Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

There was a hesitation as Fichte reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. “I trust you haven’t seen this.” He handed the paper to Hoffner. “This afternoon’s edition.”

It was a copy of the BZ.Hoffner took it and scanned the front page.

“Page four, at the bottom,” said Fichte.

Hoffner flipped it open. It took him no time to find it. When he did, he stopped and stared in disbelief. Fichte could see the anger rising in his eyes. “That son of a bitch,” was all Hoffner could get out.

It took them forty minutes to get back to the Alex, enough time for Hoffner to cool off. Even so, he headed straight for the KD’s office as Fichte trailed behind.

Without knocking, Hoffner pushed open the door. Luckily, Prager was alone: he looked up calmly as Hoffner bore down on him. “Something I can do for you, Nikolai?”

Hoffner planted the article in front of him. “Have you seen this, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

Prager continued to look up at Hoffner; he then slowly picked up the paper and began to read. The telltale chewing of the inner cheek told Hoffner that he had not.

After nearly a minute, Prager said, “I love how they say ‘sources in the Kripo.’ That always gives it such a nice ring of truth.”

“And we have no idea how this got out,” said Hoffner.

Prager shook his head as he reread several of the passages. “It’s obviously from someone who knows something about the case,” he said, still scanning. “At least two victims. A vague reference to something on the back, though no mention of a knife.” He looked up at Hoffner. “This reads more like a teaser. I’m guessing they’ve got more information than they’re letting on.”

“Agreed,” said Hoffner. “You know we had a nice little chat with Weigland last week.”

“Yes,” said Prager, with just a hint of reproach. “ Kriminal-OberkommissarBraun stopped in to ask me to make sure you understood the parameters of the case.” With mock sincerity, Prager said, “You do understand the parameters of the case, don’t you, Nikolai?”

“It’s just Oberkommissarnow,” said Hoffner. “That’s the way they like it upstairs.”

“Well, we’re not upstairs, are we?” Prager handed the paper back to Hoffner. “The Polpo likes its turf, Nikolai, but there’s no reason they would do this. Just consider yourself lucky there wasn’t any mention of Luxemburg.”

“Yes, I’m feeling very lucky.” Hoffner knew Prager was right: the Polpo had nothing to gain by it. No one wanted the hysteria this might produce. Still, Hoffner had his doubts. “They’ve got Luxemburg,” he said. “Of course she wouldn’t be mentioned.”

Prager disagreed. “This isn’t the way they’d go about it. Also, there are too many other possibilities-a family member of one of the victims, someone downstairs. Any one of them could have let this out. It’s the BZ,Nikolai. This story didn’t come cheap.” Prager turned to Fichte. “So, Herr Kriminal-Assistent,what do you think? Is this the Polpo?”

Fichte stood motionless. The KD had never asked his opinion on anything. “Well,” Fichte said with as much certainty as he could find, “any leak might lead back to Luxemburg, Herr Kriminaldirektor.I don’t think they’d want that.”

Prager smiled and turned to Hoffner. “That’s a very good point, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.Don’t you think, Nikolai?”

Hoffner said, “You know I’m going to look into this personally, Edmund. And I’m going to want a note sent out to every Kripo office. A general reminder on discretion.”

Prager knew there would be no fighting Hoffner on this one. “Fine. Just don’t let it get in the way.”

“It won’t.”

Fichte cut in. “The telephone call, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.We should get back to the office.”

Hoffner turned to Fichte. He tried not to sound too cavalier. “Have you been paying attention, Hans? We’re not going back to the office.”

The switchboard operator stared defiantly at Hoffner, who stood hovering above her. This, he knew, was the surest way to keep the lines of communication as restricted as possible. Fichte agreed: Thursday’s late-night encounter had opened him up to an entirely new world at the Alex. And while Fichte had been strangely intrigued by it at the outset, Hoffner had quickly set him straight: these were uncharted men, the source of speculation and derision from a distance, but far more treacherous up close. Whatever arguments there were to the contrary, Hoffner made it clear that the Polpo never merited the benefit of the doubt. Fichte now understood that.

Electricity had come back to the Alex sometime on Monday. The lights from perhaps ten unattended calls flashed in frantic patterns across the board; Hoffner continued to keep the woman from answering them: she was doing little to hide her disapproval. Fichte stood by the door.

“This is highly unusual, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” she said as the board begged for attention. “I really need to take care of these. I can easily forward the call to your office when it comes in.”

