Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

It was a puzzling terrain, flat and open, at times barren and then wild with green. There were rises here and there, little houses, but more often than not it was the sudden looming of a castle in the distance-ancient and decayed-that traced the path Durruti had given them. Twice they heard gunfire; twice they maneuvered around wagons pulled by mules. Hoffner noticed no neckerchiefs. These were peasants, smart enough to keep their loyalties to themselves. If Durruti pushed through, so be it. Until then, they would wave and nod to anyone passing by.

It was nearly half past one, and the heat in the car was making quick work of the little air coming through the windows. Mila had brought a lipstick. She gave her lips a brown-red coating and looked at herself in a small mirror. As if anticipating his question, she said, “They’ll expect it. Anarchists have bland lips. Fascists have red ones. Not too red. It’s a fine line for God.”

Hoffner nodded but said nothing. He had said very little since the shack. She put the lipstick in her purse and stared out. She, too, had said almost nothing.

The road was suddenly bounded on both sides by fields of sunflowers, each turned up to the midday sun. The smell was strong, the heat stronger.

“The boy,” she finally said. “Last night. He was young. I let him hold me.”

Hoffner focused on the twin line of ruts ahead of him. He felt his throat go dry. Again he nodded.

She said, “He was a chemist.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She looked at him. “Why do you think I’m telling you?”

Hoffner hesitated before turning to her. There was nowhere for the car to go but along the track.

Her face showed nothing, no longing or need. And yet it was strange to see this intimacy given so freely. It was the loss behind her eyes that reached out to him, and made plain-only now-why he himself felt the longing. It had never been about her beauty, raw and fine as it was. It was this. And while he could find nothing safe in it-its pull no less daunting than if she had offered him love-Hoffner let it take him. She placed a hand on his cheek. She held it there, then brought it down and looked out again to the road.

She said, “It’s your son who’s not here-the one you don’t follow-that makes you this way. Why is that?”

Hoffner stared at the powder on her cheek, the soft ridges she had failed to smooth. He turned, and his eyes settled on the fields in the distance. They swayed with a momentary wind.

“You know this for certain?” he said, trying to sound too cavalier.

“I do.”

There was no hope of distracting her.

“He’s called Sascha,” he said. “He hasn’t been a boy for quite some time.”

“And he knows the pain it gives you?”

“He thinks I’m not capable of feeling it.”

“But he tries anyway.”

“He did-once. Not for a long time now.”

“But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

They were halfway through a canteen of water. Hoffner picked it up and unscrewed the top. He drank. When he looked out again, he was relieved to see what Durruti had called the Ontinar Crossroads just over a rise-two or three houses and another dirt track coming in from the west.

Hoffner had kept his collar buttoned, his tie tight to the neck. The jacket was soaked through, down to the waist. Still, better to be the bitter German sweating his way through Spain than a man comfortable with the Aragon summer. He noticed the telephone wire sprouting from the roof of one of the small buildings. It was exactly as Durruti had described it.

“No,” he said, “it doesn’t.”

He slowed the car as they reached the buildings. It might have been due to the three Nationalist soldiers standing with their rifles raised, or the sandbag barricade that was clearly a recent addition. More likely it was the sight of the Renault tank perched behind them. The tank was old, maybe not even a match for the big guns back in Osera, but it made its point. Hoffner pulled up to the barricade and turned off the engine.

Two of the men kept their rifles raised as the third now walked over. He was wearing the green and tan uniform of a requete, with the dual leather straps that cut across his shoulders and chest. The belt buckle was well polished, although the three leather bags that clung to the belt-ammunition, cigarettes, papers-looked as if they had seen better days. A silver crucifix was pinned just above the heart, with a red barbed X sewn onto the pocket. The jodhpur pants were narrow at the shin and looped over the boots. He wore a crimson beret angled to the forehead and without a hint of panache.

There was no mistaking these for soldiers. The one approaching pulled his pistol from its holster and cocked the barrel. He held it at his side.

“Out of the car,” he said, when he had positioned himself just beyond the grille.

Hoffner opened the door slowly, stepped out, and put his hand back for Mila as she slid across. He took her hand. The two stood and waited.

The man said, “This road is closed.”

“I have papers,” Hoffner said calmly. His Spanish was now simple, halting, and with a distinct German accent.

The man stared. “This road is closed.”

“I have papers.”

The man looked at Mila for the first time. Hoffner wanted to turn to her, but he kept his eyes on the man, who looked back and said, “How do you come to be on this road?”

