Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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“I wouldn’t say fascinated.”

“Excited, then.”

“Not really. Hans wanted me to ask you.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. “I see.” She had given in too quickly. “Clever boy, our Hans.” He took a sip of beer. Lina did the same.

“He thinks a great deal of you, you know,” she said.

“Of course he does.” Hoffner placed the glass back on the table. “I’m his detective inspector.”

“No. I mean a great deal.”

“He’ll get over it.” Hoffner felt something fast approaching from behind him. His sense of relief was equally palpable. “Aha,” he said. “What’s she look like?”

Lina immediately peered past him. Her eyes widened as she gave in to a grin and spoke under her breath. “You don’t want to know.”

“Then I’m sorry for you. You’ll have a tough time getting rid of her once I’m gone.”

Lina’s eyes told him that Fichte was almost upon them. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll get rid of her.” Hoffner had no doubt of it.

“Look who I’ve found,” came Fichte’s too-loud voice from behind as he drew up.

Hoffner turned. A short redhead, dyed almost to the roots, had an arm around Fichte’s waist; her other was reaching out for Hoffner. She was, by conservative estimates, a good 120 kilos, something of a miracle given the food situation in Berlin. And she was clearly proud of her heft. Her age was anybody’s guess.

“Fat Gerda!” barked the woman as she managed to slap a paw onto Hoffner’s shoulder. “That’s who he’s found for you, you lucky boy!”

The smell of alcohol was equally aggressive, a bit much even for the pre-eight-o’clock crowd. “Just my type,” said Hoffner as he stood.

“I knew it,” said Fichte, a lilt to his voice that told them he had had another pop at the bar during his search. Hoffner recalled the first time he had gone out drinking with the boy, the night after he had introduced Fichte to the “cattle yard” and his first abandoned baby. The stench had been enough to lead them directly to the flat; they had both needed a drink after that. By the third beer, Fichte had been singing, a remarkably quick drunk for such a big man. Hoffner had pinned it on the lungs. Better to think that everything stemmed from that one defect than to consider the larger Fichte picture.

“I’ve seen your wife, Nikolai,” said Fichte. “This one’s perfect!” He laughed loudly and Gerda joined in. Lina did her best to enjoy them from a distance.

“Can’t argue with that, now can I?” said Hoffner as he retrieved his hat and stood. His own Martha may not have been as trim as little Lina, but she was still a few fighting classes removed from Gerda. “That’s inductive reasoning at its finest, Hans,” he said. “You’re really showing me something here, tonight. Very impressive.”

Fichte flopped down onto the chair across from Lina. He looked more than dazed. “Hello, Lina,” he said.

“Hello, Hans,” she answered.

“Mine’s old,” said Gerda. Hoffner was praying she was referring to him. She was trying to find a seat for herself but was having trouble squeezing in behind Fichte. “I don’t like this Lina person,” she said to no one in particular. Gerda suddenly burst out laughing and bumped Fichte into the table. Forcing her way through, she lowered herself onto the chair: seated, she virtually lunged across at Lina. “I didn’t mean it,” said Gerda, her words as undulating as the thick flesh on her arms. “You know I didn’t mean it. You’re such a sweet little pretty thing for your young man. Even if he came to find me.” She did her best to shake out her hair, her massive chest jiggling with the movement. It was an odd blend of the coy and the vulgar. “He’s yours, you know,” she added. “Not mine. Yours.” She peered up at Hoffner, then took a playful swipe at him across the table. “That’s mine.”

Lina smacked Gerda across the face, a lithe, swift movement. A nail scraped and Gerda’s cheek bled.

For several seconds, Gerda remained motionless. Only when she sat back did she bring her hand to her face. She looked at her fingers, saw the blood, and her disbelief turned to rage. Again she lunged.

Almost without effort, Hoffner caught her wrist, twisted, and pinned her to the table. It was remarkable to see that much size incapable of movement. “Don’t,” was all he said.

Through it all, Lina didn’t so much as flinch. Fichte tried to follow the proceedings, but it was too much for him. No one at the surrounding tables showed the least bit of interest. In a calm, quiet voice, Hoffner said, “You might want to move over by Hans, Frulein.” Lina got up and stepped to Fichte’s side.

Still manipulating the wrist, Hoffner got Gerda to her feet and moved her around to the other side of the table. He was standing between the two women when he released her. He handed Gerda a napkin. “It’s not so bad, is it?” he said. Gerda tried to look past him to Lina, but Hoffner shifted his weight so as to block her view. “Is it?” he said again. Gerda looked up at him. She shook her head slowly. “No, I didn’t think so,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. “No reason for you to come back, is there?”

