Rosa

SIX

In the summer of 1903, married less than a year and recently promoted to detective sergeant, Hoffner had taken Martha out to Wannsee for a day at the beach. He had put a little extra money in his pocket and they had rented two chairs and an umbrella and a cabana-tent of their own. She had packed sandwiches and a bottle of Sekt to celebrate, and after lunch they had changed into swimming clothes and waded out to where the water was coolest. Side by side and staring out across the endless lake, he had finally agreed to have a family. Martha had reached down into the water and pulled up a pebble as a keepsake. Hoffner had found it in a box by their bed the day he had buried her.

The following morning he had been relieved of duty. Prager had talked about the strain of it all, that a man couldn’t be expected to run a case in his position-any case-but the real impetus for Hoffner’s ouster was far more transparent: Prager had been told to clear him out. The order had come from beyond the walls of the Alex. There was nothing either of them could do.

Tonight, Hoffner’s refuge was a grotty little bar deep inside the maze that was Prenzlauer Berg, sawdust strewn across its floor for whatever the shadows might be failing to hide. A woman hovered shamelessly by the bartender, the dim light working in her favor: there might just be a warm bed for her tonight. The rest of the clientele showed a little more decorum: chins drooped to chests, aimless fingers clasped at half-filled glasses. Only the sudden shaking of a head and the quick tossing-back of a drink gave any indication that the place was anything more than a repository for propped-up corpses. Hoffner checked the bottle in front of him and saw it was whiskey he had been pouring back tonight.

Time had taken an odd turn in the past few days: it had slipped by with a steady indifference even as it had remained fixed on that moment in Kremmener Strasse. For the first time, Berlin was pushing forward without him: two more bodies had been found in Charlottenburg; the panic had returned. More than that, rekindled accusations of Kripo incompetence now hung over the city like so many added layers of soiled snow. There was even talk of corruption.

The papers, of course, were rewriting the past. Wouters was no longer the demented madman but the scapegoat for an investigation that had gone terribly wrong: what was the Kripo hiding? The fact that the little Belgian had been shot while wheeling around his final victim had somehow been lost to a collective bout of amnesia. It was even beginning to take its toll on the fledgling government: who was protecting Berlin?

Hoffner read through the articles-coherent moments between bottles-and let everything drift past him. Poor Fichte looked so hapless on all those front pages, no one to buy him a drink this time round.

Hoffner felt a shadow as a figure appeared at the end of his table.

“You’ve enough for two?” said a voice.

Hoffner looked up to see Leo Jogiches standing with an empty glass in hand; Jogiches placed the glass on the table: it had only been a matter of time, thought Hoffner. He took the glass and filled it.

“Difficult to track you down,” said Jogiches as he sat.

“I didn’t know anyone was looking.”

“I’ve had a man at your flat.”

“Then he must have been very lonely.”

Jogiches took a sip of the whiskey. “Keeping yourself busy,” he said as he nodded over at the bottle.

Hoffner poured one for himself. “Not as busy as you,” he said as he set the bottle down; he tapped at the paper that was on the table. “Can’t open one of these without reading about your General Strike. Workers of the world. .” Hoffner snorted quietly to himself. “It won’t make any difference.”

The Party had called the strike three days ago, even though Jogiches had known it was a mistake: still, Eisner’s assassination had given everyone hope. Who was he to stamp on that? “Worth a try,” said Jogiches. “Someone had to keep them on their toes.”

Hoffner took a drink.

Jogiches said, “I was sorry to read about your wife.”

“Were you?” Hoffner kept his eyes on his glass. “They send a very clear message.”

Jogiches finished off his whiskey and said, “So Munich was a success?”

Hoffner wondered if Jogiches ever saw a human side in all of this. He said plainly, “If by success you mean it was enough to provoke them to kill my wife, then yes.” Hoffner refilled his glass.

Compassion made Jogiches uncomfortable. He said awkwardly, “There are children?”

The questions were growing more absurd. Hoffner laughed bitterly to himself. “Yes,” he said with surprising sharpness. “There are children.” He had spoken to no one about this, and a week’s worth of resentments now spilled out. “And since you’re so interested, the older boy blames me for her death, while the little one hasn’t said a word since. He was asleep when it happened-when they came and took my wife-so you can see how lucky he was, but there’s always the chance that he heard something, isn’t there? A few shouts from beyond the bedroom?” Hoffner took his glass and eyed the liquid. “They’re living with her sisters now.” This carried an added sourness. “Best for everyone, I imagine.” He tossed back the whiskey and placed the glass on the table. “You’ve made the effort. We can move on.”

Jogiches might have expected the venom; or if not, at least he understood it. Either way, he was happy enough to leave it behind them. “So you’ve seen today’s papers?”

“Today’s, yesterday’s, makes no difference.”

“Ah, but it does. They’ve widened their scope.” Hoffner didn’t follow. “The Kripo isn’t all that they’re after, Herr Inspector. Word is that the carvings are being inspired by a lace design. A design from a very specific source.”

It took Hoffner a moment to sift through the booze. When he did, he recalled Brenner’s warning. “They’re claiming it’s a Jew?”

Jogiches nodded. “A boy was beaten outside a shop in the Kurfrstendamm. There was broken glass and some writing at a synagogue.”

For the first time in days, Hoffner stepped outside of himself. The hysteria was taking on a distinct Thulian flavor. Jogiches saw the shift in his expression and said, “And that would be consistent with what you found in Munich?”

Hoffner stared across the table; for several moments he said nothing. He knew he could either pour himself another drink or he could answer. It was as simple as that. Finally he said, “Who was the third prisoner at the Eden?”

Jogiches allowed himself a smile. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you, Inspector?”

Hoffner heard the echoes of “cause” and “truth” in the question: how little Jogiches understood. “The third prisoner,” he repeated.

“A man named Pieck. One of Rosa’s former students. His bad luck to be at the flat the night they were taken.”

“And he saw everything?”

“Yes.”

“They simply let him go?”

“False papers. Good enough to convince the halfwits of the Schtzen-Division. They’ve never been terribly bright over there. Pieck slipped away in the confusion.”

“And you trust him?”

“About this, yes.”

“So who gave the orders to separate them?”

“Wolfgang Nepp.” Jogiches paused for effect. “Former Wehrmacht general, and current Deputy Minister of Defense.”

This was the last item in Jogiches’s private cache, though it hardly made any difference: if the Munich loonies had drummed up disciples in the officer corps and the Polpo, why then not in Ebert’s government? Not that Hoffner needed a reason to share what he had with Jogiches: the events of the last week had made discretion somehow pass.

Hoffner traced the line from Wouters through the substitution of the now-dead Urlicher to the beer-hall Eckart, and finally to Herr Doktor Manstein and the Thulian Society. He explained the military connections to the Ascomycete 4, and the link between the Rosenthaler station design and the directors of Ganz-Neurath-those Prussian business interests. He ran through the details on the second carver-the jagged versus the smooth lines-then Tamshik’s appearance at the Ochsenhof, and through it all Jogiches listened intently, never once asking a question.

When Hoffner was finished, he poured himself a glass and said, “All the pieces, mein Herr. Nice and neat. You can do with them what you will.” Hoffner shot back the whiskey and poured himself another. He expected Jogiches to get up, but the man continued to stare at him from across the table. When it became apparent that Jogiches had no intention of leaving, Hoffner said, “Not enough for you?”

Jogiches waited before answering. “Is it for you?” he said.

Hoffner had answered the question days ago: it was why he was still here. “Let’s just say we don’t share the same needs, you and I.”

“Things have resolved themselves to your satisfaction, then?”

Hoffner did his best to ignore the goading. There was no point in going down this path. He said, “How much of this did you know in January?” Jogiches showed a moment’s surprise. “Rcker’s bar,” said Hoffner. “The day after she was killed. You were there, keeping an eye on me.”

Jogiches recalled their first encounter. “The tired professor. I didn’t think you would have remembered that.” He nodded his approval. “Groener,” he said. “He’d seen Rosa and the carvings when she first came in that morning, and knew the case would go to you. He got in touch with me, told me where I might find you. I suppose I wanted to see the sort of man who would be asked to make sense of it.”

“And?”

“You didn’t seem a complete idiot.”

“No,” Hoffner corrected. “And how much did you know?”

Jogiches took the bottle and refilled his glass. “Not enough to have stopped the killings, if that’s what you mean. Pieck found me the night before. He told me that Rosa had been taken by Vogel. I knew she was no maniac’s victim.” He was about to drink, when he said, “Or, rather, I knew she wasn’t your maniac’s victim. Which meant that there was something more to her killing, and more to your killings, than either of us realized at the time.” He finished his whiskey.

“And Munich?”

“That came later, after you’d caught the Belgian. There was money flowing into the Schtzen-Division. Rifleman Runge wasn’t shy about spending his. It took me time to trace it. A Munich doctor. More than that I couldn’t find. I assume he was your Herr Manstein. Groener also found telephone logs for calls to and from Munich by a Polpo detective.”

“Braun,” said Hoffner.

“Yes. He was also meeting with Nepp on a regular basis. The arrogance of these people astounds me.”

Hoffner thought about his own trip to Munich: and what had that been, he wondered. He said, “So this Pieck is willing to come forward?”

“If it comes to that.”

Hoffner saw something in Jogiches’s eyes. “You don’t know where he is, do you?”

Jogiches waited: there was nothing apologetic in the tone when he spoke. “No,” he said. “Not that it would make any difference. A Red pointing the finger. . who’s going to place much stock in that?”

It was an obvious point, but one that Hoffner would never have thought Jogiches willing to accept, at least not so graciously. And then it struck him, the reason why Jogiches had been with this from the start: the reason he was still at the table. “But a Kripo Detective. . that’s something entirely different, isn’t it?” Hoffner waited for a reaction; when none came, he said, “You or your friend Pieck put things together and no one has to pay attention. You let the Kripo put it together and suddenly there’s a legitimate case.”

For several long moments, Jogiches continued to hold Hoffner’s stare. He then raised his eyebrows and said, “And there it is.” Again he waited. “Tell me, Inspector, would you have trusted anything I might have given you openly? The former lover out for revenge, the mad revolutionary desperate for chaos? Was I wrong? It was all in the aid of truth, so what difference does it make? I certainly wouldn’t have trusted you had the positions been reversed.”

“You wouldn’t have trusted me regardless of the positions.”

“Fair enough.”

For the first time in a week Hoffner felt a different kind of hostility, one aimed out, not in. It perched at the base of his throat and was oddly comforting. “And now I’m meant to finish what you started, is that it?” he said.

“I started nothing,” said Jogiches. “I simply chose the best route to an end.”

“Regardless of the consequences.”

“You and I aren’t all that different in that regard, are we, Inspector?” Jogiches could be equally biting. When Hoffner said nothing, Jogiches said, “You’re not the only one to have lost something in this.”

Hoffner remained silent: there was nothing he could say to defend himself.

Jogiches shifted tone: “When was the last time you saw a bed?” Hoffner couldn’t remember; he shrugged. “You need sleep,” Jogiches said as he stood. “I have a place.” Hoffner shook his head, but Jogiches already had the bottle. He turned to the bartender. “We’ll take this with us.” The man nodded distractedly and went back to the woman. Jogiches turned to Hoffner. “You need to get up now.”

It was close to eleven when they stepped outside. Hoffner had lost track of the time hours ago-days ago-and was struck by the pitch black of the night sky. Why, he wondered, had he imagined it to be earlier? He breathed in deeply-only a twinge now from his ribs-and let the rawness fill his lungs. He had almost forgotten the taste of crisp air; it cleared his head. He recalled having spent a night at the Hotel Palme in and among the whores and pickpockets, the sight of its tattered awning up ahead now a reminder of muffled voices and thuds coming from somewhere beyond his walls as he had drifted in and out of sleep. He had chosen the Palme for a reason. He now remembered that, as well.

Two streets on, he turned right. Jogiches stopped behind him and said, “Where are you going?”

Hoffner spoke over his shoulder as he continued to walk. “This won’t take long.” With no other choice, Jogiches caught up and the two walked in silence.

The street might have been any other, a lamp here and there to offer the pretense of civility, but the chipped walls and occasional shattered window of the flats above made plain what kind of life lay within. Even where a strip of light peeked through from the edge of a drawn shade, there was no warmth beyond it. This was a street meant to be forgotten, and it was why Hoffner had chosen it.

He mounted the steps to one of the stoops and pressed his thumb twice, then twice again, against the bell for the third-floor flat. Jogiches had remained down in the street. Hoffner peered up and saw a curtain ripple. Half a minute later he heard footsteps through the door. It opened and a dim light spilled out onto the stoop.

