Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Berlin was now nothing more than an over-rouged corpse, gaudy jewels and shiny baubles to distract from the gray, fetid skin underneath.

Hoffner said, “It’s going to smell like this for a while, isn’t it?”

The avenue was jam-packed with the city’s esteemed visitors, guzzling their beer and munching their sausages-most of them good little Germans, small-town folk, who had been arriving by the trainload for the past week. The foreign contingent-all that promised money from abroad-had proved something of a disappointment. Still, at least most of these knew how to speak the language.

Radek said, “Gives it a nice rustic feel, doesn’t it?”

They drove past the Brandenburg Gate, and the light in the car intensified. Hoffner said, “So how much have they laid out for all this?”

“Why?” said Radek. “You thinking of chipping in?”

Hoffner turned to him. “How much?”

Radek shrugged. “No idea.”

“Really.”

Radek shook his head. “I’m telling you, we had the stadium-that’s it. The electrics went to Frimmel. The Sass brothers took the village complex. They get catering on that, so they’ll be making some nice money, although they’ve had to deal with the Wehrmacht, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And Grobnitz got waste disposal.”

Franz, who was staring out the window, laughed quietly to himself.

“Franz likes that Grobnitz will be up to his arms in it,” Radek said. “What Franz doesn’t realize is how much money there is in shoveling someone else’s shit.”

Hoffner said, “Refreshing to see all the syndicates working so nicely together.”

“It’s the Olympic spirit,” said Radek. “Everyone’s been asked to sacrifice.”

“And in your pocket?”

Radek smiled. “Isn’t there a little pride somewhere in there, Nikolai? Something for the German greater good?”

“Tremendous amounts,” said Hoffner. “How much?”

Radek’s smile grew as he bobbed his head from side to side, calculating. “A hundred thousand seats in the stadium … Maifeld-that’s over twenty-eight acres of open ground-the practice facilities … Maybe”-he shot a glance at Franz-“what do you say, Franz? Twelve, fifteen million?”

“Twenty-seven,” Franz said blandly, as he continued to stare out.

“Twenty-seven million?” Radek’s disbelief was matched only by his cynicism. “Really? That much? Just imagine getting a cut of that.”

“Yah,” said Hoffner. “Just imagine.”

“They want to throw away the city’s money on this, Nikolai, I’m happy to help them.” Hoffner tossed his cigarette out and Radek said, “So you didn’t think of pulling out the old saber? Helping the great German cause?”

The thought of dragging his ancient legs onto the strip forced a dismissive snort from Hoffner. “I think Fraulein Mayer rounds out the token half-Jews on the team, don’t you?”

It had been in all the papers, the girl’s “special dispensation” from the Reich’s Committee. Mayer, a former world champion now living in America-and a Jew only in name-had been made an “honorary Aryan.” It seemed demeaning, no matter which way one leaned.

“She’s not doing them any favors,” said Radek.

“Who,” said Hoffner, “the Jews or the Reich? My guess, she wins something, she’ll have to give it back anyway.”

The Reichssportfeld sits on over three hundred acres of Grunewald forest in the far west section of town. From central Berlin, it is a relatively easy trip past the Tiergarten if one makes sure not to take the truck roads out to the Halske or Siemens factory sites-unless, of course, one is desperate for a rotary engine or any number of other electrical engineering devices. If one keeps to the low roads, the first behemoth to appear on the horizon is the stadium itself. It looms at the end of the wide Olympischer Platz, stone and granite leading all the way up to the double columns of the Marathoner Gate, with the five rings pitched in between. Though ostensibly the brainchild of the March brothers-Werner and Walther-the entire complex has the feel of an Albert Speer design, the thick limestone and wide columns telltale of the Reich’s architectural wunderkind. There was a rumor that the Fuhrer, on hearing of Werner’s plans to create a modern wonder-steel, glass, and cement-said he would rather cancel the games than have them take place in “a big glass shitbox.” But that was only rumor.