Hoffner nodded. “Yes, I know, Frulein. I just feel more comfortable receiving it here.”

“The international line is no difficulty, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Well, I don’t want to tie up any more of your wires than are necessary, Frulein.”

The woman insisted, “You wouldn’t be tying up-”

“Let’s just wait for the call, shall we?” Hoffner checked his watch. It was coming up on one o’clock. At eight seconds to, the international line began to flash. Hoffner nodded and the operator made the connection. She confirmed the caller and then handed the earpiece to Hoffner. Without any hesitation, she retrieved a second earpiece and sat back.

“Could you wait outside, Frulein?” said Hoffner.

The woman looked up in disbelief “Excuse me, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?”

“This won’t take more than a few minutes, Frulein.”

The woman spoke as if to a child. “I can’t leave my post, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.All of these calls-”

“Can wait.” Hoffner’s tone made sure she understood. “Time for a coffee break, wouldn’t you say, Frulein?” Hoffner nodded to Fichte to open the door. The woman’s gaze grew more hostile until, with a practiced civility, she slowly stood, nodded to both men, and headed for the door.

At the door, she turned back to Hoffner bitterly. “This will be reflected in my report to the Kriminaldirektor,Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will, Frulein Telephonistin.”

Fichte shut the door, and Hoffner brought the receiver up to his ear. “Detective Inspector Nikolai Hoffner here,” he said in French.

“One moment, Monsieur.” Hoffner waited through the silence. He nodded to Fichte to stay by the door.

“Inspector Hoffner?” The voice was distant but audible. “This is Chief Inspector van Acker, Bruges police.”

“Chief Inspector. I appreciate the speed of your response.”

“Not at all,” said van Acker. “I do need to ask, is this the same Inspector Hoffner who published a piece titled “The Odor of Death” in Die Polizei,eight, maybe nine years ago?”

For a moment, Hoffner thought he had misheard; he had a hard time believing that anyone still remembered the article, less so that it’s “fame” had ever extended beyond a five-block radius of the Alex. “Yes,” said Hoffner, not quite convinced. “You know it?”

“Of course,” said van Acker. “Pretty standard reading here, Inspector. In Brussels, as well.”

“Really?”

“Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have set up the telephone call except, well, I thought it might be my only chance to talk with you in person.”

“Really, I’m-flattered,” said Hoffner. Fichte looked over. Hoffner shook him off.

“Nice little feather in my cap,” said van Acker. “Anyway, about your wire, Inspector. I’m not sure how helpful we can be, but we might have a little something.”

“You’ve got a missing girl, then?”

“Your description was a bit vague, but the time frame is about right for a case we’ve been looking into. May I ask how you knew to contact us?”

Hoffner told him about the gloves.

“It might also be Brussels,” said van Acker.

“Yes. I’ve got a call in.”

“Of course. The problem is, I’m not sure the girl we’ve got in mind could have afforded a pair of Troimpel gloves.”

“And why is that?”

“She was an attendant at one of the area hospitals. A scrub girl.”

That seemed a poor excuse. “And Belgian scrub girls aren’t capable of saving their money, Chief Inspector? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, not for gloves, no. And especially not for these gloves, Inspector.”

“And no well-off boyfriends?” said Hoffner.

“Not this girl,” said van Acker. “There’s something of a stigma attached to-” He stopped. “Look, to be honest, it’s more of an asylum than a hospital. These are girls who can’t get work elsewhere. They also don’t usually spend much time away from home, for rather obvious reasons. And this girl had no family. You understand.”

Sadly, Hoffner did. Insanity as infection, he thought, with its equally despicable maxim: that only the most pitiful, vile, and unprepossessing would be willing to risk contamination by cleaning up the filth produced by a group of lunatics. Berlin’s own Herzberge Asylum was proof that such idiocy was still thriving well beyond the narrow minds of the provinces. Hoffner had often walked along its dingy halls not sure which of the two groups-the patients or the menial staff-deserved to be under lock and key, although with the latter, he did recognize that malice, and not madness, was more often the dominant pathology.

“I see,” said Hoffner. “Then perhaps this isn’t the girl.”

“Not to be blunt, but did she have the look of a-” At least van Acker was trying to be delicate. “-well, of one of these types.”

“Hard to tell, Chief Inspector. The face was. . gnawed away at.”

“Of course,” said van Acker. “To be expected, I suppose. Any other distinguishing features?” He was doing his best to go through the motions, making sure to touch on everything. “Your wire didn’t specify anything beyond height, weight, coloring. We do have a description of a marking on the left leg and another on the back. Anything there?”

