Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“You continue to refer to routes, Hauptsturmfuhrer.” Doval spoke with an unexpected resolve. “What routes would those be?”

The gaze across the desk showed none of the weakness of only moments ago. Mila had been right. These were not men to be underestimated. Hoffner wondered if this was where Doval had been leading him all along.

Hoffner waited. He took another pull on his cigarette. He let the smoke spear through his nostrils. And then he did what any good Nazi would do. He smiled.

“You don’t speak German,” said Hoffner. His voice carried a newfound respect. “Now I see why.” He leaned forward and slowly crushed out his cigarette. “Ambition is a far more vital quality.”

Doval showed nothing, and Hoffner knew it was only a matter of time before there would be a second telephone call to Berlin.

Hoffner continued. “Bernhardt chose not to tell you about the routes, Captain. I have to accept that. My mistake was assuming you knew, Teruel notwithstanding. If that means you take me outside and shoot me, so be it.”

Doval sat remarkably still. Hoffner returned the gaze and understood the reason Gabriel and his kind had taken no time for celebrations: if this was Spain’s future, there would be no Spain worth remembering.

Doval said, “I wouldn’t bother taking you outside, Hauptsturmfuhrer. The walls in my office are sturdy enough.”

Hoffner gave in to another smile, and Doval opened the top drawer of his desk. He reached in and pulled out a thin file of papers. He handed them across and sat back while Hoffner read.

A Way Through

The air outside was remarkably fresh. Or perhaps it was just that Hoffner felt himself breathing again for the first time in the last hour. The young lieutenant assigned to escort him to the cafe walked with no such appreciation for the air.

Hoffner said, “Your German was excellent on the telephone.”

The young lieutenant nodded once. He spoke again in German. “Thank you, Hauptsturmfuhrer.”

“In the coming weeks, Captain Doval will need you more than he knows.”

“Yes, Hauptsturmfuhrer.”

Hoffner found himself lighting a cigarette as he walked.

He suspected Doval might be telephoning to Berlin at this moment, perhaps even to Langenheim. That said, there was very little in the wires to concern Doval-at least in showing them to someone who had mentioned routes and guns and Teruel.

As far as Hoffner could tell, the wires served as confirmation: the nephew had been in Barcelona; he had come to Zaragoza; he had gone on to Teruel. After that, he was due to head west, stopping along the way in places now, or soon to be (God willing), in fascist control: Cuenca, Tarancon, Toledo, Coria, and finally Badajoz on the Portuguese border; a straight line across the heart of Spain.

More than that, there were contact names in each of the towns and cities, along with addresses for each man. Hoffner had written them all down.

The travel itinerary was the elder Bernhardt’s way of assuring Captain Doval and his fellow liaisons across the country that mechanisms were being set in place to guarantee the steady flow of guns and ammunition from Germany into Spain. How they hoped to accomplish that-and how these contact names played a role-remained the mystery.

Hoffner was guessing Georg might be trying to piece that together himself.

“Here we are,” the young lieutenant said.

Hoffner tossed his cigarette to the ground and followed the boy to the cafe door.

The Gran Cafe was wall-front windows and wooden pillars throughout, with the smell of fresh coffee and garlic hanging in the air. Mila was at a table at the back, beyond the bar. A man in the uniform of a requetesat with her. He was reading through a letter.

Only two of the other tables were occupied: a trio of officers sat knee to knee as they sipped silently through bowls of something brown; closer to the door an old priest was reading a newspaper and drinking from a glass of yellow liquid. He looked up with a gentle smile as Hoffner stepped inside. Mila’s own escort stood by the bar with a cup of chocolate and a plate of churros. The strips of dough were powdered and had left white specks under his nose. They made the man’s sharp nod to Hoffner’s lieutenant somewhat less imposing.

Hoffner drew up to Mila’s table. The lieutenant was now with his friend at the bar, delicately trying to inform him of the powder. There was a flurry of nose activity over Hoffner’s shoulder, and Mila said, “Everything all right?”

Hoffner nodded. The brother looked up with the same features as his father, although here they were hidden behind a neatly cropped beard and mustache. It was unclear whether he had been crying, but the eyes showed a heaviness. He stood. He was tall like his sister.

Hoffner said, “Sergeant Piera.”

“Senor Hoffman.”

Mila corrected. “Hoffner.”

Piera looked at his sister. His mind was clearly elsewhere. He looked again at Hoffner. “Yes, of course. Senor Hoffner. My apologies.”