Lina held her arms tightly across her chest, her best defense against the chill in a thin dress. She was without makeup, her skin an ashy white, her eyes smaller and less severe than usual: Hoffner had never noticed the natural beauty in her face. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said, and she shook her head. “It’s all right, then?” he said. “The place?” Hoffner had called in a favor, a black-market meats peddler who kept a spare room. At least Lina was eating well. She nodded. He said, “It shouldn’t be more than another few days, just to be safe. You have money?”

“I’m going tomorrow.”

Hoffner shook his head. “They might still have someone watching your place.”

“Not there,” she said. Her eyes dropped as she spoke. “I have an uncle in Oldenburg. In the north. He has a shop.”

This was something Hoffner had never considered. He had imagined that he could place her safely away for a time, lose himself, and then return to open the cage: a final act of contrition. Maybe then she would keep him somewhere in her memory, but that, too, seemed not to be. He did his best to sound encouraging. “A flower shop?”

She looked up and tried a smile, but there was too much sadness in her eyes. “I hope not.”

“It’ll be better there, I imagine.” Hoffner had no idea why he had said it.

She nodded unconvincingly. “The boy is all right?”

The boy, he thought. Fifteen-year-old Sascha. What, then, was a girl of nineteen? Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out the few bills he had. “You’ll want this for the train.”

She shook her head and said, “I’m all right. Give it to Elise. She’ll need it for the rent.” She took in a deep breath and glanced up at the sky as she tightened her arms around her chest. “I’m not running away, you know. It’s just too much right now.”

Hoffner took her hand and placed the money in her palm. So many things to notice for the first time: the smallness of a wrist, the slenderness of her fingers. He saw her shiver. “You should go in,” he said.

Her fingers closed around his hand. “You could come up?”

The warmth of her body and the promise of a bed, he thought: if only it were that simple. He shook his head and took back his hand. Her neck was now a rippling of gooseflesh.

She said, “There really isn’t anything here for me, is there?”

Hope and despair, like a wake trailing behind him: Hoffner could feel himself being pulled in. “You should take a taxi,” he said. “As close to the time as possible. No reason to be out on the platform longer than you have to be.”

She was reaching for him even as he spoke, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her cheek pulled tight into his neck. He felt the warmth of her breath, and he placed his arm around her. There was life within her embrace, a sudden strength that was all the more wrenching as she pulled away, her arms folded to her chest. Her face was again a placid gray. “You don’t think it will be this way, and then of course it is. Silly, really.”

He could tell how much she wanted from him, now with nothing else beyond this single moment. How difficult would it be to give her that? He said, “When this is over-”

“Yes.” She cut him off. She didn’t want to hear it; it was enough that he had tried. She ran her hand across his chest. She then turned away. A moment later, the door shut behind her.

Jogiches was kind enough not to ask. The two walked in silence, Jogiches directing them with a nod for a street, a building.

The room he had found was no better than what they had just left behind. This one, however, was a step down from the street, recessed behind the stoop and with thick bars across its door and single window. Jogiches rummaged for a key: the door squealed open and he led Hoffner inside. He struck a match and brought the dank little space to life. An oil lamp was by the door and he adjusted the flame.

Pipes were bare along the ceiling, and the cracks in the walls spread out in a topography of tiny streamlets and rivers. The smell of mold and decay was matched only by the stench of urine. A mattress-long past its prime-lay in the corner. Hovering above it stood a large metal trunk. Hoffner wondered what it was to have the remnants of one’s life always at arm’s reach.

“Landlord doesn’t know I’m here,” said Jogiches, as if the point wasn’t obvious. “You take the mattress. I don’t sleep much these days.”

Exhaustion had been tracking Hoffner like a marksman; he could feel the squeezing of the trigger from behind him. He moved across to the mattress.

Jogiches rested his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. “You’ll be taking that when this is done.” Hoffner looked over and saw Jogiches nodding toward the trunk. “Her papers. All of them. Everything she had.” Jogiches kept the lamp between his knees. “Not much chance of revolution now, is there, general strikes notwithstanding? Even I know it. But that”-Jogiches again nodded to the trunk-“that has to live beyond this.”

Hoffner knelt down and opened the trunk’s lid. He pulled back a thick blanket that had been placed across the top: Jogiches was keeping the contents warm and dry despite his own squalor. Even in shadow, Hoffner could make out the stacks of books and loose pages that were piled high to the edge.

Jogiches said, “We both know I won’t be here long enough to make sure of that.” He pulled his coat tighter around his chest and seemed to lose himself for a moment. “To make sure of any of it, I suppose.” He looked back at Hoffner. “Put the blanket over it and close the lid.”

The irony of a trunk as Rosa’s final resting place was not lost on Hoffner. He did as he was told. “And the cause lives on,” he murmured under his breath.

There was a snort of acknowledgment from across the room. Hoffner turned, surprised that Jogiches had heard: the eyes were barely open; the head was cocked to one side; the shadow above seemed to paint him in the pose of a hanging man. Jogiches nodded slowly, his eyes still closed: “The cause,” he echoed. “She wanted to take her life. Did you know that? Just before the war. She said it was finished, that the workers had betrayed themselves by voting for the rearmament. One day a united proletariat, the next enemies at war. She was right, of course.” His head tilted back as if he were remembering something. “I said we should go together, a final noble act, but she managed to see something else in it. A prelude, she said. The last slap to the workers’ faces. Then they would see how they had been used. Then they would climb from their trenches and tear down the world that had imprisoned them for so long.” He stopped and his eyes opened. He stared distantly into the dark. “‘I am, I was, I shall be.’” His gaze was almost wistful. He looked over at Hoffner. “She wrote that the day before they took her. Not about herself but about the revolution. Yes, I know-cause, truth-you find it all absurd, but that’s not what’s in that trunk. What’s there is faith, hope-even in moments of greatest despair-that she could see beyond herself, beyond the corruption and human frailty, and imagine what could be.” His head fell back against the wall and again he shut his eyes. “And if you find that nave, Inspector, then you haven’t nearly understood what it is you’re now up against.”

Here at last was the humanity, thought Hoffner. Jogiches had recognized in Rosa something more vital than his own cold conviction, and it was that, and that alone, that he was now desperate to save. Hoffner said, “You surprise me.”

Jogiches kept his eyes closed. “How so?”

“A romantic at the end?”

Jogiches found a smile somewhere. “And what is it for you, then, Inspector? Loose ends? A detective’s need to mop things up? I don’t believe that, and neither, I suspect, do you.”

Hoffner had no reason to disagree. He said, “So what would she have done now?”

Jogiches opened his eyes and peered over at Hoffner-that familiar, impenetrable gaze. “She would have gotten some sleep,” he said.

Hoffner needed no more by way of encouragement. The lamp flared out and they slipped off into quiet darkness.

Later, Hoffner had a dream. He was in the water of Wannsee, staring out into the endless blue, when he heard the sound of splashing coming out toward him. He turned, but the sun was too much in his eyes and he saw only the outline of a figure, a woman-Martha-drawing closer. He put up his hand to shield his eyes, but he could barely make her out. He turned back to the blue and waited for her to join him.

“You raced so far ahead,” she said when she was almost to him.

Hoffner ran his hands through the water and he turned to see Rosa standing next to him.

“I’ve brought you this,” she said as she handed him the pebble.

Hoffner took it and rubbed his thumb across its smoothness. It suddenly felt like sand and began to crumble in his palm.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I can bring you another.” She started to go, but Hoffner reached out and took her arm.

“Why?” he said.

“Why?” she said with a kind smile. She pulled away and her face became Lina’s. “Because it’s enough that you want it.” He felt himself losing his footing. He fell back into the water and his eyes opened.

It was several moments before Hoffner realized where he was. He heard Jogiches’s breathing from somewhere across the room and he brought himself up to his elbows. Dreams usually exhausted him: they required unpacking. This one, however, had left him strangely refreshed.

It was true: he had raced too far ahead and had let himself get lost in things that were still too much for him-sacrifice and redemption, nobility and despair-and while he had been forced to confront and ultimately concede to them in the world of Martha and his boys and Lina-all of it beyond his control-he had also let them seep into the one place where they had no right to be: his case. He had gotten caught up in the larger ideas-Thulian or socialist, it made no difference-and had let them color his perception. They were clouding the details, and the one detail that had forever been out of place-the one that had stood apart from the very start-was Rosa. Everything led to her. It was only now that Hoffner recognized why that had never been the point. What mattered-what he had failed to grasp all along-was that these men wanted her: they had wanted her from the start. And if they wanted her, then he needed to take her from them. It was as simple as that. Let them come to him, then, and explain why.

“Jogiches,” he said as he got to his feet. “What do you say to a bath?” He heard movement from across the room.

An anxious whisper followed: “Who’s. .?” Jogiches caught himself; he, too, had been drifting elsewhere. A match flared and the lamp lit up. Hoffner checked his watch. Three-fifteen. “Is it safe to leave the trunk here?” he said.

Jogiches needed another moment to find his focus. “The trunk?” he said. “I imagine. Yes. As safe as anywhere.” It was only when he was on his feet that he thought to ask, “A bath?” Jogiches looked genuinely puzzled. “What about a bath?”

It took them nearly half an hour to get across town to the Admiral’s Palace, even at this time of night. The steam rooms were a common destination for Berlin’s night-crawl crowd-open once again through the night now that the city had come back to its senses-and where a few marks and forty minutes were all that was needed to rejuvenate any set of tired bones or aching heads. For the most devoted-those who saw the pools and steam baths only by first light-it was known as the “clean break,” the stop between bar and desk. It was remarkable how a few minutes sweating out the booze could make a day at the office seem almost bearable.

Hoffner paid for both himself and Jogiches and, after a quick stop at the locker stalls, emerged to the common lounge decked out in slippers and a Turkish towel; Jogiches had opted for the full robe and hood: he looked like a slightly bedraggled Druid.

It was an impressive place, two stories high, with a colonnade of black and white marble columns under an open balcony that ran the perimeter of the four walls. A few of the denizens were peering down, catching a breath before returning to their self-imposed swelter boxes. Others sat below in thick leather chairs, reading papers or talking casually to one another. A series of Persian rugs dotted the floor. One might have guessed that this was the setting for an afternoon tea, had each of the men not been in various states of undress. The fattest invariably sat au naturel. Hoffner wondered if it was a lack of towel girth or simply pride that had prompted the choices.

He led Jogiches up the stairs and toward the last of the rooms on the right. A large, powerfully built man stood at the door in nothing but white socks: he had little to be ashamed of. He held a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and was showing extreme care each time he removed it to flick away the ash.

“Private room,” he said through a cloud of smoke.

“Tell him Nikolai Hoffner wants to see him.”

The man glanced over at Jogiches. “And?”

“Just tell him Hoffner.”

The man sized them up again, and then knocked once over his shoulder. A moment later a plume of steam billowed from the half-opened door to reveal a second, equally impressive titan, who was drenched in sweat. “Nikolai Hoffner,” said the first man. The door closed and the three stood staring at each other while they waited. “Drop the robe and the towel,” said the man. “And the slippers. Nothing goes in.” Jogiches and Hoffner did as they were told: they were now three naked silent men.

The knock came and the man nodded them through.

The sting of hot, moist air was instantaneous, as was the hiss of gushing steam. As far as Hoffner could make out, the room was all white tile, including the floor: he had to steady himself against the wall to keep from slipping. His skin had gone instantly slick, and the puffed air made it impossible to see more than a half-meter in front of him.

“Watch yourself there, Inspector,” came a voice from across the room. “Let’s see that you make it across alive.” It was joined by a small chorus of laughter. “Turn it down, Zenlo,” said the voice. Hoffner heard the squeal of a valve being spun. Instantly the hiss choked off and the steam began its slow descent to the floor. As the air cleared, Hoffner saw the six or seven men who were seated across the room on two step-levels. They might have passed for a klatch of well-fed businessmen if not for the collection of odd scars and discolorations on their cheeks, arms, and chests. Marks of the trade, thought Hoffner. No wonder they liked the baths: a nightly chance to wash away their sins.

On the topmost step, and in the far corner, sat an equally naked Alby Pimm.

Pimm was small and pale by comparison to the rest, with a shock of curly jet-black hair that made him look almost boyish. His face, however, said otherwise. It had that weathered look of forty-odd years living off the streets, time spent climbing to the top ranks of the Immertreu, one of Berlin’s more notorious syndicates. Just now Pimm was enjoying a rather charmed relationship with the Kripo. He had proved himself useful during the war-keeping an eye on undesirables and foreigners-and had thus earned himself something of a free hand when it came to his less-violent enterprises: black-market trade, a little extortion-these passed without too much interference. Anything more serious, however, was still fair game.

Pimm said with a smile, “Not with us in an official capacity, are you, Inspector?” The men laughed again, and Hoffner pointed to a spot on the lower step. “Be my guest,” said Pimm. “And this is. .” Pimm needed another moment to find the name. “Herr Jogiches, isn’t it?” Jogiches said nothing as the two men sat. “Odd little pairing.” More laughter.

