Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Hoffner looked up from behind his desk. Fichte had been given an office of his own down the hall, but the files remained here.

“We’re done with this one, yes?” said Fichte. He placed the pages on Hoffner’s desk: a drunk had stabbed his wife and then confessed; it was hardly a case. Fichte already had his hat in hand.

“New suit?” said Hoffner.

Fichte glanced down at the jacket. One of the shops along Tauentzienstrasse had given it to him as a gift, the least they could do for a hero of the Kripo. Fichte smiled. He had been working on this particular smile for a week now. “Sure. You should get one for yourself. They want to know when you’re coming in.”

Hoffner took the sheets and moved over to the filing cabinet. “You don’t think about it anymore, do you?”

Fichte had trained himself to look mildly amused whenever his old confusion reared its head. A furrowed brow was hardly in keeping with his new image. “Think about what?” he said.

“I sent a wire to van Acker.” Hoffner flipped through the files. “See if they’ve come up with anything on that body. Wouters’s replacement.”

Fichte stayed with amusement. “The man’s dead, Nikolai. That usually means a case is closed.”

Hoffner replaced the file and closed the drawer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Prager’s satisfied. Why shouldn’t I be?”

Hoffner nodded indifferently. He found something else on his desk. “Off to Maxim’s?”

“White Mouse,” said Fichte as he watched Hoffner shuffle through more pages.

“With your Lina?”

Fichte hesitated before answering. “She doesn’t like the crowds.”

Hoffner was still focused on the papers. “And you’re a magnet for them, are you?”

There was a momentary crack in Fichte’s otherwise effortless stare. Just as quickly the lazy smile returned. “Can’t help it if they want to meet me.”

Hoffner looked up. There was no point in prodding at him; Fichte was too far gone. Hoffner only hoped that the boy would survive the road back. Not that Hoffner was encouraging him to find it any time soon. There was still the pull of Kremmener Strasse, and Hoffner had been taking full advantage of Fichte’s inattention. Lina had become something of a regular indulgence, high times in Kreuzberg notwithstanding. She had even started allowing him to smoke in her flat. It was an intimacy Hoffner had yet to give much thought to. “No, I’m sure you can’t,” he said. “You tell that shop of yours I’ll be coming in for my suit, all right?”

Fichte’s eyes widened. “Naturally.” He spoke with the enthusiasm of a first infatuation. “They’ll be very pleased, Nikolai.”

Hoffner bobbed his head once.

It was all Fichte could have hoped for. “You have a good night, Nikolai.” He placed his hat on his head.

Hoffner kept busy with whatever it was that was on his desk. “Good night, Hans.”

She was a “word city.”

Hoffner had heard it, or read it, somewhere. Not just in her newspapers, but in her advertisements, her signs, her schedules, and most important, in her Litfassulen-those pillars that appeared on almost every corner of every neighborhood-Berlin breathed as a metropolis of language. It was the pillars, however, that stood apart. They were the modern town criers, filled with the chaos of endless messages: sell a bed, post at the corner; workers’ meeting tonight, post at the corner; find a girl, post at the corner. Capped by their crowns of green wrought iron, the pillars rose two meters higher than anything else on the street, and thus demanded attention. Even the figures in their posters were more garish than anything to be found in a window or on a billboard. Couples decked out in glaring reds and greens screamed out in aggressive poses to passersby: everything angular, sharp, and desperate for recognition. The pillars indulged their own disorder and thus mirrored the life of the streets even as they catered to it.

Find K, post at the corner.

Hoffner had used the Alex’s hectograph to make copies of a single sheet of paper, which he had plastered throughout the Mitte district over the last few days. His two index fingers were still stained with the aniline dye from the ink. It was always something of an adventure using the machine, pressing the sheet to the gelatin pad, waiting the few minutes for the page to absorb the ink, and then hoping not to smear anything in the removal. Hoffner could stomach only forty or so such tries. His patience and the dye usually gave out at about the same time. He was trusting that the simplicity of his note, and not its beauty, would make it stand out among all the more elaborate postings: Krystalowicz. Cafe Dalles. 10 o’clock. I’ll bring the brandy this time.

Hoffner had been at the cafe for the past two nights. Jogiches had yet to make an appearance.

In the meantime, Hoffner had decided to track down the one living link he still had to the diameter-cut: the engineer from the Rosenthaler station, the man who had helped to design the site under the tutelage of the great Grenander himself. In the last week, Hoffner had stopped in at three of the city-run shelters for the homeless. So far, no Herr Tben or his wife and two boys. Hoffner scanned the new map he had hung on his wall. He had been making his way east. Tonight it was Frbelstrasse, and the heart of Prenzlauer Berg.