Hoffner motioned to the chairs, and the two men sat. Mila said nothing, and Piera went back to his letter. Hoffner noticed a loose stack of perhaps twenty on the chair beside him, a brown piece of twine at the side. Three of the letters had already been opened and read.

Mila kept her eyes on her brother as he flipped to the back of the one in his hand, read it, and set it down. He stared for several moments before saying, “That’s the last?” His eyes remained fixed on the table.

“Yes,” said Mila.

Piera’s eyes moved as if he were reading something only he could see. “She wrote well.”

“She did.”

He nodded. His mind was struggling to find its way back. The eyes filled and his breathing became heavier, but he refused to cry. Mila placed her hand on his.

She said, “I don’t like the beard.”

Even his smile showed pain. “Then you’re lucky you don’t have to see it that often.” He looked at Hoffner. “Forgive me. A friend has died. I’ve just been told of it.”

It was clearly more, but Hoffner knew to say only, “I’m sorry.”

Piera tried to move past it. “You’ve been to see Captain Doval?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve come from Barcelona?”

Hoffner nodded. He had no intention of opening this up, but Piera saved him by saying, “Thank you, then. For bringing Mila. I won’t take any more of your time.”

Piera stood. He reached down and collected the letters, and Hoffner noticed how large the hands were. Odd to notice that, he thought. He watched as Piera embraced his sister. Mila was not so good with the tears. She rubbed her eyes against her brother’s shoulder. Piera released her and said, “It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?”

She stared into his face. “Yes. It is.”

“To see each other this way.”

They were finding anything to keep him from going. She nodded. “Yes.”

Piera looked at Hoffner. “She’s a doctor, you know. Did you know that?” Hoffner nodded and Piera tried a ragged smile. “Of course you knew. We could use doctors this side, too.” He looked at his sister and seemed momentarily confused.

Her eyes filled, and she said, “Be well, Carlos. God be with you.”

Piera stared a moment longer and then nodded. He looked again at Hoffner and went past him. As he walked to the door, Piera set his beret on his head. He opened the door and stepped out onto the street.

Mila watched him through the glass, even when she could no longer see him.

She said, “I asked him to come with us.”

Hoffner could only imagine that moment.

“We should go,” he said. He turned to the soldiers at the bar. “Lieutenant.” He was once again the man from Berlin. “Bring my car around. And I’ll have a cup of the chocolate with the-” He pointed to the strips of dough.

“Churros,” the man said.

“Yes. And call ahead to the city’s southern barricade. The road to Teruel. Tell them to expect us in the next half hour.”

The sky took on a deep blue just before sunset, softening a landscape that was growing more desolate by the hour. The few patches of green now came as sudden eruptions, clumps on a hillock or straggling weeds of wild brush that seemed beaten down by earth and rocks. It was a place unchanged for centuries, and it made the past a kind of comfort.

There had been no further contact with Captain Doval. The car had appeared fully gassed; the two lieutenants had been sent on their way. Nonetheless, it was now more than an hour, and Hoffner was still expecting to peer into the rearview mirror and see the dust of an approaching car rising in the distance.

Mila was staring out, her head resting back against the seat. She had slipped in and out of sleep, barely moving, not even to swat the fly that seemed incapable of finding its way to an open window. The thing battered itself against the dashboard, and she began to follow the lazy line of telephone poles, one after the other after the other.

Hoffner was fighting off his own exhaustion, the strain from his performance still knotted in his neck. Even the miracle of having come through did nothing to help. His head felt light, and there was a tackiness at the back of his throat. He imagined that nausea would follow, but for now he focused on the road.

Again he glanced in the mirror, and Mila said, “Either they’re coming or they’re not. Staring in the mirror won’t change it.”

She was suddenly aware of the fly. She followed its flight, cupped it in her hands, and held it before releasing it at the window. She closed her eyes and let the last of the sun stretch across her face.

It was nearly a minute before she said, “Do you ever miss her-your wife?”

Hoffner felt the back of his neck compress.

He had been foolish just beyond the city. He had let her ask questions. More foolish, he had answered them. Now she had Martha’s death and Sascha’s hatred to toss back at him. Seventeen years removed and he still felt the stale taste of his own arrogance in his mouth. The Nazis had been nothing then-nothing but a distant rumbling from Munich and the south. And yet he had underestimated them. He had dismissed them as thugs and charlatans, and they had murdered his wife. To have his son blame him for her death and to let them steal his Sascha away-maybe that was what lingered in his throat.