The mention of the leg gave Hoffner a moment’s hope. “Where on the leg?” he said.

“Mid-shin, according to her application file. A scar from childhood.”

Somehow, Hoffner had known it would be too low. “There wasn’t enough of it left to check.”

“Naturally,” said van Acker, moving on. “And nothing on the upper back? There’s supposed to be a very recognizable birthmark there. A strawberry-colored splatter, as if someone threw a bit of paint at her. You’d have seen it immediately.”

Van Acker was picking all the most interesting spots. “The back is more problematic,” said Hoffner. “It’s been”-he did his best to find the least troubling word-“disfigured. The entire area between the shoulder blades. It’s impossible to tell what would have been there.”

Hoffner expected to hear a summary “oh well” and then an equally quick wrap-up to the conversation, but the line remained strangely quiet. When van Acker did speak, his tone was far more pointed: “Disfigured?” he said. “What kind of disfigurement?”

The change in tone momentarily threw Hoffner: for the first time in the conversation, van Acker sounded as if he was actually investigating something. Hoffner chose his words carefully. “Just some knife work, Chief Inspector. We’re dealing with something of an artist here.”

Van Acker continued to press. “How do you mean?”

Hoffner remained cautious. “We didn’t find a birthmark.”

When van Acker next spoke, the hesitation in his voice was undeniable: “It’s-not a pattern, is it?”

The word jumped at Hoffner. He took his time in answering. “Yes,” he said. “A pattern.”

Van Acker was now fully committed. “Could you describe it, Inspector?”

Again Hoffner waited. He gazed over at Fichte. These were rare moments: the possibility of a piece falling into place, no matter how disturbing its implications. And, as always, Hoffner forced himself not to look beyond it. He also knew not to give anything away. The information had to come to him. “A few lines, Chief Inspector,” he said. “Not much more.” When the line remained quiet, Hoffner continued, “Suffice it to say someone decided to make a pretty nice mess of it.”

“I see.” Van Acker’s voice was strangely cold; what he said next was no less chilling. “These wouldn’t be ruts, would they, Inspector, with a central strip running down the middle? That’s not the pattern you’re describing, is it?”

Fichte moved closer in when he saw the sudden reaction on Hoffner’s face. Hoffner shook his head as he put up a hand to stop him. With great reserve, Hoffner said, “And why do you ask that, Chief Inspector?”

There was a long silence before van Acker answered: “You wouldn’t need to ask if you’d seen them.”

Fichte was having trouble keeping up as the two men mounted the stairs back to Hoffner’s office: he had yet to hear a word about the conversation with the man from Bruges. Instead he had been told to stand by the door for nearly ten minutes while Hoffner had sat at the switchboard taking notes and asking questions.

Once inside his office, Hoffner told Fichte to shut the door and take a seat. Hoffner began flipping through the pages he had just written, matching them against a second notebook that he now took from inside his desk drawer. Still scanning, Hoffner said, “According to van Acker, the man we’ve been looking for is a Paul Wouters.”

Fichte tried to minimize his reaction. “This Wouters left the same trail in Bruges?”

“He did,” said Hoffner as he jotted down a few words in the first notebook.

“He won’t be easy to trace.”

“Oh, I think he will.” Hoffner looked up from the pages. “He’s been in the Sint-Walburga Insane Asylum, just outside of Bruges, for the past two years.”

Fichte needed a moment. “When did he escape?”

“He didn’t. He’s still there.”

Once again, Fichte was at a loss. “I don’t understand.”

Hoffner nodded and went back to the pages. He began to cross-reference every detail van Acker had been able to give him, most of it from memory: texture of the ruts, quality of the blade, intervals between the killings. As it turned out, van Acker had been the lead inspector on the case, and his recall was remarkable. It was why he had taken such an interest in the girl’s case, and why he had been eager to follow up even the most obscure requests from as far away as Berlin.