Hoffner said, “I need to talk to you.”

“You are talking to me.”

“Alone.”

“Ah.” Pimm was enjoying this. He took a drink from a small wooden box that sat at his side. “A bull and a Red,” he said. “What times we live in.” He took a second drink and then bobbed his head toward the door: the men began to take their towels and file out. The last in line was a long, lanky fellow with the most angular face Hoffner had ever seen: there looked to be just enough skin on the cheeks and nose to cover the bone, although the eye sockets seemed to be wanting a bit more. “Zenlo,” Pimm said. The man turned. “Stay by the door.” The man nodded and stepped outside.

Hoffner was now dripping with sweat. He pulled his hand across his face to clear his eyes. Pimm slid the box across the tile toward him and said, “That’s how the Japanese drink their water. The wood keeps it cool. Clever little people.”

“I could do with something a bit stronger,” said Hoffner.

“Not in here you couldn’t. That’s what you’re pissing out. Trust me, take the water.” Pimm watched as Hoffner reached up for the box and drank; he then said, “I don’t know who’s doing all the killing, if that’s why you’re here. Bad for business all around. I thought you’d finished it with the Belgian.”

Hoffner slid the box back. “Bad for more than business.”

Pimm nodded slowly. “Yah.” He picked up a bowl of water and, leaning forward, tipped it over his head. “I was sorry to hear about that.” He remained stooped over. “That revolution of yours didn’t do me much good, either, Herr Spartakus.”

Jogiches was feeling the heat in his beard. He dabbed a bit of water onto his cheeks. “My apologies,” he said.

Pimm laughed to himself and spat. He tipped a second bowl over himself and sat up. “So, what is it you gentlemen want?”

Hoffner had propped his elbows on his knees. He felt the sweat drip from his chin, and watched as it splattered on the tile between his feet. “I want you to break into the fourth floor of the Alex and steal a body.” Hoffner took a bowl of his own and tipped it over his head.

Again Pimm laughed. “You want what?” Hoffner remained bent over in silence. It took Pimm another few seconds to realize that Hoffner was serious. The laughter stopped. “And why would I do that?”

Hoffner continued to gaze at the floor. “Because it would be good for business.”

Five minutes later Pimm was no more convinced. “No one’s going to believe that,” he said.

Hoffner agreed. “You’re probably right.”

“I don’t believe it.” Pimm was picking at something on his chest. “You’ve been spending too much time with your friend here.” Pimm looked over at Jogiches. “You don’t say much, do you, Herr Spartakus?”

Jogiches returned the stare.

Pimm said, “You know, I’ve always wondered-why are so many of you Reds Jews? Why make people hate you twice?”

Jogiches answered without hesitation: “Persistence.”

Pimm smiled and flicked something onto the floor. He said, “Trust me, I want to see Weigland hanging by his balls as much as anyone-”

Hoffner cut in. “I never said it was Weigland.”

Pimm nodded. “No. You never did.” He stood and moved over to the valve. He turned it twice and the steam hissed back into action. “You cramp up without it,” he said. “The Japanese have girls who rub your legs while you sit. Keeps the blood moving. We tried it, but German girls sweat too much and stink up the place. Plus they thought it was for sex. They didn’t understand the aesthetic.” He was back at his towel. “And you’re sure it’s her? Our little Rosa?” Hoffner nodded. Pimm tugged at his ear. “And this helps me how, again?”

“How much sugar are you planning to move with the Freikorps breathing down your neck?” said Hoffner. “Ebert makes things a good deal easier.”

“Order makes things easier,” Pimm said bluntly. The steam was already beginning to rise; he waved a cloud from his face. “That’s something your second-story safecracker doesn’t follow. A little anarchy works just fine for him; the bulls are occupied elsewhere and he makes a killing. But an organization-that needs routine. That needs people settled, safe. Right, left-makes no difference to me.”

“Then why chance another bump in the road when things are moving so smoothly now?”

Pimm bobbed his head as if conceding the point. He then took a towel and wiped his face. When he spoke, it was with a focus that was wholly unexpected: “The reason so many of you Reds are Jews, Herr Spartakus, is that a Jew is told to create heaven on earth. The next world, messiahs, fear of hell-never really been the point, has it? The Jew is meant to do it here, now. And the ones who get tired of waiting become Reds because for them, socialism is heaven on earth. The perfect world, and with no God telling them what to do this time. Everyone just as good as the rest. Everyone looking out for the rest. The Red can’t tell you how you’re supposed to get there-in fact, all he can tell you is what you’re not supposed to do and what won’t be there-but, still, he thinks he can build it. Sound familiar, does it?” Pimm paused. “Your Red never loses what makes him a Jew; he simply shifts his focus.” Pimm held Jogiches’s gaze and then turned to Hoffner. “You get my help, Inspector, not because it’s good for business, or because the devil I know is better than the devil I don’t, but because, even if nothing else of what you’re saying is true, I have no interest in having one more lunatic tell me that my elimination is part of his grand plan.” He shouted to the door. “Zenlo.” The man appeared instantly. “We’re going east. Tell the boys.”

Pimm a Jew, and a political one at that, thought Hoffner: the world was full of surprises. At least this one was working in their favor.

Back at Pimm’s offices-two large rooms above a repair garage, furniture, a telephone-Pimm produced a series of remarkably accurate layouts of the Alex’s third and fourth floors. He had had enough boys inside for a night or two, he explained. Someone was bound to remember something.

Equally remarkable was the ease with which Pimm and Jogiches got down to the planning of the thing. For Hoffner, it was like listening to a book being read in reverse: they were beginning where he always ended-with the inception of a crime-and they were leading to the moment that was his first. Hoffner was too tired to reconfigure his mind. He found a couch, sat back, and let it all pass in front of him.

The sun was just coming up, and a stream of men began to make their way up the stairs and into the offices. They were an odd collection of shapes and sizes-swindlers and thieves-and each with something to show for a night’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the telltale appendage of Berlin’s underbelly. Not that any of these men could have afforded the fine Dutch tobacco advertised on the top flaps. No, these boxes were filled with “jimmies” and “little aldermen”-always arranged in order of size-and, most important, a few S-hooks. After all, even housebreakers’ tools deserved their nicknames: a jimmy your crowbar, a little alderman your picklock. An S-hook needed no such distinction. It was what it was, and could have you through a door in close to ten seconds if you knew what you were doing. For the less adept, a “ripper”-that ancient drilling tool-would get you in, but it was never as elegant. Those who worked for Pimm were S-hook men: they walked with a certain swagger.

Odder still was the businesslike efficiency with which everything was managed: one of the titans from the steam baths was behind a desk writing out slips for money and goods received, the men patiently waiting in line, all with a deferential nod for Pimm, who was too busy with Jogiches across the room to take any notice. The titan passed on the slips to a man who was tallying them up, who then passed them to a third who was writing feverishly into a ledger. No doubt those who were missing this morning’s accounting would be visited later, but for now the process seemed far removed from the world that these men usually inhabited. Hoffner recognized a face here and there: it was nice to see that the men had found steady work.

Jogiches called over: “Which room on the floor?” Hoffner realized the question was for him, and he pushed himself up and stepped over to the table that was already thick with sheets of paper filled with diagrams and notes: they might just as well have been in Chinese for all that Hoffner could make of them. Jogiches pulled over one of the layouts and repeated the question.

“I don’t know,” said Hoffner.

Pimm and Jogiches exchanged a glance. Pimm said, “That’s something we have to know.”

Hoffner understood.

Jogiches said, “You can’t go back in yourself, you know.”

Hoffner nodded. Even he had known that from the start.

Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland kept himself buttoned up to the neck as he peered out from the rear seat of his Daimler sedan. The automobile was an older model-a gift to himself on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding-but it was still in excellent condition. Weigland had made sure to hire a good man to see to its upkeep: a former mechanic with the Kripo. A man to be trusted. That man was now seated behind the wheel and in full chauffeur’s attire, awaiting instructions.

“You’re sure you saw her go in?” said Weigland. He had arrived by cab five minutes ago after getting the call.

The man had been very clear on the telephone. He was no less certain now. “Yes, mein Herr.”

“And she hasn’t come out?”

“No, mein Herr.”

The car was parked at the edge of a narrow alleyway. Weigland’s eyes were fixed on the side mirror, which had been reangled so as to keep the building behind them in its sites. “Maybe we turn the motor on to get a bit of heat, don’t you think?”

The man in the front seat pressed the starter and the car came to life.

“Much better,” said Weigland.

“Yes, mein Herr.”

They sat in silence for another ten minutes before Weigland saw the front door to the building pull open. The girl appeared. Weigland hitched forward on his seat, but waited until she was out of view before reaching for the handle. “Take the car home,” he said as he pushed the door open. He stepped to the cobblestones and quietly shut the door behind him. He then made his way to the edge of the alley and peered out. Finding the girl halfway down the street, Weigland began to follow.

It was a quarter to seven when Hoffner stepped from the tram. The fruit and vegetable carts were already up and running, as was a tinker’s stand that was directly in front of Fichte’s building. The man was hammering away at an old pot as a woman looked on: unlikely that Fichte was sleeping through that.

Hoffner bought an apple and remained by the carts. Fichte had picked a nice spot, just right for a bachelor detective. The street denizens probably felt safer knowing that a young Kripo man was living here; or at least they had felt that way until this week.

Hoffner was tossing away his third core when he saw Fichte emerge at the top of his stoop. The boy was a shadow of himself, his face pale and sunken, his eyes wrecked from nights without sleep. Hoffner waited until Fichte had reached the bottom of the steps before making his way over. Fichte was keeping his head down as he walked. He nearly walked past Hoffner, but for some reason looked up at the last moment. He stopped.

Hoffner thought he saw a moment of relief in the boy’s eyes, as if Fichte had finally found someone with whom to share his burdens. An equally quick flash of disgust followed, then pity, all of which dissolved into a look of resigned exhaustion. Fichte hadn’t the energy to feel anything lasting for Hoffner.

“Hello, Nikolai.”

“Hans.”

They stood silently until Fichte said, “She hasn’t been in touch with me, if that’s what you want. I don’t know where she is.” He began to move off, but Hoffner stopped him.

“That’s not why I’m here, Hans.”

Fichte was too tired to find the reason. He said, “Look, I was sorry. . I mean, I am sorry. . about all of that. . your Martha. . ” Fichte was floundering.

Hoffner cut him off. “Can we get a coffee somewhere?”

Fichte hesitated. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why? Because your Herr Braun might disapprove?”

Fichte looked as if he might answer; instead he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his inhaler. He took a quick suck.

“That bad, is it?” said Hoffner.

Fichte coughed once and spat. “It’s not that simple.”

“I’ve been reading the papers, Hans. It looks pretty simple to me.”

Fichte said nothing; he hadn’t the will to argue.

They found a cafe and settled in at a table amid the morning rush, men behind papers, girls lost in chatter. No one was taking any notice of the two detectives.

“This is what they had in mind all along, isn’t it?” said Fichte. He kept his hands cupped around his coffee for warmth.

Hoffner had no reason to make the boy feel any worse than he already did. He shrugged and said, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“It’s all the second carver, you know.” Fichte spoke in a hushed tone. “Braun won’t let me release it. He says it would only make things worse. I don’t understand that. It wouldn’t make things worse for you or me.” Hoffner took a sip of his coffee and let Fichte talk. “It’s all going to fall on me, isn’t it? The idiot in the papers. The bull who’s been covering up something. I don’t even know what they’re talking about.” Fichte was slowly unraveling. “A member of the Reichs Ministry was by to have a chat with me. There might have to be formal charges if things don’t get wrapped up quickly.” Again Fichte shook his head to himself. “Formal charges.”

“They won’t do that,” said Hoffner with as much reassurance as he could. “They’d come after me first.” He saw a glimmer of hope in Fichte’s eyes and said, “The minister’s name wasn’t Nepp by any chance, was it?”

Surprise quickly turned to relief. The glimmer grew. “Yes,” said Fichte. “Why?”

Hoffner nodded. There was no point in rattling the boy further. He said, “Where are they keeping her?” Fichte was too tired to follow. “Rosa,” said Hoffner. “Where is she?”

The pain returned to Fichte’s eyes; he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Hoffner had expected Braun to toss the boy at least this bone. “Can you find out?”

“Why are they doing this?” Fichte said with a child’s incredulity. “If they want me to look stupid, I can do that just fine on my own.”

“It’s not you, Hans.”

“Then, what?”

Even now it was all beyond Fichte; Braun had chosen wisely. Hoffner wondered if in fact that choice had been made as early as last November: had Prager been encouraged to assign Fichte to him all those months ago? Hoffner said, “Can you find out where she is?” Fichte thought for a moment and then nodded. “No heroics, Hans. Just the room.”