Durable and cold was how the red brick of state institutions always announced themselves to Hoffner. Situated next to a bit of open ground, with a few trees planted about-not by nature, but by a bureaucrat’s pen-the shelter and its adjacent hospital showed little in the way of life. Even the long line of huddled bodies waiting for admission gave off nothing that might have been construed as flesh and blood. They were cracked faces, etched by hunger and resentment, and buried beneath the dust of decades. The snow seemed a starker white in their presence. Hoffner moved past them and up to the main door.

Several desks were laid out inside to process the line of applicants. Hoffner showed his badge, and a man motioned him over to one of the far desks. The chief administrator, a Herr Mitleid, was tending to one of his charges.

“You’ve come at our busiest time, Chief Inspector,” said Mitleid when Hoffner had introduced himself. The place reeked of sterility, with the tangy odor of ammonia emanating from every corner. It mixed uneasily with the smells of cooking and drying clothes and digestion. “You see us at our best and at our worst.”

This was not the typical administrator, at least not from Hoffner’s recent experience. Unlike the other directors, Mitleid seemed in tune with his own humanity. It was as if the man knew what it was to carry his life in a small sack on his back, or to feel the weight of a refugee’s thousand-kilometer walk in his legs, or to sense what gives a man a look of both fear and confrontation in his every gaze. Mitleid was a man of pure compassion. Hoffner wondered where they had found him within the ranks of officialdom.

“We open the doors at four, close them at nine. Takes about two hours to fill each of the dormitories. You find us in mid-filling, Herr Inspector.”

Hoffner explained what he was looking for: the name, two sons, a former engineer, sometime in the last month and a half. Mitleid thought for a moment. He seemed to recall something, and then brought Hoffner into his office. The two men sat, and Mitleid began to run through a roll of filing cards on his desk.

Hoffner noticed a stack of empty application documents. He took one and was astounded to see how bad things had gotten:

Case No. – P.B.Was heard by the court in Berlin, on – 1919.Mr. – was instructed to find himself alternative accommodation within five days, failing which, notwithstanding the most strenuous efforts on his behalf to do so, he would be punished for making himself homeless. The appellant was further warned that in accordance with #361, subsection 8, of the Criminal Law of the German Empire, such punishment will consist of up to six weeks in prison, and in accordance with #362 ibid., transferred to the police authorities, for placement in a workhouse.Approved and signed.Signature of the homeless man in question – Signature of the police case worker —

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” Mitleid was still searching. “Five days to find housing. Can you imagine?”

Hoffner replaced the sheet. “You show me someone who can find a flat that quickly in Berlin these days, I’ll show you your criminal.”

Mitleid tried a smile, but the topic was too close to home. He pulled out a card and said, “Here it is.” He read through it quickly. “I knew it sounded familiar.” His brow furrowed. “You’re sure about the name?”

“Tben,” Hoffner repeated.

Mitleid continued to look puzzled. “This is a Teplitz. A Willem Teplitz. Wife, two boys. I thought for sure.” He shook his head and began to replace the card; Hoffner stopped him and took the card. He read as Mitleid spoke. “Clever man, Teplitz. Helped us rework the placement of the beds. Gave us room for four more each night. Never said he was an engineer, but you could tell.”

According to the card, Herr “Teplitz” had arrived on the night of January 16, the night Hoffner and Fichte had come across Mary Koop.

“Who fills out this card?” said Hoffner.

“I do.”

“Do you have anything Herr Teplitz might have signed?”

Mitleid stood and moved across to a large filing cabinet. He returned with a small folder and handed a sheet to Hoffner. It was a form to request that the family be kept together while inside the shelter. “Another abomination,” said Mitleid. “But the Reichs Ministry insists we have it.”

Hoffner scanned down to the signature, where the lettering was deliberate and uneven. Teplitz had labored with his own name. Hoffner had seen the same hesitation many times before. This was Tben. He had been scared enough to take a false name, and Hoffner was guessing that his fears had had nothing to do with the body his son had discovered at the site. “How long did they stay with you?” he asked.

Mitleid took the card again and flipped it over. “Their last day was the twelfth,” he read. “Last Wednesday.” He looked across at Hoffner. “You believe this is your Herr Tben?”