“I am not a Spaniard,” said Hoffner. “I do not know these roads. I have come down from the north. My driving instructions were poor. I am going to Zaragoza.”

The man glanced again at Mila, then at Hoffner. He held out his hand. “Show me these papers.”

Hoffner slowly reached into his jacket pocket. He retrieved them and held them out. The man took them and, with the pistol still in hand, unfolded them. He read.

“Where did you get these papers?” he said.

“Berlin,” said Hoffner.

The man quickly looked up. Despite himself, he showed a moment’s uncertainty. “This is a Safe Conduct.”

“Yes.”

“Signed by Nicholas Franco.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “The General’s brother sent it by dispatch eight days ago.”

“To Berlin.”

“Yes.”

The man was finding himself well beyond his capacity, but still he held his ground. Durruti had been wise to be so precise with the story.

“Your passport,” said the man.

Again Hoffner reached into his jacket. He handed the papers to the man and chanced a look at Mila. Her face was moist from the heat, but she stood without the least sign of discomfort. It was a remarkable pose of submissive indifference.

The man looked up from the papers. “And the woman?”

Before Hoffner could answer, Mila said, “My papers are in my purse.” She turned to the car, but the man stepped over and raised his pistol.

“No, Senora,” he said. “Where is the purse?”

Mila looked at the man. Hoffner couldn’t be sure if this was genuine fear in her eyes or not. She said, “I was only trying to get them.”

“Yes, Senora. Where is the purse?”

Mila pointed to the seat and the man called over to one of the others. The second man quickly walked up, leaned his rifle against the car, and reached in through the passenger window for the small purse. He held it up, took his rifle, and brought it around.

The first man opened it. He looked through and brought out a small crucifix on a chain of prayer beads. He looked up at Mila.

“This is yours, Senora?”

She nodded and he held it out to her. She took it and kissed it.

“There are no papers, Senora.”

Mila’s look of panic was only momentary before she quickly turned to Hoffner. “You have them,” she said. “Remember? The man gave them both to you when we left the last post. You put them in the other pocket.”

Durruti had been very specific on this. A woman-a good Catholic woman-in distress was almost irresistible to a soldier of God. And the man able to save her-His obvious emissary.

Hoffner nodded, relieved, as if he had just remembered. He reached into his pocket. “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. I’m sorry to have caused any trouble.”

He handed the papers to the man, who quickly glanced through them.

“Another Safe Conduct.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner.

The man continued to look through them. “How did you get on this road?”

Hoffner waited for the man to look up. “There was gunfire,” Hoffner said. “I was stopped and told to drive around. The soldier said it would meet up with the first road. He was mistaken.”

The man held the papers out to Hoffner. “And why do you go to Zaragoza?”

Hoffner took them, placed them in his pocket, and said, “That I cannot say.”

This, more than anything, seemed to convince the young requete. He said, “We’ll need to check the car.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner drove them past the barricade and into Nationalist Spain.

Augustus Caesar, born Gaius Octavius Thurinus, son of the she-wolf Atia Balba Caesonia, adopted nephew of the tyrant Gaius Julius Caesar, husband of the harridan Livia Drusilla, and first Emperor of Rome, hated Spain. He had fought there against Pompey as a boy, at the side of his uncle, and had developed a “horrible burning” in his meatus urinariusafter an evening spent with two young women from the Tarraconensis province. The burning eventually subsided (a doctor familiar with the women suggested a combination of herbs and minerals), but young Octavian never forgot his days of agony in the city of Salduba. In later years he even went so far as to blame his inability to produce an heir on the peoples of Hispania. That Rome would have to suffer through the likes of Tiberius, Caligula, and Nero was hardly the fault of two welcoming young virgins (or so they described themselves), but who was really to say? In an act of contrition, and with the hope that Spain might seem more than a cauldron of filth and whores to the people of Rome, the men of Salduba renamed their city after the young Octavian when he ascended the throne. They called it Caesaraugusta, which, over time-and due to dialect and the influence of the conquering Moors-became Zaragoza. It seemed highly unlikely that now, under the watchful gaze of the requetes, the city might offer a glimpse into that distant past. Then again, Zaragoza was filled with soldiers. Even the holiest of men needed something for which to repent.

