Текст книги "The Second Son"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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“And he’s one of the sane ones?”

“He runs the place.”

The other two tables were deep into games. Hoffner said, “Do you recognize everyone in here?”

“No.”

“Good. Stay here.”

Hoffner made his way over to Piera’s friend and stood hovering above the table. Neither of the men playing bothered to acknowledge him. Finally Hoffner cleared his throat.

Piera’s friend reached for one of his rooks-there was more bruising on the knuckles-and said, “Yes, we know you’re there.” It was Spanish, but the accent was from elsewhere. “The idea was we didn’t care.” He placed the rook along the last rank and went back to studying the board.

Hoffner said, “You run this place, a room over an opium den?”

The man showed no reaction as he continued to scan the pieces. “You’re not Spanish, so I’m thinking I don’t have to care what concerns you.”

Apparently even the chess club boys were getting to play it tough these days, although there was something too comfortable in the way this one doled out his aggression. Hoffner wondered how much time the man was splitting between his upstairs clientele and those in the basement.

The man across the table ran the back of his fingers through his beard and then slid a pawn forward one square. Piera’s friend stared a moment longer, peering over at a completely different area of the board before sitting back. Only then did he look up at Hoffner. He took a moment and said, “He has a pretty daughter-Piera. Have you met her?”

“I’m impressed,” said Hoffner. “You’d think you’d be able to smell it up here.”

“What, Piera’s daughter? I hope not.”

In a different place, a different time, Hoffner would have cracked the man across the face, but that kind of brutality was too easy now. Instead, Hoffner picked up one of the pieces on the side of the board.

“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” Hoffner said. When the man continued to stare, Hoffner added, “I was thinking Polish from the accent, but the face is wrong. Maybe Czech or Romanian. You boys are always good with chess.”

It might have been animal instinct, but the bearded man across the table now slowly pushed back his chair. He took out a pack of cigarettes and moved off, happy to go smoke in a corner.

Hoffner said, “Your friend’s accustomed to stepping away from the game?”

“Usually with his king down.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Hoffner said, as he set the piece down. “You’re quite the hero. Drawing with Capablanca. Very impressive.” It was nice to see the jaw tighten. “I’ve never understood that. No winner, no loser. It’s as if the game never happened, so why bother remembering it?”

The man’s tone was equally tight when he spoke. “What do you want?”

“Don’t worry-it’s not about the drugs.” It might have been. Gardenyes’s note had mentioned the writer Bernhardt and his predilection, but Hoffner knew that could wait. Georg’s wire had been very clear: Han Shen was connected to Vollman. Better to keep things simple and start there.

“Germans,” said Hoffner. “You’ve had a few of them playing in here the last few weeks.”

“Have I? We don’t check papers at the door.”

“Not good for business.”

“No.”

“Bit of a drop-off since the fighting started?”

“What fighting?” The man spoke with a goading insincerity. “I haven’t heard any shots today, have you?”

Hoffner regretted not having slapped him. “So, business as usual?”

The man set his hands on the table. “Something like that.” He started to get up, and Hoffner quietly gripped the shoulder and arm and held them in place. The man sat back down.

Hoffner said, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say you’re too clever to be in deep with what’s going on downstairs. You turn a blind eye and they make it worth your while. No crime in that.”

The man said coldly, “There is no crime in Barcelona these days-haven’t you heard?” Hoffner tightened his grip and the man said, “It’s as a courtesy to Piera I’m talking with you.”

“The same courtesy that’s keeping your arm from snapping in two. We understand each other?”

The man winced, then nodded.

Hoffner said, “There’s a man named Vollman. From the Olimpiada. I need to find him.”

The answer was too long in coming. “I don’t know him.”

“Yes, you do. He would have been in here a few days before the games.” Hoffner turned the elbow and watched as the man’s eyes tried to fight back the pain.

The man said, “I wouldn’t know where he is.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

The man chanced a look at his friend, who was still smoking in the corner. Almost at once, the bearded man tossed the cigarette to the ground and bolted for the door. He was surprisingly agile and might have made it had Piera not whacked his cane across the man’s kneecap. There was the expected yowling, the looks of pain and panic-all the trappings of men caught up in something well beyond their means.

