.”

“No, to be a cop again. A real one.”

Neither of them said anything for a minute, so when the door rattled with a sharp knock, it seemed even louder in the thick silence. Jake looked up, alarmed, expecting Russians, but it was Bernie, pushing through the door with folders under his arm just as he had that first night at Gelferstrasse, running into a plate. Now it was the sight of Jake that stopped him in mid-dash.

“Where have you been? People are looking for you, you know.”

“I heard.”

“Well, it’s good you’re here. Saves a trip,” he said, not explaining and moving toward the table. “ Wie gehts, Gunther?” He looked down at the cards. “Seven on the eight. Things a little blurry?” He picked up the bottle, gave it a quick glancing measurement, and put it aside.

“Clear enough.”

“I brought the Bensheim copies you asked for. I’ll need them back, though. We’re not supposed to—”

“According to Herr Geismar, unnecessary now.”

“What’s Bensheim?” Jake said.

“Where Tully was before Kransberg,” Bernie said.

“To cross the t ‘s,” Gunther said, opening one of the folders, then looking at Jake. “Not bold, methodical. So often there’s a pattern.

I thought, to whom was he selling these persilscheins? Which Germans? Perhaps someone I would recognize. An idea only.“

“So that’s what they look like,” Jake said, coming over and picking one up.

The usual buff-colored paper and ragged type wedged into boxes, ink scrawled across the bottom. The name on top was Bernhardt, no one he knew. A different page layout, yet still familiar, like all the occupation forms. He scanned down the sheet, then handed it back. Innocuous paper, but worth a reputation to Bernhardt.

“But as I say, no longer necessary,” Gunther said.

“Why’s that?” Bernie said.

“Gunther’s retiring from the case,” Jake said. “He wants to do his drinking elsewhere.”

“Still, you don’t mind if I look? Since you went to the trouble?” Gunther said, taking the folders.

“Be my guest,” Bernie said, pouring himself a drink. “Did I walk into the middle of something?”

“No, we’re done,” Jake said. “I’m off.”

“Don’t go. I have some news.” He tossed back the drink and swallowed it with a small shudder, a gesture so uncharacteristic that it drew Jake’s attention.

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“Now I see why,” Bernie said, still grimacing. He put down the glass. “Renate’s dead.”

“The Russians—”

“No, she hanged herself.”

No one spoke, the room still as death.

“When?” Jake said involuntarily, a sound to fill the space.

“They found her this morning. I never expected—”

Jake turned away from them to the map, his eyes smarting, as if they had caught a cinder. “No,” he said, not an answer, just another sound.

“Nobody thought she’d—” Bernie stopped, then looked over at Jake. “She say anything to you when you talked to her?”

Jake shook his head. “If she did, I didn’t hear it.” His eyes moved over the map-the Alex and its impossible trial, Prenzlauer where she’d hidden the child, Anhalter Station, cadging a cigarette on the platform. You could trace a life on a map, like streets. The old Columbia office, delivering items with her sharp eye.

“So now it’s an end,” Gunther said, his voice neutral, emotionless.

“It didn’t start this way,” Jake said. “You didn’t know her. How she was. So-pretty,” he said inadequately, meaning alive. He turned to them. “She was pretty.”

“Everybody dies,” Gunther said flatly.

“I don’t know why I should mind,” Bernie said. “Everything she did. And a Jew. Still.” He paused. “I didn’t come here for this. To see another one die.”

“She was part of that,” Gunther said, still flat.

“So were a lot of people,” Jake said. “They just kept their heads down. Maybe they couldn’t help it either, the way it was.”

“Well, maybe she’s found her peace,” Bernie said. “A hell of a way to do it, though.”

“Is there another?” Gunther said.

“I guess that depends on what you can live with,” Bernie said, picking up his hat.

Gunther glanced up at this, then looked away.

“Anyway, I thought you’d want to know. You coming?” he said to Jake. “I still have things to do. Two days with these, okay, Gunther?” He touched the folders. “I have to send them back. You all right?”

Gunther didn’t answer, reaching instead for a folder and opening it, avoiding them by reading the page. Jake stood, waiting, but Gunther’s only response was to turn the page, like a policeman going through mug shots. They were at the door before Gunther raised his head.

“Herr Geismar?” he said, getting up slowly and walking over to the map, his back to them. He stood for a second, studying it. “Pick the place. Let me know before the funeral.”

Lena was in the big chair, legs tucked beneath her, wreathed in smoke rising from the ashtray perched on the wide arm, the room shadowy with a faint glow from the scarf-draped lamp. She looked as if she’d been sitting for hours, coiled into herself, too fixed now to move even when he walked over and touched her hair. “Where’s Emil?”

“Bed,” she said. “Not so loud, you’ll wake Erich.” She nodded at the couch, where the boy lay curled up under a sheet. Brian’s sleeping arrangements answered, in shifts.

“What about you?”

“You want me to share the bed?” she said, unexpectedly short, lighting a new cigarette from the stub of the other. “Maybe I should go to Hannelore. To live this way—” She looked up. “He says you won’t let him leave. He wants to go to Kransberg.”

“He will. I just need him for one more day.” He brought one of the table chairs over and sat next to her so they could talk in murmurs. “One more day. Then it’ll be over.”

She tapped the cigarette in the tray, moving the ash around. “He thinks you took advantage of me.”

“Well, I did,” he said, trying to break her mood.

“But he forgives me,” she said. “He wants to forgive me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t listen. I was weak, but he forgives me-that’s how it is for him. So you see, I’m forgiven. All that time, before the war, when I thought- And in the end, so easy.”

“Does he know that? Before the war?”

“No. If he thought that Peter- You didn’t tell him, did you? You must leave him that.”

“No, I didn’t tell him.”

“We must leave him that,” she said, brooding again. “What a mess we’ve made for ourselves. And now he forgives me.”

“Let him. It’s easier for him this way. Nobody’s fault.”

“No, yours. It’s you he doesn’t forgive. He thinks you want to ruin him. That’s the word he uses. And poison me against him. Anything crazy he can think of. So that’s the thanks you get for saving him.” She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, blowing smoke up into the air. “He wants me to go to America.”

“With him?”

“They can take the wives. It’s a chance for me-to leave all this.”

“If they go.”

“We can start over. That’s his idea. Start over. So that’s what you saved him for. Maybe you’re sorry now.”

“No. It was in my cards, remember?”

She smiled, her eyes still closed. “The rescuer. And now here we are, all your strays. What are you going to do with us?”

“Put you to bed, for a start. You’re talking in your sleep. Come on, we’ll move Erich, he won’t mind.”

“No, leave him. I’m too tired to sleep.” She turned and looked at the boy. “I sent one of the girls to see Fleischman. He asks, can we keep him a little longer? The camps are so crowded. You don’t mind? He’s no trouble. And you know, Emil doesn’t like to talk in front of him, so it’s good that way. It gives me some peace.”

“What about Texas?”

“They want babies only. Before they become too German, maybe,” she said, more dispirited than angry. She rubbed out the cigarette. “All your strays. You take us in, then you’re responsible. You know, he thinks you’re going to take him to his mother. What do I say to that? After prison, maybe?”

“Not even then,” Jake said quietly. “She killed herself last night.”

“Oh.” A wounded sound, like a faint yelp. “Oh, she did that?” She glanced again at the couch, then down into her lap, her eyes filling. Jake reached for her, but she waved him away, covering her eyes with her hand. “So stupid. I didn’t even know her. Someone from the office. Don’t look. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re tired, that’s all.”

“But to do that. Oh, how much longer like this? Boiling water, just to drink. The children, living like animals. Now another one dead. And this is the peace. It was better during the war.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jake said softly, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to her.

“No,” she said, blowing her nose. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Boiling water, my god. What does that matter?” Another sniffle, then she wiped her face, the shaking subsiding. She leaned back, drawing a breath. “You know, after the Russians there were many-like her. I never cried then. You saw the bodies in the street. Who knew how they died? My friend Annelise? I found her. Poison. Like Eva Braun. Her mouth was burned from it. And what had she done? Hide until some Russian got her. Maybe more than one. There was blood there.” She pointed to her lap. “You didn’t cry then, there were so many. So why now? Maybe I thought it was over, that time.” She gave her face another wipe, then handed back the handkerchief. “What are you going to tell him?”

“Nothing. His mother died in the war, that’s all.”

“In the war,” she said vaguely, looking at the sleeping boy. “How can you leave a child alone?”

“She didn’t. She left him to me.”

Lena turned to him. “You can’t send him to the DPs.”

“I know,” he said, touching her hand. “I’ll think of something. Just give me a little time.”

“While you arrange things,” she said, leaning back again. “All our lives. Emil’s too?”

“Emil can arrange his own life. I’m not worried about Emil.”

“No, I am,” she said slowly. “He’s still something to me. I don’t know what, not my husband, but something. Maybe it’s because I don’t love him, isn’t that strange? To worry about someone you don’t love anymore? He even looks different. It happens that way, I think- people look different when they don’t love each other anymore.”

“Is that what he said?”

“No, I told you, he forgives me. It’s easy, isn’t it, when you don’t love somebody?” she said, her voice drifting, back in an earlier thought. “Maybe he never did. Only the work. Even when he talks about you, it’s that. Not me. I thought he’d be jealous, I was ready for that, but no, it’s how he can’t go back if you use those files. The others won’t work with him, not after that. Those stupid files. If only his father—” She stopped, looking away and drawing herself up. “You know what he talks to me about? Space. I’m trying to feed a child on food you steal for us and he talks to me about rocket ships. His father was right-he lives in his head, not here. I don’t know, maybe after Peter died there wasn’t anything else for him.” She turned to him. “But to take that away now-I don’t want to do that.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” she said to herself. “I want it to be over, for all of us. Let him go to America. They want him there, he says.”

“They don’t know what they’re getting yet.”

She lowered her head. “Then don’t tell them. Leave him that too.”

Jake sat back, disturbed. “Did he ask you to say this?”

“No. He doesn’t ask for himself. It’s the others-it’s like a family for him.”

“I’ll bet.”

She took out another cigarette, shaking her head. “You don’t listen either. Both my men. They already know. Maybe he’s right a little, that it’s personal with you.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know-no. But you know what will happen. They think everybody was a Nazi.”

“Maybe he’ll talk them out of it. He’s already convinced himself.”

“But not you.”

“No, not me.”

“He’s not a criminal,” she said flatly.

“Isn’t he?”

“And who decides? The ones who win.”

“Listen to me, Lena,” Jake said, covering the matches with his hand so that she was forced to look at him. “Nobody expected this. They don’t even know where to begin. They’re just soldiers. It’s got mixed up with the war, but it wasn’t the war. It was a crime. Not the war, a crime. It didn’t just happen.”

“I know what happened. I’ve heard it, over and over. You want him to answer for that?”

“What if nobody answers for it?”

“So Emil answers? He’s the guilty one?”

“He was part of it. All of them were-his ‘family.’ How guilty does that make them? I don’t know. All I know is we can’t ignore it-we can’t be guilty of that too.”

“Numbers, that’s all he did.”

“You didn’t see the camp.”

“I know what you saw.”

“And what I didn’t see? At first I didn’t even notice, you don’t take things in, it’s so- I didn’t notice.”

“What?”

“There were no children. None. The children couldn’t work, so they were the first to go. They were killed right away. That one.” He pointed to Erich. “That child. They would have killed him. That’s what the numbers were. Erich.”

She looked at the couch, then put down the cigarette without lighting it, folding her arms across her chest, drawing in again.

“Lena—” he started.

“All right,” she said, moving her legs out from underneath and getting up, finished with it.

She went over to the couch and bent down, rearranging the sheet on the boy, a gentle tucking-in motion, then stood watching him sleep.

“I’m like all the others now, aren’t I?” she said finally, keeping her voice low. “Frau Dzuris. Nobody suffered but her. I’m no different. I sit here feeling sorry for my own troubles.” She turned to him. “When they made us see the films, you know what I did? I turned my head.”

Jake looked up. His own first reaction, a bony hand pulling him back to make him see.

“And after, people were quiet, and then it began. ‘How could the Russians make us look at that? They’re no better. Think of the bombing, how we suffered.’ Anything to put it out of their minds. I was no different. I didn’t want to look either. And then it’s on your couch.”

Jake said nothing, watching her move toward the easy chair, running her hand along the back.

“You expect too much from us,” she said. “To live with this. All murderers.”

“I never said—”

“No, just some of us. Which ones? You want me to look at my husband. ‘Was it you?’ Frau Dzuris’ son? My brother, maybe. ‘Were you one of them?’ How can I ask? Maybe he was. So I’m like the others. I know and I don’t know.”

“Except, this once, you do.”

She looked down. “He’s still something to me.”

Jake stood and went over to the table, rifled through his papers, and pulled out a file. “Read it again,” he said, holding it out to her. “Then tell me how much. I’m going for a walk.”

“Don’t leave.” Her eyes moved down to the folder. “See how he comes between us.”

“Then don’t put him there.”

“You expect too much,” she said again. “We owe him something.”

“And paid it off at the Adlon. We owe him something,” he said, nodding his head at the couch.

She sank onto the broad arm of the chair. “Yes, and how do you pay? What are you going to arrange for him? Imagine his life in Germany. Renate’s child.”

“No one will know.”

“Someone will. You can’t save him from that.” She had slumped forward, staring at her bare feet.

“You want to keep him,” he said.

She shook her head. “A German mother? And one day he looks at me-‘Were you one of them?’ No, he should have a Jewish home. She paid for that.”

“Then we’ll find one.”

“Just like that. You think there are so many left?”

“I’ll talk to Bernie. Maybe he knows someone.”

“An answer for everything,” she said, breathing out in a half-sigh. She got up and began to pace, caged, arms folded across her chest. “Everything’s so easy for you.”

