Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Hoffner saw the ripped-open envelope with the now-familiar Pathe Gazette rooster in the top corner. The note was stuck halfway back in.

“And?” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting.

She seemed to take comfort in the heat on her face. “They don’t feel there’s any need for alarm, at this point.” The last phrase held just the right touch of resentment. “ ‘It’s mayhem,’ ‘what Georg thrives on,’ ‘the only one who can get it on film,’ so forth and so on.” She dug through for a piece of something, scooped it up, and tossed it into the sink. “They’re doing what they always do. They’re being pricks.”

Hoffner liked this most about Lotte. In fact, he liked almost everything about her. She was lovely and fine-boned, very good to Georg, and so clever when it came to seeing things as they really were. Georg had needed a girl like this, a girl just as clever as himself. And while Georg might have had a bit more empathy for the world beyond them-Lotte was never one to suffer fools-it was only a bit. By some miracle, the world had allowed them to find each other.

It was her mouth, though, that Hoffner marveled at. There was an honesty to the way she used words like “prick” and “shit-brain.” They weren’t meant to shock, just define. Hoffner imagined it was her precision that made her so endearing.

He said, “I don’t think they’re doing it on purpose.”

“Of course they’re not doing it on purpose,” she said, stirring again. “That’s what makes them pricks. They know exactly where he is. They just don’t want to tell us.”

Hoffner nodded and asked, “Is the boy about?”

“Still,” she went on, “I imagine they’re expecting some really wonderful reels of war-torn Barcelona, bodies and red flags, rifles in the air. And all by the end of the week. Isn’t that exciting?”

Hoffner had told himself to wait until dinner to bring things up but, truth to tell, he had never been much good at waiting. He said, “I suppose I’ll just have to go and find him, then.”

“He’s up in your rooms,” she said. “Where else would he be? I think he’s got something special planned for you today.”

Hoffner waited and then said, “I wasn’t talking about the boy.”

It took her a moment to follow. When she did, she continued to ladle through the meat.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “You meant Georg. Going to Spain and bringing him back. Yes, that would be very nice of you. And some eggs while you’re out. We’re running low.”

“They’ve given me the sack at the Alex.” He waited for her to turn. “This afternoon,” he said. “It’s a few years early, but they think it’s for the best. After all, I’ve had such a nice career up until now.”

She was still holding the spoon. He noticed a glint of Georg’s empathy register in her eyes: it was nice to see it. She said, “I’m so sorry, Nikolai.”

He shook his head. “No reason. Not much police work going on at the place now, especially for a half-Jew cop.” She tried an awkward nod, and he said, “So I’ll go see this Wilson fellow tomorrow. The one who runs Georg’s office. He’s always seemed nice enough. Let him know what I’m planning to do.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before she said, “What?”

Hoffner continued easily. “I’m sure he knows where Georgi was filming last. No reason to put any of that in the notes. I’ll start there.” The spoon began to drip and Hoffner pointed. “You might want to watch that.”

Her silence turned to confusion. “You’re not being serious?” Chicken stock splattered to the tile but she ignored it. “You know, I don’t find this funny.” When he continued to stare at her, she said, “They may be pricks, Nikolai, but they’re right. He’s followed someone up into the hills. That’s what this is.” She found a dishrag and crouched down to clean up the spill. “He’ll get the footage he wants and come back down. And then he’ll come home.” There was an unexpected frailty in her need to believe what she was saying. “It’s the Spanish. Do they even have telephones?” She stood and turned on the faucet.

Hoffner watched as the dishrag now began to get the worst of it. He said, “We both know Georg’s never gone this long without a wire or a letter.” When she said nothing, he took hold of the envelope, pulled out the note, and-glancing through it-realized she had managed it almost verbatim: “mayhem,” “thrived.”

“ ‘Incomplete communications,’ ” he said, reading. “That’s a dangerous little phrase.” He waited and then added, “If you need me here, I won’t go.”