Next are the Maifeld parade grounds-vast, wide, green, resplendent-surrounded by nineteen meters of elevated ground, two meters higher than the stadium itself. Originally slated to hold over 500,000 people, it manages only half that (much, again, to the Fuhrer’s dismay), but there is the hope that, with the new health incentives-and the aim at a “fitter, sleeker, trimmer” German-the grounds might actually squeeze in close to 300,000 in the not-too-distant future.

And finally there are all those squares-August Bier Platz and Kornerplatz and Hueppeplatz (absolutely vital to name one of them after the German Football League’s first president)-but the real gem is the Langemarck-Halle. It is a series of cavernous rooms built to commemorate the gallant singing student soldiers ( “Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles”) who gave their lives in the early days of the war, charging in full chorus against the hordes of ravaging Belgians, who were bent on destroying the mythic German spirit. That the battle took place at Bixchote (so much harder to spell, and not really all that German-sounding) never deterred the planners from immortalizing both the place and the moment of the century’s first spilling of Aryan warrior blood. The caverns sit under the Maifeld grandstands and directly below the bell tower. Someone had suggested early on that they call it the Fuhrer Tower, but Hitler himself had vetoed that. Why overstate things?

The place was oddly quiet as the car pulled up. Hoffner noticed the requisite guards and policemen roaming about. There might have been more security elsewhere, but no one would have been stupid enough to stop Radek’s Daimler. These were his grounds; even the SS knew to leave him alone.

The car stopped and the four men stepped out onto Olympischer Platz. Somewhere off in the distance a crackling light from a welder’s torch cast shadows against a far column. Hoffner wondered if perhaps Werner March himself might be somewhere about, chiseling out the last bits and pieces. March had promised a dedication ceremony for early May. Instead, he had quietly announced the stadium’s completion about two weeks ago: AND NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON, the BZheadline had read. The editors had hoped to run a cartoon of March holding up the back of the stadium on his shoulder, a wide smile on his sweating face, but they had received a note from the Reich’s Propaganda Office advising them that such a display-“humorous as it was”-might be seen as beneath the paper’s dignity. How anything might be seen as beneath the BZ’s dignity remained open for debate.

Radek stepped around to the back of the car, pulled open the boot, and removed a bag. “The boys are going to stay here,” he said, refastening the latch, then bobbing his head toward the gate. “How’d you like to see the stadium, Nikolai?”

They walked in silence along the lamplit arcade: the place seemed to demand that kind of reverence. Flags from the competing countries hung limply from their poles. Searchlights shone high onto the stadium’s facade, arching up and over and misting into the gray of the sky.

Hoffner stared up as they passed under the gate. A few stars had managed to break through the cloud cover, but for the most part it was just swirls of black hovering above the iron rings.

Two or three guards strolled along the plaza beyond; all were careful not to notice Radek and his companion.

Hoffner said, “Do you smell that?”

“What?”

“Bad beer and piss.”

“I do,” said Radek.

“And that’s not a problem?”

“Not much they can do about it when the wind shifts.”

Hoffner was surprised at the ease of the answer. “So this happens all the time?”

“Three times a day.”

Hoffner was waiting for an answer.

“Strength Through Joy Village,” Radek finally said. “The thing’s about half a kilometer from here. It’s even got its own train station.”

“You’re joking.”

“Would I joke about that?”

They made their way between the central columns and into the stadium’s main entryway. Their footfalls began to echo.

Radek said, “It comes equipped with Strength Through Joy Beer Halls, Strength Through Joy Children’s Tents, Strength Through Joy Crappers. There might even be some Strength Through Joy Tits thrown in, but I think those girls are reserved for the pure Aryan clientele. That’s something you don’t get on the cruises.”

The Strength Through Joy recreation camps and holiday cruises had been set up by the Reich as a thank-you to the working class of Germany. The simple folk were, after all, the very spirit of the Reich. And such spirit-pungent as it was-deserved a little knockwurst and dancing on the cheap.