“You’re not. Not tonight. What is it, Lena?” he said, watching her back as she crossed the room, as if he could follow her mood, slippery as mercury.

“I don’t know.” She took another step, then stopped, facing the bedroom door. “And I’m the one who wanted him here. Anything but the Russians, that’s all I could think. And now he’s here-now what? I’m angry at him. Then angry at you. I listen to you and I think, he’s right-and I don’t want you to be right. Maybe it’s personal with me too. So it’s a fine mess.” She paused. “I don’t want you to be right about him.”

“I can’t make the files go away,” Jake said quietly.

“I know,” she said, rubbing her sleeve. “I know. But don’t let it be you. Let someone else—”

She bit her lower lip.

“Is that what you want?”

She looked up at the ceiling, head back, reading the plaster for an answer.

“Me? What do I want? I was thinking before, how it would be if none of it had ever happened.” She lowered her head, looking past him, her voice slowly drifting again. “What I want? Shall I tell you? I want to stay in Berlin. It’s my home, even like this. Work with Fleischman, maybe-he needs me, someone to help. Then after, I’ll come home and cook. Did you know I could? My mother said it’s something a man will always appreciate.” She raised her eyes to his, taking him in now. “So we’ll eat dinner and be together. And once in a while we’ll go out, get dressed up and go out together. And we’ll be at a party, it’ll be nice, and I’ll turn around and you’ll be looking at me, the way you did at the Press Club. And nobody will know, just me. That’s all. Millions of people live like that. A normal life. Can you arrange that?“

He reached out his hand, but she ignored it, still wrapped up in herself.

“Not in Berlin, I think. Not even an American can arrange that now.“ Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was Gunther who chose the place.

“Not the station. It’s too exposed. And there’s Herr Brandt to consider. ”

“Emil? I’m not taking Emil.”

“You must. It’s Brandt he wants. He won’t show himself for you.” He got up with his coffee, cold sober, and walked to the map. “Imagine what he’s thinking. He can’t lose him again. If you’re alone, what has he accomplished, even if he kills you? Still no Brandt. No, he wants a simple pickup. You don’t suspect anything, so he surprises you, and he takes Brandt away. Or both of you. You for later. But the meeting must happen somewhere he can’t risk drawing attention. If he kills you there, he’ll lose everything. You need that protection.”

“I can take care of myself,” Jake said, touching the gun on his hip.

Gunther turned, the beginning of a smile on his face. “So it’s true. Americans say such things. I thought only in Karl May.” He glanced at the bookshelf. “But in real life, foolish, I think. In real life, you get protection.”

“Where? I still have to do it alone. There’s no one I can trust.”

“Do you trust me?” He caught Jake’s eye and, almost embarrassed, turned back to the map. “Then you won’t be alone.” “You’re going to cover me? I thought you—”

“Someone has to. In a police operation, always use a partner. Two set the trap. One, the cheese. The other, the spring. Snap.” He clicked his fingers. “He thinks he surprises you, but I surprise him. Otherwise—” He paused, thinking. “But we need protection.” “There’s nowhere in Berlin with that much protection.” “Except tomorrow,” Gunther said. “What occurred to me was to use the American army.” “What?”

“You know they parade tomorrow, all the Allies. So we meet here,” he said, putting his finger on Unter den Linden. “In the Russian zone?”

“Herr Geismar, even the Russians won’t shoot you in front of the American army.” He shrugged. “Very well.” He moved his finger left, past the Brandenburg Gate. “The reviewing stand will be here, inside the British zone.” “Just.”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as the army is there. So, opposite the reviewing stand. Stay in the crowd.”

“If I’m that protected, why would I go away with him?” “Well, he might have a gun in your back. Discreet, but persuasive. That’s what I would do. ‘Come quietly,’” he said in a policeman’s voice. “They usually do.”

“If that’s the way the Russians play it.”

“They will. I’m going to suggest it to them.” He turned from the map. “The problem is, we don’t know. I would feel better if we knew who to expect. Now we wait until the last minute-his surprise. You can set the trap, but a surprise is never safe. Logic is safe.”

“I know, follow the points. Find anything in the persilscheins?” Jake said, glancing at the table.

“No, nothing,” Gunther said glumly. “But there must be some point we’re missing. There is always a logic to a crime.”

“If we had the time to look for it. I’m out of leads. My last one died with Sikorsky.“

Gunther shook his head. “No, something else. There must be. I was thinking, you know, about Potsdam, that day in the market.”

“We know that was him.”

“Yes, but why then? It must be a point, the when. Something happened to make him strike then. Why not before? If we knew that—”

“You don’t give up, do you?” Jake said, impatient.

“That’s the way you solve a case, logic, not like this. Traps. Guns.” He waved his hand toward the bookshelf. “Wild West in Berlin. You know, we can still—”

“What? Wait for him to pick me off while you work it out? It’s too late for that now. We have to finish it before he tries again.”

“That’s the logic of war, Herr Geismar, not a police case.” Gunther moved away from the map.

“Well, I didn’t start it. Christ, all I wanted was a story.”

“Still, it’s as you say,” Gunther said, picking up his funeral tie from the table. “Once you begin, nothing matters but the finish.” He began threading it under his shirt collar, not bothering with a mirror. “Let’s hope you wink.”

“I’ve got a good deputy and the U.S. Army behind me. We’ll win. And after—”

Gunther grunted. “Yes, after.” He looked down at the tie, straightening the ends. “Then you have the peace.”

The afternoon at the flat was claustrophobic, and dinner worse. Lena had found some cabbage to go with the B-ration corned beef, and it sat on the plate, sodden, while they picked around it. Only Erich ate with any enthusiasm, his sharp Renate eyes moving from one sullen face to another, but even he was quiet, used perhaps to wordless meals. Emil had brightened earlier at the news that he’d be turned over tomorrow, then lapsed into an aggrieved sulk, spending most of the day lying on the couch with his arm over his eyes, like a prisoner with no yard privileges. The ersatz coffee was weak and bitter, merely an excuse to linger at the table, not worth drinking. They were all relieved when Rosen turned up, grateful for any sound louder than a tense clinking spoon.

“Look what Dorothee found for you,” he said to Erich, handing him a half-eaten bar of chocolate and smiling as the boy tore off the foil. “Not all at once.”

“You’re good to him,” Lena said. “Is she better?”

“Her mouth is still swollen,” he said. A slap two nights before from a drunken soldier. “Too swollen for chocolate, anyway.”

“Can I see her?” Erich said.

“It’s all right?” Rosen said to Lena and then, when she nodded, “Well, but remember, you must pretend she looks the same. Thank her for the chocolate and just say, Tm sorry you have a toothache.‘”

“I know, don’t notice the bruise.”

“That’s right,” Rosen said softly. “Don’t notice the bruise.”

“Can I do anything?” Lena said.

“She’s all right, just swollen. My assistant will fix her up,” he said, handing Erich the bag. “We won’t be long.”

“And that’s the life you give her,” Emil said to Jake when they’d gone. “Whores and Jews.”

“Be quiet,” Lena said. “You’ve no right to say such things.”

“No right? You’re my wife. Rosen,” he said dismissively. “How they stick together.”

“Stop it. Such talk. He doesn’t know about the boy.”

“They always know each other.”

Lena glanced at him, dismayed, then stood up and began to clear. “Our last evening,” she said, stacking the plates. “And how pleasant you make it. I wanted to have a nice dinner.”

“With my wife and her lover. Very nice.”

She held a plate for a second, stung, then dropped it on the stack. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s no place for a child here. I’ll take him to Hannelore’s tonight.”

“You can’t get back before the curfew,” Jake said.

“I’ll stay there. It’s no place for me either. You can listen to this nonsense. I’m tired.”

“You’re leaving?” Emil said, caught off-guard.

“Why not? With you like this. I’ll say goodbye here. I’m sorry for you. So hurt and angry-there’s no need to end this way. We should be happy for each other. You’ll go to the Americans. That’s the life you want. And I’ll—”

“You’ll stay with the whores.”

“Yes, I stay with the whores,” she said.

“You’ve got a nerve,” Jake said.

“It’s all right,” Lena said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t mean it. I know him.” She moved toward him. “Don’t I?” She lifted her hand to place it on his head, then looked at him and dropped it. “So angry. Look at your glasses, smeared again.” She took them off and wiped them on her skirt, familiar. “There, now you can see.”

“I see very well. How it is. What you’ve done,” he said to Jake.

“Yes, what he’s done,” she said, her voice resigned, almost wistful. “Saved your life. Now he’s giving you a chance for a new one. Do you see that?” She lifted her hand again, this time resting it on his shoulder. “Don’t be like this. You remember in the war-how many times? — we wondered if we would survive. That’s all that mattered then. And we have. So maybe we survived for this-a new life for both.”

“Not all of us survived.”

She moved her hand away. “No, not all.”

“It’s convenient for you, maybe, that Peter’s gone. In your new life.”

Only her eyes reacted, a quick wince.

Jake glared at him. “Listen, you bastard—”

Lena waved her hand, stopping him. “We’ve said enough.” She looked down at Emil. “My god, to say that to me.”

Emil said nothing, staring at the table.

Lena went over to the bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a snapshot.

“I have something for you,” she said, carrying it over. “I found it with my things.”

Emil held the picture in front of him, blinking, his shoulders sinking as he studied it, everything softening, even his eyes.

“Look at you,” he said quietly.

“And you,” Lena said over his shoulder, so intimate that for a second Jake felt he was no longer in the room. “Would you like it?”

Emil looked up at her, then pushed the photograph away and stood, holding her eyes for another minute before he turned and without a word crossed the floor and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Jake picked up the picture. A young couple, arms around each other on a ski slope, goggles pushed up over their knit caps, smiles as broad and white as the snow behind them, so young they must be someone else.

“When was this?” he said.

“When we were happy.” She took the picture from him and glanced at it again. “So that’s your murderer.” She put it down. “I’ll get Erich. You can do the dishes.”

“Don’t look for me. I will see you,” Gunther had said, and in fact when Jake and Emil arrived at the parade he was nowhere in sight, hidden somewhere in the crowd of uniforms that bunched around the Brandenburg Gate and then straggled out through the wasteland of the Tiergarten on the Charlottenburger Chausee. The Allies had won even the weather-the humid, overcast sky had turned bright and cloudless for the parade, with a breeze strong enough to flap the marching rows of flags. Posters of Stalin, Churchill, and Truman hung from the arch, and through the columns Jake could see the troops and armored vehicles beginning to flow toward them down the Linden, thousands of them, with more crammed along the pavement to cheer. There were only a handful of civilians-grim-faced curiosity seekers, small bands of apathetic DPs with nowhere else to go, and the usual packs of children, for whom any event was a distraction. The rest of Berlin had stayed home. Along the gray avenue of charred tree stumps and ruins, the Allies were celebrating themselves.

When Jake got to the reviewing stand the first bands had already passed, an overture of blaring horns. He thought of the other parades here, five years ago, the trees of the Linden shaking from the heavy thud of boots back from Poland. This was looser and more colorful, the French almost playful in their red pompoms, the British marching so casually they seemed already demobilized, shuffling home. The spit and polish had been left to the 82nd Airborne, wearing shiny helmets and white gloves under shoulder straps, but with the music and scattered applause the effect was more theatrical than military, show soldiers. Even the reviewing stand, with bunting and microphones for speeches later, rose up from the street like a stage, filled with generals in uniforms so elaborate they looked like bassos ready to burst into song.

Zhukov was the gaudiest, both sides of his chest lined with medals that ran all the way to his hips. Next to him, Patton’s plain battle jacket and few ribbons had a kind of defiant simplicity. But the drama was in the positioning. Zhukov, front and center, would take a step forward only to find Patton moving up with him, so that by the time he reached the railing, finally upstaged, they had become a bobbing vaudeville turn of generals. The press responded, snapping pictures from their own viewing stand, and Jake saw that even General Clay, usually somber, was trying to suppress a smile, almost winking at Muller, who answered with a tolerant roll of his eyes, silver-haired Judge Hardy still, suffering fools. For a second Jake wished he were just covering it all for Collier’s — the noisy air, the absurd jockeying, the backdrop curtain of the burned-out Reichstag in the distance. An interview with Patton maybe, who would remember him and was always good copy. Instead, anxious, he was searching the crowd for a face. What he thought, as more troops marched by, was that he had never seen so many guns in his life and that Gunther had been wrong, he didn’t feel protected at all. Any one of them, milling around, waiting to make a move.

“We’re going to watch the parade?” Emil said, puzzled.

“We’re meeting somebody,” Jake said, glancing at his watch. “It won’t be long.”

“Who?”

“The man who got you out of Kransberg.”

“Tully? You said he was dead.”

“His partner.”

“So it’s another trick. No Americans.”

“I told you, I need you as bait. Then we’ll go see your pals.”

“And the files?”

“It’s a package deal. They get you both.”

“You won’t do that.” You re sure.

“You can’t. Think what it will mean for Lena, a trial.”

“Wonderful how you’re always thinking of her. Listen, you’re getting out with your life. That’s more than you can say for the workers at Camp Dora.”

Emil’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Then go to hell,” he said, turning to go.

Jake grabbed his arm. “Try it and I’ll shoot you in the foot. I’d enjoy it, but you wouldn’t.” They looked at each other for a moment, stalemated, then Jake dropped his hand. “Now watch the parade.”

Jake scanned the crowd. Not a single familiar face. But why would it be someone he knew? On the stand Zhukov had leaned farther against the railing, ready to take the salute from his lancer unit. More stage uniforms, a pounding thud of jackboots, swords actually drawn and raised, flashing in the light, but no longer comic, Goebbels’ old warning, the scourge from the east. A small huddle of DPs turned and started away from the crowd, looking back at the swords, and Jake saw in the cowed hunch of their shoulders that it was really a Russian show, all of it, the rest of the Allies harmless extras. The message wasn’t victory but the crushing boots. No one can stop us. It was a parade out of the next war. Smiles faded on the stand. What happens when it’s over, he’d wondered. Another.

