Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

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 Direktordo 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 hisidea 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.

“ BezirkssekretrFichte 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 ALEX

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 KommissarBraun 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 willhave 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.”

A HERO OF THE REPUBLIC

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.