“Need you?” she said; he heard the first strains of anger in her voice. She turned off the faucet and said, “That’s not it and you know it.”

She continued to stare into the sink, and Hoffner suddenly realized how badly he had missed it. This wasn’t anger. This was fear. It was a cruel sort of stupidity that had let him think she might actually be encouraging, even excited at the prospect. All he had done was to make the danger acutely real for her.

He set the page back on the table. “No one else is going after him, Lotte. No one else wants to think they have to.” And for some inexplicable reason: “There’s probably a better story in it if they don’t.” He was too late in realizing how deeply this had cut her. Instead, he found a bit of grease on the table and began to rub his finger along the wood.

Her eyes remained on the faucet. “So you just get on a train and go to Spain, is that it?”

His fingers had become sticky. He looked for something to wipe them on. “I’ve a friend who can fly me in.”

“A friend?” she said in disbelief, turning to him. “So this has been in the works for some time.”

Hoffner let the silence settle. “Yes.”

“Of course it has,” she said. “And getting the sack from the Kripo-that just makes it easier, doesn’t it?”

“I was going anyway.”

She tossed over the dishrag. “I’m sure you were.”

“As I said, I won’t go-”

“Yes, you won’t go if I tell you I’m too weak to let you. Would that cause some real misgivings, Nikolai, a moment of genuine concern? But then I’ve never played the martyred wife with Georg, so why should I try it with you?”

At twenty-four, she already had more resilience than he would ever know in himself. And courage. It took a kind of courage for bitterness to stand up to fear. It was something he had seen only in women. Or perhaps it was what he provoked in them. Either way, it made him feel small in its presence.

He focused on the rag as he wiped off the grease. “It’s more chaos now than-” He stopped himself. Than what, he thought-killing? How much more could he possibly mangle this? He looked at her. “They haven’t drawn the battle lines. There aren’t any fronts to be held. They’re picking sides, and a man can get lost in that, no matter how noble his intentions. A man like that needs someone to come and find him.” And, perhaps trying too hard to redeem himself, he said, “If it were you, Lotte, I wouldn’t need to go at all. You’d be just fine.”

She held his gaze. It was a strained few moments before he caught the flicker of surrender in her eyes. Another moment and she pointed to the rag. “They’re still pricks,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, tossing it back. “They are.”

It was enough for both of them.

She turned to the pot and, with one more unexpected kindness, said, “He’ll be impossible if you don’t go up now. Just try not to get him too frantic before dinner.”

The walk across the back lawn to the carriage house was mercifully dry. Hoffner kept his head down, careful not to notice the tiny pair of eyes following him from the second-floor window. He pulled open the door, mounted the steps, and instantly heard the scurrying of Mendel’s little feet above him. At the top of the railing, Hoffner saw Elena, the boy’s nanny, who was standing behind a lamp. To a four-year-old, a woman of her size-thick in all the right places-could actually be hidden behind such things. There was a stifled giggle from the blanketed lump on the sofa.

“What a long day I’ve had,” Hoffner said. “How nice it is, finally to be alone. I’ll just stretch myself out for a nice rest.”

He tossed his hat onto a chair and began to ease himself down onto the sofa. Instantly, the boy’s hands gripped Hoffner’s shoulders with shrieks of “Not alone! Not alone! Not alone!”

Hoffner went through all the required confusion-“My goodness! Who’s that? The sofa’s alive! Help me!”-as they ran around the room, Mendel clinging tightly to his back. Finally, Hoffner pulled the boy around to the front and they both slumped back to the sofa with a smothering of kisses for Mendy’s neck and belly.

This was, with only minor variations, the routine every day, down to the last few gurgles of laughter before Hoffner finally let go. Mendel quickly leaped to the ground and raced over to the drawing table in the corner.

Elena, well practiced, now stepped out from behind her lamp and said, “We spent a good deal of time on this one, Herr Chief Inspector. A little trouble getting all the letters of your name to fit over your head, but we finally managed it.”