“Your boots are good?” said Radek. “It’s going to be wet.”

They mounted a stairway, arrived on the second level, and then moved down a short tunnel. Somewhere toward the middle of the tunnel, the stadium grounds began to come into view.

If Hoffner had hoped to find something clever or demeaning to say, he couldn’t. The place was overwrought, militaristic to a fault, self-consciously classical, larger than any other space he had ever seen, and breathtaking.

The curve of the stands pressed up and outward like the perfect ripple of a stone dropped into a still lake. The color was somewhere between the cream white of porcelain and the rough green-gray of sanded limestone. Empty, the seats looked like flawlessly laid tracks-twenty, thirty, sixty of them, circling the field in a series of infinitely rising loops. Everything was bright from the overhead lights, and yet there was no glare. Most remarkable, though, was the field itself, broad and masculine, its grass tufted and thick, glistening from the rain as if its own exertions had produced this rugged sheen. The smell, full and green, lingered, with just a taste of polished stone in the mouth. Hoffner stood in silent wonder.

“It’s even better on the grass,” said Radek, as he started down the steps. Hoffner had no choice but to follow.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, both men stepped up onto the low wall and then jumped down to the field. Hoffner felt a slight twinge in his knee. He did what he could to ignore it as they made their way across the six lanes of cinder track and out to the infield. At the far end, the top of the bell tower loomed through the wide and solitary opening in the stadium wall. Even the sky seemed more immense here.

“That’s where he’ll be coming through tomorrow,” Radek said. “Arm up, strutting, Heil Hitler!” He flipped his hand in a mock salute. “We might even see a smile.”

“I thought you liked Berlin just now?”

“What’s not to like?”

They made it to the center of the field and Radek stopped. The silence and size of the place came together in a single rush; odd to feel dizzy without moving.

Radek set the bag down. “And despite what you’ve heard, he asks for girls.” He knelt down and opened the bag. “Young ones. You never want to know what he does with them. The girls never say a word after. It’s unpleasant, but he pays well.”

Hoffner was still finding his bearings. “I didn’t know you’d taken to pimping,” he said. “Or are the economic trends good there, too?”

Radek pulled a bottle of champagne and two glasses from the bag. “It’s one client, Nikolai. I don’t think that makes me a pimp.” He stood and handed a glass to Hoffner. “A marked man, yes, but not a pimp.”

“So he’ll kill you one day.”

Radek snorted a laugh. “He’s going to kill a great many people one day, Nikolai. At least I’m getting paid.”

Radek stepped back and let go with the cork. The echo brought a stream of guards running out onto the first-tier balcony-small, shadowy figures from this far off-and Radek shouted, “Champagne, gentlemen! No worries!”

His voice continued to echo as the men disappeared as quickly as they had come.

“Like trained dogs,” said Hoffner.

“They’re terrified,” said Radek, as he filled Hoffner’s glass. “Sabotage. They think some Russian or Jew is going to infiltrate the place, set off a bomb, ruin their fun. Truth is, there’s nothing they could do to stop it, but the SS likes to show an effort.” Radek poured his own. “No uniforms. You saw that?”

“I did.”

Radek smiled and raised his glass. “It’s all so damned ridiculous.”

Hoffner raised his as well. “And this is for…?”

Radek shook his head easily. “An end. A beginning. Whatever you’d like it to be.” He drank.

“The poet pimp,” said Hoffner. He drank as well.

“We’re going to nip that one in the bud, Nikolai. No more pimp, all right?” Radek finished off his drink and, staring into the glass, said, “You could come work for me. Now that you’re done at the Alex.”

Hoffner nearly choked as the fizz ran up into his nose. He coughed before answering. “I appreciate the joke.”

Radek poured himself a second. “It’s no joke.”