Hoffner brought the car to a stop. A barricade stretched along the entrance to an ancient-looking bridge, with the thick brown water of the Ebro swirling below it. Wide enough for perhaps two trucks to pass, the bridge was six stanchions in limestone brick-a pristine nod to Rome in the vaulted archways in between-and looked untouched by the recent fighting. Not that there had been much to speak of. Zaragoza had followed the Seville approach to self-defense: Let the soldiers take what they will and never-never-hand a rifle to a worker. It had saved the city from any real scarring, though not so much the workers. Those who had fought with their shouts of ?Viva la Libertad!had been rounded up, shot, or worse. It was a terrible blow to Zaragoza, as the city had always been known as a hotbed of CNT activities. Passion without guns, though, has a tendency to end badly. It had in Zaragoza, and it was why the Puente de Piedra-after five hundred years surviving Moors and floods and the occasional rumble from the French-stood whole. Perhaps it had been saving itself for this unit of requetesnow standing atop it.

Watching them from the car, Hoffner suspected that the young soldiers making their way over were thinking much the same thing.

“Senor,” one of them said. “Papers, please.”

Things were more relaxed here. They were twenty kilometers inside Nationalist territory, with fifteen hundred armed men just the other side of the bridge. A cordial “Senor” was the least one of them could offer.

Hoffner handed both sets of papers to the man and waited. If the boys at the Ontinar Crossroads had used their telephone correctly, this would be a quick stop, after which Hoffner would be ushered through to meet someone with real questions. If not-well, “if not” wasn’t something to dwell on these days.

The man with the papers told the others to wait while he returned to the small shack by the barricade. At just after three o’clock, Hoffner and Mila drove across the bridge.

It was good to be out of the open country; the sun through the windscreen had made the air almost unbreathable. Now looming above them and providing shade-perhaps for the province as a whole-was the basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar, a massive and unwavering reminder of God’s bountiful dominion. Palatial walls sat below four fortresslike towers, each standing sentry over the Roman dome and tiled cupolas within. If this was a place to inspire quiet devotion, it was for a God dressed in full armor. Hoffner suspected that even had the bombs exploded, the spires themselves would have risen up to slap the aeroplane from the sky.

Mila stared up as they drove. “Welcome to Aragon.”

A motorcycle led them into the plaza, which stretched out behind the basilica. The square was large enough to land a plane, the buildings surrounding it a collision of Roman and Moorish design, with a few that seemed forever lost in the struggle. At the far end stood a second cathedral-why a square should need two was something only Zaragoza could answer-and a church tower that made the hunched houses of Osera seem perfectly upright by comparison. A line of military trucks was parked at the center, with two more of the Renault tanks thrown in for good measure. There was a starkness to it all, and not for the presence of the guns. It was the emptiness. A few soldiers stood at various posts, but the heat and God and common sense were keeping the rest of Zaragoza indoors. If this was victory, thought Hoffner, it was a far cry from the kind he had seen in Barcelona.

The motorcycle pulled up in front of a building and the soldier kicked out his stand. The place was one of the newer ones on the square, eighteenth or nineteenth century, and with the wrought-iron balconies and ornate stonework of a municipal courthouse. Two soldiers with rifles flanked the entrance. Hoffner turned off the engine, and the motorcyclist led them through and into the enclosure of a wide receiving hall.

It was all stone and wood, vaulted ceilings-and surprisingly cool. Doorways and corridors led off toward more doorways and corridors, while a staircase climbed along the walls to the upper floors. Peppered throughout were men in uniform who moved with a look of deep concentration. This was the hushed feel of newly minted authority-muffled conversations and telephone bells ringing from above. Hoffner might have been mistaken, but he thought he caught the smell of sweet incense drifting down from on high.

The motorcyclist led them up the stairway and, somewhere on the third floor, took them into an office that looked like a small banquet hall. The wall facing the street was a series of long, narrow windows that stepped out onto equally narrow balconies, each with a singular view of Our Lady of the Pillar. It was unclear which of the buildings was keeping watch on which, but Hoffner imagined that the man at the far end of the room-desk, bookcase, and telephone-readily deferred to the will of the Holy Mother across the square.

A second man in uniform approached. He and the motorcyclist exchanged a quick salute, and the motorcyclist retreated. The man then motioned Mila and Hoffner toward the distant desk-a sudden and almost jarring “Senor, Senora” to break the Spanish silence-before leading the way.