Hoffner said, “That was remarkably stupid. Where is he?”

The sight of his friend sprawled on the floor brought a final tensing of defiance from the man in the chair. Just as quickly his shoulders dropped. He stared down at the board and said, “You’re scum to help these people, Piera.”

Piera looked particularly daunting standing over the bearded one. “This from a man who helps the Chinks run their poison up from the south.”

The man said bitterly, “So it’s not just your son, Piera, is it?”

Hoffner was having trouble following the sudden turn in the conversation. He was, however, quick enough to keep Piera’s cane from landing on the man’s skull.

Hoffner said, “Enough. We all take a step back.”

Hoffner waited and then released. It was another few seconds before Piera slowly brought the cane down.

“What people?” Hoffner asked.

The man snorted to himself, then mumbled something in a Catalan only vaguely familiar. Finally he said, in Spanish, “No, I’m sure you have no idea.”

Hoffner noticed the four sets of eyes peering over from the other tables. Piera was staring at him as well. Oddly enough it was Piera’s expression that was most unsettling. Hoffner did his best to ignore it. He turned to the man and repeated, “What people?”

From behind him Piera said, “You haven’t made a fool of me or my daughter, have you?” There was a quiet accusation in the voice.

Hoffner turned to him. “What?”

“It’s a simple question,” said Piera.

The silence only deepened Hoffner’s confusion. “No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

“Then why does he think you’re hunting down this Vollman for the fascists?”

The thought was absurd. Hoffner continued to stare, and Piera said, “He believes we are also fascists.”

Hoffner was doing what he could to make sense of the last half minute. He turned to the man, the eyes now fixed on the far wall. Hoffner saw their contempt and instantly understood why.

“Who else has been in here asking about Vollman?” said Hoffner. When the man refused to look up, Hoffner again grabbed him by the arm. “Who else?”

The man took his time. “Germans,” he said. “Germans-like you.”

“Not like me. Who?”

“Yes, like you.” The man continued to stare straight ahead. “Twisting arms, beating faces, breaking knees. Exactly like you.”

The hatred in the eyes was now unassailable. It was no match, though, for the sudden revulsion Hoffner felt for himself. He slowly released the man and said, “That’s not who I am. I thought you were-” Hoffner shook his head. “You know what I thought you were.”

The man turned to him. “Do I?”

Hoffner was having trouble matching the gaze. “The drugs. I assumed-”

“What? That Communists can’t peddle drugs? We run it as a collective, if that makes you feel any better. Are even the good Germans like this now?”

Hoffner found himself staring into the man’s eyes even as the words gutted him. “No,” he said quietly. “They’re not.”

“And you believe that?”

It was all Hoffner could do to answer. “I’m trying to find one of the good ones. My son. I assume your Vollman is another.”

The man studied him. There was a moment’s uncertainty. “Your son?”

“Yes. A filmmaker.”

Again the man waited. Hoffner saw another moment in the eyes before the man said, “The boy from Pathe Gazette?”

It was said so easily, and yet Hoffner felt it to his core. Georg had been here. Hoffner nodded.

The man thought something through and then turned to Piera. “Your son, Piera,” he said. There was regret in the voice. “I was sorry to hear about that.”

“So was I,” said Piera. “You know where this Vollman is?” The man nodded and Piera said, “Then you’re lucky. I would have broken the arm.”

The man knew every twist and bend of the Raval’s back alleys. Piera had stayed behind. The morning’s events had taken it out of him. Still, he was in better shape than the one with the beard. The knee was already the size of a melon. Piera offered no apologies.

They drew up to a building and the man pulled out a set of keys. The alley was empty. Even so, he peered off in both directions. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and ushered Hoffner in.

Four worn wood stairways later they stood in front of a single door, and it was through here that they discovered the sleeping Karl Vollman.

The room was a nice molting of chipped plaster and paint, with a tiny sink and spigot wedged into one corner. Water stains-browns and yellows-provided what color there was, while an angled window looked out on endless lines of clothes drying in the heat. Everything smelled of rust. Had there been an easel and a few stacks of drying canvas, Hoffner might have hummed the first bars of “Che gelida manina,” but the place was too hot for frozen little hands, and there didn’t seem to be much hope in it, even if Vollman was sleeping soundly.