The two men stared at each other until Hoffner finally said, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Radek needed another few moments before tossing back his drink. He then nodded. “I’m glad I waited, then. Wouldn’t have looked so good if you’d said no at Rucker’s.” He crouched down and set the bottle and glass on the grass. “Pimm said he was waiting until you were done with the Kripo to give you this stuff.” He reached into the bag. “I’m sure he had something pithy he wanted to say before handing it over. I don’t.”

Radek pulled out half a dozen canisters of film. Each had a small strip of adhesive attached to it, with a name and an initial written in fading ink. He set them on the grass.

“Jesus,” Hoffner said in a whisper. He was stunned at what he was seeing.

“Yah,” said Radek. “Turns out they never knew he had them. There’s some nice stuff of Hess and Streicher. Apparently old Julius shares the Fuhrer’s tastes.”

The films had been made in 1927 by members of the then fledgling National Socialist German Workers Party, long before they had decided to trim the party name. At the time, the films were innovative, some of the first to take a crack at synchronization of sound. They were also remarkable for having broken new ground with an unimagined kind of depravity-violent and sexual. Hoffner had spent months trying to forget them. His boy Sascha had been in one.

“I thought Pimm burned these,” said Hoffner.

“And give up this kind of leverage? He wasn’t stupid.”

“A lot of good they did him.”

Radek said nothing as he continued to stare into the bag. Finally, standing, he said, “Yah.” He looked at Hoffner. “You get in trouble, you can always ask Streicher if he wants to run an editorial in Der Sturmeron little girls, ropes, and needles. My guess is he’ll take a pass.”

They stood like this for what seemed a very long time before Radek said, “You want to take a run around it?”

Hoffner was still digesting the last few minutes. “Pardon?”

“The track, Nikolai. A lap.”

Radek was being serious; Hoffner half smiled and said, “So the films weren’t enough of a treat?”

“Standing in the middle of my legacy is the treat, Nikolai. The films are what they are. The run-that’s if you’ve always had some pathetic dream of breaking the tape. Don’t worry, I’ll cheer you on at the end, if you want.”

Hoffner laughed quietly. “And I deserve all this because…?”

“Don’t go to Spain.”

“You’ll miss me that much?”

“You’ll die there.”

Hoffner saw the concern in Radek’s eyes. It was genuine and therefore all the more unnerving. “You’re probably right,” Hoffner said.

“It’s rifles and bullets, Nikolai. Maybe even some German rifles and bullets.”

“Really?”

Radek’s gaze sharpened. “Trust me, Nikolai. Two weeks ago we had a crack squad of Wehrmacht troops training out at the Olympic Village. No one knew it, and now they’re gone. Makes you wonder where they went with all their desert gear and machine guns. Not much need for desert gear in the Rhineland, is there?” Radek waited for the silence to settle. “This isn’t some dustup, Nikolai. You haven’t heard from Georg in ten days not because he’s up on some hilltop. It’s because he’s dead. You want to tell his pretty wife and little boy that you tried, fine. But unless you’re planning on spending your time sitting in a cafe in Barcelona drinking the health of the Republic, I don’t think you come home.” Even Radek’s caring had a cruelty to it. “I got off the needles. That’s on you. I’m telling you not to go to Spain. That’s on me.”

Radek leaned over and picked up the bottle. He took a long swig as he walked off. “So is it a lap or not?” he said, gazing off into the stands.

Hoffner stood staring after him, the wide expanse beyond them suddenly small. “Wrong shoes,” he said.

Radek looked back. “Fine.” He started for the track. “Then pick up your films and let’s get out of this shithole.”

Hoffner was in a good drunk by the time he made it back to Droysenstrasse. The lights were out in the house, but Lotte had been kind enough to leave the back path lit. He wove his way through the yard, found the door to the carriage house, and hoisted himself up the stairs.