The other man stood as they drew up. He was tall, with a chiseled face, a nobleman in the most recent guise of Spanish privilege. He was no more than twenty-five, his hair black and slicked above a high forehead, his uniform perfectly pressed. Where Durruti had defined hunger and passion, this showed centuries of refinement. The only flaw was a red patch of skin under the right eye. Something from birth. Something to cause shame.

He was a career officer, only weeks removed from his betrayal of the Republic. He wore his treason with the easy assurance of a divine right.

“I am Captain Doval.” The voice was nasal and lingered on the words. “I have been expecting you, Senor, though not expecting you.”

From the slight curl of the lip, Hoffner imagined this to be some form of humor.

Hoffner offered a clipped nod. “Captain.” His Spanish was once again fluent, though no less Germanic. “What we have to discuss does not concern the senora. She has a brother in your garrison whom she wishes to see. The last name is Piera.” He looked at Mila.

“Carlos,” she said. “First Sergeant Carlos Piera, under General Cabanellas.”

The curl inched toward a smile. “We are all under General Cabanellas, Senora, but I shall see what I can do.” Doval nodded to the second man, who retreated to a small desk and a telephone. The conversation was brief and successful.

The second man said, “Your brother will be in the Gran Cafe within half an hour. The senora is welcome to wait in the anteroom just here”-he motioned to a door beyond the desk-“until an escort can be found to take her to the cafe.”

Hoffner said, “I’d like to see this anteroom.” He removed his papers from his jacket pocket and placed them on the desk. “You may examine my papers while I’m with the senora.”

Hoffner took Mila by the elbow. He had been swimming in Nazis for the past three years; it was easy enough to strike a convincing pose. The Spaniards offered their own clipped nods before Hoffner led Mila to the door and through.

The room was small, one window, a few chairs, and with a second closed door that led out to the corridor. Hoffner shut the door behind him and held his finger to his lips. Waiting perhaps fifteen seconds, he suddenly pulled the door open. As expected, the second man was only half a meter off, ostensibly reading through a file.

Hoffner said, “A glass of water for the senora. And one for myself. And perhaps a few crackers. I’ll take mine at the desk.”

He waited for the man to move off before closing the door. Mila was at the far end by the open window. Hoffner joined her.

“You’re very good,” she said quietly. “You’ve even got me believing you’re a son of a bitch. You know what you’ll say to them?”

“No.”

It had been a long time since he had seen admiration in a woman’s eyes. It was there only a moment before she said, “The captain seems young.”

“He does. How long do you think you’ll need?”

“Not long. Half an hour.”

“Good.”

A small wind came through the window and she looked up at him. Hoffner was learning to trust her silences. She slowly brought her hand to his cheek and pressed her lips to his. When she pulled back, he was still staring at her.

“That would take longer,” he said.

It was good to see her smile. She rubbed her thumb across his lip and said, “A handkerchief would be better.”

Hoffner pulled one from his pocket and wiped off what lipstick remained.

She said, “You didn’t need me to get you through last night or this morning. You could have gone south on your own. You knew it in Barcelona.”

“Zaragoza needs guns,” he said. “Coming here helps me find my boy.”

“Yes,” she said, something too knowing in her eyes, “I’m sure it does.”

She stared up at him, and he felt his hand move to the soft of her back. He kissed her again, her lips parched but smooth. She drew him in closer and he released. There was a rapping at the door.

Mila said, “Don’t underestimate them.”

Hoffner used the handkerchief again and turned to the door. “Come.”

The door opened, and the second man stepped through with a plate of crackers and cheese and a glass of water.

Hoffner said, “Good.” He turned to Mila with a nod. “Senora. I’ll see you at the cafe.” With nothing else, he headed into the office.

“You came through Barcelona?”

Captain Doval sat behind his desk. He held Hoffner’s papers casually in his long fingers, which showed a recent manicure.

“Yes,” said Hoffner. He placed his empty glass on the desk and reached for another cracker. The cheese was surprisingly fresh.

“And you encountered no difficulties?”

Hoffner dabbed his finger at the crumbs on his shirt. “You wear a red neckerchief, raise your hand with a ?Viva la Republica!and Barcelona is your friend.” He licked at the crumbs.

“I wish it were all so easy.”

“It will be.” Hoffner finished the cracker and brushed off his hands. “So. I can expect your help in finding this man?”

Doval’s expression remained unchanged. “Your German. Herr Bernhardt.”

“Yes.”