It was then, watching the Russians, that he felt the poke in the small of his back.

“Quite a show.”

He whirled around, hand on his holster.

“Steady,” Brian said, surprised by the abrupt movement. “Hello again,” he said to Emil. “No uniform this time, eh?”

“What are you doing here?” Jake said. Brian? But he’d already had Emil once.

“What do you mean? Everybody’s here. Nothing like a parade. Just look at old Zhukov. Bloody Gilbert and Sullivan. Coming to the press stand?”

“Not now, Brian. Scram.”

But Brian’s eyes were fixed over Jake’s shoulder at the lancers. “Be in Hamburg before Christmas by the looks of them.”

“I mean it. I’ll see you later.” He glanced to either side of him, expecting Gunther to arrive, everything happening too soon.

“You might let me wait out the swords. You don’t want to get in the way of that.” He turned, peering at Jake. “What is it? What are you doing now? ”

“Nothing. Just scram,” Jake said, still looking nervously to the side.

Brian stared at him, then Emil. “Three’s a crowd? Right. I’m off. Save you a place?”

“Yeah, save me a place.”

“If young Ron lets the rope down. I’ve known headwaiters with better manners. Christ, here come the pipers.” He looked again at Jake. “Watch yourself.”

He pushed his way through to the front, hesitating as the last of the Russians passed, then sprinted across the sudden gap to the viewing stands. Jake lost him as he picked his way through the crowd to the back stairs of the press stand, then saw him reappear on top, talking to Ron. Why not Ron? Who’d left the dinner table at Gelferstrasse that night to play poker but could have gone to the Grunewald. Who now had the perfect vantage point to spot Jake in the crowd, waiting for the right moment, a nod of the head to close the trap. But neither he nor Brian was looking in Jake’s direction, busy with themselves. Jake checked his watch. Where was Gunther? Only a few minutes to the agreed time-he had to be in place somewhere nearby. Then why hadn’t he come forward when Brian approached them? What if it had been him, smoothly leading them away without even a snap of the spring?

He almost jumped when the bagpipes started wailing, cutting right to the nerves. On the stand, the British now stepped forward, rearranging the line so that the visiting dignitaries with the generals came into view. Breimer, just behind Clay, in a double-breasted suit, who stayed and stayed, with unfinished business in Berlin. Jake imagined how it might happen-the sighting from the stand, the quick excuse to the others, the unsuspected walk across to Emil, a waiting car. Jake looked behind. No car. And Breimer would never risk anything himself. He was where he belonged, on a speakers’ platform, out of combat. Even Ron was more likely. He glanced back at the press stand. Huddled now with a cameraman, lining up shots of the parade. No one, in fact, was looking toward Jake. But someone must be.

Unexpectedly, the pipers stopped for a demonstration, a blast of jangling air, forcing the unit behind them to mark time. Jake moved his head slowly from left to right, as if he were looking through binoculars, tracking across a field. What combat always came down to: a hunt for prey, every sense on edge, watching for a sudden movement. But everything here seemed to be in motion. People came and went along the parade line, the generals shuffled in the stand, even the stationary pipers were working their bags. Heads bobbed in the crowd, straining to see or falling back for a smoke. A field full of deer, moving at will, none of them stopping long enough to stay in a rifle sight. He turned in a complete circle, away from the parade, taking in the Tiergarten. Already past time and still no Gunther. I can take care of myself. But could he? As he turned back to the parade, sweeping the stands again for a face, it occurred to him that he had got it backward-he was one of the deer, alert but not knowing what to look for. The hunter, lying still, would be watching him.

He was following the pipers as they started up again when he caught it, a flicker near the corner of his eye, the only thing in the swirl before him that was not moving. Absolutely still. A row of pipers passed. If it turned away, he’d be wrong, but another row of heads went by and the dark glasses were still fixed on him. Maybe just watching the parade. Then Shaeffer raised his hand, as if he were going to salute, and took off the glasses, folding them with one hand and slipping them into his pocket without even blinking, his eyes steady on Jake, hard as steel. Not even a nod, just the eyes. Only the mouth moved, more a grim tic than a smile. Snap. Shaeffer. Another row and now they were locked on each other, that split second in a hunt when no one else was in the field. Not surprised to see him, knowing he’d be there, waiting for the crosshairs to clear. Jake held his breath, caught by the eyes. We won’t know who, Gunther had said, but now he did, there was no mistaking the look. Not surprised. The man who’d come for him.

The bagpipes were almost gone and Shaeffer took a step forward, but the waiting unit behind moved up into place, blocking him with a new row of heads. How long before he could cross? Near the Brandenburg Gate there was a clunking roar, like thunder, and involuntarily Jake darted his eyes toward the line of march. Soviet tanks, heavy and massive, crunching the already torn pavement and coming fast, refusing to be idled. Shaeffer hadn’t even bothered to look, his eyes still frozen where they had been, on Jake. Sikorsky’s face in Liz’s picture, ignoring the crowd at Tempelhof. Shaeffer. Follow the points. Who had the right gun. Who’d debriefed at Kransberg-the perfect opportunity, the perfect cover. Above suspicion for netting the Zeiss engineers-worthless? — while he was cherry-picking the rocket team instead. Who could have tipped off Sikorsky before the Adlon meeting. Who looked for the files. And finally, all that really mattered, who was here, knowing Jake would be here. And who was now waiting to cross the street.

Jake looked quickly behind. No Gunther, just an exposed swatch of park. Two to spring a trap. But why bother at all? All he’d wanted was to know. The point now was to get Emil away before Shaeffer could get to him. The jeep was farther down the chausee, close but too far to reach if someone chased them. Another look to the side, the only place Gunther could be. No civilians, only uniforms. I want you to betray me, he’d said, and maybe Gunther had, keeping his options open after all. Or had Shaeffer got to him already, keeping him somewhere, making sure? Jake took Emil’s arm and saw Shaeffer lift his head and step forward again, ready to spring.

“What is it?” Emil said, annoyed.

If they moved, he’d bolt across, right through the marchers. Jake scanned the crowd again, all oblivious except Shaeffer, no protection at all. Wait for the tanks. Even Shaeffer wouldn’t make a dash through rolling tanks. Hold his eye, make him think they’d wait, stuck.

“Listen to me,” Jake said in a monotone, barely moving his lips, not wanting Shaeffer to read any expression in his face. “We need to get over to the press stand. After the tanks. When I say go, just follow me. Fast.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Never mind. Just do it.”

“Another trick,” Emil said.

“Not mine. The Russians‘. They’ve sent someone for you.”

Emil looked at him, skittish. “For me?”

“Just do what I say. Get ready.”

A clanking of heavy metal as the tanks ground into place before the stand. Zhukov raised his arm, puffed up and solemn. Below him, Shaeffer stood rigid, eyes still looking across, as if he could see through the steel plates as well as the gaps in between. When half the unit had passed, the tanks slowed to a halt, motors still throbbing as they began revolving their gun turrets in a display salute. For an instant, as the row of guns turned in place, Shaeffer disappeared behind the long barrels. Now.

Jake started moving left, toward the front of the unit, but the guns kept swinging around and Shaeffer spotted them through the suddenly empty space. His head jerked up, alarmed, and he left the curb, darting across between two rows of tanks. How long would it take? Seconds. Jake glanced behind. Still no Gunther. No one, in fact. An exposed back. The gun turrets had almost finished circling, the tanks ready to start up again, an impenetrable moving wall soon, with Shaeffer on their side of the parade.

Jake grabbed Emil’s arm and dragged him in front of the nearest row of tanks, his protest drowned out by the deafening motors. Run. Could anyone in the high turrets see them, ignore the command to start moving? A crunch as the gears shifted. Jake yanked at Emil’s arm, sprinting as the creaking tread belts began to roll forward. Jog to the left, ahead of the row. One slip to fall underneath. They were almost at the last tank when he saw it was coming too fast to outrun. He stopped short, steadying himself as Emil bumped into his suddenly still body, and stood wedged sideways between two tanks, waiting for the column to pass. Just enough space after this one if he timed it right. He stared at the treads, almost counting them, then lurched forward the moment the tank passed. “Go!” he shouted, tugging at Emil’s sleeve and pulling him toward the amazed spectator line, barely missing the next set of treads, but there, finally across.

“Where’s the fire?” a soldier said to him, but he kept going, pushing through bodies until they were surrounded, just part of the crowd. They were behind the press stand before he stopped, taking in a gulp of air.

“Are you crazy?” Emil said, panting, his face white.

“Go up there and stay with Brian-the man from the Adlon. He knows you. Try to keep out of sight. And don’t go anywhere, with anyone. Got it?”

“Where are you going?”

“To make a diversion.”

“It’s still not safe?” Emil said, worried.

Wasn’t it? Who would snatch them in front of the press corps, safer in the end than the army itself? But who knew what Shaeffer would do? His last chance.

“He’s still out there. He may not be alone.” A man who could get Russian uniforms for a raiding party. Jake turned.

“You’re leaving me here?” Emil said, glancing around for an opening, ready to bolt.

“Don’t even think about it. Believe it or not, I’m the best chance you’ve got. So we’re stuck with each other. Now go on up. I’ll be back.”

“And if you’re not?”

“Then all your problems will be over, won’t they?”

“Yes,” Emil said, looking at him. “They will.”

“But you’ll be on a train to Moscow. Plenty of time to think things over then. Right now, just do what I say if you want to get out of here. Come on. Now.”

Emil hesitated for an instant, then placed his hand on the wooden rail of the stairs and began to climb. Jake squeezed his way back to the front of the spectators. Get Shaeffer’s attention before he looked toward the stand. But the eyes were already there, frantically searching through the crowd on Jake’s side, then stopping, a surprised glowering, when they caught his face. Another Russian unit was passing in tight formation. Head away from the stand. Jake started to move left, just behind the front row, still visible but surrounding himself with other heads, so that Emil’s might be one of them. Across the street, Shaeffer followed, his tall frame stretching up over the crowd to keep Jake in sight. Jake pushed toward the thicker crowds at the gate, brushing past clumps of indifferent GIs. Away from the stand. He glanced over the columns of marchers. Still there, head turned toward Jake as he moved, the same determined eyes, exasperated, waiting for a break in the line. He must have seen by now that only Jake’s head was moving down the street, Emil left somewhere behind. Why keep coming? Not a diversion anymore, a running to ground. First Jake, then go back for Emil. Who would believe him, relieved to see the friendly debriefer, and close his own trap.

Up ahead, Jake could see the Big Three draped on the Brandenburg. After that the street widened out into Pariserplatz, a bulge of crowd where it would be easier to get lost. More Russian troops, rifles shouldered, the tall blond head keeping up with Jake across the rows of gray tunics. Beyond them, past the gate, a halt in the march, a gap big enough to use. Shaeffer would cross there. Jake went faster, trying to put more distance between them. He edged past the gate into the crowded square. A band was playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” He glanced behind. Shaeffer, just as he’d thought, was running across the open space before the band could fill it. On his side now. Jake looked up the Linden, the sidewalks lined with Russians. He’d have to melt into the crowd, backtrack toward the Reichstag. But the crowd was denser here, a cover but also an obstacle, slowing him down. Behind, over the marching band, he heard Shaeffer shout his name. Lose him now. He pitched forward as if he were wading through mud, his body ahead of his feet.

The Russians were less good-natured than the GIs, grumbling as he passed through them, and he knew, stuck in a wall of bodies, that he wasn’t going to make it. Did it matter? Shaeffer wouldn’t shoot in this crowd. But he wouldn’t have to. The Russian zone, where people disappeared. A formal inquiry, a shrug of shoulders over toasts. Why had he left the stand? Shaeffer couldn’t risk exposure in the west. But here Jake could be swallowed up without anyone ever knowing. Even if he made a scene, he’d lose. Russian MPs, a quick call to Sikorsky’s successor, and only Shaeffer would go back. Nothing would have happened. Missing, like Tully.

“ Amerikanski” the Russian said as Jake bumped into him.

“Sorry. Excuse me.”

But the Russian was looking ahead, not at him, where some American troops were following the band. He stepped back to let Jake pass, apparently thinking he was trying to join his unit. Don’t forget whose uniform you’ve got on. He looked at the parade. Not the showy 82nd; ordinary uniforms like his own, Gunther’s protection. He ducked his head, crouching down out of Shaeffer’s line of sight, and wormed his way through to the curb, keeping low as he darted into the march. A few Russians on the edge laughed-hungover, a familiar scrambling, sure to catch hell later. He sidestepped ahead of the moving ranks and near the middle of the row nudged a soldier aside to make a place, joining the line.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’ve got an MP after me.”

The soldier grinned. “Get in step then.”

Jake skipped, a fumbling dance move, until his left foot matched the others, then straightened his shoulders and began swinging his arms in time, invisible now just by being the same. Don’t look back. They were passing the point where Shaeffer would be, head swiveling, furious, plowing through the Russians, looking everywhere but at the parade itself.

“What did you do?” the soldier mumbled.

“It was a mistake.”

“Yeah.”

He waited to hear his name shouted again, but there was only Sousa, tinkling bells and drums. As they tramped through the gate into the west, he smiled to himself, marching in his own victory parade. Not the Japanese, a private war, left behind now in the east. They were approaching the stand, moving faster than anyone could through the crowd. Even if Shaeffer had given up and started heading back, it would be minutes before he’d reach the press stand, long enough to hustle Emil into the jeep and get away. He looked to the side, a quick check. Patton saluting. Enough time, but still only minutes. At least now he knew. Except what had happened to Gunther.