The girl had been one of Wouters’s night attendants. There had been rumors of something more than mopping up and scrubbing between them, but nothing had ever been found. In fact, the doctors who had petitioned and won to keep Wouters from the gallows-a lab rat for them to study-had insisted that such intimacy might be an indication of a positive response to the treatment. The intimacy, they reasoned, would have amounted to little more than adolescent groping-about right for the mental age of both-and so they saw no harm in it: as long as offspring could be avoided, or terminated prior to development, the doctors felt it would be beneficial to Wouters’s eventual recovery. Van Acker, of course, had been the sole voice of reason-he had wanted Wouters dead from the moment they had taken him-but science had prevailed. The fact that Wouters had been brutally killing women prior to having received this extraordinary treatment seemed an inconsequential detail to everyone but van Acker. The doctors reminded him that those women-Wouters’s victims-had been older. “Much older, Monsieur Le Chef Inspecteur.That was his purpose in the killings. His desire. The age. Because of his history. This girl poses no such threat.” Somehow, van Acker had been unable to locate pimping in the Hippocratic oath. Having done nothing to stop them, however, he alone now felt responsible for her fate.

The one aspect of the case about which van Acker had been hazy was the placement of the bodies. The Bruges police had caught Wouters in mid-etching, kneeling over his third victim; they had failed to look for a pattern in the discoveries because there had never been enough of a body count to create one.

“At least now we have a name for the girl,” said Hoffner as he continued to flip through the pages. “She was called Mary Koop. She worked at Sint-Walburga. She disappeared about two months ago.”

Fichte said, “So, if Wouters is still in the asylum, what are we dealing with here?”

Hoffner nodded as he scanned his scrawl. “That was the first question I asked myself.”

Fichte decided to take a stab. “Maybe it was someone who read about the case? Someone who was imitating him? Like that fellow who took up where Chertonski left off.”

Hoffner looked up. “Chertonski?” he said in mild disbelief. “You can’t be serious. That was knocking over old women’s flats, Hans, not killing them, and certainly not leaving them with pieces of artwork chiseled into their backs.”

Fichte seemed to shrink ever so slightly into his coat. “No-of course not. You’re right, Herr Kriminal-”

Hoffner put up a hand to stop him. “Whatever it is, Hans, I was trying to say it’s the wrong question.” Hoffner was about to explain, when he stopped. His hand became a single finger as he listened intently; he glanced over at the door and then motioned Fichte over. Fichte stood and, with a nod from Hoffner, quickly opened the door.

There, poised in a knocking position, stood Detective Sergeant Ludwig Groener.

“Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” said Hoffner. “Can we help you with something?” On instinct, Fichte took a step back.

Groener stood motionless. He held a stack of papers in his hand as he peered at Fichte, then Hoffner. He remained outside the office. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said. “You received a telephone call from abroad. There was no entry in the log.”

Hoffner nodded in agreement. “If there was no entry, how do you know I received it?”

Groener had no answer. Instead he took aim at Fichte. “As his Assistent,Herr Fichte, it’s your job to fill in all appropriate logs. You know this, of course.”

“Of course, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” said Fichte. “When the Herr Kriminal-Kommissarreceives a call. Absolutely. I’ll make a note of that.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Realizing that Fichte was going to be of no help, Groener again turned to Hoffner. “It’s my job to know when calls come in, and the like, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“And to listen at the doors of detective inspectors’ offices?” said Hoffner. “Do you find that equally exciting?”

For an instant Groener looked as if he had gotten a whiff of his own breath. Then, just as quickly, he resumed the taut stare of bureaucratic efficiency. “The telephone call from Belgium, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.Have your man make a note of it in the log at the switchboard.” Groener turned and started to go.

Hoffner stopped him by saying, “Would you like me to give him a detailed account of what was said, Herr Groener? Or is the notation of information you already have sufficient?”

Groener kept his back to Hoffner. He turned his head slightly and said, “What was discussed is your business, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.It’s your case.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” Hoffner said coldly. “It is.”

Groener offered a clipped nod and then retreated down the hall.

Fichte waited until Groener had moved out of sight before turning back to Hoffner. “God, he makes the place stink.”

“Close the door, Hans.” With a plaintive look from Fichte, Hoffner said, “All right, wave it out a few times.” Fichte opened and closed the door with gusto, and then shut it before returning to his seat. Hoffner said, “So, who else knew about the wire?”

“It was on your desk when I got back from Missing Persons. I assume just one of the boys and the wire operator. That’s it.”

“Evidently not.” Hoffner sat, thinking to himself: Why would anyone else have been looking for it in the first place?

“Why the wrong question?” said Fichte, resuming their previous conversation.

It took Hoffner a moment to refocus; he looked over at Fichte. “Because right now it doesn’t matter who’s doing the killing, or why. What matters is how he got to Berlin.”

Fichte’s all-too-predictable “I don’t understand” was out before Hoffner could explain.