It took Gerda a moment before she pocketed the money. Again she shook her head. Then, stepping slowly away, she continued to peer around Hoffner. “That’s not right, you know,” she said. “That’s not right at all.” At a safe distance, she looked at Hoffner. “I know Pimm.” She continued to move away, a finger wagging back at him. “Pimm doesn’t stand for that sort of thing.”

Hoffner knew the name well, a top boy with one of the larger syndicates: fencing, pimping. Gerda needed a friend like that, although she should have been a bit better with her geography. Pimm’s terrain was back near the Landsberger Allee. East. This was more Sass brothers’ territory. Still, he appreciated the effort. Hoffner reached into his coat pocket and produced his badge. He placed it on the table. Gerda’s expression changed instantly. “You tell Pimm I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

Gerda looked as if she might say something. Instead, she turned and quickly moved off. Hoffner waited until she was a few more tables on before turning back. He kept his profile to Lina. “Not much of a dancer,” he said.

“No,” said Lina quietly.

Hoffner knew there would be nothing more by way of explanation, not that he needed one. He placed his hat on his head and retrieved the badge from the table. He then peered down at Fichte. “Probably best to take your walk a little early tonight, Hans. You could use the air.”

Fichte looked up. His eyes were anything but focused. He did his best with a nod.

Finally, Hoffner looked at Lina. He knew he would see nothing in the girl’s eyes to hint at what had prompted the sudden entertainment. She was, at that moment, completely unknowable. Hoffner nodded once. “Frulein,” he said.

She swayed slightly to stop him from going “We should do this right, sometime,” she said. She then placed a hand on Fichte’s shoulder. “You, me, and Hans.”

Hoffner held her gaze. “Good night, Frulein.” He then slapped a hand at Fichte’s arm. “Tomorrow morning at eight, Hans. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the KD.”

The ice cream arrived; Hoffner was already off in the crowd.

By eight, he was back at the block of flats on Friesen Strasse, following the echo of his own steps across the vast and empty stone courtyard and into the entryway marked D. He still had to remind himself it was D: they had lived in F for almost twelve years, up until a year ago when the larger place had come available. Martha had insisted he use his position as a Kripo detective to make sure they got it. Who was he to argue? Two or three families on the floor still refused to talk to him, though Martha seemed to find a kind of vindication in their bitterness. He had preferred F. Nicer carpeting on the stairs up.

The long walk south to Kreuzberg had done little to make sense of the minor drama at Josty’s. Hoffner wondered how much of it he had provoked himself: he knew entirely, but his ego was allowing him a little leeway. Why shouldn’t she want to impress him? The problem was, why was he so desperate to be impressed? He had managed to keep himself in check since Victor’s death, a poor attempt at gallantry in the name of a fallen comrade, but even Hoffner was having trouble these days convincing himself that lethargy was particularly noble. As he passed the third floor, he realized the point was moot. Fichte was probably off somewhere staking his claim, right now. It had been that kind of an evening. Then again, Hoffner remembered the tobacco. She might just be putting up a good fight. He made his way up to the fourth floor and let himself in.

The smell of boiled cabbage and some distant relative of meat greeted him at the door. It would taste better than it smelled; it always did with Martha. His youngest, Georgi-Georg to his friends, now that he had reached the advanced age of seven-was waiting for him in the front hall, his slippered feet dangling above the carpet, his long nightshirt lapping at his shins. His head, drooped to his chest, sprang instantly to life as Hoffner stepped through the doorway. Georgi held a piece of paper in his hands. He raced over and hugged his father around the waist. Just as quickly, he held the paper up to Hoffner’s face. “It’s two weeks from Sunday,” he said. “And the tickets are very reasonable.”

Hoffner took the paper. Very reasonable, he thought. Evidently, Georgi had gotten to Martha first.

It was an advertisement for an air show out at Johannisthal, a political maneuver masquerading as a father-and-son afternoon outing. The profile of a handsome young sky pilot filled much of the page, with tiny aeroplanes and zeppelins swarming about his head and chest. One actually seemed to be flying up his nose. To his credit, the young pilot was standing firm.