It was easier getting out of the parade than getting in. After the reviewing stand there was a brief halt, and while they marched in place Jake skipped over to the side and back through the curbside crowd to the press stand. Only minutes. What if Emil had bolted after all? But there they were, not even up in the stand, huddled by the stairs having a smoke.

“There, what did I tell you? He always does come back,” Brian said. “Catch your breath.”

“You’re down here? Did he try to run?”

“Naw, good as gold. But you know Ron. Curiosity killed the cat. So I thought—”

“Thanks, Brian,” Jake said in a rush. “I owe you another one.” He looked back over his shoulder. No one yet. Brian, watching him, motioned his head away from the stand.

“Better go if you’re going. Safe home.”

Jake nodded. “If I’m not-just in case-go see Bernie Teitel. Tell him who you’ve been babysitting and he’ll send up a flare.” He took Emil’s arm and began to lead him away.

“Try newspaper work next time,” Brian said. “Easier all around.”

“Only the way you do it,” Jake said, touching his shoulder, then moving off.

They crossed with a few GIs who’d had enough and were taking advantage of another break in the line to drift away through the park.

“Who’s Teitel?” Emil said. “An American?”

“One of your new friends,” Jake said, still slightly out of breath. Just a little farther to the jeep.

“A friend like you? A jailer? My god, all this for Lena? She’s free to do as she likes.”

“So were you. Keep walking.”

“No, not free.” He stopped, making Jake turn. “To survive. You go along to survive. You think it’s different for you? What would you do to survive?”

“Right now, I’m getting us out of here. Come on, you can make your excuses in the jeep.”

“The war’s over,” Emil said, almost shrill, a pleading.

Jake looked at him. “Not all of it.”

Behind Emil, something moved on the landscape, a blur faster than the marchers and the idling crowd, coming closer through the park. Not on a road, where it should be, out of place, bumping over the torn-up ground.

“Christ,” Jake said. Coming toward them.

“What is it?”

A black Horch, the car at Potsdam. No, two, the second obscured in the dust churned up by the first.

“Get to the jeep. Now. Run.”

He pushed Emil, who staggered, then caught his arm, both of them dashing for the jeep. Of course he wouldn’t have come alone. The jeep wasn’t far, parked behind the crowd with a few others, but the Horch was close enough to hear now, the noise of the motor like a hand on his back. He pulled out his gun as he ran. To do what? But if it came to it, a shot in the air would draw attention, give them at least the protection of the crowd.

They were almost at the jeep when the Horch pulled ahead, blocking them with a squeal of brakes. A Russian in uniform jumped out and stood by the door with the motor still running.

“Herr Brandt,” he said to Emil.

“Get out of the way or I’ll shoot,” Jake said, pointing the gun upward.

The Russian glanced at him, almost a smirk, then nodded at the other car pulling up behind. Two men, civilian clothes. “By that time you will be dead. Put the gun down.” Sure of himself, not even waiting for Jake to lower his hand. “Herr Brandt, come with us, please.” He opened the back door.

“He’s not going anywhere.”

“Not with travel permits, no,” the Russian said blandly. “No need, you see. A different arrangement. Please.” He nodded to Emil.

“You’re in the British zone now,” Jake said.

“Make a protest,” the Russian said. He looked at the other car. “Shall I ask my men to assist?”

Emil turned to Jake. “Now see what you’ve made for us.”

The Russian blinked, confused by this dissension in the ranks, then opened his hand toward the back seat. “Please.”

“I said I’d shoot and I will,” Jake said.

The Russian waited, but the only movement was the opening of the passenger door. Gunther got out and walked toward them, gun drawn.

“Get in the car, Herr Brandt.”

For a moment, as Jake stared at the man with the pointed gun, his lungs seemed to deflate, his whole body going limp with disappointment. I want you to betray me. Emil shuffled reluctantly to the car. The Russian closed the rear door. Snap.

“A good German cop,” Jake said quietly, looking at Gunther.

“Now you,” Gunther said to Jake, waving his gun toward the car. “In the front.”

The Russian looked up, surprised. “No. Brandt only. Leave him.”

“Get in,” Gunther said.

Jake crossed over to the passenger side and stood by the open door. There was a high-pitched whistle. He looked over the roof of the car. Down the road, Shaeffer had stopped running, two fingers in his mouth, then lunged forward again. A soldier detached himself from the crowd, running behind him. The rest of the trap, closing up the rear.

“What are you doing?” the Russian said to Gunther.

“I will drive.”

“What do you mean?” he said, alarmed now.

Gunther swung his gun toward the Russian. “Over with the others.”

“Fascist swine,” the Russian shouted. He jerked his gun out, his hand stopping midway as Gunther’s bullet hit him, an explosion so sudden it seemed for a second he hadn’t fired at all. There was a rush of movement around them, like the startled flight of birds in a field. Spectators nearby ducked without looking, a reflex. On the reviewing stand a delayed reaction, aides shoving the generals down. Yells. The men in the other car jumped out and raced over to the fallen Russian, dazed. Jake saw Shaeffer stop, just a beat, then start running in a crouch. Everything at once, so that Gunther was already in the car before Jake realized it had started moving. He leaped in, holding on to the open door as he pulled his other leg inside. They spun left, back onto the broken ground of the park, bouncing violently, heading west toward the Victory Column, racing ahead of the parade at their side. Gunther swerved away from a shallow bomb crater and hit a deep rut instead, jolting the car, smashing Jake’s sore shoulder against the door.

“Are you crazy?” Emil shouted from the back, his hand on the top of his head where it had bumped the roof.

“Stay down,” Gunther said calmly, twisting the wheel to avoid a stump.

Jake looked back through the dust. The other Horch had started after them, jouncing over the same rough ground. Farther behind, a jeep, presumably Shaeffer, was tearing away from the crowd that had formed around the dead Russian. Through the open window, bizarrely, came trumpets and the steady thump of drums, the world of five minutes ago.

“I tried to delay them,” Gunther said. “The wrong time. I thought you would be gone, know something was wrong.”

“Why you?”

“You were expecting me. I would lead you to the car, for the per-mits. But he saw Brandt. Running. So. An impulsive people,” he said tersely, holding the wheel as they bounced over another hole in the pitted field.

“You were pretty impulsive yourself. Why you and not the American?”

“He couldn’t come.”

Jake glanced back. Gaining a little. “He did, though. In fact, he’s coming now.”

Gunther grunted, trying to work this out. “A test maybe, then. Can they trust a German?”

“They got their answer.” Jake looked over at him. “But I should have. I should have known.”

Gunther shrugged, focused on driving. “Who knows anyone in Berlin?” He jerked the wheel, skirting a Hohenzollern statue that had somehow survived, only the face chipped away by blast. “Are they still there?” he said, not trusting himself to look away to the rearview mirror. Jake turned.

“Yes.”

“We need a road. We can’t go faster like this.” The traffic circle at the Grosser Stern was now in sight, a bottleneck jammed with marchers. “If we can cut across-hold on.” Another swerve to the left, jolting the car away from the parade, deeper into the battered park. In the back Emil groaned.

Jake knew that Gunther was taking them south, toward the American zone, but all the landmarks he had known were gone, the stretch ahead of them desolate, broken by stumps and twisted scraps of lampposts. Ron’s lunar landscape. The ground was even rougher, not as cleared as the border of the chausee, the earth thrown up here and there in mounds.

“Not far,” Gunther said, rising out of his seat over a bump, even the solid Horch springs pounded flat, and for a moment, looking behind at the dust, the cars coming after them, Jake realized, an unexpected thought, that Gunther finally had his Wild West, stagecoach bucking across the badlands at a gallop. And then, eerily, the other Horch entered the Karl May dream too, firing at them from behind. A firecracker sound of shots, then a shattering pop at the back window.

“My god, they’re shooting at us,” Emil yelled, his voice jagged with fear. “Stop. It’s madness. What are you doing? They’ll kill us.”

“Keep flat,” Gunther said, hunching a little farther over the wheel.

Jake crouched and peered back over the edge of the seat. Both vehicles firing now, an aimless volley of stray shots.

“Come on, Gunther,” Jake said, a jockey to a horse.

“It’s there, it’s there.” A clear space of asphalt in the distance. He steered right, as if he were heading back to the Grosser Stern, then sharply left, dodging a fallen limb not yet scavenged for firewood, confusing the two cars behind. More shots, one grazing the back fender.

“Please stop,” Emil said, almost hysterical on the back floor. “You’ll kill us.”

But they were there, crashing over a mound of broken pavement piled up at the edge of Hofjagerallee and landing with a loud thunk on the cleared avenue. Improbably, there was traffic-two convoy trucks, grinding toward them on their way to the traffic circle. Gunther shot out in front of them and wrenched the wheel left, tires squealing, so close there was an angry blast of horn.

“Christ, Gunther,” Jake said, breathless.

“Police driving,” he said, the car still shuddering from the skid.

“Let’s not have a police death.”

“No. That’s a bullet.”

Jake looked back. The others weren’t as lucky, stuck at the side of the road until the trucks lumbered past. Gunther opened up the engine, speeding toward the bridge into Liitzowplatz. If they could make it to the bridge, they’d be back in town, a maze of streets and pedestrians where at least the shooting would stop. But why had the

Russians fired in the first place, risking Emil? A desperate logic__ better dead than with the Americans? Which meant they thought they might lose after all.

But not yet. The Horch behind them had picked up speed too on the smooth road. Now the route was straight-get past the diplomatic quarter at the bottom of the park, then over the Landwehrkanal. Gunther honked the horn. A group of civilians was trudging down the side of the road with a handcart. They scattered in both directions, away from the car but still on the road, so that Gunther had to slow down, pumping the brake and the horn at the same time. It was the chance the Russians were looking for, racing to close the gap between the cars. Another shot, the civilians darting in terror. Still coming. Jake swiveled to his open window and fired at the Horch behind, aiming low, a warning shot, two, to make them slow down. Not even a pause. And then, as Gunther slammed the horn again, the Russians’ car began to smoke-no, steam, a teakettle steam that poured out of the grille, then blew back over the hood. A lucky shot ripping into the radiator, or just the old motor finally giving up? What did it matter? The car kept hurtling toward them, driving into its own cloud, then began to slow. Not the brake, a running down.

“Go,” Jake said, the road finally clear of civilians. Behind them, the Horch had stopped. One of the men jumped out and rested his arm on the door to take aim. A target gallery shot. Gunther pressed the accelerator. The car jumped forward again.

This time Jake didn’t even hear the bullet, the splintering pop through the window lost under the noise of the engine and the shouts behind. A small thud into flesh, like a grunt, not even loud enough to notice, until the spurt of blood splashed onto the dashboard. Gunther fell forward, still clutching the wheel.

“Gunther!”

“I can drive,” he said, a hoarse gargle. More blood leaping out, spattering the wheel.

“My god. Pullover.”

“Not far.” His voice fainter. The car began to veer left.

Jake grabbed the wheel, steadying it, looking around. Only the jeep was chasing them now, the Horch stranded behind it. They were still moving fast, Gunther’s foot on the pedal heavy as dead weight. Jake threw himself closer, putting both hands on the wheel, trying to kick Gunther’s foot off the pedal. “The brake!” he shouted. Gunther had slumped forward again, a bulky, unmovable wall. Jake held on to the wheel, his hands now slippery with blood. “Move your leg!”

But Gunther seemed not to have heard him, his eyes fixed on the blood still spilling out onto the wheel. He gave a faint nod, as if he were making sense of it, then a small twitch of his mouth, the way he used to smile.

“A police death,” he mumbled, almost inaudible, his mouth seeping blood, then slumped even farther, gone, his body falling on the wheel, pressing against the horn, so that they were racing toward the bridge with the horn blaring, driven by a dead man.

Jake tried to shove him aside, one hand still on the wheel, but only managed to push his upper body against the window. He’d have to dive underneath to move Gunther’s feet, get to the brake, but that would mean letting go.

“Emil! Lean over, take the wheel.”

“Maniacs!” Emil said, his voice shrill. “Stop the car.”

“I can’t. Grab the wheel.”

Emil started up from the floor, then heard another shot and fell back again. Jake looked through the shattered window. Shaeffer, blowing his horn now, signaling them to stop.

“Grab the fucking wheel!” Jake yelled. Another truck appeared in the oncoming lane. Now there wasn’t even the option of spinning in circles, hands slipping around the bloody wheel, trying to keep a grip. The bridge ahead, then people. Get the brake. With one hand he pushed hard against Gunther’s leg, a cement weight, but moving, sliding back from the gas pedal, wedged now at the bottom. A little more and the car would slow. Only a matter of seconds before something gave.

It was the tire. A stopping shot from Shaeffer, more effective than a horn blast. The Horch careened wildly, as if Jake’s hands had left the wheel. Heading straight for the truck. Jake wrenched the wheel back hard, swerving right, missing the truck, heading off the road in the other direction, but after that lost all control, plunging past some piles of rubble, bouncing furiously, the wheel meaningless. He shoved at Gunther’s leg again, dislodging it from the pedal. But the car was moving on its own now, a last surge of momentum that carried it away from the bridge, over the embankment, only choking to a stop in midair. Nothing beneath them, a giddy suspension. Not even a full second at the top of a roller coaster, an impossible floating through nothing. Then the car pitched down.

Jake crouched lower, bracing himself against Gunther, so that he didn’t see the water as they plunged into the canal, just felt the shock of the crash, throwing him forward against the dash with a crunch, a sick snapping sound at his shoulder, his head bumping hard against the wheel, a sharp pain that blotted out everything but the last instinct, to take a deep gulp of air as the water rushed in to flood around him.