As it turned out, the lecture out at the stadium had been just the tip of the iceberg. Radek, in full political lather, had spent the last three hours taking everyone through the latest reports coming out of Spain and the Rhineland. On Spain he was a bit spotty; his sources were having trouble getting through. Imagine that? But on the rearming of the Rhineland, there he was fully informed.

“Five months and no one’s raised a finger against us.” He liked to slap his own down onto the table for emphasis. “And we went in on bicycles, for Christ’s sake. They’ll let us do whatever we want, and it’ll be the same in Spain.”

It was unclear whether this was good or bad news to Radek. He had fallen asleep before explaining. The fact that his pillow had been the chest of a very fat and very naked girl made it clear that he had no idea where or who he was at the time.

Hoffner steadied himself at the top of the stairs. He did his best with a few of his buttons before finally just pulling the shirt over his head. His shoes and trousers dropped to the floor without too much effort as he fumbled his way onto the bed. Had he been any less drunk he might have jumped at the sudden sight of Elena looking back at him.

“I hear you’re going to Spain tomorrow,” she said.

Hoffner took a moment to appreciate the very fine pair of breasts staring up at him. He nodded.

“So you might be killed,” she said. “And then we’d never have done something this stupid.”

He needed another few moments before saying, “I’m drunk.”

“Yes,” she said. “Is that going to get in the way?”

This required no thought. He shook his head.

“Good.”

She pulled back the rest of the covers and invited him in.

Climbing Boots And Short pants

At 8:00 a.m. on the dot, the band of the Berlin Guards Regiment sounded Ein Grosses Wecken-a grand reveille-outside the Hotel Adlon. Luckily, Hoffner was far enough removed across town to sleep through it.

The members of the International Olympic Committee, however, were not. Given just over an hour to wash, shave, and eat-always avoid the rabbit crepes at the Adlon-they were then shuttled off to either the Berlin Cathedral or the Church of St. Hedwig (Protestants on the left, Catholics on the right) for an hour of religious observance so as to fortify themselves for the day’s events. While they prayed, thousands of children-all across the city’s recreation fields-began to perform in exhibitions of group gymnastics, obstacle races, and synchronized club twirling: the object here to show the many athletic pursuits of Berlin’s schoolchildren. Mendy, having watched the neighborhood children prepare for these displays over the last weeks, and eager himself to twist and leap and bend along with them, had been told he was too young and too Jewish to be included. Lotte decided to keep him inside for the day.

Still later, as Hoffner stirred from a remarkably deep sleep (retirement and robust late-night exertions will do that), an honor guard from the Wehrmacht, along with various uniformed Hitler Youth detachments, looked on from Unter den Linden as the Belgian delegate-a Monsieur Baillet-Latour-laid a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; so nice to have all the hostilities between the two countries long forgotten, even better to see military sacrifice as the prelude to amateur sport.

By mid-morning, it was Hermann Goring-always so dapper in his sky-blue uniform-welcoming the IOC members and his Fuhrer to the Old Museum in front of the Royal Palace a few blocks down. While Hoffner shaved, thousands of SS men and ever more Hitler Youth regaled them by singing:

Hoist up our flags in the wind of the morning!

To those who are idle, let them flutter a warning!

No one was even remotely idle as the dashing Baldur von Schirach-twenty-nine and leader of the Youth-stepped to the podium and addressed the crowds with the truly inspirational words, “We, the youth of Germany, we, the youth of Adolf Hitler, greet you, the youth of the world.” Unter den Linden erupted in applause and cheering as the torchbearer finally appeared.

There was a quiet intensity along the avenue as the white-clad young man jogged slowly to the museum, lit the flame, and then jogged back across the square, where another pyre awaited him. The “flames of peace,” so Goring had promised, would burn throughout the games. No one had mentioned Berlin’s good fortune to have several libraries and bookstores in the immediate vicinity, should the flames need feeding.