The Ebert government was being clever, thought Hoffner, taking everyone back to the gentler days. Hoffner had gone several times with his older boy, Sascha, when Georgi had been too little. The shows had stopped, for obvious reasons, and Georgi had spent the last three years reminding anyone who would listen of his considerable deprivation. It had not helped that Sascha had kept several posters of the Deutscher Rundflug-the monthlong rally across Germany-plastered above his bed. “You’re sure you want to go?” said Hoffner with feigned surprise. “It looks like it’s just some old Albatros D-threes, maybe a few Halberstadt C-types. But if that’s all right with you-”

“Papi!” said Georgi with a look of total incomprehension. He grabbed the paper back and began to scan it with ratlike intensity. His tight dark curls bobbed as he read. Again, he thrust it at Hoffner. “Six-cylinder, liquid-cooled in-line engine! A Fokker D-seven!”

“A D-seven, you say?” said Hoffner. “Well, then we really have no choice, do we?” He handed back the sheet and set off down the hall. Georgi seemed to dance his way behind.

The living and dining rooms were dark as father and son passed them along their way to the kitchen, twenty years of accrued furnishings-an amassed life-erased by the shadows, leaving only soulless outlines. Martha preferred it that way.

She was at the sink, cleaning up the last of the boys’ dinner, her own small plate of potatoes and meat just off to the side, when Hoffner stepped into the kitchen. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, a few stray wisps tickling at her neck. It was still a fine neck, white and soft, in strict contrast to the hands that ran through the steaming water: the one sign of her age-not in the face, not in the full, strong shape of her figure-only in the hands. They had become oddly rough.

A bowl of brown soup and a loaf of bread awaited him on the table. Hoffner tossed his coat onto an empty chair and sat. Georgi was right behind him.

“I thought I told you to get into bed,” said Martha without turning around.

Hoffner thought of something clever to say; instead he picked up his spoon and started in on the soup. It was already cold.

“Papi said we can go,” said Georgi, sidling up to her.

Martha shook out a plate and placed it on the rack. “I told you he would. You weren’t supposed to wait up for him.”

Georgi looked back at his father for help. Hoffner nodded sympathetically, but said nothing. It seemed to take the air out of the little man. Georgi’s shoulders slunk forward and he started slowly for the door. “I just wanted to tell you, that’s all,” he said with exaggerated dejection.

“Good night, Georgi,” said Martha.

“Good night,” he said. Just as he was at the door, he raced over to his father and hugged him tightly. He whispered in his ear. “I knew you would, Papi. I just wanted to show it to you, that’s all.”

Hoffner squeezed the little body into his own. The boy’s back was wonderfully bony. Hoffner wondered how many more of these embraces he would be allowed. He kissed Georgi on the neck then whispered back, “I’m glad you waited for me, too.”

Georgi was gone by the time Martha joined him at the table. Hoffner concentrated on his soup. “Where’s Sascha?” he asked.

“Was she worth the struggle?” said Martha, calmly focusing on peeling back the skin of one of her potatoes.

Hoffner looked up, mildly perplexed.

“Your hand, Nicki,” she said, still with the potato. “Glad to see you didn’t feel it.”

Hoffner looked at the back of his hand. Two thin scratch marks ran across the veins, undeniably a woman’s nails. They had begun to scab. He laughed quietly. “Fichte’s got a girl,” he said as he dabbed at them with a bit of saliva. “We went for a drink. He wanted to get a friend for me.” Hoffner went back to the soup. “I wasn’t inclined-this time.” Over the bowl, he saw the hint of a smile in her eyes.

“Pretty?” said Martha.

“Not the one with the nails.” When he saw the full smile, he added, “She’s all right. Too thin.”

“Do you want them for dinner sometime?”

“Not if we can help it.” He continued with the soup. “Where’s Sascha?”

Martha looked up from her food and peered over at the door.

Hoffner turned to see his older boy standing there. Sascha was in his school uniform-short pants and tie-his jet-black hair combed crisply, his expression quietly defiant. Had he been wearing the jacket, Hoffner might have mistaken him for an adolescent Kriminal-OberkommissarBraun-a slightly rounder face, but an equally dismissive stare. As for the jacket, it had already been hung up in the bathroom. Martha was convinced that the steam-pipe air was keeping it somehow fresher. It had become a nightly ritual.

“Hello, Father.” The boy addressed him as if he were one of his school instructors. Probably Herr Zessner, thought Hoffner. He taught physics. Sascha hated physics.

“Hello there, Sascha.” Hoffner had given up trying to diffuse these first few moments, terrifying as they were. He turned back to his near-empty bowl and did his best to find a last few drops with his spoon. “We’re off to Johannisthal two weeks from Sunday,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us, if you like.” When Sascha failed to answer, Hoffner pulled off a wedge of the bread. The boy continued to stand in silence.