He had no strength for that past.

“The girl in the letters,” he said. “She was his wife?”

Mila took a moment before answering. “Near enough. It was a long time ago.” She opened her eyes and stared out. “She never sent them. She was killed in the fighting last week.” She looked over at him. “Do you ever miss her?”

Hoffner peered into the mirror. “No,” he said. He focused on the road ahead. “I don’t think I do.”

She nodded quietly and turned again to the window. “He was a doctor, my husband. At a clinic in the Raval. I was a terrible nurse.”

Hoffner was glad for the lift in her voice. “I don’t believe that.”

“I was. It’s what you get when you have a twenty-year-old who knows better than everyone else. They all hated me.”

“Except for this doctor of yours.”

“Yes.”

“He fell in love with you?”

“He did.”

“And he trained you?”

She smiled, recalling something. “No. He was much more of an idealist than that. He married me and took me to Moscow.”

“How romantic.”

The smile remained. “The Revolution was good for opening all those doors. He found me a place at one of the medical academies: Sechanov-old, prestigious. He was at a prison hospital: Butyrki, I think. Funny how you forget those things.”

Hoffner glanced in the mirror again. Not so hard to forget.

“It must have been cold,” he said. “Moscow-for a Spaniard.”

“It wasn’t the cold that was the problem.” A pack of cigarettes lay bouncing on the seat and she took one. She lit it, placed it between his lips, and did the same for herself. “He began to write,” she said. “Always a mistake. A pamphlet on medical reforms. They arrested him.” She spoke as if she were reading from a manual. “He was sent to build roads in a work camp near Ukhta, in the north. March of 1930. He died three months later.”

Hoffner thought to say something consoling but managed only, “I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” She was staring down at the cigarette in her hand. “Do you think you ever really loved your wife?”

Hoffner had told her almost nothing, and yet he now wondered how much she had heard. There was never any safety in this.

She wasn’t expecting an answer, and said, “I loved my husband. Very much, although it’s hard to imagine it now. I suppose you either choose to forget quickly or not at all. I chose to forget.”

Hoffner needed them past this. “And then you came home?”

There was a vague sad smile on her lips when she looked up. “No. Carlos wouldn’t be in Zaragoza now if I’d managed to make it home then.” She took a pull and spared him the question. “They arrested me a month later and sent me to a camp: Siblag, also in the north.” She thought of something and shook her head. “There was a letter I’d written, nothing in it, but I was the foreign wife of a foreign counterrevolutionary. It was easy enough.” Her voice was distant as she turned to the window. “A year in prison for two lines in a letter.”

Hoffner glanced over. She was so matter-of-fact, and yet the eyes were full as she stared out. He watched as she let the wind dry them. It was the only moment of hardness to find her face. He saw it drain from her, and she said, “It doesn’t make me callous not to remember, does it?”

What an unfair question, he thought: you only remember the pain, nothing else, so why not shut it all out? He looked out at the road and said, “No. It doesn’t.”

She seemed to agree and took another pull. “When I came back, things were bad. Carlos blamed my father-Russia, Stalin, Communism, my father again. Me.” It was another moment before she said, “And one day he said God would never have let it happen. God. Can you imagine? What could be crueler than that, until he actually began to believe it?” She tossed the cigarette out the window. “Not much God to be had in Barcelona.” Her head found the back of the seat again and she stared out at the poles. “So he left.”

Hoffner was glad for the silence. The sun had turned a blood red; he watched as it dipped lower on the horizon.

She said, “They look like giants, don’t they? Stubby arms all in a row.”

It took him a moment to understand. He bent his head closer into the windscreen and glanced over at the poles. He leaned back and nodded. Again he turned to the mirror.

She said distantly, “No knights to fight off these days.” She looked over at him and, with a sudden energy, hitched herself around and stared back through the rear window. “There’s nothing, Nikolai. No one’s following. No dust rising from tires or hooves. You pulled it off. And now you can find your son and not worry that some distraction might have thrown it all away.”

She was looking directly at him. Her hair had slipped from its knot, and her face was pale. It was an endless few seconds before she sat back and stared out at the road.

She waited for him to answer until she finally said, “It wasn’t for luck or courage, that kiss. You know that.”