He opened his eyes. Murky, almost viscous water, too cloudy to see far. Not a canal anymore, a sewer. Absurdly, he thought of infection. But there wasn’t time to think about anything. He lifted himself, shoulder throbbing in a spasm, and reached over the seat with his good hand, grabbing Emil’s shirt and pulling at it. Emil was moving, not dead, squirming up off the floor. Jake yanked the shirt, lifting him over the seat and pushing him toward the window. Buoyant, floating weight, just a matter of steering him out, but the front was crowded, Gunther taking up precious space.

Jake leaned back, twisting Emil’s body so that he could shove it head first, watching Emil’s feet flailing as he kicked his way out. Hurry. The canal wasn’t deep; enough time to get to the surface if his air held. He began to follow through the window, bumping his head again on the frame, pulling himself with one arm, the other useless. Halfway out, Emil’s shoe caught his shoulder, kicking, the pain so startling he thought he might black out and sink, the way rescuers were accidentally taken down by the thrashing of the people they were trying to save. His legs were now through the frame. He began to stroke up to the surface but the shoe struck him again, a strong kick, catching him now at the side of the head, a solid running pain to his shoulder. Don’t gasp. For Christ’s sake, Emil, move away. Then another kick, downward, not flailing this time, deliberate, intended to connect. Another. One more and he might be knocked out, bubbles rising to the surface, not a weapon in sight. No more air. He swam sideways with his good arm, only one effort left, and pushed up. Gentle Emil. What would you do to survive?

As he broke the surface, he barely got a gulp of air before the hand caught his throat and started to push his head back under. A squeal of tires and shouts from the bank. The hand came away. Jake pulled his head up, sputtering.

“Emil.”

Emil had turned to look at the bank, once a solid wall, now bombed in places to slopes of rubble. Shaeffer and his man were picking their way down, their attention on the awkward footing, away from the water. A minute, maybe. Emil looked back at Jake, still gasping, his shoulder now an agony.

“It’s over,” Jake said.

“No.” Barely a whisper, his eyes on Jake. Not like Shaeffer’s, a hunter’s, but something more desperate. What would you do? Emil reached for him and caught his throat again, and as Jake’s head went under, he saw, with a sinking feeling worse than drowning, that he was losing the wrong war-not Shaeffer’s, the one he hadn’t even known he was fighting. A kick to the stomach now, forcing out air, as the hand gripped his hair, holding him under. Losing. Another kick. He’d die, the kick marks no more suspicious than crash bruises. Emil getting away with it again.

He yanked his head down, pulling Emil with him, scratching at his fingers. No good punching through water. He’d have to claw the fingers off. Another kick, below his stomach, but the hand was letting go, afraid perhaps of being dragged under with his victim. Do what he expects. Die. Jake sank lower. Emil couldn’t see through the thick water. Would he follow? Let him think it had worked. He felt a final kick, the shoulder again, and for a moment he was no longer pretending, sinking deeper, without the strength to pull himself back up, the dizziness before a blackout. His feet hit the roof of the car. Below, he could see Gunther’s head lolling out of the car window, floating like kelp. The way he’d look. Bastards. He dropped, bending his knees, no breath left at all, then pushed away with a last heave, away from Emil, toward the bank.

“Here he is!” Shaeffer shouted as his head bobbed up. He sucked in air, choking, spitting the water that came with it.

The other soldier had waded in to get Emil, who gazed at Jake in shock, then dropped his head, looking down at his hand, where the scratches were welling with blood.

“You all right?” Shaeffer was saying. “Why the hell didn’t you stop?”

Jake kept gasping, drifting toward the bank. Nowhere else to go now. Then he felt Shaeffer’s hand on his collar, dragging him onto the bank, struggling, then gripping his belt and yanking, like Tully being fished out of the Jungfernsee. He fell back against the broken concrete, looking up at Shaeffer. A splash, the sound of water dripping as Emil came out a few yards away.

He closed his eyes, fighting a wave of nausea from the pain, then opened them again to Shaeffer. “You going to finish me off here?”

Shaeffer looked at him, confused. “Don’t be an asshole. Here, let me give you a hand,” he said, reaching for him.

But he grabbed the wrong arm. As Shaeffer pulled him up, Jake’s shoulder went hot with pain and he couldn’t stop the scream, the last thing he heard before everything finally, almost a relief, did go black. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

CHAPTER TWENTY

They set his shoulder at the officers’ infirmary near Onkel Tom’s Hutte, or at least he was told they did, a day later, when he lay with a morphine hangover under the pink chenille spread at Gelferstrasse. People had drifted in and out, Ron to check, the old woman from downstairs playing nurse, none of them quite real, just figures in a haze, like his arm, white with gauze and adhesive, hanging in a sling, not his at all, someone else’s. Who were they all? When the old woman came back, recognizable now, the billet’s owner, he realized, embarrassed, that he didn’t even know her name. Then the stranger with her, an American uniform, gave him a shot, and they disappeared too. What he saw instead was Gunther’s face, floating in the water. No more points. And later, awake, the face still in his mind, he knew the haze was not just the drugs but a deeper exhaustion, a giving up, because he had done everything wrong.

He was sitting by the window, looking down on the garden where the old woman had snipped parsley, when Lena finally came.

“Eve been so worried. They wouldn’t let me go to the hospital.” Military only. What if he had died?

“You look nice,” he said as she kissed his forehead. Hair pinned up, the dress he had bought in the market.

“Well, for Gelferstrasse,” she said, a look between them, blushing a little, pleased that he’d noticed. “And look, here’s Erich. They say it’s not so bad, the shoulder only. And ribs. Do the drugs make you sleepy? My god, this room.” She went over to the bed, busy, and straightened the spread. “There,” she said, and for an instant he saw her as a younger version of the old woman, a Berliner, going on. “See what Erich brought. It was his idea.”

The boy handed over half a Hershey bar, eyes on the sling.

Jake took the bar, the haze lifting a little, unexpectedly touched. “So much,” he said. “I’ll save it for later, okay?”

Erich nodded. “Can I feel?” he said, pointing to the arm.

“Sure.”

He ran his hand over the tape, working out the mechanics of the sling, interested.

“You have a light touch,” Jake said. “You’ll make a good doctor.”

The boy shook his head. “ Alles ist kaput.”

“Someday,” Jake said, still hazy, then looked at Lena again, trying to focus, clear his head. What, in fact, were they doing here? Was Shaeffer keeping him here? Had they told Lena? He turned to her. Get it over with. “They got Emil.”

“Yes, he came to the flat. With the American. Such a scene, you can’t imagine.”

“To the flat?” Jake said. “Why?” Nothing clear.

“He was looking for something,” Erich said.

The files, even now. “Did he find it?”

“No,” Lena said, looking away.

“He was angry,” the boy said.

“Well, now he’s happy,” Lena said to him quickly. “So never mind. He’s going away, so he’s lucky too.” She looked at Jake. “He said you saved his life.”

“No. That’s not what happened.”

“Yes. The American said so too. Oh, you’re always so modest. It’s like the newsreel.”

“That didn’t happen either.”

“Ouf,” she said, brushing this away. “Well, now it’s over. Do you want something? Can you eat?” Busy again, picking up a shirt from the floor.

“I didn’t save him. He tried to kill me.”

Lena stopped, still half bent over, the shirt in hand. “Such talk. It’s the drugs.”

“No, that’s what happened,” he said, trying to keep his voice level and clear. “He tried to kill me.”

She turned slowly. “Why?”

“The files, I guess. Maybe because he thought he could. No one would know.”

“It’s not true,” she said quietly.

“No? Ask him how he got the scratches on his hand.”

For a moment, silence, broken finally by someone clearing his throat.

“Well, suppose we put all that behind us now, shall we?” Shaeffer came through the door, Ron trailing behind him.

Lena turned to him. “So it’s true?”

“Anybody in a car crash gets a few scratches, you know. Look at you,” he said to Jake.

“You saw it,” Jake said.

“Confusing situation like that? A lot of splashing, that’s what I saw.”

“So it is true,” Lena said, sinking onto the bed.

“Sometimes the truth’s a little overrated,” Shaeffer said. “Doesn’t always fit.”

“Where have you got him?” Jake said.

“Don’t worry, he’s safe. No thanks to you. Hell of a place to pick to go swimming. God knows what’s in there. Doc says we’d better get some sulfa drugs into him before we take him to Kransberg. Might spread.”

“You’re taking him to Kransberg?”

“Where’d you think I was taking him-to the Russians?” Said genially, without guile, his smile pushing the rest of Jake’s haze away. Not Shaeffer after all. Someone else.

“Tell me the truth,” Lena said. “Did Emil do that?”

Shaeffer hesitated. “He might have got a little agitated is all. Now let’s forget about all that. We’ll get Geismar fixed up here and every-body’ll be just fine.”

“Yes, fine,” Lena said, distracted.

“We have a few things to go over,” Ron said.

Lena looked at the boy, who’d been following their conversation like a tennis match.

“Erich, do you know what’s downstairs? A gramophone. American records. You go listen and I’ll be down soon.”

“Take him down and get him set up,” Shaeffer said to Ron, giving orders now. “Your kid?” he said to Lena.

Lena shook her head, staring at the floor.

“All right,” Shaeffer said, turning to Jake, back to business. “Why the hell did you keep running away from me?”

“I thought you were someone else,” Jake said, still trying to work it out. “He knew I’d be there.” He looked up. “But you knew I’d be there too. How did you?”

“Boys over in intelligence got a tip.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know. Really,” Shaeffer said, suddenly earnest. “You know how those things work. You get a tip, you don’t have time to chase around to see where it comes from-you find out if it’s true. You ran out on us once. Why the fuck wouldn’t I believe it?” He glanced over at Lena. “I thought you were doing the lady another favor.”

“No, I was doing you a favor.”

“Yeah? And look what happened. Who’d you think I was?”

“The man who shot Tully.”

“Tully? I told you once, I don’t give a shit about Tully.” He looked over. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know. Now I’m not going to.”

“Well, who cares?”

“You should. The man who shot him got Brandt out of Kransberg.”

“Well, I’m putting him back. That’s all that matters now. The rest, that’s all forgotten.” Another American smile, last week’s game.

“You’ve still got some bodies to account for. You going to forget about them too?”

“I didn’t shoot them.”

“Just the tire.”

“Yeah, well, the tire. I figure I owe you for that one. Not that I fucking owe you anything. But it fits. Ron says we can play it this way.

“What are you talking about? You’ve got people shot in public. Witnesses. How do you play that?”

“Well, that’s a question of what was seen, isn’t it? A German guns down a Russian officer, hightails it away, gets followed, gets killed. Kind of thing happens in Berlin.“

“In front of the whole press corps.”

Shaeffer smiled. “But the only one they recognize in the whole mess is you. Isn’t that right, Ron?”

“Afraid so,” Ron said, coming back in. “Hard to keep track of what’s what when things are-hectic.”

“So?”

“So they know you were there. You were seen, so we had to explain you.

“Explain me how?”

“Damned fool thing going after him like that,” Shaeffer said. “But that’s the kind of damned fool thing you do. Got a reputation for it. And the press-you can’t blame them-they always like it when the hero’s one of their own.”

“Fuck you. That’s not the way I’m going to write it.”

Ron looked at him. “That’s the way it’s gone out. From everybody. While you’ve been on the critical list. ‘Hanging by a thread,’ as they say. They did, too.”

“I said I owed you for the tire. So now you’re a fucking hero. Not that you deserve it. But it fits.”

“Maybe the Russians won’t agree. They were there too.”

“Only the one who’s dead.”

“You shoot the guys in the Horch?”

“What Horch?” Shaeffer said, looking up. “Next question.”

“Who shot Gunther then? He didn’t die in a car crash. There’s a bullet in him. So who put it there?”

“You did,” Shaeffer said calmly.

Ron leaped in before Jake could say anything. “See, Kalach-that’s the Russian he shot-saw him aim for the stands. Lucky Kalach got to him before he could take out Zhukov-that’s who we think he was after. Of course, not so lucky for Kalach. But hell, it might have been Patton. On Victory Day. That kind of thing brings them out, makes a statement. Apparently there were personal problems-a drunk, never really got over the war. Cop who went bad-you know, when they do that, there’s nothing worse. Do anything. Not that I blame him for having a grudge against the Russians.”

“You can’t do that to him,” Jake said quietly. “He was a good man.”

“He’s dead,” Shaeffer said. “It fits.”

“Not for me. And it won’t fit for the Russians.”

“Yes, it will. A Russian saved Zhukov. He’ll get the thanks of a grateful nation. And you get ours. Allied cooperation.”

“And how do you explain Emil?”

“We don’t. Emil wasn’t there. He’s been in Kransberg. We can’t say we lost him. The Russians can’t say they ever had him. There was no incident. That’s the way this one works.” Shaeffer stopped, meeting Jake’s eyes. “Nobody wants an incident.”

“I won’t let you do this. Not to Gunther.”

“What are you beefing about? You’re sitting pretty. You’ll get a fat contract, we get Brandt back, and the Russians can’t do a damn thing. That’s what I call a happy ending. See? I always said we’d make a good team.”

“It’s not true,” Jake said stubbornly.

“It is, though,” Ron said. “I mean, you’ve got a whole press corps that’s just filed the story, so it must be.”

“Not after I file mine.”

“I hate to say it, but people are going to be awfully annoyed if you do that. They make you a hero and you throw egg on their faces? No, you don’t want to do that. In fact, you can’t.”

“Because you’d spike it? Is that the way we do our reporting now? Like Dr. Goebbels.”

“Don’t get carried away. We make certain accommodations, that’s all,” Ron said, indicating Shaeffer. “For the good of the MG. So will you.

“Real sweethearts, aren’t you?” Jake said, his voice low, scraping bottom.

“You want to cry over some dead kraut, do it on your own time,” Shaeffer said, impatient now. “We’ve had enough trouble as it is getting our man back. We understand each other?”