“You know he doesn’t like that anymore,” said Martha, her voice with the hint of a reprimand. Hoffner knew it was for Sascha’s benefit.

“Doesn’t like what?” said Hoffner, knowing exactly what she was referring to. “Air shows?”

It had been a slow process, this, the losing of a son. Hoffner would have loved to point to the most obvious moment for its origin-Martha on the ground, Sascha staring at him in disbelief-but, if he was being honest, he knew he needed to go back further than that. The choice to remain faithful to his wife had sapped Hoffner of something vital. Rather than simply narrowing the focus, it had eliminated the beam entirely: he had shut it all down. In an odd way, that moment of infinite regret had been the final dousing of the flame. Sascha had even forgiven him for it, but by then Hoffner had become unreachable. He might have convinced himself that it was to keep the temptations at bay. He did, for a while, but even Hoffner knew better than that. It had only been a matter of time before the boy had given up trying. Recent events had simply taken Sascha over the edge.

“He wants to be called Alexander,” said Martha. “He’s asked you several times.”

“That’s right,” said Hoffner, nodding as if he only now remembered. “I must be losing track with all these name changes around here. Georg, Alexander.” He turned to Sascha. “But yours has nothing to do with age. You’re simply ashamed of your Russian past.”

The boy held his ground. “I’m surprised you’re not, Father.” His voice sounded more like his mother’s than he had wanted; the sharpness in his tone, however, more than made up for the pitch.

Hoffner almost let himself get drawn in. Instead he turned back, took the wedge of bread, and dunked it in the tiny puddle of soup. “No, that’s true. We Bolsheviks do like to stay together.” He took a bite.

“Don’t make fun of him, Nikolai,” said Martha. “You don’t have to go to that school every day.”

Hoffner looked across at her, the first hint of frustration in his eyes. He swallowed. He could sense that Sascha, too, was unhappy that his mother had come to his defense. “Yes,” said Hoffner, his tone now more pointed as he mopped up the last of the soup, “I suppose giving in to them is the best choice.”

Sascha had reached the limits of his self-control. His cheeks flushed; his large eyes grew larger still. “You think you know, but you don’t,” he said with as much restraint as he could. “You think you can laugh about it, like you laugh about everything else. Well, I’m glad they killed them. I’m glad they killed those Reds. I’m a German. A German.I’m not like them. I’ll never be like them.”

Sascha saw his mother start toward him; with a look, he stopped her. He waited for his father to turn. When Hoffner continued to stare into his bowl, Sascha bolted from the room. Martha stood to go after him, but Hoffner quickly reached out and held her back. She turned to him. She said nothing.

The ring of the telephone startled them both.

It was a recent addition. Headquarters had been insisting for years that Hoffner have one installed: a detective inspector needed to be reached. Hoffner saw it otherwise: the one at the porter’s gate was sufficient; nothing could be that pressing. Prager, however, was not to be denied. So, with the new flat had come the new device. To Hoffner’s way of thinking, they might just as well have removed the building’s walls: anyone could break through now, so what difference did it make?

In the year they had had it, the telephone had rung twice: the first at a prearranged minute so that Hoffner could sing to Georgi on his birthday; the second for a misconnection. Neither time had the ring occurred later than four in the afternoon.

Hoffner let go of Martha’s arm, jarred if not slightly relieved. The look on her face had turned to panic. He gave her a reassuring shake of the head, stood, and headed out into the hall, she behind him, stopping at the living room door as he found a light and moved across the room to the telephone. She waited in the hall. Georgi was already at her side as Sascha appeared from behind the two of them.

Hoffner said, “Go back to your room, boys.” It was a tone of voice he rarely used. Georgi and Sascha quickly moved back down the hall and Hoffner picked up the receiver. “Hello?” It was Fichte. He sounded frantic. “Yes, it’s me,” said Hoffner.

“She’s missing,” came the rasped voice over the line.

“Calm down, Hans,” said Hoffner. “Who’s missing? Where are you?”

There was a pause. Fichte tried to control himself. “At headquarters. The morgue. No one’s here.”

It took Hoffner a moment to digest the information. “Headquarters? What are you doing at the morgue? Calm down.”

Another pause. “Lina wanted to see.”