Hoffner knew almost nothing. He was having trouble enough keeping up, but this-it was such a long time since any of this had made sense to him. And to have it here, now. It seemed beyond his grasp and made him feel weak.

Without warning, he jammed his foot on the brake and brought the car to a sudden stop. Mila bounced against the seat and instantly glanced back, expecting to see something on the road, but it remained empty. She looked at him as if she thought he might reach for her, but instead, he turned back and pulled on the strap that released the backseat cushion.

“What are you doing?” she said.

He opened his door and stepped out. “Slaying giants.”

“What?”

He opened the back door and took out one of the brick explosives. He then stepped around to the nearest telephone pole and, crouching down, set the brick against its base. He looked over at her in the window. “What do you think, three or four?”

She was staring at him. “What?”

“Three or four of the poles? Would that be enough?”

“You’re not serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Then you’re not thin enough to be playing the part.”

“Thank you. No, this is for Durruti and our friends back in Zaragoza. They decide to call ahead, I need them not to get through.” He stood and moved to her door. “You’ll drive so I can light them before jumping in.” He opened her door. “Move over.”

She sat staring up at him. “You’re going to light the fuses and then jump in the car?”

“Yes.”

“And then I speed us away so you can light the next one?”

“Yes.”

“And this does what?”

“Did Sancho Panza always ask so many questions?”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least we’re true to form. Move over.”

She drove them to each of the four poles. Hoffner set the bricks in place, and she took the car back around to the first. She watched him as he stepped out. “This is madness,” she said.

“Yes.” He leaned over. “Ready?” He looked back to see that she had the car in gear. She nodded and he lit the fuse. He then ran and jumped in.

“Ride, Sancho, ride!”

Dust and earth kicked up as she accelerated, then more smoke as she screeched to a stop at the second pole. Another match, another mad dash. It was just as Hoffner was diving back in the car for the fourth time that the first of the bricks exploded.

She drove off, looking back through the mirror, while he angled his head and shoulders out the window.

It was a wonderful thing to see, the pole ripped from its roots, the wire limp to the ground. Suddenly the second exploded and the pole jumped into the air, tearing at its mooring and keeling over. The third and fourth followed suit, the last stripping the wire with such force that it snapped across the ground like the lash of a whip. Mila stopped the car, and they both got out.

Pale clouds hovered above the four felled poles, the remaining stumps jagged shards of wood cutting through the plumes of smoke. The standing poles at either end of the gap stared helplessly across at each other, as if they could conceive of nothing to fill the chasm between them: one world at an end, another begun.

Hoffner listened. There was absolute silence, not even the sound of settling dust. It was such a small thing-four meaningless poles of wood-yet he felt a surge of energy. Even the knot at the back of his neck was gone. Mila drew up next to him.

“Are we done?” she said, no less gratified.

He watched for another few seconds and said, “Get in the car.” He stepped around and slid in behind the wheel. They drove and he glanced back in the mirror, this time for the sheer pleasure of it.

That night, they stopped twenty kilometers from Teruel. It was late and they were exhausted. They found a tavern with two rooms above. Mila took a bath while he smoked. Hoffner bathed while she went for a second bottle of wine. And they shared a bed and knew that this was how they would find their way through.

5

Teruel

She was still asleep when his eyes opened. There was the sound of plates or cups being stacked on a shelf somewhere beyond the door and down the stairs, but Hoffner lay quietly. She had pulled the sheet to just above her waist, her bare back to him, curved to the pillow, and her hair loose against her neck. The shoulder rose almost to her cheek, and he saw the two long scars he had traced with his fingers through the darkness last night. She had said nothing, his thumb gliding along the small of her back and across the spine, the raised skin like jagged lines of wire against the pale smoothness of the rest. He brought his face toward her neck, and she said, “You hardly move when you sleep.”

She turned and looked up at him. It would have been so easy to show the expectation of a kiss, that dizzying and ageless hope of a first morning together, but instead they simply stared. It was effortless, and Hoffner nearly mistook it for the hollow comfort of a shared loneliness. That at least would have been familiar. But this was other. It brought a softening to his face, and she smiled, and he felt its warmth like the distant pull of an unknown faith.

“I thought you were dead,” she said. “I had to listen to make sure you were breathing.”

“I’ll remember to make more noise.” He gave her a kiss on the forehead and brought his legs over the side. He sat.

“Coward,” she said.