She was always very good with the prompting. Not yet forty, Elena might have been the perfect opportunity for a healthy father-in-law living within arm’s reach, but both of them had been smart enough not to play out that farce. Hoffner nodded, trying to catch his breath as the boy raced back to the sofa and thrust the page onto his lap.

The only thing even remotely familiar on the paper was the drawing of a silver-star badge-or at least that was how it was described. It had recently become Mendel’s signature piece and was about two-thirds the way up on a big black blob, which meant that the blob was Hoffner. A few weeks back, the boy had been given a book on cowboys from Lotte’s father, an insufferable fan of the American West. With very little encouragement, Hoffner had pointed out that a sheriff was a kind of policeman, whereupon Mendel had instantly assigned that role to him. Lotte’s father remained less than pleased.

As to the “letters” Elena had mentioned, there were various scrawled lines and curls above the blob, the nearest thing to German an upside-down A, that looked more like a capsized boat than anything else. Still, it was three little clumps of something, with the Aat the end.

“ ‘Opa,’ ” said Hoffner, reading. “How wonderfully you’ve drawn it.”

The boy dug himself into Hoffner’s side as he peered at his own work. “And that’s your badge there,” he said.

“Yes, of course. I saw it at once. Thank you, Mendy. We’ll put this one up with the others.”

“Can I see it?”

This, too, was part of the ritual, the handling of the badge. Instinctively, Hoffner reached for his pocket before he realized his badge was no longer there. He might have felt a moment’s regret-his first and only for this afternoon’s events-but instead, he chose to ignore it. Even so, he had grown fond of watching the boy gaze at the thing, hold it up to his shirt, bark out orders. Pride required so little in the very young.

Hoisting himself up, Hoffner said, “I think it’s time we get you your own badge, Mendy. A deputy’s badge. What do you say to that?”

So much for not riling up the boy. The moment of primal excitement quickly gave way to an equally deep despair as Mendy was told that the promised badge was, as yet, unpurchased. Hoffner’s only recourse was to give in to the nightly plea: eating dinner with the boy, or least sitting with him while he struggled to master a fork.

Fifteen minutes later, Mendy sat on a high stool at the kitchen table-Hoffner seated by his side-as Elena put the last of the little meal together. Mendy placed his hands on the table and began to teeter himself back and forth. Instantly, Hoffner grabbed hold of the stool.

“I won’t fall,” said the boy. “I’m balancing.”

Hoffner kept his hand on the stool. “Not a good idea, Mendy.”

“But I won’t. I promise. I won’t.”

Elena set a plate of tiny chicken pieces, potatoes, and spinach in front of the boy. She then placed a glass of beer in front of Hoffner.

“Eating time, Mendy,” she said. Her tone was one that everyone in the house had learned to obey; Hoffner quickly took a sip of his beer. “If I see you balancing again,” she said, “we go to the quiet place. Understood?”

Hoffner had never visited the quiet place-a closet under the stairs-although he had heard tales of it. According to Mendy it was filled with shadows, creaking wood, and even a few monsters. Mendy, however, had learned not to mention the monsters. They had not impressed Elena.

“Is it good?” said Hoffner, as the boy speared a second piece of chicken and shoved it into his mouth. Mendy had a remarkable talent for fitting an entire plate’s worth of food inside his cheeks before starting in on the chewing. Hoffner saw the boy going in for a third, and said, “I’d work on those before taking another, don’t you think?” Hoffner bobbed a nod toward Elena, who was at the sink washing up. “You wouldn’t want to … you know.”

Mendy thought a moment, then nodded slowly as he pulled back his fork. Chewing, he said, “She likes it when I finish quickly.”

Hoffner said, “She likes it when you don’t choke.”

This seemed to make sense. Mendy nodded again and, continuing to chew, said, “Did Papi have a quiet place when he was little?”