Again Fichte nodded. “Where do I send the information?”

“You don’t. You bring it in person.” Hoffner checked his watch. “Two hours. Rcker’s bar.” He stood and left a coin on the table. “She’s gone to live with an uncle in Oldenburg.” Hoffner saw the hope in the boy’s eyes. “You go and find her when this is over.” Hoffner placed his hat on his head and made his way to the door.

Twenty minutes later he stood on the tree-lined Sterner Strasse. It was over a year since he had seen the place, the pleasant little street, the playful curtains in the windows. It was not the Berlin he knew. Here, life actually sprouted in the flowerpots; there might even have been friends among the neighbors, an accountant’s wife, a bachelor schoolteacher with whom to share a tea or a chocolate now and then. No doubt Giselle and Eva had long ago given up trying to find the man a wife: he preferred the company of his students. They had left it at that.

Giselle had come to Kreuzberg on the afternoon of the funeral to take the boys. By then, Sascha had already gotten to her, and even if Giselle might have known more about her sister’s marriage than she had been willing to let on, death had a way of hardening the heart. The exchanges had been brief.

Hoffner pulled a wire cord and heard a bell ringing beyond. Half a minute later he heard the sound of several locks being unbolted, then a second series of locks, and finally the door coming open.

Giselle stood in a tile foyer, a glass-paned door behind her that was opened to a hallway. Her skirt and bodice were thick wool, with just a hint of cotton creeping out at the stiff neckline.

“You look dreadful, Nikolai,” she said.

“Thank you. May I come in?”

With a certain reluctance she motioned him through; she then went back to her locks before joining him in the hall. “Georgi’s asleep,” she said. “I don’t want to wake him.”

Hoffner had expected as much; it was not why he had come. “Your lawyer is making do without you?”

“Herr Schmidt has been most kind, yes. He understands the situation.” She corrected herself. “Not the entirety of the situation. Herr Doktor Keubel has been equally considerate with Eva. Until Georgi returns to school, we are to be here with him.”

“Good,” said Hoffner. “Then I need you to take the boys away for a few days. Into the country.” He gave her no time to respond. “Not to friends or relatives. A train, an hour away. It doesn’t need to be more than that. Find a small hotel and sign with a different name, not your own. Do you understand?”

Confusion registered as disdain in her face. “What are you talking about, Nikolai?”

Hoffner had no interest in pacifying her. “What wasn’t clear in what I just said?” He had never spoken to her in this tone; her shock stifled any further questions. “You need to go this morning. Wake Georgi, get Sascha.” She blanched at the suggestion. “What?” he said briskly.

For several seconds, she seemed uncertain how to respond. Finally the resolve drained from her. “I have something for you,” she said. “Wait here.” She left him in the hall and half a minute later returned with an envelope, which she handed to him. His full name was written across the front in Sascha’s hand. “He left one for us, as well,” she said, trying to explain. “Two days ago. We tried to find you-”

Hoffner put up a hand to stop her. He continued to stare at the envelope. “Two days ago?” he said, more to himself than her.

“Yes.”

Hoffner tore open the envelope and read:

There is no reason for you to come after me if that is something that is even in your mind. I would not come home with you and you would not want to have me back, so let us save ourselves that unpleasantness.I have signed on with a unit of the volunteer corps. I have decided this because I know a few more months of school will be of no use to me when I can be of greater use to my country. These are things you have never understood because you do not see anything but yourself. The Germany I am fighting for will have no place for people like that.You will say that I am still not yet sixteen, but Krieger’s uncle has been of great help in securing a place for me even though I am still a few weeks away from proper age. Herr Kommissar Tamshik has been a true friend to me and has called on a colleague from his army days on my behalf.I am telling you this so that when my brother wishes to visit me he knows where I am. You are not to accompany him when he decides to do this, nor are you to influence his decision in any way. I have tried to explain to Georg what you have done and why I have acted as I have, but, because of you, he is still unable to understand. He has said things to me that are confused and entirely untrue because his mind has been so harmed by the death of our mother. He might never recover from this and you will be the only one to take the blame for that.I am sure you are hoping that I despise you for this, but I have no such feelings. I am without them because you are in my mind no longer a person. It is the same way you have thought about me and my brother and my mother for so long, and now you know what that is like, as well.This will be our last communication. Do not consider me your son. I no longer consider you my father.ALEXANDER KURTZMAN

Hoffner stared at the page. Kurtzman. Sascha had taken his mother’s family name just in case the message had not been clear enough.

The paragraphs were precisely spaced, the letters exact. How many drafts had the boy written before completing this perfect page, Hoffner wondered. There was only one flaw: a slight swelling of ink at the end of the word “untrue.” Had a moment of conscience prompted the hesitation with the pen? Hoffner hoped not. It would be better for Sascha to forget his own last moments with his mother. The same might not be so easy for Georgi.

An anxious Giselle said, “Does he tell you where he’s gone?”

Hoffner was still with the letter. He turned to her: Tamshik would have to wait. He said calmly, “I need you to wake Georgi and get to the station.” He folded the letter and dug it into his pocket.

She pressed, “All he said was that he was leaving.”

Hoffner was growing impatient. “He’ll be fine.”

She said more pointedly, “He said he saw you with a girl.” When Hoffner’s silence became too much, she began to shake her head angrily. “Fine. Yes. We’ll take him out of the city. Now get out of this house.” She ushered him toward the door.

Hoffner stopped her. “I need to see Georgi.”

Her eyes went wide. “You are some piece of work.” She began to push him into the foyer, when a voice broke through at the far end of the hall. “Let him be, Giselle.”

Both turned to see Eva holding Georgi by the hand. The boy was gazing at his father. He showed almost no reaction, such emptiness on so small a face. Hoffner walked over and went down on a knee. He watched as the vacant little eyes stared back at him. In a soft voice, Hoffner said, “Hello there, Georgi.”

They stood like this for perhaps half a minute before the boy’s brow furrowed and his eyes became heavy with tears; still he stood staring. When his lips pursed, Hoffner reached out and pulled him in. He felt the little body shake as Georgi’s face wedged deep into his neck. He felt the sobbing in the boy’s tiny-ribbed back, the small hands clasped tightly around his neck. Hoffner picked him up and began to walk slowly, back and forth, whispering in his ear, over and over, until Georgi began to catch his breath, his body calming, his head resting back on Hoffner’s shoulder. The boy’s cheeks were streaked and red. Hoffner felt the wetness on his own neck. A little hand came up and rested on Hoffner’s cheek, and Georgi said, “Are we going home, Papi?”

The boy’s hope was like an island in the current. Hoffner could see it: real, graspable, and completely uncharted. It was simply a matter of will to carry himself to it. Hoffner placed his hand over the boy’s and said, “Soon.” He pulled Georgi in tight and kissed him, the taste of tears on his cheek. Hoffner turned and saw a kindness in Eva’s gaze, and he handed him to her.

She said brightly, “So how about a little trip today, Georgi?”

The boy kept his eyes on his father. “Are you coming, Papi?”

The current was growing stronger. Hoffner said, “Tomorrow. I’ll come tomorrow.”

“And then we’ll go home?”

For just a moment, Hoffner let himself imagine something beyond the frailty, something of what could be. Surprisingly, it carried no hint of self-disgust. He placed a hand on the boy’s cheek and then turned for the door.

Fichte tried the handle. It was locked and oddly cold, which gave him hope.

His choices had been limited: he needed something large enough for an examining table and storage, but isolated enough to keep it beyond the flow of everyday business. Two archive halls and a conference room later, he arrived at this, an office at the end of a long corridor at the back of the building. The spacing between its door and the next was sufficiently wide. Fichte scanned the corridor and then went to work. The lock was proving a bit more difficult than the others, but he finally managed to get it open. He had kept an S-hook as a souvenir from one of his first arrests: such things were always going missing from the evidence room, badges of honor among the junior officers. Fichte was now pleased to have found a use for it. It also made him feel better about what he was doing: things happened for a reason; no other way to explain why he had taken the hook in the first place, he thought.

The room was pitch black and much colder than the hallway, but it was the odor of formaldehyde that told him he had found her. Fichte shut the door and flicked on the light, and a dull yellow filled the white-tiled space. The windows had been bricked in and, although it was a good deal smaller, the place had the same look and feel of the morgue rooms in the basement: an examining table, shelves for instruments and bottles. The only additions were a woman’s apparel-skirt, bodice, shoes-that hung on various hooks across the room, and a single metal tank that stood against the far wall, underneath one of the absent windows. It was there that Fichte turned his attention.

Resembling an enormous pressure cooker, the tank sported several circular valves on its lid. As Fichte turned the last of them, the hiss of a releasing vacuum-along with an ungodly smell that struck him as rotting cabbage-seeped from the tank. Bringing the tail of his jacket up to his nose and mouth, Fichte pushed open the lid and saw a naked Rosa lying on several planks of wood, which were in turn set atop a bed of ice. Her skin was still remarkably intact and, save for a few tiny decayed bits on her thigh, she looked as if she had been dead for three days at most, not the seven weeks Fichte knew to be the case. Her entire body was covered in a thick layer of grease; even her hair was matted down in the stuff.

It was only then that Fichte thought to examine more closely the contents of the shelves across the room. Almost at once he noticed the collection of jars filled with what he knew to be the same grease. He stepped over and took one. It was labeled ASCOMYCETE 4, and had the eagle crest of the army medical corps stamped above it. A few days ago he might have been surprised, even overwhelmed, to find it here; the greater shock would have been the link to the military corps, but Fichte was beyond such reactions. Instead he opened the jar and sniffed at its contents. It was the same as they had found on Mary Koop, except that this batch had a bit more bite to it: it was in its pure form, having yet to be applied to the skin. Fichte thought of taking a jar for Hoffner, but he knew that would be too dangerous. He closed the lid, placed the jar back on the shelf, and then wrote the name in his notebook, making sure to copy it letter for letter. He then sketched the medical corps insignia and wrote down the number of bottles. Hoffner would be pleased with the work.

Fichte stepped again to the tank. There was really nothing to examine: Rosa was pale and slick and seemed peaceful enough. Fichte closed the lid and resealed the valves. He then took one final look at the room and realized that the label on the jar that he had taken was out of line with the rest. He stepped over and adjusted it. Another nice touch, he thought. Half a minute later he was pulling the door shut as he checked the area around the latch: only someone looking for them would have noticed the hairline scratches. Even so, Fichte licked his thumb-the faint stink of the grease on it-and rubbed a bit of saliva over the wood.

He was feeling quite good about himself as he headed down the corridor: no heroics or missteps, and he had uncovered the name of the grease along with a connection to the army corps. Maybe there was a way out of this, after all?

Any sense of redemption, however, was short-lived, as Herr Oberkommissar Braun appeared at the top of the stairs, coming up from the third floor. Fichte did what he could with a casual nod.

“Herr Bezirkssekretr,” said Braun, with a tight-lipped smile. “Were you looking for me?”

Fichte waited a moment too long to sound convincing. “Yes. . Yes, I was, Herr Oberkommissar.” Braun waited for more. Fichte said, “I was hoping to go over the second-carver theory again-”

Braun cut him off with a frustrated hand. “We’ve been through all of this, Herr Bezirkssekretr. As I said, when that information is necessary you will be told.”

Fichte had no interest in lingering. “Certainly, Herr Oberkommissar,” he said. “I won’t trouble you with it again.”

“And this was the only reason you came up to see me?”

“Yes, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Braun was about to answer when it seemed as if something had just occurred to him-a wince for something he couldn’t quite place-but he dismissed it quickly. “Fine. Any word from Herr Hoffner?”

“No, Herr Oberkommissar. Nothing.”

“And you’ll tell me when he contacts you?”

“Of course, Herr Oberkommissar.”

“Good.” Braun nodded. Fichte offered a clipped bow and headed down the stairs.

It was only when Braun was halfway down the corridor that he realized what it was that had struck him: he had recognized the smell.

At just after eleven, Lina stepped onto the platform. She had done as Hoffner had asked: the train was due to leave in another eight minutes.

Hoffner had been standing in shadow for the past twenty-five-the corridor to the men’s toilet offering an ideal vantage point-when he saw her. She was holding two small valises and was again wearing the blue hat. A porter took her bags and then helped her up. At the top step, she glanced around once, perhaps hoping to see him, and then stepped into the car.

Safe, he thought: he had needed to see it.

Hoffner began to move off when he saw another familiar figure on the platform. Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland had been trailing after her and was now making his way to the train.

Hoffner’s first reaction was to run out and stop him, but Weigland seemed less interested in Lina than in the surrounding crowds. Hoffner pressed farther back into the shadow as Weigland glanced nervously along the platform. It was obvious whom he was looking for; what was less clear was why he had come alone: Hoffner could see no one who looked even remotely like a Polpo detective anywhere on the platform.