Hoffner was thinking about the date. February 12: the day Jogiches’s article had appeared. Frau Tben and her boys were five days gone from Berlin: they could be anywhere now. “Was there anyone here that he was particularly friendly with?”

Mitleid again studied the card. “Dormitory three.” He thought for a moment, and his eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He began to get up. “The Colonel.” Mitleid started for the door and then motioned Hoffner through. “Marvelous fellow. A Russian. Fought for the Tsar. You’ll like him at once.”

Dormitory 3 was like all the others, long and narrow, and with two rows of beds jutting out from the walls, barracks-style. There were also a few stray cots that had been placed down the center aisle, the extras Herr Tben had managed to reconfigure. More than half of the beds were filled with men, flat on their backs, here and there a cocked elbow drawn across the eyes. The few who did look up did so with vacant stares. Hoffner knew they were looking directly at him; he just couldn’t feel their gaze.

Beyond a partition was another hall: here, instead of beds, small wooden cubicles-large enough to accommodate four or five people-appeared at intervals along the walls. These were for families. A gas burner and range stood in each of the corners of the hall, places for the women to do their cooking. Washing hung where it could, the cleverest of the women having placed their lines over the gas burners so as to help with the drying. The clothes might have picked up the sour smell of cabbage broth, but better dry and pungent than damp and fresh.

At the end of the row, Mitleid came to a stop. Unlike the other cubicles, this one had managed to keep its clutter in check. It was also far roomier, with only one bed inside and a little chair: evidently, rank had its privileges. A few photos hung on the inside walls, along with an officer’s cap. Below, a stack of books and papers rose to nearly a meter high, while on the bed, a large man, somewhere in his late sixties, lay stiffly on the tissue-thin linens with his eyes closed. His boots pointed to the ceiling, while his pant legs disappeared into the cracked leather just below the knees. Even in sleep, the Colonel looked as if he were on parade.

Mitleid seemed reluctant to disturb him. “Colonel Stankevich?” he said quietly.

At once, Stankevich’s eyes opened. He peered over, and just as quickly, offered a gracious smile. “Ah, Herr Mitleid.” Stankevich was sitting upright, his feet firm on the ground, before Mitleid could make the introductions. Years of interrupted sleep had prepared the Colonel well.

“May I present Herr Kriminal-OberkommissarNikolai Hoffner of the Kriminalpolizei?”

Stankevich peered straight ahead for another moment. All signs to the contrary, he was still in the last grasp of sleep. With a sudden clearing of his throat, he stood and offered a bow. Hoffner bowed as well, and then insisted that the Colonel retake his seat. Mitleid waited until the two men were seated across from each other before taking his leave.

“Very German, our Herr Mitleid,” said Stankevich with a wry smile as he watched Mitleid go. “Very perfect.” He turned to Hoffner. “Are you also so perfect in your Kripo, Herr Inspector?” His German was flawless, but Hoffner recognized the accent.

“No worries on that front, Herr Colonel,” said Hoffner. “Kiev?” he added.

Stankevich showed a moment’s surprise. He then spoke in Russian. “You know Ukraine?”

“Once, to visit, as a boy,” said Hoffner. His Russian was not quite as fluid as he remembered.

“Odessa, actually. But close enough.”

Hoffner nodded.

“Your mother?”

Another nod.

“Always the mothers who ran off,” said Stankevich. “Find a nice German boy, give him nice German babies.”

Hoffner’s mother’s story was not quite as charming as Stankevich imagined, but Hoffner had no interest in muddying the illusion with mention of Cossacks and rifles and burning villages. Instead, he continued in Russian: “You’re a long way from Odessa, Colonel.”

“Yes.” The word seemed to carry the weight of the man’s history with it. “Someone decided to turn the world on its head, Inspector.”

Hoffner knew it would be a mistake to go down this road. “I’m told you knew Herr Teplitz, the engineer.”

Stankevich looked as if he might answer. Instead he reached across and pulled the cap from its hook. He held it in his hands like a boy caressing a new toy train, a tender blend of pride and reverence. “They let me keep this, you know,” he said as he gazed at the cap, its crimson band all but faded. “Ripped the epaulettes from my shoulders, the citations from my chest, but this-this they thought would be humorous to leave me with.” He paused. “A corporal. A boy in my company. Tired of taking orders.” Stankevich looked up. “Laziness. That’s what made him a revolutionary, Inspector. And here I sit in a shelter in Berlin.” He placed the cap back on its hook. “Yes, I knew Teplitz.”