It was always questions about Georg these days-badges, forks, trips away: did Opa go away quite so often when Papi was little? This happened to be a particularly reasonable one. The trouble was, Hoffner had never spent much time with Georg at this age-at any age, truth to tell. It made the past a place of reinvention.

“Yes,” said Hoffner, “I think he did. Right under the stairs, as a matter of fact.” There had been no stairs in the old two-bedroom flat.

Mendy swallowed and whispered, “Did it have monsters?”

Hoffner leaned in. “Not after we got rid of them.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Hoffner nodded quietly. “Maybe you and I can do that sometime.” Before Mendy could answer, Hoffner plucked a piece of chicken from the plate and popped it into his own mouth.

Mendy said loudly, “Opa is eating my food.” Hoffner put on a look of mock panic as Elena, without turning, said, “Opa can go to the quiet place, too, if he’s not careful.”

Mendy stabbed at a clump of spinach, studied it, and shoved it in. “If she sends you, I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “That’d be good for both of us.”

Hoffner brought his hand to the boy’s face and drew his thumb across the chewing cheek. Mendy continued unaware and drove in another piece of meat.

It was all possible here, thought Hoffner. His only hope was to find his way to dying before he learned to disappoint this one.

Hoffner’s suggestion that he have dinner out was met with little resistance. Lotte’s parents-the Herr Doktor Edelbaums-had called to say how concerned they were with Georg still out of the country: wouldn’t it be best if they all dined together, Friday night after all? They would be over in half an hour.

Together, of course, meant just the family. There was always that moment of feigned surprise from the Herr Doktor when the “lodger”-Edelbaum’s infinitely clever title for Hoffner-put in an appearance: “No murders to be solved tonight, Herr Sheriff? So you’ll be joining us?”

Frau Edelbaum was a good deal more pleasant, though without any of the tools necessary to inject some tact into the proceedings. She would smile embarrassedly, say how lovely it was to see him again, and sit quietly with her glass of Pernod while her husband-perched at the edge of Georg’s favorite chair-played trains with Mendy. Hoffner would look on from the sofa and try desperately to time the sips of his beer with any attempts to engage him. And while this was perfectly unbearable, it was Mendy’s departure for bed, and the subsequent dinner conversation, that took them over the edge. In the end, Hoffner was doing them all a favor.

He stood with Lotte in the foyer as he slipped on his coat.

She said, “They won’t be here much past ten,” smoothing off one of his shoulders. “I’ll make sure.”

“Not to worry. Gives me a chance to see a few friends.” He pulled his umbrella from the stand. “It’s not as horrible as you think.”

“Yes, it is. You detest him.”

Hoffner fought back a smile. “Tell him they let me go for being a Jew. That should cause some confusion.”

“He’s more frightened by all this than you know.”

Hoffner shook the excess water from the umbrella. “He has good reason to be.” He buttoned the last of his buttons. “I’ll be sorry to miss the chicken. You’ll save me a piece?”

“It’s already in the icebox.”

He leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “They won’t treat me nearly as well in Spain, you know.” He saw her wanting to find the charm in this, but it was no good. “I shouldn’t tell them about any of that,” he said. “I’d hate to have your father pretending concern for me just for your sake.” Not waiting for an answer, Hoffner opened the door and stepped out into the rain.

Uber Alles

Rucker’s bar hadn’t changed in nearly thirty years. Any given night it was the smell of burned sausage and over-sauced noodles that wafted out to the street and made the last few meters to the door so familiar. The sounds from inside came a moment later, old voices with years of phlegm in the throat to make even pleasant conversation sound heated. Hoffner found something almost forgiving about walking into a place where he wasn’t likely to see a face younger than fifty. Even the prostitutes had the good sense not to be too young; teasing the old with what was so clearly out of reach would have been cruel. The new girls learned to steer clear quickly enough; the ripe ones came to appreciate a clientele that preferred to talk, have a few drinks or a laugh, before trundling upstairs for more sleep than sex. To an old whore, a night at Rucker’s had the feel of a little holiday. It might not be much in the purse, but it was easy and quiet and at such a nice pace.