He looked back and was thankful for the smile. “Yes. Petrified.” He stood and pulled on his shorts, then reached for his cigarettes. He tapped out two and lit them. “Do you think they’ll have eggs? For some reason I’m wanting eggs.”

She pulled back the sheet and propped her head on an elbowed hand as she rolled on her side. He imagined he had never seen this kind of perfect beauty, not for the litheness of her shape or the delicacy of her face, but for the absolute peace she felt in her own uncovered body. It brought him back to the bed, and he sat, and she took a cigarette.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“The cigarette.”

“Oh-yes.”

“What else did you think I was saying?” This was payment for the kiss on the forehead. “Was the young captain helpful?”

Hoffner took hold of the water jug and poured out a glass. He handed it to her. “Yes.”

“You must be very good at what you do.”

“You don’t need to be so good.”

She took a drink. “You should stop saying that. It’s not the truth, and it’s not all that endearing. He would have shot you.” She finished the glass and held it out to him. He poured a second, and he drank.

She said, “I’ll need to find a place to wash some clothes.” She sat and moved to the edge of the bed. She picked up her chemise and dress from the floor. “I can do it in Teruel while you”-she had to think a moment-“do whatever it is you’ll be doing there.”

Hoffner watched her slip the clothes over her shoulders. She reached back to button the collar of the dress, and he said, “You don’t have to come, you know. It’s probably safer if you head back to Barcelona.” At least he was trying to sound noble.

She reached for her hose and began to slide them on. “So it’s this you’re not terribly good at.” She finished and looked back at him. “I don’t want to go back to Barcelona, Nikolai. And I don’t think you want me to, either. Do you?”

He waited and then shook his head.

“You see? That wasn’t so hard.” She stood.

Hoffner was suddenly aware he was sitting in nothing but his shorts. He stood, found his shirt, and began to button the buttons with a newfound resolve.

She reached over and picked up his pants. She held them there and waited. “There’s no rush, Nikolai. The pants aren’t going anywhere.”

He nodded absently, took them, and slid them on.

She said, “You’re not going to tell me you don’t do this sort of thing, or that you haven’t for a very long time, or ever-are you?”

He looked across at her and, not wanting to betray himself, again shook his head.

“Good.” She moved closer and brought his suspenders up and over his shoulders. She smoothed them against his chest. “Even if it’s true, what would be the point in saying it? Love isn’t meant to stand back and stare at its past.”

She gazed up at him and then stepped over to her shoes. She slid her feet in and bent over to buckle them, and Hoffner-aware of a sudden and deep numbing at the back of his head-stared across at her and let himself believe in all things possible.

Teruel was in a state of mild panic. Sitting a thousand meters above sea level-and now with no telephone lines to the north-it had become an island of misinformation at the southern tip of Nationalist Aragon. The Civil Guards who had secured the city for the rebels strode about in their capes and tricorn hats as if the future of Europe lay in the balance. They coughed out orders, looked out through field glasses onto an endless horizon, and smoked cigarettes that gave off the smell of soured bark. All this was understandable. They had spent the better part of the last week staring off in the other direction toward Valencia-another pointless exercise-where rumor had it that anarchists were opening up the prisons and filling their ranks with rapists, murderers, and thieves. It might not have been the truth-most of the inmates were of the political variety-but always good to parade out the apocalypse when trying to stir up a bit of vigilance. Now, with Teruel’s imagination well beyond reason, the Guardia had positioned fifty of their own and one hundred of the town’s bravest caballeros inside buildings, along the old aqueduct, and atop the red ceramic roofs. Three hundred eyes, give or take, stared out silently at the Zaragoza road.

Remarkably, Hoffner and Mila drove up the slope without a single shot being fired. It was either a miraculous show of self-restraint or a level of cowardice as yet unknown in Spain. Hoffner was undecided as he sat behind the wheel and spoke with the sergeant in charge.

“Yes,” Hoffner said, “the road was completely empty.” For some reason Teruel was a good ten degrees hotter than anywhere else in Spain. “The telephone lines were untouched.”

“And you left Zaragoza this morning?”

It was the third time the man had asked, although this attempt came off more as a hope than a question; the Safe Conduct papers and the mention of Captain Doval had placed Hoffner on something of a pedestal. Hoffner was a man with connections, prestige, which meant he had answers. For a sergeant in the Guardia it was simply a matter of asking enough times before he heard what he wanted to hear.