Hoffner did his best to console. “The world will find its way back, Colonel.”

“Yes, but not while I’m here to see it.” Stankevich stood. He needed to distance himself from the cap. “Always better to walk, Inspector. Frees the mind. Shall we?”

Stankevich strode as if he were on inspection, his left leg hitching every third or fourth step from some hidden ailment. He nodded to the families as he passed by. Everyone knew the Colonel. A moment’s recognition from him was enough to spark some life into the line of tired eyes: his gift to them, Hoffner imagined.

“They have no past,” Stankevich said quietly. “So they have no hope.”

Hoffner nodded even though he had no idea what the Colonel meant.

“You think it’s the other way round, don’t you?” said Stankevich. “No future, no hope. But the future is fable, air. How can you draw faith from that?”

“It’s an interesting way of looking at things, Colonel.”

“It’s a very Russian way of looking at things, Inspector. Only the past gives you something to stand on. Without it, how do you know where your feet are when you’re looking to the heavens?” Stankevich’s leg buckled momentarily. “They are without hope because their past has been taken from them. It’s been rendered meaningless, and so, like me, they have nothing to build their hope on.”

Hoffner waited before answering. “And Herr Teplitz? Was he also without a past?”

Everything about Stankevich moved stiffly, which made the ease of his smile all the more surprising. “I’m passing on great wisdom, and all you want to know about is Teplitz.”

Hoffner smiled with him. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Stankevich let go with a throaty, quiet laugh. “It’s nice to hear Russian again. Yours is quite good, but it’s the eyes that give you away. Too dark. That’s your past, Inspector. Germans don’t have such depth. And how can you trust that?” He waited, then continued. “A war in China, another in Japan, the Great War, and a boy of nineteen tells me that my country is no longer mine. And you want to hear about a little German engineer.” Stankevich shook his head slowly. “Seems a bit frivolous, don’t you think?” They moved through to the next hall. “My corporal had weak eyes. I remember that.”

An attendant was mopping up something in one of the corners. A boy, in stocking feet and short pants, stood staring at the swirling motion of the mop. Hoffner noticed that Stankevich was gazing over, as well. Stankevich showed no pity for the boy, only a stifled despair. This was what his life had come to, thought Hoffner, watching a boy fascinated by a mop.

“So you chose Berlin,” said Hoffner.

Stankevich stayed a moment longer with the boy, then fixed his gaze straight ahead as he walked. “So I became a burden on your city? Is that what you mean? Yes. They don’t employ old men here, Inspector.”

“They’re having trouble with the young ones as well, Colonel.”

“Little consolation.” A pot of something brown was boiling over on a nearby range. No one seemed to be taking any notice. Stankevich stepped over and removed the pot from the burner. “I came to Berlin seven months ago. There was a woman. A friend from before the war. She took me in. Brest-Litovsk. We were no longer enemies, after all.” The water in the pot settled. Someone had been boiling socks. “She died from the influenza a little over three months ago. Herr Mitleid was kind enough to house me without the usual paperwork. A generous man.” Stankevich peered down at the floating wool. “You know, of course, that Teplitz’s real name was Tben.” Hoffner said nothing. “Quite popular, as well. A colleague of yours was here asking for him.”

Hoffner showed no reaction. “Another policeman?”

Stankevich began to walk. “If you try to sound so uninterested, Inspector, it gives the game away.” Stankevich swung his arm as if he were remembering what it was to have a crop in his hand. “This other policeman, this man wasn’t like you.”

“The eyes not as deep?”

Stankevich allowed himself a smile. “That, too, but no. He wasn’t the kind to hunt down little Belgians who kill old women.”

Hoffner was impressed. “So you actually read those newspapers?”

“Nothing to do but read in here, Inspector.”

“The political police?”

Stankevich nodded.

“Herr Mitleid didn’t mention it,” said Hoffner.

Stankevich had anticipated the response. “This man didn’t waste his time with Herr Mitleid, Inspector. He simply appeared at my bed.”

“And you told him what you knew about Herr Tben?”

Again, Stankevich stopped and turned to Hoffner. “Now, why would I have done that?”

Stankevich liked his Russians, even his half-Russians. The man from the Polpo– KommissarHermannsohn, from the description-had merited no such consideration. Hoffner and his dark eyes, on the other hand, were another matter entirely.