The barman placed a glass in front of Hoffner and pulled the cork from a bottle of slivovitz.

“Let’s make it whiskey tonight,” said Hoffner.

The man recorked the bottle, reached for another, and smiled as he poured. Hoffner took his drink and scanned the tables.

Eight o’clock was still early for the usual crowd. Dinner with the wife, followed by all that endless chatter about a day spent up on the girders or underground digging new track, could keep a man home until almost half past eight. The ones without families knew it best to straggle in even later, keep the rest guessing as to where they might have gotten to in the last few hours. The smartest always had a hint of perfume on the clothes, that watered-down swill a man could buy for himself and spray onto a collar just before coming through the door. It was the surest way to get the conversation going: “What do you mean, what do you smell?” The quick sniff of the shirt, the look of surprise, the overeager laugh, and finally the confession: “Damn me if she doesn’t use the cheap stuff!” Roars of laughter after that, even if everyone knew the game. Still, why spoil a man’s last chance at pride?

Hoffner spotted Zenlo Radek sitting in the back. Two of his men were hunched over a series of plates piled high with beef, potatoes, and sausage, while Radek glanced through one of the newspapers stacked at his side. Radek might still have been somewhere in his early forties-maybe even late thirties-but his face had long ago given up on youth. It was its lack of skin, or rather the stretching of the skin across the bones, that made it so perfect for the surroundings: gaunt and pale blurred even the sharpest of eyes. Then again, it might have been his homosexuality. That aged a man, too.

Radek continued to read as Hoffner drew up.

“The streets won’t be nearly as safe now,” Radek said, flipping the page. He had unusually long thin fingers. “But I’m sure they sent you off with something nice. A cigarette case, a gold watch. Let you listen to the time slipping by. Tick, tick, tick.”

Hoffner was never surprised by what information Radek had at his disposal. “Never took you for the sentimental type.”

“Don’t confuse pity with sentiment, Nikolai.” Radek closed the paper and looked up. A taut smile curled his lips, but the eyes told Hoffner how glad Radek was to see him. “And here I thought you might not be putting in an appearance before your trip.” Hoffner looked momentarily confused, and Radek said, “Toby Mueller. He’s got a plane all gassed up out at Johannisthal. Heading off to Spain, I hear, and with you in tow. Daring stuff, Nikolai.”

Or maybe there was room for surprise. Hoffner had to remind himself that as Pimm’s onetime second-and now boss of the city’s most notorious syndicate-Radek was tapped into every conduit in Berlin. Even the Nazis came to him when they needed information. There was talk, of course, that Radek had been the one to give Pimm up to the SS-“Make it quick, painless, a single shot to the head”-but that was absurd. It might even have been insulting. Truth to tell, Radek had never wanted this. He was simply too smart, and too loyal, not to be the one to take it all on in the end.

“Running the Immertreu,” he had once joked to Hoffner, drunk. “Tell me, if I’ve been spending all this time trying to kill myself, isn’t this a much better bet than the needle ever was?”

As it turned out, Radek had proved too resilient even for heroin. It was years now since he had lost himself to the attic rooms on Frobel and Moll Strassen. The rooms were long gone-who among the war-ravaged was still alive to fill them? – but Radek had given them a good try: veins streaked that deep pumping blue, boys at the ready for whatever was asked of them, and always the empty hope that he might somehow forget he was no longer a man-images of a single grenade rolling through the French mud, skin and trench wood flying everywhere, and his trousers drenched in blood.

The medics had saved him. Of course they had saved him. Keeping death back had become such an easy thing, just as easy as teaching a man how to piss through a tube.

For now, Radek was done with death, or at least his own. Instead, he read his papers, watched his men eat, and dictated every instance of corruption in his city. And who wouldn’t call that a life?