Jake looked out the window again. After all, did it matter? Gunther was gone and so was the lead to the other man, the case as hopeless now as the scraggly garden below.

“Go away,” he said.

“Which means yes, I suppose. Well, fine.” Shaeffer picked up his hat. “I gather the lady’s staying with you?”

“Yes,” Lena said.

“Then I guess you got what you wanted too. That the reason for the little water fight?”

So he still didn’t know. But did that matter either? Emil would search again and find the overlooked file, solve that problem too. His happy ending. Innocent, the way Shaeffer would want it anyway.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Jake said.

“Never mind,” Shaeffer said, glancing at Lena. “Can’t say I blame him.” An easy compliment. He turned to go. “Oh, one more thing. Brandt says you have some papers that belong to him.”

Lena looked up. “Did he say what they were?”

“Notes of his. Something he needs for von Braun. Seems to think they’re pretty important. Kind of tore the place apart, didn’t he?” he said to Lena. “I’m sorry about that.”

“More lies,” she said, shaking her head.

“Ma’am?”

“And you’re taking him to America.”

“We’re going to try.”

“Do you know what kind of a man he is?” she said, looking directly at him, so that he shifted on his feet, uncomfortable.

“All I know is Uncle Sam wants him to build some rockets. That’s all I care about.”

“He lies to you. And you lie for him. You told me he saved Jake’s life. My god, and I believed you. And now you believe him. Notes. What a pair you are.”

“I’m only doing my job.”

Lena nodded her head, smiling faintly. “Yes, that’s what Emil said too. What a pair you are.”

Shaeffer held up his hand, flustered. “Now, don’t get me involved in domestic arguments. What happens between a man and his wife—” He dropped it and turned to Jake. “Anyway, whatever they are, do you have them?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Lena said.

Shaeffer peered at her, unsure where to take this, then back at Jake. Do you?

But Jake was looking at Lena, everything clear now, not even a wisp of haze. “I don’t know what Emil’s talking about.”

Shaeffer stood for a second, fingering his hat, then let it go. “Well, no matter. They’re bound to turn up somewhere. Hell, I thought he could do everything in his head.”

Afterward, the room was quiet enough to hear his footsteps on the stairs.

“Did you destroy them?” Jake said finally.

“No, I have them.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I thought I would. And then they came to the flat. He was like a crazy man. Where are they? Where are they? You’re on his side. The way he looked at me then. And I thought, yes, his side.” She stopped, looking at him.

“Where were they?”

“In my bag.” She walked over to the bed and pulled the papers out of her bag. “Of course, he never thought to look there. My things. Everywhere else. I stood there watching him-like a crazy man-and I knew. He never came to Berlin for me, did he?”

“Maybe both.”

“No, only these. Here.” She carried them over to his chair. “You know and you don’t know-that’s how everything was. Just now, when you told me what happened, there was a click in my head. Do you know why? I wasn’t surprised. It was like before-you know and you don’t know. I don’t want to live like that anymore. Here.”

But Jake didn’t move, just looked at the buff sheets held out between them.

“What do you want me to do with them?”

“Give them to the Americans. Not that one,” she said, gesturing toward the door. “He’s the same. Another Emil. Any lie.” Then she pulled the papers back to her so that for a second Jake thought she couldn’t go through with it after all. “No. I’ll take them. Tell me where. There’s a name?”

“Bernie Teitel. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Oh, it’s not for you,” she said. “For me. Maybe for Germany, does that sound crazy? To start somewhere. So there’s still something left. Not just Emils. Anyway, look at you. Where can you go like that?”

“As it happens, he lives downstairs.”

“Yes? So it’s not so far.”

“For you it is.” He reached up for the papers. “He’s still something to you.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said slowly. “Just a boy in a pic-ture.

They looked at each other for a minute, then Jake leaned forward, ignoring the papers and covering her hand instead.

She smiled and turned his hand over, tracing the palm with her finger. “Such a line. In a man.”

“You make a nice couple.” Shaeffer, standing in the doorway with Erich. “I brought the kid back.” He crossed over to them, Erich in tow. “Aren’t you the sly one?” he said to Lena, holding out his hand. “I’ll take them.”

“They don’t belong to you. Or Emil,” Lena said.

“No, the United States government.” He wiggled the fingers of his open hand in a give-me gesture. “Thanks for saving me another look-see. I figured.” He took the end of the papers. “That’s an order.” He stared at her until she released them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jake said.

“What do you think you’re doing? This is government property. You’re going to get yourself in trouble if you’re not careful.”

“They go to Teitel.”

“I’ll save you the trip.” He started riffling through, glancing at the pages. “Not rocket notes, I take it. Want to tell me?”

“Reports from Nordhausen,” Jake said. “Facts and figures from the camps. Slave labor details. What the scientists knew. Lots of interesting stuff. Keep looking-you’ll find a lot of your friends there.”

“Is that a fact. And you think this might make things a little embarrassing for them.”

“It might make them war criminals.”

Shaeffer looked up from the files. “You know, your trouble is you’re in the wrong war. You’re still fighting the last one.”

“They were involved,” Jake said, insistent.

“Geismar, how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t care.”

“You should care,” Lena said. “They killed people.”

“That’s good, coming from a German. Who do you think killed them? Or do you just want your husband to take the rap? Convenient.”

“You can’t talk to her that way,” Jake said, starting to get up, wincing as Shaeffer pushed him back.

“Watch your shoulder. Well, now we’ve got a situation. What a pain in the ass you are.”

“I’ll be a bigger pain in the ass if Teitel doesn’t get those files. Not even Ron’s going to spike this story.”

“Which one is that?”

“Try a congressman bringing Nazis into the States.”

“He wouldn’t like that.”

“Or a tech team playing hide-and-seek with the Russians. Lots of ways to go, if I want to. Or we could do it the right way. You helping the Military Government do what it says it’s trying to do, bring these fucks to trial. A trial story. This time, you’re the hero.”

“Let me explain something to you,” Shaeffer said. “Plain and simple. Look at this country. These scientists are the only reparations we’re likely to get. And we’re going to get them. We need them.”

“To fight the Russians.”

“Yes, to fight the Russians. You ought to figure out whose side you’re on.”

“And it doesn’t matter about the camps.”

“I don’t care if they banged Mrs. Roosevelt. We need them. Got it?”

“If Teitel doesn’t get those files, I’ll do the story. Don’t think I won t.

“I think you won’t.”

Shaeffer turned the papers sideways, and before Jake could move, tore them across.

“Don’t,” Jake said, starting to rise, the sound of tearing jolting across him like the pain shooting through his shoulder. Another tear, Jake only half out of his seat, then falling back, watching helplessly as the paper became pieces. “You bastard.” A final rip.

Shaeffer took a step toward the window and flung them out, large bits of paper, suspended, then caught by the wind, flying over the garden-not small; about the same size, Jake saw, staring hypnotically, as the bills that had danced and blown over the Cecilienhof lawn.

“Like I said,” Shaeffer said, turning back, “you’re in the wrong war. That one’s over.”

Jake watched him go, brushing past Lena and wide-eyed Erich, who had already known everything was kaput.

“I feel I’ve let you down too,” Jake said to Bernie. “You more than anybody, I guess.”

They had come to Gunther’s to pick up the persilscheins and found the room ransacked, stacks pulled apart, torn boxes littering the floor.

“Join the crowd. Everybody lets me down,” Bernie said, a light growl, not really angry. “Christ, look at this. Word gets around fast. Ever notice how the liquor’s the first thing to go? Then the coffee.” He picked up the folders from the floor and stacked them. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, okay? At least I know what to look for. That’s more than I had before. There’s lots of evidence floating around Germany-some of it could still land on my desk.”

“You’ll never get them,” Jake said, gloomy.

“Then we’ll get someone else,” Bernie said, going through a bureau drawer. “Not exactly a shortage.”

“But doesn’t it bother you?”

“Bother me?” He turned to Jake, shoulders sagging. “Let me tell you something. I came over here, I thought I was really going to do something. Justice. And where did I end up? At the back of the line. Everybody’s got a hand out. ‘We can’t do it all.’ Feed the peoplethey’re starving. Get Krupp up and running again, get the mines open. The Jews? Well, that was terrible, sure, but what are we supposed to do this winter if we don’t get some coal out of the Russians? Freeze? Everybody’s got a priority. Except the Jews aren’t on anybody’s list. We’ll deal with that later. If anybody has the time. So I lose a few scientists? I’m still trying to get the camp guards.”

“Small fry.”

“Not to the people they killed.” He paused. “Look, I don’t like it either. But that’s the way it is. You think you’re going to set the world on fire and you come here-all you do is pick through the damage. Without a priority. So you do what you can.”

“Yeah, I know, one at a time. An eye for an eye.”

Bernie looked up. “That’s a little Old Testament for me. There isn’t any punishment, you know. How do you punish this?”

“Then why bother?”

“So we know. Every trial. This is what happened. Now we know. Then another trial. I’m a DA, that’s all. I bring things to trial.”

Jake looked down, fingering the persilscheins on the table. “I still wish I had the files. They weren’t guards-they should have known setter.”

“Geismar,” Bernie said softly, “everybody should have known better.”

“Would it help if I wrote something? Got you some press?”

Bernie smiled and went back to the drawer. “Save your ink. Go home. Look at you, all banged up. Haven’t you had enough?”

“I’d like to know.”

“What?”

“Who the other man is.”

“That? You’re still on that? What’s the point?”

“Well, for one thing, he could still be working for the Russians.” Jake dropped the folder on the table. “Anyway, I’d like to know for Gunther, finish the case for him.”

“I doubt he cares anymore. Or do you have ways of getting messages up there?”

Jake walked over to the map, left in place by the scavengers. The Brandenburg. The wide chausee, where the reviewing stand had been.

“Why would someone working for the Russians tip off the Americans where Emil was going to be? Why would he do that?”

“You got me.”

“Now, see, Gunther would have figured it out. That’s the kind of thing he was good at-things that didn’t add up.”

“Not anymore,” Bernie said. “Hey, look at this.”

He had pulled an old square box from the back of the drawer, velvet or felt, like a jewel case, opened now to a medal. Jake thought of the hundreds lying on the Chancellery floor, not put away like this, treasured.

“Iron Cross, first class,” Bernie said. “Nineteen seventeen. A veteran. He never said.”

Jake looked at the medal, then handed it back. “He was a good German.”

“I wish I knew what that meant.” “It used to mean this,” Jake said. “Almost done?” “Yeah, grab the files. You think there’s anything in the bedroom? Not many effects, are there?”

“Just the books.” He took a Karl May from the shelf, a souvenir, then moved to the table and picked up one of the folders and flipped it open. A Herr Krieger, said to have been in a concentration camp, now Category IV, no evidence of Nazi activity, release advised. He glanced idly down the page, then stopped, staring at it.

Of course. No, not of course. Impossible.

“My god,” he said.

“What?” Bernie said, coming in from the bedroom.

“You know how you said evidence lands on your desk? Some just landed on mine. I think.” Jake scooped up the files. “I need the jeep.”

“The jeep?”

“I have to check something. Another file. It won’t take long.”

“You can’t drive like that. One hand?”

“I’ve done it before.” Bumping through the Tiergarten. “Come on, quick,” he said, his hand out for the keys.

“It’s getting dark,” Bernie said, but tossed them over. “What am I supposed to do here?”

“Read that.” He nodded at the Karl May. “He tells a hell of a story.”

He headed west to Potsdamerstrasse, then south toward Kleist Park. In the dusk only the bulky Council headquarters had shape, lit up by a few offices working late, the car park nearly deserted. Up the opera house staircase, down the hall, the translucent door to Muller’s office dark but not locked. Only the Germans huddled behind locks now.

He flicked on the light. Jeanie’s usual neat desk, every pencil put away. He went over to the filing cabinet and flipped the tabs until he found the right folder, then carried it back to the desk with the per-silscheins. It was only after he’d looked through it, then at the per-silscheins once more, that he sat down, sinking back against the chair, thinking. Follow the points. But he saw, even before he reached the bottom of the column, that Gunther had found it without even knowing. Sitting there all along.

And now what? Could he prove it? He could already see, with the inevitable sinking feeling, that Ron would take care of this too, another story to protect the guilty, in the interests of the Military

Government. Maybe a little quiet justice later, when no one was looking. And why should anyone look? Emil back safe, the Russians foiled-everyone satisfied except Tully, who hadn’t mattered in the first place. The wrong war again. Jake would win and get nothing. Not even reparations. He sat up, staring at Tully’s transfer sheet, the block capitals in fuzzy carbon. Not this time. Not an eye for an eye, but something, a different reparation, one for the innocent.

He leaned over, opened the desk drawers to his side, and rummaged through. Stacks of government forms, printed, second sheets gummed for carbons, arranged in marked piles. He mentally tipped his hat to Jeanie. Everything in its place. He pulled one out, then looked for another, a different pile, and swung around to the typewriter, removing the cover with his good hand and rolling in the first form, aligning it so that the letters would fill the box without hitting the line, official. When he started to type, a one-finger peck, the sound of the keys filled the room and drifted out to the lonely corridor. A guard came by, suspicious, but only nodded when he saw Jake’s uniform.

“Working late? You ought to give it a rest, with the sling and all.”

“Almost done.”

But in fact it seemed to take hours, one keystroke at a time, his shoulder hurting. Then he realized he’d need a supporting document and had to search the desk again. He found it in the bottom drawer, next to a stash of nail polish from the States. So Jeanie had a friend. He rolled the new form into place and started typing, still careful, nothing messy. He was almost finished when a shadow from the doorway fell over the page.

“What are you doing?” Muller said. “The guard said—”

“Filling out some forms for you.”

“Jeanie can do that,” he said, wary.

“Not these. Have a seat. I’m almost done.”

“Have a seat?” he said, drawing his shoulders back in surprise. Old army.