There really had been no other choice. If guns were coming in, this was where they would be heading. Besides, it was always best to bring a bit of truth to the table with a man like Doval. And arrogance-German arrogance-with crackers, brushed hands, and a thoroughly polished indifference.

Doval placed the papers on the table. He rubbed something off one of his nails, and said, “Papers are an easy thing to come by these days, Senor Hoffner. Especially in Barcelona.”

Hoffner showed nothing. “I imagine they are.”

“A Safe Conduct is impressive.”

“Especially one signed by Senor Franco.”

Doval seemed less convinced. He waited before saying, “Your Spanish is excellent.” Even a compliment seemed a sneer.

Hoffner could see where this was going. Papers wouldn’t be enough. Funny, he thought: where better than Nationalist Spain to be forced to have it all come down to an act of faith. It was now just a matter of waiting for the right moment. Hoffner continued, “But not your German.”

“No-I don’t speak German.”

“Odd,” said Hoffner. “I would have expected a bit more from the Reich’s liaison.”

“Odd is having a member of the Reich appear without warning.”

Hoffner appreciated Doval’s impatience. It was coming now. “You’re going to waste both our time, aren’t you?”

“I have a man with the woman at the cafe.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“He can detain her if need be.”

“Or shoot her. Or you could shoot me. There are so many possibilities for you.”

Doval tried to match Hoffner’s effortlessness, but it came off as preening.

“You will admit it’s surprising,” said Doval. “A German with rare yet ideal papers arriving with a Spanish woman. She was also in Barcelona?”

“She was.”

“And you just happened to be carrying a second Safe Conduct for her?”

Doval was taking them closer and closer. Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. He chose not to offer one. “You ask very good questions.”

“I hope they’re not wasting your time.”

“Not at all.” Hoffner lit up and let out a long strain of smoke. “When we speak about Bernhardt, I’ll be happy to explain it to you.”

“Assuming I know who this Bernhardt is.”

Hoffner took another pull. “But that’s not the point, is it-whether you know.”

The power of German arrogance lay in its cruelty; Spanish arrogance relied too willingly on dignity. It placed Doval at a considerable disadvantage.

Hoffner said, “The better question is why do Iknow about Herr Bernhardt, and why do I choose to come to a rebel stronghold to talk about him. The rest is meaningless. I’m assuming you can set up a direct telephone line to Berlin.”

Doval needed a moment. He had never imagined the request coming from across the desk. “Yes.”

“How long will it take?”

Again Doval hesitated. He was convincing himself of the logic. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

“Good. And you have someone here who speaks a perfect German?”

“I have.”

“Then I’ll save us both some time.” Acts of faith require so little preparation, he thought. “You’re to have your man contact Gruppenfuhrer Edmund Prager at the SS offices of the Sipo in Berlin. Prager. With an umlaut. I have the number, but coming from me you’d question it. So we’ll sit together while your man tracks it down. When he has the Gruppenfuhrer on the line, I’ll tell your man what he needs to ask. And then you’ll tell me what I need to know about Bernhardt. We’re clear?”

Eighteen minutes later the telephone on Doval’s desk rang through. Hoffner had spent the time drinking a second glass of water and finishing the cheese and crackers.

Doval said nothing. Instead, he chose to watch Hoffner. It was an old technique and not terribly effective in the hands of a man still green with his own power.

Doval nodded to the man who had promised a perfect German, and the man picked up the telephone.

“Hello?” The man’s eyes darted as he listened. “Yes … slower please … yes … thank you … I can wait.” The eyes settled on the rind of cheese before suddenly refocusing. “One moment.” He cupped the receiver and looked at Doval. Doval looked across at Hoffner, and Hoffner said in Spanish, “You’re to tell the Herr Gruppenfuhrer that SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Nikolai Hoffner is in Zaragoza, Spain, at the Nationalist headquarters with a Captain Doval.”

Doval nodded to the man. The information was relayed in German and Hoffner watched as the man continued to listen. Either Prager would understand or Hoffner would be dead. It was as simple as that.

The man with the perfect German said in Spanish, “I think he’s asking why you’ve contacted him, Captain.”

Doval again looked at Hoffner, and Hoffner said, “You’re to say this and only this: ‘Braunschweig.’ ”

Doval again nodded and the man said hesitantly into the receiver, “Braunschweig.” There were several more seconds of darting eyes, and the man said in Spanish, “SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Hoffner has the Gruppenfuhrer’s complete authority. Contact is not to be made again.” The man listened for more and then said, “Hello?… Hello?” He held the receiver out to Doval. “The line has disengaged, Captain.”