Hoffner pulled over a chair and sat. He took a drink.

Radek said, “He won’t find it noble, you going after him, Nikolai. Georgi knows you too well.”

Hoffner set his glass on the table. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Am I?”

Hoffner pulled his cigarettes from his pocket. “So it’s the big ideas tonight-pity and nobility. And here I thought I’d come in just for a drink.” He bobbed a nod at the two large men who were working through their plates. “Gentlemen.”

The larger of the two, Rolf, said, “Sausage’s not so good tonight. You can have ours if you want.”

Hoffner waved over a passing waiter, ordered a plate of veal and noodles, and lit his cigarette. “You should come with me, Zenlo. Spain’s perfect for you these days. Black market and civil war. What could be better?” Across the room a woman started in at the piano.

“And deal with all that chaos?” said Radek, as he leafed through the stack. He pulled out the “BZ”. “That’s nice for a man with a truck and a cousin down at the docks. Those of us with a little more at stake have to think differently.” He found the Grand Prix results and folded back the paper. “The desperate never buy for the future, Nikolai. No market stability. Order and fear-with maybe a little strong-arming thrown in-that’s what gives you a future.” He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Berlin suits me just fine right now.”

Hoffner looked over at the smaller man. “So he’s off the Freud and Jung, is he?” The man continued to sift through his plate, and Hoffner said, “Tell me, Franz, what’s he reading now?”

Franz brought a spoonful of potatoes up to his mouth. “Keynes,” he said, before shoveling it in.

This required a moment. “Really?” Hoffner said. “That’s-ambitious.” Franz chewed, and Hoffner said, “He’s getting it wrong.”

“Is he?” said Franz, swallowing. “We should all be getting it so wrong.”

Radek continued to read as he spoke. “It’s the new psychology, Nikolai. Primal urges. Consumer desires. Totted up in columns and graphs. And this time it’s all scientific. Here.” He showed Hoffner the page he was marking. “Rosemeyer and Nuvolari. Auto Union and Alfa-Romeo. Clearly the two best drivers in the world. Barcelona last month-Nuvolari one, Rosemeyer five. Nurburgring two weeks later-Rosemeyer one, Nuvolari two. A week after that in Budapest, and they’re one and two again, only this time reversed. Milan, it’s Nuvolari, and finally Rosemeyer takes the German Grand Prix last week. And on and on and on. We know there are ten other premium drivers out there every week-Chiron, Caracciola, Trossi-yet these are the two who come up with it every time.”

“I’ll make a note,” said Hoffner. “What does it have to do with economics?”

Radek ignored him. “Is it because they have the best cars? No. Half the drivers are with Alfa-Romeo. And I don’t have to tell you what it takes to handle that tank of an Auto Union thing. Sixteen cylinders. Have you seen it, Nikolai? You have to be a beast of a man just to keep the car on the road.”

“So Rosemeyer and Nuvolari are reading Keynes?”

“Shut up, Nikolai. The point is, you’d be an idiot not to put your money on one of these two. And yet, even with the odds, people don’t. Half the money every week finds its way onto Farina or Varzi or Stuck, and these are good drivers, don’t get me wrong. But the chances, if you look at the trends”-he shook his head in disbelief-“almost impossible. So you have to ask, Why do people do it?”

It took Hoffner a moment to realize that Radek was waiting for an answer. “Primal urges?” he offered.

“Exactly,” said Radek. “They buy something with no real possibility of a return because they want to believeit can have a return. And the oddsmakers tellthem to believe it can have a return. ‘This week,’ they advertise, ‘Farina will do it. He has to do it. You have to wanthim to do it.’ And they trust this because they live in an ordered world where, if things go wrong, they can try again the next week and the next and the next. They buy a product they shouldn’t want to buy because they so desperately want it. And that, Nikolai, is economics.”