Vollman was in undershirt and trousers, with his shoes neatly at the foot of the bed. Even sleeping, there was a power to the body, the arms pale and muscular. Most distinctive, though, was the shock of white hair on a man no more than fifty.

Hoffner’s guide stepped toward the cot and placed a hand on Vollman’s shoulder. Vollman remained absolutely still until he took in a long breath and suddenly bolted upright. The sinew in the chest tightened and then released.

The man said, “Karl.” He spoke in German.

Vollman stared straight ahead. He rubbed his face briskly and began to nod. It was only then that he noticed Hoffner.

“Monsieur,”said Vollman. “Je suis soulage que vous soyez ici. Etes-vous pret a partir?”

Hoffner needed a moment. “What?”

The man from the club said, “He’s saying-”

“I know what he’s saying,” said Hoffner. “He thinks I’m taking him to Paris.”

Vollman spoke in German. “Yes.”

Hoffner said, “You think it’s not safe for you here.”

“No.”

“And why is that?” Hoffner always felt a moment’s regret watching a man’s eyes give in to the truth.

Vollman said, “Who is this?”

Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to Vollman. “My name is Hoffner.” He took one for himself. “I believe you know my son.”

Paris faded.

Hoffner thought he would see a few moments of calculation in the eyes-how else were chess men meant to react? – but Vollman showed nothing. He just sat there, remarkably well-shaven, although his shirt and trousers did show several days of sleep and sweat.

Hoffner said, “You’re here because of my son.”

Vollman focused. He looked over, reached for the cigarette, and placed it in his mouth.

Hoffner said, “I’m sorry for that.”

“Is he dead?”

Hoffner lit Vollman’s cigarette, then his own. “No.”

“You know that for certain?”

Hoffner let the smoke stream from his nose. He said nothing.

Vollman stood and headed for the sink. “I ran out of German cigarettes about a week ago,” he said. “Don’t much like the Spanish ones.” He placed the cigarette on the edge of the sink and pulled a hand towel from some unseen hook. He began to wet it. “Leos here doesn’t smoke, so he doesn’t care.”

The man from the club said, “I’ve different things to care about.”

Vollman ran the cloth along his neck and forehead. “That’s always a good excuse, isn’t it?” Vollman rinsed his mouth, placed the towel back on the hook, and retrieved his cigarette. “He has no idea why he’s protecting me. That makes him a good friend, so I forgive him the cigarettes. You’ve come all the way from Berlin, so you must have a great deal that needs forgiving.”

Hoffner felt oddly at home with a man like this.

Vollman said, “You should go, Leos.”

The man from the club waited and then looked at Hoffner. He said, “I’ll take Piera to the Ritz. Two hours. If you don’t show, I’ll kill him. Fair enough?”

Hoffner liked when things were made this clear. He nodded.

“And you give my friend here your cigarettes,” the man said. “So I don’t have to hear him whine about it anymore.”

Hoffner tossed the pack onto the cot as the door pulled open and shut behind him.

Vollman was not a Jew. It was the least surprising thing about him, even if he did come from a long line of true believers-years spent organizing in the working-class districts of Berlin, with a few scars on his right arm to show for it. He had been at school in Switzerland with all the best revolutionaries and had even spent time with Lenin before the mad dash to Moscow. That Lenin had gotten it completely wrong, and paved the way for Stalin and his thugs, hardly had Vollman giving up on the Soviet experiment just yet. Stalin would have his chance to make things right here in Spain; all would be forgiven if the tanks and planes and men began pouring in.

That said, it wasn’t all that unusual a story until Vollman decided to explain why he was in Spain. He had come as a special envoy of the Unified State Political Administration, working with its foreign department, what he referred to as INO through OGPU. Hoffner stared blankly, and Vollman simplified: he was, for lack of a better term, an agent of Soviet Intelligence. And while that might have been staggering on its own, it seemed even more implausible that Vollman should feel the need to share the information with Hoffner. Yet even that seemed reasonable enough.

“What else would I be?” Vollman said easily, as he lit his third cigarette. He was sitting on the cot. “Why else would Georg and I have been in touch with each other? Birds of a feather.”

Hoffner took a long pull and nodded as if this made any real sense to him.