Weigland now entered the front car of the train. Again, Hoffner stayed where he was: if Weigland had been interested in taking her, he would have done so already. More likely he was scanning the seats to see if Hoffner had been waiting for her on board. Weigland made quick work of it and emerged from the last of the cars just as the stationmaster was signaling the train’s departure. Weigland looked disappointed. It was an odd reaction, thought Hoffner. Frustration, perhaps, but why disappointment? The train began to make its way out of the station and both men stared after it.

For nearly a minute, neither moved. Finally, Weigland made one more sweep of the platform and then began to head off. Hoffner followed.

One behind the other, they moved through to the main atrium and over to the station entrance. The place was thick with people, and Hoffner had to struggle to narrow the gap between them. When Weigland was almost to the doors, Hoffner drew to within half a meter of him and, pressing up to his side, discreetly took his arm and twisted it back. It was a pleasure to see the momentary wince in the old, bearded face.

Hoffner continued to propel them forward. “Hello, Kriminal-direktor.”

Remarkably, Weigland showed no surprise: in fact, he seemed only too happy to submit. “I was hoping you’d put in an appearance, Nikolai,” he said calmly as he let himself be moved along. “You know this is really quite unnecessary.”

“No one outside these doors, is there, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

“I came alone, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good.” Hoffner took them out into the morning sun. He needed an isolated spot. Most everyone was heading across the plaza and away from the river. Hoffner instead moved Weigland along the side of the station and toward the water. There were a few odd looks from passersby, but everyone was in too much of a hurry to take more than a cursory interest. Thirty meters on, Hoffner directed Weigland off the pavement and into the snow: they headed for the embankment. Weigland slipped once or twice for lack of balance, but Hoffner kept him upright as they moved down the slope. At the bottom, and with no one else in sight, Hoffner tossed the contents of Weigland’s pockets and released him. He had expected to find a pistol. There was none.

The air was much colder here, directly off the water: Hoffner felt it at once on his face. A low wall stood as a barrier against the current, but it was little obstacle for anyone interested in throwing someone in. Both men kept well back of it. Weigland was stretching out his shoulder when he said, “You enjoyed that, did you?”

“How did you find her?”

“A man at her flat.”

“She wasn’t at her flat.”

“Not for the last week, no, but she was there this morning. Six a.m.”

Hoffner recalled the money he had given her: rent for Elise. Lina had been foolish. “Why?” he said.

Weigland looked momentarily puzzled. “So we could have this little chat. Why do you think?”

“The head of the Polpo trails a girl to find a Kripo detective? Why not just have one of your thugs pick me up?”

Again, Weigland seemed surprised by the question. “Because, a, I didn’t know where you were, and b, I don’t trust many of them. Is that the answer you were looking for?” Hoffner said nothing; he had never heard this tone from Weigland. “Now give me a cigarette. It’s damned cold out here.” Hoffner picked up Weigland’s pack and flung it over. “And a light,” said Weigland. Hoffner dug out his own matches and tossed the box over. “I told you to let this go,” said Weigland as he lit up. He shook his head in frustration. “I told you to solve the case and move on. Why couldn’t you do that?”

“Because the case wasn’t over.”

“Yes, yes it was,” said Weigland more emphatically. “Your case was over the moment that little Belgian got shot. Why is it that you always have to know better?”

“The little Belgian wasn’t working alone and we both know that. He was brought here for a reason. He also killed only six women. Someone else killed Luxemburg and the prostitute at the zoo. The same someone who’s killed two more women in the last week.” Hoffner paused. “The same person who killed my wife.” Hoffner waited for Weigland to look directly at him. “The case wasn’t over.”

Weigland’s frustrations came to a boil. “It was for you. And your wife would still be alive if you had understood that.”

Hoffner lashed back. “So why didn’t the great Herr Polpo Direktor do anything to stop it?”

“Because,” Weigland barked, “we needed to find out who was funding all of this activity under our noses.” Weigland realized his voice was carrying: he spoke in a sharp whisper. “You don’t think Braun and his cronies would have willingly volunteered that information, do you? It wasn’t enough to have scum like this in my department. No. They were being told what to do by someone, or some group, that we had yet to find. This isn’t a little criminal case, Nikolai. This isn’t something that ties up neatly and gets folded away in a map when it’s done.”

Hoffner now realized how far he had underestimated Weigland all along. “When?”

“When what?” snapped Weigland.

“When did you know about Braun?”

“Christ, Nikolai. Months ago. Before your case ever began.”

“And Munich?”

Weigland seemed reluctant to say. He took a long pull on his cigarette and glanced out over the river.

Hoffner waited through the silence. “It wouldn’t have been when I made the trip, would it?”

Weigland hesitated before turning to Hoffner. “We were getting close. We would have found it eventually.”

“And in the meantime, a few more bodies pile up?”

“Don’t lecture me, Nikolai. Yes. You did some very clever work. Remarkable even. But you can see where it’s gotten you.”

“You were the one who had the Commissioner remove me from the case, weren’t you? Once, of course, you had the information you needed.” Weigland said nothing. Hoffner added, “Another Hoffner career ambushed at your hands. Well done.”

Weigland snapped back, “Is that what you think?” Weigland waited before unleashing his final volley: “Your father also liked maps, Nikolai, but he wasn’t as clever with them as you are-a great deal of ambition but not a lot of talent, cheap little medals notwithstanding. So, when it was clear that he wasn’t going to make it into the Polpo, it was his idea to leak your mother’s background. He knew what it would do. Let that take the blame instead of the truth.” Weigland paused: he seemed to be lost in a string of long-forgotten arguments. “The trouble was, over the years, he began to believe it himself.” Anger drained out of him. “He was a good friend,” Weigland said absently. “I suppose I let myself believe it, as well.”

Hoffner stared across at Weigland. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. All those years listening to his father rail against the injustice-the betrayal when he had chosen the Kripo over the Polpo, his mother standing meekly by, condemning him with her silence-all of it meaningless. And Weigland had been there, trying to shield him from it all along. Hoffner felt a sudden, distant rage. All those years. He had trouble masking his anger as he spoke: “So why the need to find me? Another trinket you’ve been keeping for me?”

Weigland spoke plainly: “Get yourself out of the city, Nikolai. Until this is done. I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”

“Protect me? You can’t even control your own men.” Before Weigland could answer, Hoffner said, “It ends tonight. Just keep yourself away from the Alex.” Without so much as a nod, Hoffner turned to go.

Weigland called after him. “Why? What happens tonight?”

Hoffner stopped and looked back. “Tonight I relieve you of your burden, Herr Direktor.” He then turned and headed up the embankment.

Fichte was busy with a plate of noodles and sausage-the first time in a week he had found his appetite-when Hoffner stepped into the bar. Only the barkeep seemed to take any notice. The man reached for a bottle of brandy and a glass, but Hoffner shook him off and headed over to Fichte’s table.

“You look better,” said Hoffner.

Fichte swallowed. “You don’t. I’ll get you a plate.”

Hoffner stopped him from calling the man over. “Did you find it?” Fichte nodded and scooped up another helping as Hoffner sat. “And?”

“You’ll be amazed.”

Fichte spoke through mouthfuls, bringing out his notebook and sliding it across the table. Surprisingly, Fichte offered no theories of his own. He simply stated where she was and what he had seen. He might have expected more of a reaction, but was happy enough not to be corrected along the way. When Hoffner remained silent, Fichte grew bolder. “They were supplying Wouters, weren’t they? With the grease, I mean.”

“It looks that way.”

“So they knew what he was doing.”

“Or worse,” said Hoffner.

Fichte understood at once. “You think they brought him here.” Hoffner saw the concentration in Fichte’s eyes. “So why Luxemburg?” Fichte asked.

“That’s why I needed you to find out where she was.”

“You’re going to take her, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tonight. You don’t have to be involved with this, Hans.”

Fichte’s eyes went wide. “They were the ones who killed your wife, weren’t they?” Fichte realized too late the tactlessness of the comment. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte continued, “I am involved in this.”

Hoffner thought as he spoke: “All right, but I don’t know what that means, yet. I’ll telephone you when I do. Two rings and I’ll disengage. We’ll meet here.” Hoffner stood. “And nothing foolish between now and then, Hans. You understand?”

Fichte nodded. He waited until Hoffner was out the door before reaching for his inhaler.

Pimm’s offices were empty, save for a large, lounging man, when Hoffner got back. The man was reading a paper and looked up: the boss would be back soon; Hoffner was supposed to get some sleep; they had all agreed he looked terrible. Too tired to disagree, Hoffner found a sofa in the back and slept.

It might have been two or three hours later when he opened his eyes. He felt no less exhausted and his wrist had cramped from its angle under his chest. He tried to twist it loose as he sat up, and realized that he had somehow slept through the arrival of perhaps a dozen men who were around the far table with Pimm and Jogiches. These weren’t the same breed as this morning, though they were just as identifiable: hobnail boots and balloon caps were the costume of Berlin’s working class-the self-proclaimed proletariat in these circles. Hand any of them a cigar box-or clip a bit of facial scruff, thought Hoffner-and they might just have passed for Pimm’s minions, except perhaps for the sour look of commitment in each of their eyes. That was Jogiches’s work: he was transformed in front of them, feeding off their quiet reverence. Hoffner doubted that Jogiches had had more than a few hours of sleep-pockets here and there-over the last month. There was no telling it, though, in front of his disciples.

Hoffner’s mouth was stale; he went in search of something and found a bottle of beer. It was warm, but he knew it would settle his stomach. He made his way over to the table and listened.

“. . between eight and eight-fifteen.” Jogiches had a map of Berlin on the table and was pointing to various streets around the Alex. “Any earlier than that will do us no good.” He noticed Hoffner. “You’re with us again, then?” Hoffner mock-toasted with the bottle and let Jogiches carry on. Jogiches addressed the men: “How you get them there is up to you, but it’s absolutely crucial that they avoid any sort of scuffle until they get to Alexanderplatz. You have to make this clear.”

Jogiches took a stab at something inspirational, but it was too late for such gestures: the men had been given something to do. It was enough for them to do it.

When the last of them had gone, Hoffner said, “I thought the time for revolution had passed.”

Jogiches was gathering up the papers. “It has.”

“Do they know that?” said Hoffner.

Jogiches looked up, but it was Pimm who answered. “Does it matter?” he said. “Theft always needs a bit of misdirection, and now we have it.”

Hoffner didn’t see the logic. “First sign of trouble and Braun will get her out of there. He’s too clever for that.”

Jogiches answered, “Not if the bait is too good to pass up.” Hoffner wasn’t following. It was only when Jogiches continued to stare at him that Hoffner understood.

“They’ll kill you if they take you,” said Hoffner.

Jogiches nodded. “More than likely, yes. But they’ll all want to be there when they do, just to find out how much of it I know, how much you know.” Before Hoffner could answer, Jogiches said, “You’ll have Rosa, they’ll have me. Seems a fair trade.”

Hoffner couldn’t help his cynicism. “And you’ll have your final noble act.”

Jogiches shook his head; he seemed strangely at peace. “Nothing so grand,” he said quietly. He went back to the pages. “It’s only a matter of days before they track me down. We both know that.” He picked up the last of the stacks and looked at Hoffner. “I can’t choose when or how I die, Inspector, but I can choose why. And that, in the end, will have to be enough.”

Fichte had been up in Braun’s office ever since getting back from Rcker’s. For some reason, Braun had chosen today to take him through the various methods of interrogation that the Polpo employed. Fichte had tried to move things along and was praying that he hadn’t missed the telephone call when he finally got back to his office. He called down to the switchboard and, to his relief, was told that nothing had come in.

It was nearly four when the phone finally rang. Fichte counted ten before calling the operator.

“Bezirkssekretr Fichte here,” he said. “Was there an error made just now?”

A woman answered quickly. “I don’t believe so, Herr Bezirkssekretr,” she said. “I put the call through, but the party must have disengaged.”

“Thank you, Frulein.”

Fichte grabbed his coat and moved down the corridor: his heart was racing. He felt a momentary twinge in his chest and reached into his coat pocket: nerves always worked their worst. He took two quick sucks on his inhaler and then headed down the stairs. Things were about to be set right, he thought. Fichte permitted himself a momentary wave of exhilaration.

He was nearly to the landing when he noticed a sweet metallic taste in his mouth, followed by a sudden heat in his lungs. He stopped and placed his hand on the banister. For a moment he thought it was simply overexcitement, but his chest suddenly convulsed and he began to choke for breath. It felt as if his throat had sealed entirely. He dropped down and struggled to bring his inhaler up to his mouth, but he was losing focus, and there was a drumming in his ears as if he were about to faint. Frantically he wrapped his lips around the nozzle; he pressed down on the cap, but it was too late. Hans Fichte was already dead by the time the mist had passed his tongue.

The rain had returned, and the streets around the square ran with melting snow.