Hoffner sat with this for a few moments before reaching for his whiskey. He took a drink. “So it’s the oddsmakers who are reading Keynes?” Hoffner expected a smile but Radek said nothing.

Franz, now running his fork through the remains of his beef, said, “I wouldn’t push it on this one if I were you.”

Hoffner smiled and looked at Radek. “We’re taking this latest theory very seriously, are we?”

Radek said, “You enjoy being an idiot, don’t you?”

“Not really a question of enjoying,” said Hoffner. “I think I liked the sex theory better, though. I’ve never bet on car racing.”

“Last I checked,” said Radek, “you weren’t doing much on the sex front, either.”

Hoffner laughed to himself.

Radek set down the paper and took his glass. “You have any idea where he is?” He drank.

Hoffner lapped back the last of his whiskey. “Barcelona,” he said. “Somewhere in there.” He raised his empty glass to a waiter. “I think everything’s happening up on hilltops right about now.”

“And he’s alive?”

“He has to be, doesn’t he?”

“It’ll be hot.”

The waiter appeared and took the glass. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “It will.”

“Georgi’s good in spots like that. He always has been.”

“You’ve met him twice, Zenlo.” There was an unexpected edge to Hoffner’s voice. “You have no idea who or what he is.” It was an awkward few moments before the food miraculously arrived, and Rolf and Franz were forced to stack their plates onto the empties so as to make room. Finally Hoffner said, “He’s always liked you, though. Liked that you never tried to corrupt me.”

Radek was glad for the reprieve. “How much more corruption could you take?” When Hoffner started in on the noodles, Radek said, “You like Gershwin, Nikolai?” Hoffner focused on his plate and Radek said, “I do.”

Hoffner nodded as he chewed.

Rolf said lazily, “It’s not Gershwin.” He was working his way through a mouthful of potatoes.

“What?” said Radek.

“The piano,” said Rolf, swallowing. “It’s not Gershwin. You’re thinking of the wrong thing.” He shoveled in another forkful.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No,” said Radek. “I’m not.” There was a quiet menace in his tone; Rolf, however, continued to chew. “This is”-Radek became more serious as he thought-“ Crazy Girl,” he said triumphantly. “ ‘Embraceable You’ from Crazy Girl.”

“ Girl Crazy,” Rolf corrected. “And, no, it’s not. This is ‘Night and Day’ from The Gay Divorce. Cole Porter.” Rolf took a drink of beer and swallowed.

Radek watched as Rolf dug back in. “I have the phonograph,” Radek said.

Rolf nodded. “Good. Then you have the phonograph of The Gay Divorceby Cole Porter.” He raised his hand to a waiter, made some indecipherable gesture with his fingers, and went back to his plate. “I’m getting the spatzle, Nikolai, if you want some.”

This, evidently, was the way an evening with Berlin’s most dangerous trio took shape: elementary economics and Tin Pan Alley.

With anyone other than Rolf or Franz, Radek would have found a reason to press things, even when he knew he was wrong. He had once told Hoffner it was good for a man to learn how to cower every now and then. This wasn’t cruelty. It was therapeutic, even better if the man recanted the truth just so as to save himself. Radek called it the psychology of order: men liked knowing where they stood; they liked even better being told where to stand. No wonder he was finding Berlin so comforting.

“Finish up,” said Radek. “We’re heading west. I’ve got a treat for you.”

Half an hour later, all four were crammed into the back of Radek’s Daimler saloon, Franz and Rolf perched precariously on the two jump seats.

“You were a fencer, weren’t you?” said Radek.

Hoffner tapped his cigarette out the window and watched as a floodlit Unter den Linden raced by. The avenue had once been famous for its dual column of trees down the center. Not now. The Nazis had insisted on building a north-south U-Bahn to impress their Olympic guests. That meant digging and destruction and the temporary loss of the trees. But not to worry. There were always plenty of flagpoles and light stanchions at the ready to take their place, row after row of perfectly aligned swastika banners fluttering in the rain.