According to Stankevich, Tben had left the shelter nearly a month ago, alone and with no explanation. His only request had been that Stankevich act as his conduit: Tben had thought it unsafe to address his letters directly to his wife, who had remained behind with the boys. Two letters had arrived prior to the twelfth, both postmarked from Zurich, which Frau Tben had read and then destroyed. Stankevich knew nothing of their contents. A third had come after the twelfth, but by then, the entire family had gone.

Back at his cubicle, Stankevich produced the letter. Hoffner read: MY DEAREST ONE, All sinks deeper into despair. Access to the account remains an impossibility if we are to keep our whereabouts a secret from our friends in Munich. I have no concern for my own well-being, but I fear that they would not be satisfied with my life alone. It seems that the monies promised for my designs were never intended as payment, but more as a lure should circumstances require my silencing. I will not play the mouse to their cheese. It is something of a miracle that we have managed to elude them for this long.You, of course, had the good sense from the start. These were not men to be trusted and, if not for my navet, you should not be in such distress now. I have failed in the most fundamental of my obligations-the security of my family-and have only my constant remorse and loneliness to show for my efforts.I will wait until the 23rd as agreed, and hope that by some good fortune you are able to accompany me. If not, then I hope you can forgive me for the destruction of our lives. Choose your friends wisely, and may they deliver you to me.IN CONSTANT ADORATION, P.

Hoffner asked Stankevich for the envelope. The postmark was also from Zurich, dated the fourth of February. Hoffner examined the envelope’s flap, then brought it up to his nose and sniffed. There was no residue of talc, nor were the edges crimped by steam: the letter had not been opened and then resealed. Whatever Hoffner might have thought of the Polpo-and whoever else those “friends” might be in Munich-he could at least rest easy that neither had been so thorough as to intercept the letter before it arrived at the shelter. Hermannsohn might have tracked down Stankevich, but he was not monitoring the Colonel’s mail.

Hoffner continued to scan the letter as he spoke: “How much money did you give her, Colonel?”

Stankevich pretended not to have heard. “Pardon?”

“Frau Tben,” Hoffner said, “or whatever her real name is. My guess would be something a bit more Russian. Where did you send them, Colonel?”

Stankevich did his best to sound convincing. “I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.”

Hoffner nodded to himself as he continued to look down at the letter. “We both know German isn’t his first language. ‘The destruction of our lives.’ ‘You are able to accompany me.’” He looked up. “He means ‘join me.’ The syntax and language are wrong throughout. It’s also much too formal. He gives himself away, as you knew he would when you let me read it. So now that I’ve passed your test, Colonel, where did you send them?”

Stankevich looked as if he might try another dodge; instead he simply smiled. “They made you out to be quite brilliant in the newspapers,” he said. “I thought it was all something of a joke.”

“It was.”

“No, I think, in spite of themselves, they managed to get that right.”

Hoffner spoke deliberately: “Where is Tben, Herr Colonel?”

Again, Stankevich waited. It was now a matter of trust. “Sazonov,” he said. “His name is Pavel Sazonov. The wife’s maiden name was Tben.”

Hoffner had guessed as much. “So sometimes it was the fathers who ran off and wanted nice German babies?”

“What do you want with them, Inspector?”

“The same as you. To help them.”

Stankevich was not yet convinced. “Your colleague said the same thing.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner more pointedly, “but you didn’t show him the letter, did you?” Hoffner held the single sheet out to Stankevich.

It was an obvious point. Still, Stankevich hesitated. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.” He peered down at the letter. Then, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he said, “Better for you to keep it, don’t you think?”

Hoffner pocketed the letter.

Stankevich now spoke as if to a longtime confidant. “I don’t think he knew what he was doing, Sazonov. Not that he explained any of it to me. He did mention once that he had been clever, something about hiding in the last place they would look, but more than that he never said.”

Clever until his son had discovered Mary Koop’s body, thought Hoffner. “And his wife?”

“She knew less than I did. She simply wanted a roof over their heads. I don’t think she’d slept in weeks.”

“And he never mentioned his ‘friends’ in Munich?”

Stankevich shook his head. “The letter was the first I heard of them. Or of an account. Or a rendezvous. The man was terrified, Inspector. I did what I could. I had a few marks. It was enough to get him wherever he was going. Evidently that was Zurich. He said he would send more for his wife and the two boys, but the money never came. And then, last week, Frau Sazonov informed me that it was no longer safe for her to stay in Berlin. I don’t know why. I didn’t ask.” Stankevich paused. “I don’t care how long he had been in this country, Inspector, he was still a Russian. This was a good man.”

“And one, no doubt, with a past worth saving?” said Hoffner.