Vollman said, “I’m not saying anything you don’t know.”

Hoffner realized it was in his best interest to agree. “It’s a recent piece of information, but yes. I knew why Georg was here.”

Vollman reached for his shoes. “You haven’t made some horrible mistake, have you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Vollman began to lace up. “It’s rather funny if you think about it. Three Germans in Spain-a civil war-one working for British Intelligence, one for Soviet Intelligence, and one”-he finished lacing and looked over-“one looking for the other two.”

Hoffner felt the slightest threat of violence slip into the room. “I’m looking for just one,” he said.

“And yet you’ve found the other.”

There was nothing to be gained in retreat. Hoffner dropped his cigarette to the floor and began to crush it under his shoe. “You could get to Paris any time you like, couldn’t you?”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Your friend Leos seems to be going to great lengths to get you there.”

“He does, doesn’t he? Did you take a few cracks at him yourself? He’s been very good at letting people thrash him on my behalf.”

“It’s very kind of you to let him.”

Vollman’s gaze turned to a smile. It was an odd reaction, odder still to see genuine warmth in it. “It’s a sweet little line-the kindness of my cruelty. I imagine it once had a place.”

There was nothing mocking in Vollman’s tone, more nostalgia than derision. Hoffner was moving well beyond his depth.

Vollman said, “It’s only cruel if that sort of cruelty still exists-the one where a man uses another, wittingly or not, in the name of some larger cause. ‘I will sacrifice you, Leos…’ ” Vollman watched as the words floated out the window. “It’s such a dangerous thing to rely on-sacrifice. Even more ridiculous to ask it of someone. Are we such fools as to think there’s nobility in any of this?”

Hoffner imagined Georg standing in his place, sifting through a conversation built on unspoken truths and unadorned lies, and only then did he realize that he had no idea what his son might be capable of.

Hoffner said, “So, a German socialist working for Soviet communism-and there’s no great cause? I find that highly unlikely.”

“My cause was Germany. Same as yours. That’s long gone. It’s now just making sure the world keeps things balanced.”

“Comrade Stalin never struck me as such a pragmatist.”

“Who said anything about Stalin?” Vollman flicked a bit of ash to the floor. “A grotty little attic-never been the place for ideologies and five-year plans, has it?”

Hoffner was thinking another chair would have been nice right about now. “So the true believer turns out to be not so true. I imagine there’s something sad in that.”

“Why? Would you really want a zealot holed up in here?”

“It’s a long way from this to a zealot.”

“Is it? All it takes is the word ‘truth’ or ‘message’ or ‘cause’-or ‘sacrifice.’ I don’t much cotton to those. For me it’s always been much easier to look at the more practical side of things. Guns, tanks, planes. Who has them, how they get more. That’s why Georg was here. That’s why I’m here. To see how these Spanish generals plan to wage their war. And who they plan to get their weapons from. The practical. That’s why he told me you’d be here.”

Hoffner was getting tired of meeting himself through other people’s eyes. “I’m surprised he mentioned me.”

“No, you’re not. He said you’d come if things went sour. He was actually proud of that.”

Hoffner needed a moment; there was too much caught in his throat to find an answer. “So things have gone sour?”

“He’s been out of touch for what-four days, maybe five?”

“A week.”

Vollman’s eyebrows rose as if to make his point. “That’s not good.”

“No.”

“And you think you’ll just go off and find him?”

“I found you, didn’t I?”

Vollman liked the answer. He moved past it quickly. “The world has never been so ready to declare its allegiances. They’ll all be shipping themselves into Spain by the truckload in the next weeks, months, and every one of them with his arm raised in whatever salute suits him best. It’s a terrible thing to know how pointless it’s all going to be.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Of course I’m here. Who else is going to make sure all those theories and truths don’t muddy what really matters?”

Hoffner nodded quietly. “That balance you and Georg and all the rest of your attic-dwelling friends are keeping safe for us. How lucky for me to be able to thank you in person.”

There was no ruffling Vollman. “Georg might tell you he sees something more in it, something nobler-that can get a man in trouble-but I wouldn’t hold it against him.” Vollman finished his cigarette and began to crush it against the metal leg of the bed. “As for the rest of us, we know exactly why we’re in Spain. We’ve come for the dry run. Germany, Italy, England”-he dropped the butt to the floor-“Comrade Stalin. We’re here to see how it all works before moving onto the big stage. The Spanish have always had such remarkable timing.”