“There,” Jake said, rolling the form out. “All ready. All you have to do is sign.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You know how to do that. That’s what you do. Lots of signatures. Like these.” He pushed over the Bensheim releases from Gunther’s.

Muller picked them up, a quick glance. “Where did you get these?”

“I looked. I like to know things.”

“Then you know these are forged.”

“Are they? Maybe. This isn’t.” He held up the other folder.

“What isn’t?” Muller said, not even bothering to look.

“Tully’s transfer home. You transferred him. Tully was attached to Frankfurt. There was never any reason for a copy of his orders to end up here, except a copy would go to the authorizing officer. Regulations. So one did. Maybe you didn’t even know it was here-Jeanie just filed it away with everything else that came in. She’s an efficient girl. Never occurred to her to—” He dropped the folder. “Of course, it never occurred to me either. Why there’d be a copy here. But then, a lot of things didn’t occur to me. Why you’d hold out on me with the CID report. Why you’d lead me on that wild goose chase with the black market. I thought I was dragging it out of you-that must have been fun to watch, me asking all the wrong questions. Let’s not embarrass the MG.” He paused, looking up at the lean Judge Hardy face, older than he remembered. “You know the funny thing? I still don’t want it to be you. Maybe it’s the hair. You don’t fit the part. You were one of the good guys. I thought at least there had to be one.”

“Don’t want what to be me?”

“You killed him.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“And it almost worked, too. If he’d just stayed down there in the Havel. Just-disappeared. The way Emil did. But he didn’t.”

“You enjoy this? Making up stories?”

“Mm. This is a good one. Let me try it on you. Have a seat.”

But Muller remained standing, shoulders erect, his tall frame looming over the desk, waiting, like a weapon held in reserve.

“Let’s start with the transfer. That’s what should have tipped me if I’d been paying attention. Gunther would have seen it-that’s the kind of thing he noticed. Transfer a man you didn’t know. Except you did. Your old partner.” Jake nodded at the persilscheins. “Just why you wanted to get him home I’m not sure, but I can guess. Of course, he wasn’t the most reliable guy to do business with in the first place, but my guess is that you got nervous. Everything worked the way it was supposed to. Brandt’s trail was cold before they even knew there was one. But then Shaeffer started sniffing around. He’s a guy who likes to make noise. Set off some bells and whistles-I think that’s the expression he used. Which means he went to MG. Which means they started going off here. With a congressman behind him. Nothing to connect you yet. But now it wasn’t going to go away either. And there’s Tully-talk about a weak link. Who knew what he’d say? How long before Shaeffer found out you’d done business before?“ Another nod at the Bensheim file.

“You with me so far? So the easiest thing was to send him homeall you had to do was sign a form. That’s what everybody wants, isn’t it? Except this time it didn’t take. Tully didn’t want to go home-he had plans here. You call him to Berlin, in a hurry, not even time to pack, get him on the first plane. You might have waited, by the way. Did you know he was coming anyway? A Tuesday appointment. But no matter. The point was to get it done fast. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry. Sikorsky meets him at the airport and drops him at the Control Council.”

Muller raised his head to speak.

“Don’t bother,” Jake said. “He told me so himself. So Tully comes to pick up a jeep. But nobody just waltzes in and takes a jeep. It’s not a taxi stand out there. Motor pool assigns them. To you, for instance. I could check how many you had signed out that day, but why bother now? One of yours.

“Where you were, I don’t know-probably at a meeting, defending the free and the brave. Which is why you couldn’t meet him in the first place. The plane was late, which must have cut into your schedule. Anyway, busy. Which was too bad, because Tully got busy too, down at the Document Center, so that when you met him there later, he had a new racket going. Not to mention a new payment from Sikorsky. Which he didn’t, I guess-mention, that is.”

He watched Muller’s face. “No, he wouldn’t. But all the more reason now to hang around-more money where that came from. You tell me how it played from there. Did he tell you where to stick your transfer? Or did he threaten to expose you if you didn’t play ball? In for a penny, in for a pound. Plenty of money to be made on those SS files. Shaeffer? You could take care of him. You’d taken care of Bensheim, hadn’t you? And if you couldn’t-well, you’d have to, or he’d take you down with him. Anyway, he sure as hell wasn’t going to Natick, Mass., when there was a fortune to be made here. Of course, it’s possible you got rid of him to keep the files all to yourself, but he didn’t have the files yet, the Doc Center had come up dry so far, so I think it’s just that he boxed you in so tight, you didn’t think you had much choice. The transfer would have been so easy. But you still had to get rid of him somehow. Is that more the way it was? “

Muller said nothing, his face blank.

“So you did. A little ride out to the lake to talk things over-you don’t want to be seen together. And Tully’s stubborn. He’s got a belt full of money and god knows what dancing in his head, and he tells you the way it’s going to be. Not just Brandt. More. And you know it’s not going to work. Brandt was one thing-he even helped. But now you’ve got Shaeffer around. Do the smart thing-take the money and run, before it’s too late. The last thing Tully wants to hear. Maybe the last thing he did hear. I’ll give you this much-I don’t think you planned it. Too sloppy, for one thing-you didn’t even take his tags after you shot him, just threw him in. No weights. Maybe you thought the boots would do it. Probably you weren’t thinking at all, just panicked. That kind of crime. Anyway, it’s done and he’s gone. And then-here’s the best part, even I couldn’t make it up-you went home and had dinner with me. And I liked you. I thought you were what we were here for. To make the peace. Christ, Muller.”

“Everything okay here?” The guard, surprising them from the door.

Muller swiveled, moving his hand to his hip, then stopped.

“We’re almost done,” Jake said steadily, staring at Muller’s hand.

“Getting late,” the guard said.

Muller blinked. “Yes, fine,” he said, his MG voice, dropping his hand. He turned back and waited, his eyes locked on Jake, until the steps in the hall grew faint.

“Jumpy?” Jake said. He nodded at Muller’s hip. “Watch yourself with that.”

Muller leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. “You take some chances.”

“What? That you’ll plug me? I doubt it.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, not here. Think of the mess. What would Jeanie say?

Besides, you already tried that once.“ He looked at him until Muller took his hands away from the desk, as if he’d literally been pushed back by Jake’s stare.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“In Potsdam. That’s when everything started falling apart. Now you had real blood on your hands. Not just a small-time chiseler. Liz. How’d that make you feel when you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“You killed her too. Same as if you pulled the trigger.”

“You can’t prove this,” Muller said, almost a whisper.

“Want to bet? What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? You know, I might not even have tried if it had just been Tully. I guess you could say he got what was coming to him. But Liz didn’t. Gunther was right about that too. The when. Why try to kill me then? Another thing that didn’t occur to me until now, when I started putting things together. Why do it at all? Tully’s dead, and so’s Shaeffer’s trail. No way to connect you. Even after he washes up-quick report, body’s shipped out before anybody can take a good look. Not that anybody wanted to-all they were looking at was the money. What other explanation could there be? It’s sure as hell the only one you wanted me to have. Talk about a lucky break for you. Money you didn’t even know he had. What did you think when it turned up, by the way? I’d be curious to know.”

Muller said nothing.

“Just a little gift from the gods, I guess. So you’re safe. Shaeffer’s stuck and I’m off looking at watches in the black market. And then something happens. I start asking questions about Brandt at Kransberg-for personal reasons, but you don’t know that, you think I must know something, made the connection no one else did. And if I’m asking, maybe somebody else is going to put two and two together too. But you can’t get me out of Berlin, that would just make things worse-I’d make a stink and people would wonder. And then, at Tommy’s going-away party, what do I do? I ask you to check the dispatcher at Frankfurt, the one you called-or did you get Jeanie to do it? No, you’d do it yourself-to get Tully on the plane. Personal authorization, not on the manifest. Which he’d remember. Not just close anymore, a real connection. So you panic again. You transfer his ass out of there like that, but even that’s not safe enough. You get somebody to get rid of me in Potsdam. The next day. But that didn’t occur to me either, not then. I was just lying there with an innocent woman’s blood all over me.“

Muller lowered his head. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Jake sat still. Finally there, the confession, so easily said.

“That girl. That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Muller said again. “I never meant her to—”

“No, just me. Christ, Muller.”

“It wasn’t me. Sikorsky. I told him I’d transfer Mahoney, that would do it. I never told him to kill you. Never. Believe me.”

Jake looked up at him. “I do believe you. But Liz is still dead.”

Now Muller did sit down, his body sagging slowly into the chair, head still low, so that only his silver hair caught the light of the desk lamp. “None of this was supposed to happen.”

“You start something, people get in the way. I suppose Shaeffer would have been a bonus.”

“I didn’t even know he was there. I didn’t know. It was all Sikorsky. He was worse than Tully. Once they start—” His voice trailed off.

“Yeah, it’s hard to get away. I know.” Jake paused, toying with the folder. “Tell me something, though. Why’d you tip Shaeffer that I’d be at the parade with Brandt? It had to be you-I’ll bet you know just how to get something to Intelligence like it came out of the air. But why do it? Gunther sets it up with Kalach, who tells you, but you can’t go. The one person who couldn’t. You’re brass, General Clay’s man- you had to be at the parade. Another thing that didn’t occur to me. So, our mistake. But Kalach s going to make the snatch anyway. You could have watched the whole thing without anyone’s being the wiser. Right up there with Patton. Why tip Shaeffer?”

“To put an end to it. If Shaeffer got him back, he’d stop. I wanted it to stop.

“And if he didn’t get him? It didn’t really matter who got him, did it? Maybe Kalach would after all and take Shaeffer out doing it, and it would stop that way. While you were watching.”

“No. I wanted Shaeffer to have him. I thought it would work. Sikorsky would have been suspicious if something went wrong, but the new man—”

“Would have taken the blame himself. And you’d be home free.”

Muller looked over. “I wanted out. Of all of it. I’m not a traitor. When this started, I didn’t know what Brandt meant to us.”

“You mean how much Shaeffer would want him back. Just another one of these,” Jake said, picking up the Bensheim file. “For ten thousand dollars.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Let’s do us both a favor and skip the explanations. Everybody in Berlin wants to give me an explanation, and it never changes anything.” He dropped the folder. “But just give me one. The one thing I still can’t figure. Why’d you do it? The money?”

Muller said nothing, then looked away, oddly embarrassed. “It was just sitting there. So easy.” He turned back to Jake. “Everybody else was getting theirs. I’ve been in the service twenty-three years, and what’s it going to get me? A lousy pension? And here’s a little snot like Tully with plenty of change in his pockets. Why not?” He pointed to the persilscheins. “The first few, at Bensheim, I didn’t even know what I was signing. Just more paper. There was always something-he knew how to slip them through. Then I finally realized what he was doing—”

“And could have court-martialed him. But you didn’t. He make you a deal? ”

Muller nodded. “I’d already signed. Why not a few more?” he said, his voice vague, talking to himself. “Nobody cared about the Germans, whether they got out or not. He said if it went wrong later, I could say he’d forged them. Meanwhile, the money was there-all you had to do was pick it up. Who would know? He could be persuasive when he wanted to be-you didn’t know that about him.”

“Maybe he had a willing audience,” Jake said. “Then things got tricky at Bensheim, so you got him out of there-another one of your quick transfers-and the next thing you know, he turns up with another idea. Still persuasive. Not just a little persilschein this time. Real money.”

“Real money,” Muller said quietly. “Not some lousy pension. You know what that’s like, waiting for a check every month? You spend your whole life just to get the rank and these new guys come in—”

“Spare me,” Jake said.

“That’s right,” Muller said, his mouth twisted. “You don’t need an explanation. You already know everything you want to know.”

Jake nodded. “That’s right. Everything.”

“You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” Muller said. “Now what are you going to do? Call the MPs? You don’t really think I can let you do that, do you? Not now.”

“Ordinarily, no. But don’t get trigger-happy yet,” Jake said, glancing toward Muller’s hip again. “I’m a friend to the army, remember?”

Muller looked up. “Meaning?”

“Meaning nobody’s going to call anybody.”

“Then what? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to let you get away with murder.” Neither of them said anything for a moment, staring. Then Jake sat back. “That seems to be the general policy around here. If it’s useful to us. So now you’re going to be useful to me.”

“What do you want?” Muller said, still staring, not quite sure how to take this.

Jake tossed one of the forms over to him. “Your signature. First this one.”

Muller picked it up and looked it over, a bureaucrat’s reflex. Read before you sign, Tully’s inadvertent lesson. “Who’s Rosen?”

“A doctor. You’re giving him a visa for the States.”

“A German? I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can. In the national interest. Like the other scientists. This one’s even clean-no Nazi affiliations at all. He was in a camp. You fill in the classification code.” He handed over a pen. “Sign it.”

Muller took the pen. “I don’t understand,” he said, but when Jake didn’t answer, he leaned forward and scribbled in one of the boxes, then signed the bottom.

“Now this one.”

“Erich Geismar?” He s my son.

“Since when?”

“Since you signed this. U.S. citizen. Rosen’s taking him home.”

“A child? He’ll need proof of citizenship.”

“He has it,” Jake said, tossing him the last form. “Right here. Sign that too.”

“The law says—”

“You’re the law. You asked for proof and I gave it to you. It says so right here. Now sign off on it and it’s official. Sign it.”

Muller began writing. “What about the mother?” A clerk’s question in a consulate.

“She’s dead.”

“German?”

“But he’s American. MG just said so.”

When Muller was finished, Jake took the forms back and tore off the bottom carbons. “Thank you. You just did something decent for a change. Your copies where?”

Muller nodded to a box on Jeanie’s desk.

“Careful you don’t lose them. You’ll need the particulars, in case anybody wants to verify them with you. And you will verify them. Personally. If there’s any problem at all. Understood?”