For the first time in minutes, a warmth returned to Stankevich’s eyes. “Yes.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. There was nothing else to be learned here. He stood and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket.

The Colonel’s reaction was instantaneous. His hand shot up. “Really, Inspector, there’s no need-”

“My card, Colonel,” said Hoffner. He had no intention of embarrassing the man. “Nothing else.” Hoffner held it out. “Over the years, my wife has learned to make a very nice walnut dumpling-Kiev style, I’m sorry to say-but close enough. An expert’s opinion would please her to no end.”

Stankevich cleared his throat; he was not particularly fond of his emotions. He took the card.

The stink of ammonia was still with Hoffner as he drew up to the Cafe Dalles’s front doors: two steps down, and a bit of sawdust to keep the ice at bay.

It was always tough going, getting the weight of a place like Frbelstrasse out of one’s system. Hopelessness, whether informed by a past or a future, was all the more stark when projected against a backdrop of cold white tile and yellow light, more acute when seen through the faded red of an officer’s cap: Hoffner doubted the Colonel would be joining them for dumplings in Kreuzberg any time soon. At least the desperation inside the cafe had a nice jaunty feel to it, small tables and dim lights, with a prostitute or two catching up with her pimp. These were always pleasant reunions, money handed over, a few drinks into her system as she sat like a queen atop his lap. New stockings invariably demanded attention.

The band-a violin and piano-plunked out something that blended easily into the haphazard spray of conversation, nothing to take focus, though the air would have grown stale without it. Hoffner began to navigate his way across to the far corner and what had become his usual table. Like a distant shore under mist, it was obscured by clouds of smoke. He checked his watch and saw that it was a quarter to ten. The place was just revving up as he passed by a waiter and told the man to bring over a bottle of Mampe’s, no doubt the watered-down stock, but why should tonight be any different, he thought.

Hoffner loosened his tie, settled in, and pulled a cigarette from his pack. He knew he could have sat like this for hours, a full glass, watching the little dramas play themselves out at the nearby tables: parry, thrust, parry, thrust, and always at a safe distance.

He was taking in one such performance-the muffled pleadings of a heavyset girl to her indifferent lover-when the bottle arrived. Still intent on the scene, Hoffner pulled a few coins from his pocket.

“Very kind, Herr Inspector.”

Hoffner looked up to see Leo Jogiches pouring out the second of two glasses. For an instant, Hoffner thought he recognized Jogiches, not from Rosa’s photographs, but from somewhere else, something more immediate. The sensation passed, and Hoffner returned the coins to his pocket.

Jogiches was no longer a handsome man. His beard, a silky brown in the photos, had grown gray and knotted, as if a cat had been grooming him. Worse was the hairline that rose just too high on one side and made everything seem to droop to the left. His skin sagged as well, especially under the eyes, where sleeplessness and beatings collided in an array of dark blotches and fading bruises. Only the eyes themselves recalled the past: they showed that same deep calculation and fierceness that Rosa had known. This was a man who had lived his life on the run, and the uncertainty of his world-the inherent danger in his very presence-was like an intoxicant to him. Ancient photographs aside, Jogiches was exactly what Hoffner had expected.

“But again, my treat,” said Jogiches. He capped the bottle and took a seat. “To your health, Inspector.” He tossed back the brandy and settled in.

Any sense of validation Hoffner might have felt at seeing the man-the theoretical K, now flesh and blood-quickly fell away. Jogiches’s presence confirmed far more than just good detective work.

Hoffner held up his pack. “Cigarette?” Jogiches took one and Hoffner continued: “I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“You weren’t meant to,” said Jogiches. He lit up and explained, “Two nights. By the bar. To make sure you were as determined as you seemed.”

“And tonight you got your answer?

Jogiches took a deep pull. “We’ll see, won’t we?” The smoke trailed slowly from his mouth as he gazed out into the crowd: “The man there is a thief,” he said with certainty. “The woman there doesn’t want us to know she’s a whore, but she’s a whore just the same. And the couple there”-the indifferent lovers Hoffner had been tracking-“that boy will kill someday. Look at how he crushes his cigarette into the pile of ash, over and over. There’s no satisfaction in it. The wonderful tension in his hand. He wants to crack the girl across the face, but he keeps digging the little butt into the ashtray.” Jogiches’s gaze seemed to intensify. “One day he’ll have the courage.” He watched a moment longer, and then turned to Hoffner. “And then, Herr Inspector, you’ll have to hunt him down.”