“No,” said Hoffner, a bit more forcefully. “Not this morning. Last night. We were at a tavern this morning.”

“In Albarracin.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “That’s right. In Albarracin. You can telephone-” He caught himself. “Obviously you can’t telephone. We left there an hour ago. No one was on the road. I need to see your commanding officer.”

“So you think sending out a group would be all right? To check the lines?” The man’s hope had become faith in this German.

Hoffner knew it would take them two hours to find the downed poles, another two to remount them-if, in fact, they were clever enough to take shovels, wire splicers, and whatever else one needed to resurrect the dead. That would give him until early afternoon to find Georg in a town filled with anxious Spaniards. Then again, Captain Doval might already have sent out a crew to fix the wiring, but what was the point in worrying about that?

“Good, yes,” Hoffner said. “Send out a group. Absolutely. Now, where do I find someone in charge?”

The man shouted over to one of the other guards. “The colonel here says the road is clear.”

Hoffner hadn’t mentioned a rank; still, it was nice to hear he had merited a promotion.

“Take five men,” the sergeant continued, “rifles, a spool of wire, and find someone who knows what he’s doing with the lines.” He looked back at Hoffner and said quietly, “They like to think it’s coming from someone with clout. You know-a little pull.” Hoffner understood why the SS would have no trouble fitting in here. The man said, “You’ll want Alfassi. He’ll be having something to eat down in the Plaza del Torico. Ferrer’s. Straight on. You can’t miss it.”

Maybe it was the heat or the height or the horror of what lay just beyond the walls, but fascist Teruel was showing a good deal more spirit than had Zaragoza. The square was cluttered with people and animals; stands were filled with fruit and foods, some of which Hoffner had never seen-large gourds, and thin stalks with a kind of yellow flower sprouting along the sides. He imagined they were all edible, but why shatter the mystery? Planted in the middle was a small fountain and column, with a bronze bull standing atop it. A few children were howling up at the bull, while a young priest, dressed in full cassock, sat on the edge of the fountain and rinsed his eyeglasses under one of the spouts. Without warning, the priest howled back, and the children darted off. Laughing, the priest shouted after them and a woman crossed herself as she walked past. The priest nodded piously and began to wipe his glasses on his sleeve. Murderers at the gate, and this was all the comfort Teruel required.

Hoffner had parked the car on one of the side streets. He and Mila were now walking toward a narrow building on the far side of the fountain. As with everything in this part of the world, it was an odd mixture of styles, thin alabaster columns along the second floor facade, and a pink Mudejar tower peeking out at the top left. As the floors climbed, the windows moved from simple rectangles to arches to half-moons, with the usual ironwork balconies stretching out below them. It was the perfect place to meet a Spaniard called Alfassi.

Hoffner opened the door and Mila led them inside. The thick stone walls resembled a fortress grotto, damp and cool, although here there were hanging bulbs and tables and chairs, and a wooden bar that ran the length of the wall. Animal parts hung from metal hooks above, with two large pig heads the centerpieces of an otherwise ragtag display. As in the square, Hoffner was hard-pressed to define what most of this was-a few legs of something that seemed caught between a cow’s and a goat’s-but the conversation was light, the smells surprisingly good, and the presence of the Guardia almost nil. There was only one, sitting across from a gray-haired woman, his tricorn hat propped on the table between them. She was dressed all in black and, except for the face and hands, showed only two slivers of skin on each of the wrists. From the expression on the man’s face, she seemed to be in the midst of a nice harangue. Even with the rifle leaning against the table, he looked utterly helpless.

Hoffner followed Mila through. There were the expected stares, none more than a few seconds, before they arrived at the table. The woman was instantly silent, and the man looked up. Not wanting to offend, and not sure how the Guardia divvied up their ranks, Hoffner stole a page from the sergeant at the gate.

“Colonel Alfassi?” he said.

The man continued to stare. Hoffner thought he might have overreached-did the Guardia even have colonels? – when a voice a few tables back said, “Did you say Alfassi, Senor?”

Hoffner turned and saw a small spectacled face, tan summer suit, gold cuff links, and a thin red tie sitting over a bowl of soup. The man was perfectly bald, save for the neatly cropped strip of hair just above the ears. After a week of anarchists and soldiers, Hoffner found it almost jarring to see a man of wealth, especially in these surroundings. No surprise, then, that he was sitting alone. He held a newspaper which, from the look of the weathered edges, was at best a week old.