Hoffner gazed out from the darkness and into the drizzled lamplight. They had chosen a small storefront, its display window offering a perfect view of the side entrances to the Alex. A few soldiers were wandering aimlessly up by the square; another two had positioned themselves inside a doorway across the street and were doing what they could to keep dry: these were the only signs of life. One of Pimm’s men pulled out a cigarette and a voice by the door whispered, “You light that and you lose a finger.” Pimm had placed Zenlo in charge; he was little more than a skeleton’s shadow skulking by the door as he stared out, listening and watching.

Hoffner had waited nearly an hour at Rcker’s. When Fichte had failed to show, Hoffner had told himself that the boy had simply lost his nerve; anything other than that was too much to consider. Across town, Pimm had not been pleased: he had wanted Hoffner nowhere near the Alex tonight, but the best-laid plans. . “And you’re sure they’ll come for her?”

Hoffner had been sure. “As long as you have everyone in place.”

Pimm had nodded. “He’s done work for me before. He’ll do what he’s told.”

Now it was just after eight, and the first echoes were beginning to rise up from beyond the square, a distant bellowing as if the streets themselves were sucking in for air. No one who had lived through December or January could have mistaken the sound for anything other than an approaching throng. The bodies were massing on the other side of the Platz. The soldiers had heard it as well, and began to head up the street.

“Forty minutes,” said Zenlo. He turned back to the men. “Now you can have your cigarette, idiot.”

There was hardly room to breathe.

Jogiches had forgotten the feel of a surging mob, the pulse of bodies all around him. He had forgotten the mood that comes with a column of arms and legs striding as one, the song in the footfall, the rhythm that drains each man of his singularity. It was nearly fifteen years since he had stepped from the shadows and onto the line: then there had been possibility, purpose-Warsaw, Rosa; now he marched alone, drifting within the current, yet no part of it. He gazed up into the night sky and felt the rain on his face, the taste of moist air in his lungs, and he breathed in with a sense of finality. The men around him strode with no such appreciation. For Jogiches, these were the only sensations left to him.

The column turned and the bodies poured out into the square. Jogiches felt the tempo rise. He saw the swarms spilling out from across the square and he ran, faster and faster, just as the first cracks of gunfire echoed into the night.

Zenlo led Hoffner across the cobblestones and over to the gate. Somewhere beyond the building the battle raged on, but here-on the side street and less than a hundred meters from it-there was an eerie stillness. The army reserves had yet to be called in: only the square had been engaged. Hoffner pulled out his key and opened the outer lock. Zenlo struck a match, and within half a minute the five men were inside the Alex.

The walk to the back stairs was uneventful: all activity was taking place on the other side of the building. What shouts and scampering they heard continued to move away from them. Even so, Hoffner paused at each landing as he led the men up.

At the fourth floor, he stopped again. There was no reason for it: the place felt as deserted as the rest. He began to move, when Zenlo grabbed him from behind and pulled him back down the steps. The grip was remarkable and utterly immobilizing. A moment later, Hoffner heard the faint sound of footfalls rising from down the corridor. He had been completely unaware of it until this moment: clearly these were men who knew their business. Hoffner pressed himself up against the wall with the rest and listened as Zenlo pulled a short blade from his pocket and held it flat against his leg.

The sound grew closer, and a shadow appeared on the corridor wall. From this angle, Hoffner could make out only the top of a head as it passed. He thought it might have been Kommissar Braun making his way to the front of the building, but it was only a guess. Hoffner said nothing and waited in the silence. Half a minute passed before Zenlo quietly pocketed the knife. He then motioned for Hoffner to lead them up to the landing.

The corridor was equally still, the door handle as cold as Fichte had described it. At once, one of the men went to work on the lock and within seconds had it open. He stepped back and let Hoffner push open the door. When all five men were inside, Zenlo closed the door behind them and flicked on the light.

The precision of the next few minutes astounded Hoffner. He had always attributed a certain recklessness to theft: this had the grace of a choreographed ballet, two men with the burlap tarp for her body, two others at the tank. Hoffner focused on the jars. Taking them one by one to the sink, he turned on the faucet and began to dump out the contents. The stink of the grease forced him to place his handkerchief up to his face; even with it, he felt a momentary wooziness and had to turn away: this was no time for hallucinations. Only then did he notice a second examining table up against the wall on the far side of the door. A sheeted body lay on top, one of its hands having slipped out. Hoffner placed the bottle on the counter and stepped over. There was no reason to wonder what he would find: Hoffner knew who lay beneath.

Fichte’s cold stare gazed up into the light as Hoffner pulled back the sheet: Braun hadn’t even bothered to shut the boy’s eyes. Hoffner did so, and saw the slight discoloring on the lips and tongue. He bent over and smelled the faint metallic scent that lingered in the mouth. Hoffner guessed prussic, maybe oxalic acid: in Fichte’s lungs, either would have been instantly fatal.

There was nothing serene in the face, no peace at the end. The boy looked as muddled by his own death as by those he had investigated and had never fully understood. Hoffner tried not to think of those last moments, Fichte clinging to the hope that things could be made right, only to be brought face-to-face with his own futility. Perhaps Fichte had made it only to confusion. That was Hoffner’s hope for the boy.

He reached down and repositioned the hand on the chest, then stood there a moment longer before pulling the sheet over the face. Hoffner turned back to the counter, took the next jar, and began to empty it.

Jogiches’s jaw was already swollen, and his lip badly cut, by the time Braun stepped into the cell.

It was a damp, soulless place, set off from the rest of the cells with just these sorts of interviews in mind. Jogiches sat cuffed to a chair, his arms pulled tight behind his back. Tamshik had been going at him for a good twenty minutes; Hermannsohn had been battering away with an endless array of questions: neither had produced any results.

Tamshik stepped back as Braun pulled over a second chair and placed it in front of Jogiches. Braun sat. “It looks like it’s all falling apart up there, mein Herr,” said Braun with a goading sympathy. “The barracks guards in the square. A tank from the Schloss armory. We might even see a flamethrower or two.” Braun curled a smile even as Jogiches stared beyond him. “A bit of a waste, wasn’t it?” Braun reached out his arm and Hermannsohn handed him a file: Braun began to flip through the pages as he spoke. “Not really like you to put in an appearance at one of these things, is it, mein Herr? And to be taken in the first wave of arrests. Now, that was sloppy.” Braun paused on a page. “Next time you’ll have to be a bit more careful, won’t you?” Braun looked up. “At least with your friends, we were forced to track them down.” Jogiches continued to stare ahead as Braun’s gaze hardened. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what Herr Hoffner knows about Munich, what he knows about the Hotel Eden, and anything else you think I might want to hear.”

The room fell silent. Jogiches let his eyes drop to Braun’s. He waited before speaking: “Remarkable,” said Jogiches, “how one little Jewess has caused you such problems, Herr Oberkommissar. Letting her fall into the canal. . now, that was the mistake, wasn’t it?” Jogiches saw the momentary tensing in Braun’s jaw. Jogiches spat a string of blood onto the floor and asked, “Do you have the time, Herr Oberkommissar?” He spoke as if he were at a cafe, sharing a coffee with a friend.

Braun hesitated. “The time?”

Jogiches enjoyed watching the wheels spin behind the callous expression. “Around nine, nine-thirty, is it?” Jogiches nodded to himself. “I’d just like to know how long Rosa’s been out of the building, that’s all.” He saw the momentary flash in Braun’s eyes and continued: “I suppose I will have to be a bit more careful next time, Herr Oberkommissar, try not to be so sloppy.” Jogiches paused and then added, “As, I imagine, will you.”

Braun stifled his reaction. “You think you’ve done something clever, do you?” When Jogiches said nothing, Braun stood, adding with a too-practiced calm, “It won’t make any difference.”

Jogiches again locked his eyes on the far wall. “Oh, I think we both know that’s not true.” She was safe, he thought; he could let her go. He closed his eyes.

Now, thought Jogiches, I am absolutely alone.

Braun stared at the unnervingly serene face. He looked across at Tamshik and said, “Make sure the prisoner doesn’t try to escape.” Braun then turned and headed out of the cell.

Jogiches waited for the touch of the steel on his skin. He listened for the squeeze of the trigger. Both came more quickly than he expected.

The car was waiting outside, its exhaust puffing like a cigar in the cold and damp. The door opened and Hoffner stepped up to the front seat as the men laid Rosa across the back floorboards. With a quick release, Pimm put the car into gear and jolted them down the nearest side street.

“No problems?” said Pimm as he glanced into his mirror.

“Nothing on our end,” said Hoffner.

“Good. Then our friend must have been successful.” Pimm took a quick turn; the buildings peeled past in a gray wash of stone and glass. “You know my associate?”

Little Franz was seated between them. The boy had found himself a scarf and was smoking a cigarette. A nice bit of wool, thought Hoffner. “Stepping up in the world, eh, Franz?”

Franz continued to gaze out the windshield, his tiny fingers wrapped around his cigarette as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. In Pimm’s presence, Franz was a much tougher prospect. “I was told to come along,” said the boy, the “Herr Oberkommissar” conspicuously absent.

Pimm said, “He needs to learn sometime. You won’t hold it against him, will you?”

Hoffner nodded at the cigarette. “You have another?” Franz fished one from his pocket and handed it to Hoffner. “We’ll call it even, then.” Hoffner lit up.

Pimm took them west, making sure to keep clear of any residual scuff-ups along the way. The government had reacted quickly: armored cars and light artillery-vast metal rhinos standing sentry-had already cordoned off the streets leading into the square. It was difficult to tell just how many troops Ebert had sent in; at every turn there seemed to be another unit marching in formation: it was more than enough to conjure memories of early January.

“They’re going to make quick work of this,” said Pimm. “Wouldn’t want to be back in that square.”

“Yah,” Hoffner grunted. He continued to gaze out. “So. . what do you think, Franz? Was it worth it to get her out?” The boy seemed surprised to be asked; he shrugged lazily. Hoffner nodded to himself and then spoke across to Pimm. “I’d love to see the look on Braun’s face when they find she’s gone missing. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Pimm shifted gears and said, “Just so long as you keep the Kripo out of my back pocket for the next few weeks, we’re settled.” He took another quick turn and Hoffner put a hand to the roof so as to keep from flattening the boy. “That was the agreement,” said Pimm as the car straightened. “You want to gum up the works with your friends in the Polpo, not my business. You don’t keep up your end with me, and I’ll bring her right back.”

Hoffner laughed quietly. “Fair enough.” He was glad to see little Franz following every word.

It was nearly ten when they pulled up to the construction fencing outside the Rosenthaler station, Pimm having doubled back when they had gotten far enough north to avoid any trouble. Even here, the sounds of Alexanderplatz crackled overhead through the rain: no one was venturing out, which made for a very private transport of the body up the ramp. At the ladder down into the site, the largest of the men hoisted Rosa onto his shoulder. He steadied his grip on the slick rungs and headed down. Three minutes later the small group, including Franz, stood in the main cavern. Pimm had set it up nicely with a few torches to brighten up the place.

“Perfect,” said Hoffner. “The last place Braun would look.”

Pimm nodded to his man to set her down; he then turned to Hoffner. “So we’re good here?” he said impatiently. Pimm had his hat in his hand and was fingering the water from the brim. “We’ve done our bit?”

Hoffner said, “I need to get her into one of the back caverns.”

Pimm motioned his men to the ladder. “Well, you enjoy that, then.” He placed his hat on his head as his men began to climb.

“Hold on,” Hoffner said with surprise. “I can’t do that on my own, not with my ribs.”

Pimm grabbed on to the ladder. “We’re on a schedule, Inspector. We got her here. You want her someplace else, that’s up to you.” He waved over to the boy. “You, too, Franz. Let’s go.”

Franz began to follow. Hoffner said, “At least leave me the boy. Forty minutes, an hour at the most. I’ll get someone. I need him to stay with the body.”

Pimm let out a frustrated breath. He turned to Hoffner. “All right. Fine. Forty minutes.” He took a step up the first rung and looked back at the boy. “You come by the office afterward. We’ll square it.” He waited for a nod from Franz and then headed up.

Five minutes later, Hoffner joined Pimm and his men in an alley across from the site. They all stood in the shadows, eyes fixed on the ramp.

“You could have had a career on the stage,” said Hoffner as he watched and waited.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Pimm. “You’re sure he’s-”

Franz appeared at the top of the ramp. He slipped on the wood and then bounded out into the square before heading south toward Alexanderplatz.

Hoffner stepped from the shadows and said, “I’m sure.”

Rosa lay quietly in the outline that had once been Mary Koop’s. They had done their best to scrub her clean of the grease. They had even clothed her. Even so, her hair was still slick, and her face had an odd shine to it, especially in the torchlight: she looked as if she had been swimming.