Lotte was at the kitchen table reading through the Tageblattwhen Hoffner finally appeared at the door. She kept her eyes on the paper. “You’ll be joining us for lunch?” she said.

He was still feeling the whiskey at the back of his throat; it was enough just to nod. He noticed Elena by the sink, washing and peeling something. Mendy was under the table with a train.

Lotte continued to read. “Yes or no?”

Hoffner managed a croaked, “Yes.”

Lotte looked up and said, “If you could fix another plate, Elena, that would be very nice.”

Elena dried her hands and moved to the stove. “Bit of a cold, Herr Chief Inspector?” she said.

“No,” he said. “Just getting old.”

“You’ve a long way to go there, Herr Chief Inspector,” she said. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Hoffner caught Lotte staring at him for a moment. Just as quickly she leaned under the table. “Lunch, Mendy.” She looked back at Hoffner. “We’re all done playing.”

It was nearly half past one before Hoffner made it to the middle of town. The crowds were already out at the stadium, the athletes due to arrive within the hour, Hitler by four. To keep them all entertained, the Olympic Committee had enlisted the services of the Berlin Philharmonic, the National Orchestra, and-how could they go on without them? – the Bayreuth Wagner Festival choir, all three en masse with soaring renditions of the Meistersingeroverture, Liszt’s Les Preludes, and anything else with lots of trumpets and trombones. The stadium had yet to open its beer and wine concessions, so the louder the better.

Hoffner stepped down from the tram, crossed Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, and pushed through the door at number 17.

The Berlin office of the British Pathe Gazette Company was three rooms at the top of a rather sweet if old five-floor walk-up: one secretary, four filmmakers, and all of them with the singular task of covering Germans in the news. Hoffner had stopped in twice before: the first time three years ago, to see Georg’s new digs; the second last month, when Mendy had been rushed to the hospital after falling down the stairs. The telephones at Georg’s had somehow gone out. Luckily, Hoffner had been at the Alex, only a fifteen-minute walk-or ten-minute run-depending on the traffic. Papi and Opa had arrived at the hospital to find Mendy unbroken and utterly delighted to be sporting a very long bandage on his leg. He had limped for two days after-each day a different leg-until Lotte had told him to knock it off.

Anthony Wilson was leaning out an open window behind his desk, peering off into the distance, when Hoffner stepped into the office. Hoffner shut the door, and Wilson ducked his head under his arm to see who it was.

“Hallo there, Inspector.”

Wilson was a young thirty-two, with too much enthusiasm for a man his age. He continued to peer back in this odd position before saying, “Join me?” Wilson returned to his viewing, and Hoffner had no choice but to step over, remove his hat, and inch his head out. The damp was oddly thick up here.

Wilson said, “A fellow across the way on four says that when the street’s clear, you can actually hear the music.” He was straining his ear westward. “Out at the stadium, I mean.”

Even his German sounded like public school English. Hoffner imagined all those years Wilson had spent working on the “Bosch” while his friends had been struggling through Horace and Sappho. Not much newsreel work, though, in ancient Rome and Athens.

The wind picked up, and Hoffner said, “You know that’s not really possible, Herr Wilson.”

“Oh, I know,” he said. “But they get a nice kick out of seeing the Englishman stick his head out the window. They’re placing bets on it. How long I can go. They don’t think I know about it. They’ll be wondering who you are in a minute or two.”

“So we’ll be out here that long?”

Wilson looked over, then smiled. “Fair enough.” He ducked under, and Hoffner followed. Immediately, Wilson began to smooth back what little hair he had. He was tall like Georg, but with an inordinately narrow head. “Someone on the fourth floor’s just won a bit of money.” He smiled again, motioned Hoffner to a chair, and took his own behind the desk.

Hoffner stepped over and sat. He was trying to convince himself that Wilson’s airy mood was a good sign. Then again, the man might just have been an idiot.

“Any word?” asked Hoffner.