Doval was looking across at Hoffner. “Set it down, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”

The man placed the telephone in its cradle, saluted, and moved to the door. Doval waited until they were alone.

“I’ve never heard of this Prager,” said Doval. His caution remained.

“No,” said Hoffner, “I’m sure you haven’t.” It was nice to know that two old bull cops could still wreak a little havoc. “The Gruppenfuhrer’s immediate superior is SS Obergruppenfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich. That, I suspect, is a name you’re more familiar with. We can put a call directly through to the Obergruppenfuhrer if you prefer.”

Doval had evidently spent time enough in the company of the SS not to give way to this kind of bullying. Instead he said, “Langenheim never mentioned Braunschweig.”

Langenheim, thought Hoffner. All the names from Georg’s wire were finding their way onto the table. Granted, Hoffner had no idea how Doval knew Langenheim-or who Langenheim might be-but at least they were heading in the right direction.

“No,” said Hoffner. “I’m sure not.”

“And the woman?”

Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. This time he offered one to Doval. “The woman is no concern of yours.” Doval took one and Hoffner lit it. “She has a brother who fights for you. That should be enough.” He lit his own and sat back. “When was Bernhardt here?”

Doval was doing what he could to reassert control. He sat back as he stared across through the smoke. “He wasn’t,” he said.

Hoffner knew to tread carefully. Any moment this could all come crashing down. He began to feel a dull throbbing at the back of his neck. He took another careless pull on the cigarette and said, “Really?”

“But I would have assumed you knew that.”

Doval was proving surprisingly adept. Hoffner let the smoke trail from his nose. “Would you?” he said. His only choice was a quiet contempt. “And when would I have learned this, Captain, having been in Barcelona for the past four days? When I telephoned to Berlin from the Ritz? I’m sure no one at the anarchist telephone exchange would have thought to ask why.” And with no time for a response, “I need to know when Bernhardt was here. Do we understand each other?”

Doval might not have found the sweating German-with his half stories and vague papers-compelling, but Hoffner had brought something else with him: the aura of Nazi infallibility. It was enough to cut through any lingering concern.

“It was the nephew,” said Doval. “The boy from Barcelona. No doubt you’ve met him.”

Nephew, thought Hoffner. The drug addict was a nephew. Which meant there was a second, older Bernhardt. Hoffner had spent a career being told things he was meant to know. It made revelations like this quickly digestible.

Hoffner said, “I don’t trust anyone involved with that. Opium is a mind without control, too easily persuaded. When was he here?”

Doval flicked a bit of ash into the ashtray. “Six days ago. He said he was having trouble establishing contacts.”

“The Chinese were being less than accommodating?” Hoffner let this settle for only a moment. “As I said, I don’t trust any of it. I haven’t from the start.” Hoffner finally saw what he had been hoping for: an instant of mutual understanding. They would find common ground in their distaste for the drug lines. Hoffner said, “Bernhardt thinks he’s helping the nephew. I’m here to make sure he understands that’s no longer in his best interests. Where was the nephew heading?”

“South.”

“And the elder Bernhardt knew this?”

“I assume so.”

Hoffner decided to take a chance. “You assume so? You have wires to this effect?”

It was not a good choice as Doval looked momentarily puzzled. “I don’t think I follow.”

The throbbing became a dull ache. Hoffner retreated to frustration. “The elder Bernhardt. Did he communicate this to you?”

Doval was no less forthright. “He made it clear we were no longer to continue in this direction.”

“With the Chinese and the drugs?”

“Yes.”

“And the nephew knew this?”

“Yes.”

“He knew the guns were still coming from the south?”

Doval’s hesitation returned. The SS never asked; they gave orders. This was too many questions. Regardless, Hoffner had swum well beyond his limits; there was no point in worrying about getting back to shore now.

“The elder Bernhardt,” Hoffner pressed. “He made it clear that the drug lines were no longer a possibility, that the new routes were to go through Teruel.”

Doval showed a moment’s pause. This had struck a nerve.

Hoffner said, “I’ve said something that confuses you, Captain?”

Doval kept his eyes fixed on Hoffner. “No, Hauptsturmfuhrer, you haven’t.”

The answer was too weak, and with nothing behind it. “You’re aware of Teruel, Captain?”

“Yes,” said Doval. “Of course.”

“You’re not filling me with tremendous confidence. I need to see these wires.”