“Look at what we have.” Hoffner settled back in his chair as he spoke: “You’d think the piece out of place would be Wouters-everything in the Bruges case is the same, everything points to him, except he’s locked away in an asylum seven hundred kilometers from here, a fact that is both frightening and astounding-but it’s not. That’s not the piece that doesn’t fit. Imitator or not-it doesn’t matter which-the killings are taking place here by someone who knows the Bruges case. By someone who must have been in Bruges. But not because he can make a few markings on a woman’s back. No, the reason he must have been in Bruges is that, unless he was there, how else would he have been able to bring the girl from Bruges to Berlin? Given her mental state, she clearly couldn’t have made it on her own. So how did anyone get from Bruges to Berlin over two months ago? The only transports would have been military. No one else could have crossed the lines, even after the armistice. How? And how does he bring a girl with him?”

Fichte needed a moment to absorb the information. “So the fact that it’s not Wouters doesn’t trouble you.”

“Of course it troubles me, Hans.” Hoffner’s tone was thick with frustration. “It horrifies me. But right now, it’s not the most inconsistent piece of information we have.”

“It’s a shame Kroll didn’t have anything for us on the grease. That might have been helpful.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. He had decided to keep this recent discovery from Fichte: until he knew what it all meant-and now, with the information from Bruges, he had no idea when that might be-Hoffner needed to keep everything as focused as possible. As much as he wanted to trust Fichte with it, he knew that would be unwise: the appearance of the Polpo had made that abundantly clear, not to mention the leak. The less Fichte knew, the safer it would be for everyone involved. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “We’ll have to wait on that.”

Fichte tried another tack: “Was the Wouters case well reported in Belgium? I mean, during the war, would they have spent a lot of time with it in the newspapers? That could be of use.”

Hoffner had been thinking the same thing. “Excellent question, Hans. You’ll have to ask the Chief Inspector when you see him.”

Fichte’s confusion returned, and Hoffner explained: “We need to know what they have in Bruges, and we need it quickly. More than that, we need to hear what Mr. Wouters has to say, and whom he might have said it to.” Fichte remained silent. Hoffner tried to lead him. “There is another way to get from Bruges to Berlin, Hans, also controlled by the military, although a bit quicker than a train.” When Fichte continued to stare back at him, Hoffner said, “You’ve never been in an aeroplane, have you, Hans?” Hoffner watched as the blood drained from Fichte’s face. “Not so bad, really. Just remember to turn your head away from the wind.” Hoffner smiled at Fichte’s blank stare. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll know when.”

THE PACT

Victor Knig, Hoffner’s onetime partner, had spent the last hour of his life circling over a vast stretch of lake hidden beneath fog in the autumn of 1915. Knig had not realized it, but had he flown just another twenty kilometers east, he would have seen the lights of a village and been able to land his Fokker E-I in any number of open fields. At the time, the “Eindecker”had been a relatively new aeroplane, renowned for its synchronous Spandau machine gun-that clever little gear which allowed it to stop firing when the propeller blade was moving directly in front of it-but Knig had been flying in empty sky: what he had needed was light, not a miracle gun. With his fuel dangerously low, and the sun dipping out of the horizon, Knig had chanced a drop dive into the cloud cover. Thinking he was coasting just above the water, and only a few hundred meters from open land, he had hit the lake head-on at full speed. The impact had left nothing of the aeroplane to recover, let alone any traces of Captain Victor Knig of the German Second Aircraft Battalion.

It was an odd mistake for so experienced a flyer to have made. Knig had been flying since 1909, and had placed third in the Rundflugin both 1912 and 1913. It was why the Air Corps had overlooked his rather advanced age of thirty-eight on the application: a sky pilot with five years of flying under his belt was prime material. It was for those reasons that his squadron had assumed he had been hit somewhere over France. None of them had even considered the possibility of those final tormenting minutes that Knig had had to endure. Far from enemy fire, alone and blind, he had been done in by nothing more than the dark. It was probably better that no one had known. Victor had been a terribly proud man.

Next to Hoffner, Tobias Mueller had been struck hardest by Knig’s death. Mueller had been a brash twenty-four-year-old with a genius for flight, and Knig’s closest comrade in the squadron. Hoffner had met him once during one of their leaves: they had liked each other instantly.