Wilson’s face did its best with a look of seriousness: the mouth remained closed even as the jaw dropped a bit. Was it possible for the face to grow longer?

“ ‘Any word,’ ” Wilson repeated pensively. He looked across at Hoffner. “No. No word, Inspector. But I shouldn’t be too concerned.”

The English were always so good with an empty phrase. Hoffner waited and then said, “The trouble is, Herr Wilson, I am.”

There was some quick nodding from Wilson as he retreated. “Yes, yes, of course you are. I am as well. Naturally. I just mean it’s still early days. Everyone involved with POG was moved to a safe-”

“Pog?” Hoffner interrupted.

Wilson seemed surprised by the question. “POG-People’s Olympic Games?” When Hoffner said nothing, Wilson added, “Why Georg went?”

Another favorite of the English: the meaningless acronym.

Georg’s reason for going to Spain was, of course, not news to Hoffner. In fact, it had been impossible to be in Berlin over the past few months and not hear all the updates on the highly controversial, if equally pointless, Protestspiele.Barcelona for the people. Barcelona for the Games of Protest. Ludicrous.

“No,” Hoffner said. “I know why Georg went, Herr Wilson. I just didn’t know the games were called”-he hesitated-“POG.”

Wilson flipped open a cigarette box on his desk and offered one to Hoffner. “Well, technically, it’s just a few of us here at Pathe Gazette, Inspector. Makes it so much easier in wires and the like. POG this. POG that. You understand.” He lit Hoffner’s cigarette and took one for himself. “No point in using it now, though, is there? Still, as I said, everyone was moved to a safe spot once the trouble began.” He lit up.

“And where exactly do you find a safe spot in Spain these days, Herr Wilson?”

Wilson let out a stream of smoke. For an instant Hoffner thought he saw something behind the eyes: it was strangely familiar and then just as quickly gone. Wilson said, “That’s probably a very good question, Inspector.”

“And yet I shouldn’t be concerned.”

“Georg wanted to go on filming. Do you blame him? We both know he’s gotten himself out of deeper holes than this.”

“Has he?” Hoffner saw it again in the eyes. He let it pass. “And how does one lose track of a man eager to go on filming?”

“It’s a war, Inspector.” The tone was mildly sharper. “It takes time for things to settle in.”

It was a callous answer, and not in keeping with the Wilson of only moments ago. Hoffner took a long pull and said, “By the way, it’s no longer inspector. Just Herr Hoffner. My papers went through yesterday.”

“Really?” Wilson said. He leaned in and, focusing on the glass, began to curl his cigarette into the ashtray. “Good for you.”

And there it was: the eyes and the voice coming together. Hoffner was struck by how obvious it seemed.

It was the way Wilson had said it-“Good for you”-that went beyond mere congratulations. There was a relief in the voice, as if making it to the end of a career unscathed deserved a nod of admiration. As if, one day, Wilson hoped he might make it there himself.

Hoffner continued to watch as Wilson played with the ash. “Yes-it is,” he said. “I imagine you’d like to get there one day yourself.”

Wilson stayed with the cigarette. “Pardon?”

“The job. It can be rather dangerous. Nice when you survive and get the pat on the back at the end.” Hoffner watched Wilson spend too much time with the ash. Finally Hoffner said, “Which branch?”

Wilson took a moment too long before looking up. “Which branch…? I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The amiable smile was really quite a feat.

“War Office or Admiralty? Or is the British Secret Intelligence Service all under the same roof these days?” When Wilson said nothing, Hoffner added, “Thirty years, Herr Wilson. I think I know when I hear a cop.”

A car horn from the street broke through, but Wilson continued to stare. His smile became more masklike as the eyes began to sharpen: rare to see intelligence growing on a man’s face.

“Just like that,” he said. There was now a quiet certainty in the voice.

“Like what?” said Hoffner.

“Georg said you were uncanny at what you did. Hard to believe that good.” There was nothing accusatory in it. “When did he tell you?”