Hoffner was kneeling by her side, his coat heavy from the rain. He had been like this for several minutes, replaying the dream and the pebble and the sun in his eyes as he had tried to find her. Odd, he thought, to be alone with her now. She had been words to him, an image in his head, alive and defiant: here, she seemed so much less than that. This was death, a body-a tool-nothing more. She was being used again, and for that, Hoffner felt his only remorse.

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching from beyond the cavern’s opening, and he slowly tightened the grip around his pistol: he kept it low, hidden behind Rosa’s torso. From the sound of it, there were several men making their way back. Hoffner tried to pick out the exact number: it was the only way he knew to keep his mind focused.

A light began to grow, the beam bobbing to the rhythm of the steps as they drew closer. Hoffner heard a whispering of voices, indistinct words dulled by the wood and dirt. A single “There” broke through, and a moment later two young soldiers-Freikorps from their uniforms-stepped into the shadowed chamber. Immediately they raised their rifles, keeping Hoffner in their sights. Braun was directly behind them; he stepped past them as a second man appeared at the opening. The man had a strikingly handsome face and carried a small jar in his hands.

Braun spoke with his usual charm: “What a surprising sense of symmetry you have, Herr Oberkommissar. The Rosenthaler Platz. Wouters’s den. One might even say there’s a sentimental side to you.” Hoffner said nothing.

The second man now stepped forward. His focus was on Rosa. He seemed agitated. “They’ve removed the unguent.”

Braun put up a hand to stop him. “Step away from the body, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Hoffner remained where he was. “You can tell Herr Doktor Manstein that I’m quite harmless, Herr Braun. Especially when I’ve got two rifles aimed at my chest.”

Braun showed only a moment’s surprise. “And what else did you learn on your trip to Munich, Herr Oberkommissar?”

Hoffner spoke across to Manstein. “Your father-in-law did excellent work creating this little haven for Wouters, Herr Doktor. Naturally the idea was yours.”

Manstein studied Hoffner. He said nothing.

“I’m guessing the engineer Sazonov wasn’t much of an expense,” Hoffner continued. “Or his family. No reason to pay the dead.” Hoffner saw a glimmer of confirmation in the eyes. “Must have been difficult being away from Munich all that time. The only one who knew how to apply the Ascomycete 4 to Frulein Koop, the only one who could placate Wouters with the appropriate injections between escapades, though I’m sure Herr Direktor Schumpert was delighted to have his daughter and grandchildren in the city for such an extended period of time.”

Manstein stared at him without a trace of emotion. “Am I meant to be impressed?”

“But that’s not all you were good for, was it, Herr Doktor?” said Hoffner.

Manstein’s gaze grew colder still. “Can we shoot him now and get on with this?”

Hoffner looked at Braun. “That would make it quite a day for you, wouldn’t it, Herr Braun?”

“Even with your back up against it,” said Braun. “I will give you that.” Braun unclipped his holster. “You’re going to be my second carver, Herr Hoffner. Quite a story for the papers. Killing your own wife. Now, what kind of mind does that?” Braun began to pull out his pistol.

Without warning, six of Pimm’s men emerged from the shadows, their guns drawn. Two had appeared from just outside the opening and now had their pistols pressed up against each of the soldiers’ necks. The rifles were quickly handed over. Braun had turned at the sudden movement, and when he looked back, the barrel of Hoffner’s pistol was staring him in the face. Hoffner reached over and took Braun’s gun. He then nodded him over to a pair of chairs that Pimm was placing at the center of the cavern. Braun showed remarkable restraint as he made his way over.

“So tell me,” said Braun as Zenlo tied off his hands behind him. “How is little Franz?”

“Don’t worry,” said Hoffner. “He still thinks he was helping you.”

“Which means he’ll know you were the one to pull the trigger when I end up dead, won’t he?”

Hoffner holstered his gun and said, “Now, why would I want to do that?”

Pimm nodded over to the men by the soldiers. “Get the two of them out of here. Keep them busy for a few hours. Shoot them if you have to.”

Hoffner waited until the Freikorps boys were gone before speaking. He picked up the jar and said, “Your private stash, Herr Doktor?” Manstein remained silent. “It was the only way I could think of getting you back here. How long do you think before she needs another slathering?”

Braun said, “If you’re not going to kill us, Herr Oberkommissar, then this is going to be a very long night.”

Hoffner nodded as if in agreement. “I said I wasn’t going to kill you, Herr Braun. I can’t speak for my friends, here.” Hoffner hurled the jar against the wall and watched as the glass and grease shattered to the ground. “Wouters,” he said, again nodding to himself. “That was such a clever choice, wasn’t it? Old women and lace. Luxemburg and Jew-baiting, all in one.” He turned to Manstein. “It must have taken you months to find him. . all the way back to June of ’18. But then, you were already familiar with Sint-Walburga and their intriguing new patient, weren’t you?” Hoffner saw a moment of recognition in Manstein’s otherwise implacable stare. “Did they call you in to consult on the original case? Or was it a letter from a colleague that introduced you to Herr Wouters?” Manstein’s silence was confirmation enough. “Very impressive, Herr Doktor. You knew the war was lost, the Kaiser was on shaky ground. And we were suddenly at peace with the Russians-who knew what to expect from the socialists after that? But to see all the way through to November, to revolution. .” Hoffner looked across at Pimm. “That was very impressive, don’t you think?”

Pimm perked up at being included. “Oh yes,” he said with a nod. “Very.”

Manstein snorted dismissively.

“It wasn’t very impressive, mein Herr?” said Hoffner.

Manstein refused to look at Hoffner. “Just because you don’t understand a thing doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.” His voice had a refined quality: schools, breeding, a sense of entitlement. Manstein did nothing to hide his contempt. “It was a precautionary measure.” He now looked up. “Evidently it was a precaution worth taking.”

Hoffner said, “So you did all of this just to cover up killing Luxemburg?”

Manstein looked genuinely perplexed by the question. “Is that what you think, Herr Policeman?”

It wasn’t, but Hoffner needed to engage the man. Braun saw what Hoffner was after and tried to stop it. “Herr Doktor, you don’t have to say anything-”

“Shut up, Braun.” Manstein continued to stare up at Hoffner.

Braun held his own. “You’d be wise to let me take care of this.”

“I’m tied to a chair in an excavation pit. I think you’ve done all you can.”

Braun insisted: “He hasn’t an inkling of what’s going on here.”

“He has her,” Manstein cut in. “And I don’t think he’ll be giving her back.” It was a cold, unflappable stare that now peered at Hoffner. “You won’t be giving her back to us, will you, Herr Oberkommissar?”

Evidently the marriage between the Thulians and the Polpo had been one of convenience. Hoffner knew he needed to take full advantage of that. “Did you enjoy the work, Herr Doktor?” he asked.

For the first time, uncertainty flashed through Manstein’s eyes. “Excuse me?”

Hoffner gave Braun no time to interrupt: “It’s a shame you didn’t study your patient more closely. I imagine you were a bit too clever there, as well.” Hoffner watched as the uncertainty grew. “For the longest time, I couldn’t understand why Wouters’s knife work was so smooth while the second carver’s was so jagged and angled. I assumed it was someone like Tamshik, or even Braun here, but then the accuracy of the lines on the back was too good-too close to the original-not to be someone who actually had some skill with a knife. But to make it look too good, that would have been a problem, wouldn’t it? So you had to alter your hand. After all, Wouters was mad, and didn’t madness imply a kind of frenzy with the cutting? You must have watched him, seen him slice up the backs of those women, so you’d know how to re-create the pattern. But you didn’t watch him closely enough, did you? This was an art for him. Battered and bloody hands hadn’t stopped him as a boy from creating the most delicate lace patterns. His work was pristine.” Hoffner paused. “Unlike yours.”

Manstein stared coldly ahead.

“The Tiergarten whore,” said Hoffner. “You got impatient. The Polpo wanted you to wait, but that was unacceptable. Wouters wasn’t killing fast enough, and he was staying in the wrong part of town. You needed him in the Westend so you could get the kind of hysteria you wanted. Such a perfect spot, the U-Bahn station at the zoo. The threat of east coming west. Tell me, Herr Doktor, was it only the carving, or did you do the killing, as well?”

Braun had heard enough: “Don’t let him do this.”

Manstein ignored Braun: “More efficient that way, wouldn’t you say, Herr Oberkommissar?”

With sudden venom, Hoffner cracked the back of his hand across Manstein’s face. Manstein showed almost no reaction, while Braun flinched. Manstein’s lip began to bleed and he licked at it with his tongue. “Does that make you feel better, Herr Oberkommissar?”

Hoffner was doing all he could to maintain his self-control: how easy it would be to beat this man to death, he thought. “Why Luxemburg?” he said.

Manstein spat a wad of blood. “You seem to be doing so well on your own. Why don’t you tell me?”

Braun tried again. “This is exactly what he wants. How is it that you’re incapable of seeing that?”

Manstein spat again. “Never the larger picture with you, Braun, is it?” Manstein wiped his chin on his shoulder and then looked up at Hoffner. “Go on, Detective. See if you can figure this out before Herr Braun here manages it.”

It was clear that Manstein wanted to be pressed: that Hoffner had yet to figure out why was no reason to disappoint him. “She was a means to an end,” he said.

Manstein offered another snort of contempt. “If we’re going to state the obvious, I’d prefer the bullet.”

Hoffner was inclined to grant the request, but that wasn’t why he was here; instead, he tried to imagine where Jogiches might have taken things now. “All right,” he said. “Berlin on edge. . Rosa’s body discovered. . not much of a stretch to stir up fear of a Red reprisal for her killing. The Reds ready to strike. .” Hoffner was building momentum. “Enter the Freikorps. Naturally the government gives them free rein to eliminate the problem-we can thank your former General Nepp in Defense for that-and you kill two birds with one stone. The socialists are purged, and your military wing gets a foothold in the political door, and all in the name of reestablishing order.” Hoffner knew there were too many holes in the theory to count. His only hope was that Manstein had found it equally unimpressive.

“A dead Luxemburg?” said Manstein. “Triggering socialist reprisals with the design etched onto her back? And that makes sense to you, Herr Oberkommissar?” Ego was always so transparent with men like this. “Wouldn’t that, in fact, have done just the opposite-allow the Reds to stop worrying about who had killed their beloved Rosa because, now, she would have been nothing more than another unfortunate victim of some madman?” Manstein seemed almost disappointed by Hoffner’s attempt. “Nothing gained there. No one to blame, Herr Oberkommissar. No reason to bring in the Korps.”

It was an odd choice-the word “blame”-thought Hoffner. He tried to see beyond it. If not Wouters, then who? Even Manstein had to admit that the Jews were too vague a target, lace designs notwithstanding. No. Manstein had made it clear that someone else was meant to take responsibility for her death. That was the key. That was why the bodies were piling up all over again. Someone who could. .

Hoffner stopped. Of course. He looked across at Pimm, and the words came back to him. This was a crime like any other, no matter how intricate its planning: and like all crimes, misdirection lay at its core.

Hoffner suddenly understood where he had gone wrong. He had been focusing on what these men had been trying to keep hidden, the layers to be peeled away: that was what made for conspiracy. But what if it was the other way round? What if the key was in what they wanted revealed?

Hoffner looked again at Manstein. “You wanted the Kripo to dig deep, didn’t you, Herr Doktor?”

Mantein’s expression seemed to soften. “Dig, Herr Oberkommissar?” He sounded almost encouraging. “And what was it that you were meant to find?”

Hoffner began to see it. “It’s really quite brilliant, isn’t it? Because it’s exactly what it appears to be. Wouters unleashed on the city. The murders as a ruse to create hysteria. All to cover up Luxemburg’s killing. You wanted it all to come out because it was all meant to lead back to one place. Nepp. Your man in the Defense Ministry.”

“Very good, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Hoffner plowed on. “Nepp was the one to give the orders to separate Luxemburg and Liebknecht that night.” Another flash of clarity. “And he was the one responsible for getting Wouters out of Belgium, wasn’t he?” When Manstein said nothing, Hoffner continued, “Oster’s orders. The ones to get him over the border. They were signed by General Nepp, weren’t they?”

Manstein was actually enjoying this. “Excellent.” Again Braun made a motion to speak, and again Manstein stopped him. “Go on, Herr Oberkommissar.”

“You created the conspiracy with the sole purpose of laying it all at Ebert’s feet. The tragedy of the last two months-it was all meant to be seen as little more than a highly elaborate scheme by the government to get rid of one of its more dangerous enemies. Rosa. Innocent women killed-”

“The city terrorized,” Manstein added with a strange satisfaction.

“Except it’s not you and your Thulian friends who get the blame. The conspiracy comes to light, and it’s Herr Nepp who makes certain to implicate the Social Democrats when he falls on his sword. The government is sent reeling and the Freikorps steps in to bring us all back from the brink.”