“You took the girl-” He stopped himself. Again, he needed a moment. Then, in a strong, controlled voice, he said, “This is a police matter. Anyone on the line, please disengage.” The sound of the operator’s click brought him back to Fichte. Again, Hoffner spoke very deliberately. “You need to explain to me, Hans, why you took Lina to the morgue, and then you need to tell me who is missing.”

“We’d come before,” said Fichte, his panic mounting. “It was nothing. The guard let us look around.”

Hoffner had trouble believing what he was hearing. With a practiced calm, he said, “All right. And who is missing?”

There was a long pause on the line. Finally Fichte said, “No one’s here. No guard. And the body-”

“Which body, Hans?” Hoffner cut in. He could hear Lina in the background. “Not a name, Hans, just left or right.”

Another silence. It was clear Fichte was trying to orient himself. “Right,” he said. “Right is missing.”

“All right,” said Hoffner. “Send the girl home. She’s to say nothing. You understand?” A muted “Yes” crackled on the line. “Stay there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He paused. “You’re not to do a thing.”

Hoffner placed the receiver in its cradle. He stood there staring at it for several seconds. Missing. What was Fichte-the thought turned his stomach. Hoffner looked at Martha. She was already holding his coat.

416

The first cabs began to appear up by the Hallesches Gate: at this hour, the great marble Peace Column at its center-a nod to a way of life the German people had yet to grasp-stood as the outermost edge of the city’s nightlife. The few cabs that did venture this far south raced around the bright-lit obelisk at speeds of almost forty-five kilometers an hour, all too eager to get back north and the possibility of a fare out to the rarefied air of Charlottenburg. Hoffner had no choice but to stand out in the middle of the roundabout, his badge held windshield high, before he finally flagged one down.

At the Alex, a trio of seasoned Soldatenhad replaced the boy-soldiers from this afternoon; the night shift around headquarters evidently required a sterner face. Hoffner produced his badge, then his papers-a necessity in the city these days-and impatiently waited while they slowly pored over them. “New evidence, just in,” he said. “A murder case.” At once, all three looked up at him.

Hoffner always found this strangely amusing, if not slightly disturbing: hardened men, who in the last five years had witnessed more death than he had seen in his twenty with the Kripo, never failed to flinch at the mention of murder. Until a few weeks ago, he had seen it as a kind of vanity, the nobility of their own art-the defense of a nation’s honor-sneering down at the dirty business of pure killing. He wondered, however, how far the revolution had gone to shake that certitude.

“Good,” said the oldest of the three as he slapped the papers into Hoffner’s chest. “All is in order here. You may go in.”

The entrance atrium was empty, a cavernous corridor that ran the length of the building. An older sergeant-Fliegmann or Fliegland, Hoffner could never remember which-sat behind the now superfluous security desk at its center, the dim gaslight overhead just enough to give the newspaper in his hands the pretense of focus; no doubt Fichte and Lina had snuck by without too much of an effort.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” said Hoffner, momentarily startling the man.

FliegFlieg’s recovery was instantaneous. “Good evening, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said, laying the paper on the desk. “I wasn’t told you’d been called back in.”

“Lots of activity tonight?” said Hoffner as he signed the sheet. He noticed Fichte’s name was nowhere on the page.

The question seemed to confuse Der Flieger.“No, Herr Inspector. Quiet enough. I suppose those boys outside have something to do with that.” He waited, then took the offensive. “Is there someone you want me to contact for you?” He reached for the phone.

“A scarf, Sergeant,” said Hoffner as he started past the desk and toward the courtyard doors. “I’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight if I come home without it.”

FliegFlieg let go of the receiver with a nod. “Can’t have our detective inspectors sleeping on the floor, now can we?”

The sound of tobacco-laced laughter followed Hoffner out into the courtyard, which was now dotted in tiny pools of reflected moonlight; they gave the impression of countless cats’ eyes peering up at him as he made his way across the cobblestones. He quickly reached the door to the sub-basement, and was pulling it open, when the ring of the phone back at the sergeant’s desk stopped him: instinctively, Hoffner tried to make out what the man was saying, but it was too far off, the echo too thick under the dome. Hoffner let it pass and stepped through to the stairs. At once he found himself in near pitch blackness.

Odd, he thought as the door clicked shut behind him. Fichte would have left the lights on. Or maybe the boy had just been overly cautious? Better yet, maybe he had been setting a mood, although what kind of mood Fichte had learned to fashion in a morgue was anybody’s guess. Hoffner considered the unsettling, if mildly titillating, image as he traced his hands along the wall in search of the lights: the touch of cold steel, he thought. The smell of formaldehyde. Why not? Hoffner located the knob for the lamps and headed down.