Mueller had been something of a celebrity during the war. He had brought down eighteen French fighters in just over two years before being sent home in 1917: it had not been his decision. He had lost part of his right foot, along with a few fingers, in a crash landing, and now walked with a considerable limp. He had insisted he could still fight; the Air Corps, however, had seen it otherwise. Even so, Mueller had been too good with a stick to let go: he had been flying supplies in and out of Berlin for the past two years. True to form, it had taken Mueller no time to discover that a good deal of money could be made by a pilot willing to fly any number of other items in and out of Germany. He had been caught only once, luckily by the civilian police, and since the black market was Kripo jurisdiction, his case had landed on the third floor at the Alex. Hoffner had been the one to make it all go away, and Mueller had never forgotten him for that. The monthly supply of cigars and cigarettes was a particularly welcome treat.

For now, Mueller was favoring the aerodrome at Tempelhof as his base of operations. It was little more than four or five buildings scattered across a stretch of wide-open grassland, and was still considered second-rate when compared to the airfields at Johannisthal-the site from which the Rundflugfliers had set off and returned during those wild, prewar days of summer-but it did have the advantage of being closer in to town. It was the preferred stop of the supply runners for that reason, more so because no one really paid it much attention. Planes could come and go as they pleased. On occasion, a little something for the station guard was advised, but aside from that, sky pilots had the run of the place. It also meant that Tempelhof was always in need of a good overhaul.

Hoffner and Fichte were finding that out for themselves firsthand as they slogged their way across a field that was more like a mass of dense pudding than a runway. It was clear why boots were a staple of the aviator outfit.

Hoffner was the first into the hangar. It would have been difficult to call the domed tent a building, as it was nothing more than a tarp hung over several very long poles. Ten or so aeroplanes of every color and design stood in a row along the side wall, half of them stripped for parts in aid of the other five. Mueller was pilfering something from one of the stray engines when he looked around at the sound of footsteps. He was wearing a pair of coveralls, streaked in oil and grease from collar to foot. His boots, however, were immaculate. He started toward them.

Still far enough away not to be heard, Fichte said quietly, “I’m getting into an aeroplane with a cripple? Wonderful.”

Under his breath, Hoffner answered, “I won’t tell him about your lungs, and you don’t mention the limp. Fair enough?”

Mueller drew up to them, and, wiping the grease onto a cloth from his remaining fingers, he extended his hand. Without hesitation, Hoffner took it. “Hello, Toby,” he said.

“Nikolai,” said Mueller. “Nice to see you.”

“This is Hans Fichte. Your passenger.”

Mueller extended his hand to Fichte, who tried a smile and took Mueller’s hand. Fichte squeezed gently and felt the gaps in the grip. “It’s an odd sensation,” said Mueller, “but you get used to it.” Fichte nodded awkwardly. Mueller smiled. “I was talking about flying. You never get used to the hand.” Mueller laughed. Again Fichte nodded, as he pulled his hand away.

“How soon until you can go?” said Hoffner.

“The sky’s clear enough, for now. Up to you. Everything’s ready on my end.” Mueller nodded over to a biplane along the row, one with a tapered undercarriage and a high skid under the back fin. From the little Hoffner recalled, it could have been anything from a Siemens-Schuckert D-IV to an English Sopwith Snipe. Hoffner was putting nothing past Mueller, these days. Mueller had been talking about getting his hands on a Bentley engine for weeks: the 230-horsepower B.R.2, if memory served. It was a bit tougher to handle, but the power was unmatched, over 300 kph in a dive, according to Mueller. Hoffner had trouble even conceiving of those speeds. The chances, however, of one having “fallen” into Mueller’s lap during his travels was just too good. Hoffner knew Georgi would have been able to spot it instantly.

Mueller turned to Fichte. “We can fly above the rain, but you’ll need something warmer than what you’ve got on. There are some things back in the office you can try.” Fichte nodded.

“So I can leave him with you, Toby?” said Hoffner. “I need you there for a day, two at the most. You can work that?”

Mueller said, “Bruges is as good a place as any to find castor oil.”

Seeing Fichte’s expression, Hoffner said, “To grease the cylinders, Hans. An old sky pilot’s trick.”

Mueller headed for the office as Hoffner lagged behind with Fichte so as to give the boy some last-minute instructions. “Get what you can and wire me, Hans.” Not that Hoffner was thrilled to be sending Fichte off like this-there had been only time enough for Fichte to throw an extra pair of socks and some shaving equipment into a satchel-but given the leak, Hoffner had no interest in having the Bruges story come out before getting the information firsthand. Fichte would have to make do. “And mark the wire ‘restricted.’ I’ll have a boy waiting at the desk, day and night. Send it whenever you can.”