Muller nodded. Jake stood up, folding the papers into his breast pocket. “Fine. Then that does it. Always useful to have a friend in the MG.”

“That’s all?”

“You mean am I going to put the bite on you for something else? No. I’m not Tully.” He patted his pocket. “You’re giving them a life. That seems a fair trade to me. I don’t particularly care what you do with yours.”

“But you know—”

“Well, that’s just it. You were right about one thing, you see. I can’t prove it.”

“Can’t prove it,” Muller said faintly.

“Oh, don’t get excited,” Jake said, catching Muller’s expression. “Don’t get any ideas either. I can’t prove it, but I can come close. CID must still have the bullet they took out of Tully. They could make a match. But maybe not. Guns have a way of disappearing. And I suppose I could track down the dispatcher you sent home. But you know something? I don’t care anymore. I have all the reparations I want. And you-well, I guess you’ll have some worried nights, and that’s fine with me too. So let’s just leave it there. But if anything goes wrong with these,” he said, touching his pocket again, “your luck runs out, understand? I can’t prove it in court, but I can come close enough for the army. I’d do it, too. Lots of mud, the kind of thing they don’t like at all. Maybe a dishonorable. The pension for sure. So just play ball and everybody walks away.”

“And that’s all?”

“Well, one more thing, now that you mention it. You can’t transfer yourself home, but make the request to Clay. Health reasons. You can’t stay here. The Russians don’t know you tipped Shaeffer. They think you’re still in business. And they can be persuasive too. That’s the last thing the MG needs-a worm in the barrel. They’ve got their hands full just trying to figure out what they’re doing here. Maybe they’ll even bring in somebody who can do the place some good. I doubt it, but maybe.” He stopped, looking down at the silver hair. “I thought that was you. But I guess something got in your way.”

“How do I know you’ll—”

“Well, strictly speaking, you don’t. Like I said, some worried nights. But don’t have them here. Not in Berlin. Then I might just change my mind.” Jake picked up the Bensheim folders and stacked them. “I’ll keep these.” He went around the desk, starting for the door. “Go home. You need a job, go see American Dye. I hear they’re hiring. I’ll bet they’d go for somebody just like you, with your experience. Just stay out of Berlin. Anyway, you don’t want to run into me again-that’d just make you nervous. And you know what? I don’t want to run into you either.”

“You’re staying here?”

“Why not? Lots of stories in Berlin.”

Muller shook his head. “Your press pass expires,” he said dully, an official.

Jake smiled, surprised. “I’ll bet you know the exact hour too. All right, one more thing then. Have Jeanie do up a residence permit tomorrow. Indefinite stay. Special from the MG. Sign that and we’re done.”

“Are we?” Muller said, looking up.

“I am. You have some nights to get through, but you will. People do. It’s something you learn here-after a while nobody remembers anything.” He walked to the door.

“Geismar?” Muller said, stopping him. He rose from the chair, his face even older, slack. “It was just the money. I’m a soldier. I’m not a- Honest to god, I never meant this to happen. Any of it.”

Jake turned. “That should make them easier, then. The nights.” He looked over at him. “It’s not much, though, is it?” Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

At this hour, Tempelhof was almost deserted. Later, when the afternoon flights came in, the high marble hall would fill up with uniforms, just as it had that first day, but now there were only a few GIs sitting on duffel bags, waiting. The doors were still closed to the stairs that led down to the runways.

“Now remember what I told you,” Lena was saying, crouched down in front of Erich, fussing, brushing his hair back. “Stay close to Dr. Rosen when you change for Bremen. So many people. Hold his hand, yes? You remember?”

Erich nodded. “Can I sit by the window?” he said, already on his way.

“Yes, the window. You can wave. I’ll be right there.” She pointed to the observation deck. “But I’ll see you. You won’t be afraid, will you?”

“He’s excited,” Rosen said to Jake, smiling. “A first airplane. And a ship. Well, mine too. This kindness-I can never repay you.”

“Just be a good father to him. He’s never had one. His mother-I don’t know what he remembers. A few visits.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. In the camps.”

“You knew her?”

“A long time ago.” He touched Rosen’s arm. “Raise him as a Jew.”

“Well, how else?” Rosen said mildly. “That’s what you want?”

“Yes. She died for that. Tell him, if he asks, that he should be proud of her.” He paused, for a moment at the Alex again, watching the shuffling walk back to the cell. “Now, you’ve got Frank’s number at Collier’s?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I told him to meet the boat. But just in case, that’s where to reach him. He’ll have money for you. He’ll fix you up with anything you need. Till you get on your feet.”

“In New York. It’s like a dream.”

“It won’t seem like a dream after you’ve been there a while.”

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” Lena said to Erich. “On the plane, I don’t know. There’s still time. Come.”

“To the women’s?” Erich said.

“Oh, so big all of a sudden. Come.” She led him away.

“I wonder, does he know what you do for him? ” Rosen said. “How lucky he is.”

Jake glanced at him. What passed for luck in Berlin. But Rosen was looking over his shoulder.

“Who is the old man? He knows you.”

Professor Brandt was coming toward them in his old dark suit, the high Weimar collar as stiff as his walk.

“Good morning,” he said. “So you’ve come to see Emil off too?”

“Someone else,” Jake said. “I didn’t know he was on the plane.”

“I thought, perhaps it’s the last time,” Professor Brandt said hesitantly, explaining himself. He looked at Jake. “So you were a friend to him after all.”

“No. He didn’t need me. He arranged things himself.”

“Ah,” Professor Brandt said, mystified but reluctant to pursue it. He checked his pocket watch. “They’ll be late.”

“No, there they are.”

Coming through the waiting hall like the front wedge of a military unit, heels loud against the floor, Emil and Shaeffer, Breimer with them, trailed by GIs carrying bags. An airport GI, as if alerted by the heels, appeared from the side and opened the door, standing at the head of the stairs with a clipboard. When they reached the gate, they stopped short, surprised to find visitors.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Shaeffer said to Jake.

Jake said nothing, watching Emil walk up to his father.

“Well, Papa,” Emil said, disconcerted, a young voice.

“Come to see the boys off, huh?” Breimer said. “Nice of you, Geismar.”

Professor Brandt stood still for a moment, looking at Emil, then extended his hand. “So it’s goodbye,” he said, his voice shaky behind the formal gesture.

“Well, not for good,” Emil said pleasantly, caught by the hand but trying to sidestep any sentiment. “I’ll come back sometime. You know, it’s my home, after all.”

“No,” Professor Brandt said faintly, touching his arm. “You have done enough for Germany. Go.” He dropped the hand, looking at him. “Maybe things will be different for you now, in America.”

“Different?” Emil said, flushing, aware that the others were looking.

But their eyes were on Professor Brandt, whose shoulders had started to shake, a raw, uncontrolled blubbering, catching everyone off-guard, an emotion no one expected. Before Emil could react, the old man reached out and clutched him, wrapping his arms around him, holding on, a death grip. Jake wanted to look away but instead kept staring at them, dismayed. Maybe the only story that really mattered, the endless ties of life’s cat’s cradle, tangled like yarn.

“Well, Papa,” Emil said, leaning back.

“You made me so happy,” Professor Brandt said. “When you were a boy. So happy.” Still shaking, his face wet, so that now the others did turn away, awkward, as if he had somehow become incontinent.

“Papa,” Emil said, still helpless in the grasp.

Then Professor Brandt pulled away, collecting himself, patting Emil’s upper arm. “Well, but here are your friends too.” He turned to Jake. “Forgive me. An old man’s foolishness.” He stepped aside, ceding place, not bothering to wipe his face.

Emil looked at Jake, oddly relieved, grateful for any interruption but now uncertain what to do. He started to offer his hand.

“So,” he said, “all ends for the best.”

“Does it?” Jake said, ignoring the hand.

He nodded at Jake’s sling. “The shoulder. It’s all right?”

Jake said nothing.

“It’s a misunderstanding about that. Shaeffer told me.”

“No misunderstanding.” Jake opened his mouth to speak again, then glanced at Professor Brandt and instead just turned away.

“We certainly don’t want that,” Breimer said, genial. “Not after what you two have been through.”

“No, we certainly don’t want that,” Shaeffer said pointedly to Jake, a signal to take Emil’s hand.

But the moment had passed, because now Emil had turned too, toward the edge of the gate area, where Lena was coming around the corner with Erich. She was bent over, talking to him. When she glanced up and saw the waiting party, she stopped, slowly raising her head. Another second and then she began walking again, shoulders back, determined, the way she’d come into the Adlon dining room. Not in her good dress this time, a cheap print with tiny flowers, but beautiful, catching the light just by walking in it.

“What’s she doing here?” Shaeffer said as she approached.

“That the wife?” Breimer said. “Well, why the hell not? Say good-bye to her husband.”

Within earshot now, standing in front of Emil.

“No, you’re mistaken,” she said to Breimer, but looking at Emil. “My husband died. In the war.”

She moved past him, leaving a silence. Jake looked at Emil. The same flustered expression he’d given Professor Brandt, a confused despair, as if he had finally glimpsed the missing piece, then seen it float away before he could tell what it was.

“In the war?” Breimer said.

Lena took Jake’s arm. “They’re boarding. Come, Erich.”

Rosen put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and they moved toward the stairs behind the GIs with duffel bags.

“Now, remember to hold hands, yes?” Lena turned to Rosen. “You have the lunch?”

Rosen held up the bag with a tolerant smile.

Lena knelt in front of Erich. “Like the mother hen, that’s what he hug. A hug from my chick. Always so good. I’ll write to you. Shall I do that in English? Dr. Rosen can read, then you. You can practice, how’s that for a plan? Jake too. Come,“ she said to Jake, standing up, ”say goodbye.“

Jake hunched down, one arm on Erich’s shoulder. “Be good and listen to Dr. Rosen, okay? You’ll have lots of good times. And I’ll come visit someday.”

“You’re not my father?” the boy said, curious.

“No. Your father’s dead, you know that. Now Dr. Rosen is going to take care of you.”

“You gave me your name.”

“Oh, that. Well, everybody gets a new name in America. That’s how they do it there. So I gave you mine. Is that all right?”

Erich nodded.

“And I’ll come to see you. I promise.”

“Okay,” the boy said, then reached up and put one arm around Jake’s neck, a quick hug, but careful of the sling so that the thin arm was almost weightless, light as a loose strand of yarn. “Geismar,” he said. “That’s English? It’s not German?”

“Well, it used to be, before. Now it’s American.”

“Like me.”

“That’s right, like you. Come on, you’d better hurry if you want a window,” he said, shooing him to Rosen.

“Don’t forget to wave,” Lena said as they started down the stairs. “I’ll be watching.”

She turned, acknowledging Professor Brandt for the first time by touching his sleeve. “So it’s good you came. We can see over there,” she said, turning from the group toward the big window.

“You watch. I said goodbye. Now to you too, it seems,” he said, glancing toward Emil. He raised his hand, stopping her before she could say anything, then leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. He looked at her for a second, then nodded, a mute goodbye, and started back toward the amber hall.

Shaeffer had checked their names on the list and was now waiting for Emil, who still stood motionless, his eyes on Lena. “Come on, Emil,” he said, impatient, then turned to Breimer. “I’ll see you in Frankfurt. Thanks for everything.”

“Died in the war?” Emil called to Lena. “That’s how we leave each other?”

She turned back, looking at him angrily. “No, I’m leaving you with Peter. Now go.”

“With Peter? What does that mean? What do you mean by that?” Frustrated, his voice louder.

Jake looked over at Lena, her face still hard, and for an instant he thought she might do it, as easily as Gunther’s waitress asking for a check. Then she glanced at Professor Brandt and lowered her head.

“Nothing. Like the rest of it. It means nothing. Go away.” She walked over to the window, not looking back.

“Come on, Emil,” Shaeffer said, leading him down the stairs.

“Well, that’s a hell of a thing,” Breimer said to Jake. “You ought to talk to her. Acting like that. Who the hell does she think—”

“One more word and I’ll flatten you. I won’t even wait for the next election to vote you out.”

Breimer looked at him, startled. “Now, don’t get all hot. No disrespect meant. I suppose under the circumstances- Still, that’s no way to act. After everything he’s been through. Hell, after everything you’ve been through. Joe told me what you did for us. I know, you like to think you’re a wise-ass-you are, too,” he said, glancing up. “You’re a hard man to like, you know that? But then we get down to the short hairs and you came through. I take my hat off to you for that one.” He stopped, the words sounding hollow even to him. “Anyway, we got him, that’s the main thing. But these people—” He looked toward Lena. “I’ll never understand them if I live to be a hundred. You do everything for them—”

“What are we doing for them?” Jake said quietly. “I’d like to know.”

“Why, we’re helping them, that’s what,” Breimer said easily. “Got to, now. Who else is going to do it, the Russians? Look at this place. You can see what they’ve been through.”

Jake looked down at the runway. A faint clunk of propellers, Emil and Shaeffer hurrying past the ground crew to the plane. Across the field the light had come up, pale and dusty, hanging over the miles of broken houses.

“Do you have any idea what happened here?” he said, half to himself. “I mean, any idea?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me. Well, I know all about that, so let me tell you something. I like to look ahead. What’s past is past. All these people want to do is forget. You can’t blame them for that.”

“So that’s what we’re going to do,” Jake said, suddenly tired, his shoulder starting to ache again. “Help them forget.”

“You want to put it that way, yes, I guess we are. The good Germans, anyway.”

“Like Brandt,” Jake said, watching him board the plane.

“Certainly like Brandt. Who else?”

“One of the good ones,” Jake said, moving away from the window and glancing over toward Lena, standing with her hand half raised, ready to wave. He turned to Breimer. “Is that what you think?”

Breimer looked at him, eyes steady. “He has to be, doesn’t he?” he said smoothly. “He’s one of ours.