“No wonder you managed it so quickly with Wouters,” Manstein said.

Backhanded compliments aside, Hoffner needed to fill in the missing pieces. “So why hold on to her?” he said. “Why not have Rosa’s body discovered in late January? Everything else was in place.”

“Why not indeed?” said Manstein. “Perhaps Herr Braun would like to answer that one?” Braun had given up trying: he sat with a vacant stare. Manstein continued: “Braun underestimated you. He convinced us it would take you several months to find Wouters. By then the city would be in a panic, the murders would be front-page news every day. You had managed to keep the case hidden throughout the revolution. We needed time to build the hysteria, to let Frulein Luxemburg be our crowning jewel, the focus of the conspiracy to come. Unfortunately, you tracked down Wouters too quickly.”

“So why not stop Wouters from taking his victim to the Ochsenhof that night?” Hoffner pressed. “I don’t catch him and the killings go on.” Manstein waited for Hoffner to put it together himself. “You didn’t have Wouters by then, did you?”

“The Koop girl,” Manstein said. “Once you took her, there was nothing to bring him back to the site. The little engineer Sazonov was cleverer than we thought. And once Wouters was gone, he needed to be dead. Tossing Luxemburg out after that, without a captivated public-and with you a hero-would have meant nothing. She would have been the victim of a crime already solved, and without any link to Nepp.”

Something didn’t sit right. “But she was tossed out. The Kripo found her floating in the Landwehr Canal.”

Hoffner had hit a nerve. Again Manstein’s expression soured. “You can thank Rifleman Runge for that.” Manstein shook his head. “The boy got overexcited. Killed her too quickly. The knife work had to be done directly after death, otherwise the skin would have lost its elasticity. I managed to get to him in time, but then that mob you’ve been hearing so much about actually stumbled upon us. Down by the river. No choice but to find an embankment and hide her. Your comrades discovered her before we could get back. Braun was actually something of a help there.”

Hoffner’s mind was racing. Everything to set up Ebert’s government. Everything to place the blame where it least belonged.

“And Eisner?” said Hoffner. “The assassination? Berlin hysteria wasn’t enough? You had to bring it home to Munich, as well?”

“That,” said Manstein, “had nothing to do with us. We wouldn’t have sent a Jew to do our dirty work.”

No need for a coup, thought Hoffner. No need for an assassin’s bullet. With Nepp in place, it had all been much subtler than that. Hoffner said, “And then the digging went too far.”

“Yes,” said Manstein, lingering with the word. “Your trip to Munich was something of an eye-opener. Not that it was as much of a problem as you might think. It was time to start leaving bodies again, build up the hysteria.” Manstein peered directly into Hoffner’s eyes. “That was where we managed two birds with one stone, Herr Oberkommissar. Your wife seemed the perfect choice.”

There was something dead inside Hoffner, and no amount of goading could stir it to life. He said, “You’re taking this all very calmly, Herr Doktor.”

“As are you, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Hoffner said nothing.

“In fact,” Manstein added, “if you think about it, I’m handing it to you, Detective, not taking it.”

Again, Manstein was leading him. “And why is that?” said Hoffner.

“And here I thought you were so much cleverer than Herr Braun and his Polpo.” When Hoffner remained silent, Manstein spoke more deliberately: “As I said, you have her. And without Frau Luxemburg-”

“Yes. No conspiracy,” said Hoffner. “I understand that.”

“Yes, I think you do.” Manstein waited before adding, “But if you arrest us. .”

Hoffner listened to the tone in Manstein’s voice, and allowed himself to see beyond all of this: to the press meetings, the newspapers, Manstein paraded out in front of all of them. And it suddenly became clear. “Too many questions,” Hoffner said, almost to himself. “And ones you’d be only too happy to answer. Either way it would lead them back to Nepp.”

“Precisely,” said Manstein. “And from Nepp to Ebert. The larger picture, Herr Oberkommissar. Obviously, you’re going to dispose of Frulein Luxemburg, so you and I seem to be at an impasse. My friends and I have nothing to ignite our scheme, and you can’t take the risk that exposing us wouldn’t ultimately fall in Ebert’s lap. Your finding all this out-or, rather, your having it spoon-fed to you-stops you from doing anything. Too much to lose. A final safeguard, if you will, even if Herr Braun here didn’t quite understand that. Shame it had to come to this.”

Hoffner thought for a moment. “So why not kill you?”

Manstein was no less poised. “You’re not going to do that, Herr Oberkommissar. It’s not who you are.” Manstein waited. He then let out a long breath and, with surprising candor, said, “So I think we’re done here.” He turned to Zenlo. “You can remove the ropes now.” Manstein jiggled his wrists in Zenlo’s direction.

Hoffner said, “You’re forgetting we still have a murderer on the loose.”

“Oh, you’ll find someone to take the fall for that, Herr Oberkommissar. The Kripo always does. And it’s not as if it would be the first time, now would it?” Manstein turned again to Zenlo. “A knife, please. It’s becoming uncomfortable.”

Hoffner watched as Pimm and Zenlo shared a glance. They were no better prepared for this than Hoffner was. Hoffner said, “And everything goes on as it was? Is that the idea, Herr Doktor?”

For a moment, Manstein looked truly baffled by the question. “‘Goes on as it. .?’ Let me ask you this, Herr Oberkommissar-how long do you think the German people will suffer a Friedrich Ebert Germany? The man’s already talking about running away from Berlin and setting up shop in Weimar. Everything as it was? Does that seem possible to you anymore? All you’ve done here is to delay the inevitable.”

The cavern became uncomfortably quiet. Hoffner tried to find something to say, but he had no answer. If the men in Munich had come this close, this time. . Manstein had him either way. What choice was there?

Hoffner looked over at Zenlo and held out his hand. “Give me your knife,” he said. Again Zenlo looked to Pimm, and again Pimm said nothing. “Your knife,” Hoffner repeated. With no recourse, Zenlo stepped over and placed the knife in Hoffner’s hand. Hoffner was now directly in front of Manstein. He knelt down and said, “You’re right, Herr Doktor.” Without so much as a nod, Hoffner plunged the blade deep into Manstein’s gut. “I do need someone to take the fall.”

Manstein’s expression was less anguish than shock. He coughed once, and Hoffner twisted the knife as he drove it higher and deeper into the flesh. He watched as the eyes searched his own for an answer, the throat choked and silent. “Very few things are inevitable, Herr Doktor. This happens to be one of them.” Hoffner held him there, waiting for the life to drain from him. Manstein’s body jerked once and became still.

Hoffner turned to Braun. The man sat cowering in disbelief as Hoffner let go of the knife and said, “Congratulations, Herr Oberkommissar.” There was nothing in Hoffner’s tone. “You’ve just caught your second carver. What a proud day it is for the Polpo.”

Braun managed to find his voice. “What have you done?”

Strangely, Hoffner felt nothing: no relief, no sense of retribution. All he noticed was a tackiness on his hand-a bit of blood that had caught between his knuckles-and he pulled out his handkerchief. “I’ve made you a hero of the Republic,” he said as he concentrated on the stain. “You’ll have to be careful how much you let out. How far you let the press dig. Otherwise, who knows what they might discover?”

Fighting to find his composure, Braun said, “And why would I do any of this?”

“Because,” came a voice from across the cavern, “you could always be a dead hero, Herr Oberkommissar.” Kriminaldirektor Gerhard Weigland stood just outside the opening to the tunnel. He was alone. He looked over at Pimm and said casually, “Hello, Alby.”

Pimm and the rest watched in silence as Weigland moved slowly into the cavern. It was unclear how long Weigland had been there, although he seemed unmoved by the sight of Manstein’s body. “Sorry to have missed all the festivities, Nikolai. It took a bit of time, convincing the boy to tell us where everyone had gone.”

Once again Hoffner had underestimated Weigland: the warning to stay away from the Alex had done just the opposite. Hoffner stood and said, “Not much to see, Herr Direktor.”

Weigland again peered over at Manstein. “Yes,” he said. “I can see that.” He turned to Braun. “It seems your friend Hermannsohn chose to swallow the end of his gun rather than answer any of our questions about the late Herr Fichte. Herr Tamshik showed less courage. We have him in a cell.”

Braun said defiantly, “I’ll take the gun, if it’s all the same.”

Weigland kept his eyes on Braun. “No. . I think Nikolai’s right. Alive and a hero will be far worse for you. All those eyes keeping a watch on you and your friends.” Weigland had been waiting a long time for this moment: he was making sure to enjoy it. He turned to Hoffner. “But it’s up to you, Nikolai.” Weigland glanced again at Braun, his eyes narrowing for just a moment. “Shoot him if you want.” Weigland then turned and headed out to the tunnel. “I’ll be in the square.”

Hoffner understood. It would make no difference. Weigland simply couldn’t be here to see how things came out.

The footfalls receded and Hoffner reached over and pulled the knife from Manstein’s chest. He began to wipe the blood on his handkerchief. “Shoot you,” he said, thinking for a moment and then peering directly into Braun’s eyes. “Not exactly who I am now, is it?” Hoffner stuffed the handkerchief into Braun’s breast pocket and added, “You’re about to have your picture in all the papers, Herr Oberkommissar. One day, you’ll have to tell me what that’s like.”

Two hours later, Pimm and Hoffner stood staring out across the coal-black current that was the Landwehr Canal. The sound of lapping water against the stone made raw the already biting air. Mercifully, the rain had let up.

Pimm breathed in deeply: he had been trying to make conversation for the past half hour, to no avail. “Weigland’s no idiot,” he said; Hoffner remained silent with a cigarette. “He’ll manage it. Save his own hide. He always does.”

Hoffner nodded distantly. He knew Pimm was right: Weigland would find a way to sell it to the papers, give Berlin what she wanted: a mad doctor from Munich always brought satisfaction. And just in case Braun had missed something in the cavern, Weigland had been crystal clear back at the Alex: “You’re out from under your rock, mein Herr. And that means you can be crushed at any time. It’s going to be a very tight leash.” Deputy Minister Nepp was to serve as the reminder: news of his fatal riding accident would be reaching the back pages a few days from now.

That had left Rosa, who was now wrapped in a tarp and propped up against a tree. Pimm and Hoffner had lugged her nearly half a kilometer through thick snow and wood, and Pimm was still recovering. He coughed up something and spat. “Shall we?” he said.

Hoffner took a last drag on his cigarette, then flicked it to the ground. Without a word, he stepped over and, laying the tarp on the snow, slowly began to unroll her. He had insisted on somewhere remote, close to where she had been dropped all those weeks ago. Out in the west. This seemed as good a place as any.

“Odd, dumping her back in,” said Pimm as he knelt down to help.

Hoffner flipped her on her back. “Not so odd,” he said.

Pimm showed only a moment’s surprise at the return of Hoffner’s voice. “Yah.”

The rumors were already out there: the canal was where the mob had tossed her. More than that, Hoffner knew that the water would bloat her skin, distort the scarring, and leave her back unrecognizable. She would float up eventually-a month, maybe two-but better that than to have her off somewhere plotting her return with Herr Lenin. Rosa needed to float up so that she could be put to rest. It was the least he could do for her.

Hoffner reached into his coat and pulled out the pebble Martha had saved. He held it in his palm for a moment and then tucked it into one of Rosa’s pockets. He stood.

“All right,” he said.

Pimm brought himself up, and together they carried her to the edge of the embankment. With a nod from Hoffner, they heaved her body back and then tossed her in. The splash echoed-the patter against the wall more frantic-and then stillness. Both men stood watching as she floated out, her small face glistening in the moonlight.

Pimm’s breathing softened. “You and I aren’t all that different,” he said. “The world throws something at us, and we manage it. We don’t look too deeply. In the end, things take care of themselves.”

Hoffner continued to watch her. He wanted to believe Pimm: he wanted to find something in this that said, yes, this is where it is meant to be. He knew that the city would right itself, that the chisel murders would drift quickly into some forgotten past, that even Rosa herself-when she finally came round again-would sparkle for only a moment before being overtaken and left behind. That was Berlin’s saving grace, her incessant movement forward, her sense of promise in what was to come. Now, however, that promise seemed somehow out of reach. Too much had been lost-too much remained hidden beneath the surface-to make her future any more certain than his own.

There was a sudden swirling of water and Rosa’s legs began to dip down; her torso followed, and finally her face. In a matter of moments, she was gone. Hoffner continued to stare out at the silent water.

“We’ve managed nothing with this,” he said quietly. “Except perhaps a little time.” His eyes followed what he imagined to be her path beneath the current. “These men will come again. And when they do. . we’ll look back at Rosa and her revolution and see how nave we really were.”

The air grew static. Hoffner felt suddenly stifled by the place. He needed the east and the Berlin he still knew: somewhere there-and there alone-he would find a way to keep moving. He turned to Pimm, and together they headed into the long night.