Two floors on, he again found himself in virtual darkness. Luckily the light from the stairwell was spilling out just enough to give a sheen to the blackened glass of the morgue’s windows at the far end of the hall; the desk sat empty and there was no sign of Fichte. Hoffner moved down the corridor, his hand along the wall to guide him. To his surprise, he discovered that the doors were locked. He did his best to peer in through the windows, but could see nothing.

Hoffner never felt uneasy in moments like these; he never let the dark create what wasn’t there. Instead he focused on what was out of place, and that was the locked doors. Fichte had been here alone, or at least alone with Lina. He had clearly been inside the ice room to see that a body had gone missing, which meant that he had been beyond these doors. Yet Fichte had no keys for the morgue, no way to lock them. Hoffner again peered in through the glass. “Hans,” he said in an unconvincing whisper.

The sound instantly dissolved into the void beyond. The silence grew more acute and made the sudden ring of the telephone on the desk like a kick to the ribs. It snapped Hoffner’s head to the side as he waited for a second, then a third ring. He stepped over and slowly placed his hand on the receiver-the feel of the vibration in his palm-before picking up. Hoffner listened through the silence.

“Yes?” he finally said; it was more a question than an invitation.

“ Kriminal-KommissarHoffner?”

Hoffner did not recognize the voice. “Yes,” he repeated with greater conviction.

“Would you be so kind as to join us on the fourth floor. Zimmer vier-eins-sechs.”

“Who is this?” said Hoffner.

“Room four-one-six,” the voice repeated. “ Kriminal-AssistentFichte is with us.” The line disengaged.

For the second time in the last hour, Hoffner found himself staring at a silent receiver. The fourth floor, he thought. The Polpo. Hoffner placed the phone back in its cradle and began to tap at it in the dark. Wonderful.

Locked doors and shadows notwithstanding, his current situation was now crystal clear. Even so, Hoffner felt a first twinge in his gut: this wasn’t what he needed. The deviations he sought-those fine quirks that he had come to recognize-populated a world that, for him, respected the inviolability of truth and falsehood. Naturally, the span between them was where most everything played itself out, but the boundaries themselves remained fixed, and thus tangible: deviation made sense only if there was something genuine to deviate from. That, however, had never been the case with the men of the Polpo: they saw no edges, no discernible absolutes. Even the way they had summoned him-“ Zimmer vier-eins-sechs. . 0A0; Kriminal-AssistentFichte is with us”-reeked of obfuscation and the dramatique.Hoffner pictured a group of university toffs in robes and cowls teaching each other solemn oaths and hand signs, secret societies for the adoration of bad beer and oak tables and girls they knew they would never have. He had seen such groups firsthand in his days at Heidelberg, their trips to the Schwarzwaldin the dead of winter so as to run naked through the trees while proclaiming their own divinity, the none-too-subtle markings on their arms or chests or wherever they had chosen to burn the insignia into their flesh, all of it to make certain that their associations, though wrapped in mystery, were at least well enough on display to provoke envy. Hoffner had always felt little more than mild amusement when in their company. He had even been asked to join one of the more exclusive Geheimkreisenin his second year. When he had politely declined, he had been presented with looks of mild shock. He doubted a refusal to join the boys on the fourth floor would elicit a similar response.

Hoffner stood catching his breath on the final landing, the extra flights on either end of his usual three-floor climb having taxed him to his limits. He knew he was in poor condition; he just preferred not to be reminded of it. He mopped a handkerchief across the back of his neck and waited for his heart to dislodge from the base of his throat. No wonder the boys up here were always in such a foul mood.

There was little to distinguish the corridor from its counterpart on the third floor: the intervals between offices were identical; the wood creaked with equal regularity; and the smell of lavatory disinfectant and stale cigarettes lingered in the air. It was all too familiar, except for the little 4s that appeared on each of the office doors. A trivial detail, thought Hoffner, yet monumental: their stark angularity was so contemptuous as compared to the soft curves of the 3s below. In his twenty years with the Kripo, Hoffner had ventured up-or rather, had been summoned up-half a dozen times, always to the same office, always to the same clerk for the mundane exchange of files, yet even the clerk, in his role as bland bureaucrat, had maintained an air of impenetrability, as if he, too, drew strength from those dismissive 4s. There was no such thing as “mild amusement” on the fourth floor.