“Your sacrificial lambs.”

Vollman’s smile returned. “They’ve led themselves to the slaughter. There’s no sacrifice in that.”

Hoffner wondered how long it took a man to rid himself of any feeling for the world beyond him: a month, a year, a lifetime watching his own truths ground down to nothing? Easier, then, to toss them all away and damn the world for still trying.

“So your friend Leos,” Hoffner said. “He thinks he’s protecting a frightened little chess player up here, even though the anarchists are running the streets. So what’s he protecting you from?”

Vollman reached for another cigarette; it was clear why he had run out so quickly. “I’m just a poor helpless refugee,” he said, as he lit up. “Leos thinks I might have overheard something or seen something at his club. I need to get out of this war-torn country.”

“And yet here you sit-waiting.”

“Barcelona’s always been much better after dark.”

“And he has no idea what you do then, after dark?”

“It’s all a bit loose-Leos doesn’t press-but there might be a few people who’ve taken an interest in me.”

“And how long have the SS been in Barcelona?”

Vollman spat something to the floor. “A week, ten days. Not early enough to have saved it for themselves.”

“But early enough to have known about Georg?”

Vollman took another pull and let his head rest against the wall. He waited until the smoke had streamed from his nose. “You wouldn’t still be clinging to any hopes of something noble in this, would you? That would be a disappointment.”

“I asked about Georg.”

“Of course you did. And of course they knew. There are never any great surprises in this. Not for those of us who sleep in shithole attics. It comes down to who gets the guns and where they get them from. And how long they can keep it a secret. We know it. The British know it. The Nazis know it. That’s why ideology is meaningless. Something else Georg said you’d understand.”

The truth, once untapped, was such an easy thing for men like this. They used it like a weapon. “So he’s looking for guns?” said Hoffner.

“And planes and tanks and ships and anything else they might try to get through to the generals in the south. Franco has thirty thousand troops sitting in Morocco. He needs to move them across the water to the mainland, and he needs something for them to fight with once he gets them across. It’s a little game. The Nazis say they won’t send in the guns, and everyone says they believe them. And then we all go looking for the way the Nazis will send in the guns. It’s more about the where and the how than the what.”

“And Han Shen’s?”

Vollman stared across at Hoffner. It was another few moments before Hoffner saw it.

“The opium lines,” Hoffner said.

“Nice little network for delivery, if you think about it.”

Hoffner hadn’t. “And the Nazis-they think they can use the drug lines to supply guns for the fascists?”

“They did a week ago.”

“And now?”

Vollman shrugged, took another pull, and tossed the match to the floor. “That depends on whether they know who’s running it. If they think it’s still the Chinese, the Nazis will send the guns. Naturally they won’t know it’s Leos and his Communists who’ll be getting them. That’ll make the Barcelona anarchists stand up and take notice of their clever little Communist friends. Duping Berlin. Nice twist, don’t you think?”

“And if the Nazis have figured it out?”

“Then there’ll be a lot of dead Chinese and dead Communists. That’s the way things always go at the beginning. Trial and error.”

There wasn’t even a hint of feeling. “And Georg knew all this?”

Vollman took another pull. He seemed to be deciding whether to mislead or enlighten. “He was following something south,” he said. “Down to Teruel. Something to do with the guns. That’s my gift to you.”

“So who are Bernhardt and Langenheim?” Hoffner thought it time for a little strafing of the truth of his own.

Vollman had been at this too long, though, to show any kind of reaction. He continued to stare across before taking a final pull. “You should get to the Ritz. Leos isn’t one for idle threats.”

“And Hisma?” said Hoffner.

The silence this time was too long. Vollman said, “You should go.”

“I imagine Georg expected me to pass those names along.”

“He’s a clever boy.”

“It’s B-E-R-N-”

“Yes,” said Vollman. “You’ll need to head south if you want to find him.”

“And you’ll be here in Barcelona?” Hoffner knew there would be no answer. He waited and then moved to the door. He had the handle in his grip when Vollman said, “Pawn to queen bishop three. It’s the Caro-Kann defense. My specialty. Leos likes to know I’m safe.”

Hoffner had his back to him. So this was what safety felt like, he thought. He nodded and opened the door.

The wide avenue of the Rambla was up and moving as Hoffner made his way through the heat. Open-backed trucks carrying men and rifles, men and grain, men and pigs, trundled between the lines of trees, careful to avoid the still uncleared piles of brick and stone. A week ago trucks like these, then filled with boys eager for the fight at Huesca or Zaragoza, or maybe even as far west as Madrid, had been cheered on by the thousands. Even now the frenzy of those first few days hung in the branches-hats and scarves tossed high and abandoned-but who could deny the sound of victory still echoing in the leaves?

Vollman had talked a great deal; he had said almost nothing. It was clear he recognized the names in the wire: Langenheim and Bernhardt. Hisma might have been something new to him-or maybe Hoffner just wanted to think that-but at least things were now on the table. This was about guns and the way the Nazis would get them into Spain. And Georg had been sent to expose that. In a world gone mad on truths and malice, ideologies and sacrifice, this was nothing more than a boy’s playground game. Smack the bully and make him cry. That tens of thousands of Spaniards might have to die in the process hardly seemed to matter.

It was a sobering thought as Hoffner came to the Ritz, its ten stories of palatial stone and glass filling the entire block. The curved rise of the facade and the blackened windows did little to soften the appearance; even the row of balconies above seemed to sneer down at the plaza through gritted teeth. Hoffner imagined this to have been the breeding ground for Barcelona’s elite, with chandeliers and dinner jackets and crystal glasses set across endless stretches of brocaded linen tablecloth: all those photographs of withering smiles, men and women staring up in perfectly seated lines of privilege and decay.

It would have been enough to smell the hair tonic and toilet water if not for the riddling of pockmarks along the stone from recent machine-gun fire. Likewise, the ragtag group of trucks parked outside-men hauling carcasses of beef and pork through the front door-cast out any lingering sophistication. Most glaring, though, was the awning where the words HOTEL GASTRONOMICO NO. 1 severed all links to the past. The Ritz was now a UGT/CNT canteen: so nice to see the socialists and anarchists working hand in hand to feed the people.

Hoffner crossed the plaza and joined the line heading in. The man in front of him was reading the latest issue of the Solidaridad Obrera, most of the newspaper’s front page a description of the fighting in Aragon: a pilot by the name of Gayoso-anarchist or socialist was still unclear-had coasted down to 150 meters and dropped a bomb on Our Lady of the Pillar in Zaragoza. The “purring of the engines,” so the article read, had been unfamiliar to those in the streets, but both church and city had escaped any real damage when the bomb failed to explode.

The man in front snorted and shook his head.

“They think Jesus saved their little church,” he said. “You get us some bombs that work, and General Mola will be wishing he never left Navarre.”

Hoffner was expecting more of the history lesson, but the line began to move. Four minutes later he stood in one of the grand ballrooms, now teeming with diners. It was humanity at its chewing best, a long narrow table at the side running some thirty meters to the back wall; large and small round tables filled the rest of the floor. The chandeliers were still above-most without bulbs-but the light pouring in from the ceiling-high windows made them almost an afterthought.

If there was an empty chair to be found Hoffner couldn’t see it-mothers with children bent over bowls of soup and bread, waiters in white coats or shirtsleeves darting in between, and above it all the hum of eager silverware and untamed conversation. These might have been the recently dispossessed, but Hoffner suspected the room brought its own brand of self-satisfaction to those inside. Even eating was a kind of triumph in the new Barcelona.

A man approached through the maze of chairs. “You’re alone, friend?”

It was a single motion to call Hoffner over and send him off toward the long table where the next chair in line stood empty. Hoffner thought to explain, but there was too much movement behind him-in front of him, to the side of him-to stand in the way of progress. He sidestepped his way through and took his seat.

The man next to him was shoveling the last bits of rice onto a fork. He had yet to look up. “ Salud, friend,” he said. “He’ll be by in a minute. Best to have your voucher out.”

This was the sticking point. Hoffner realized his time at the Ritz might be short-lived. He turned to have a look around and was nearly flattened by a waiter carrying a large silver tray.

“Watch yourself, friend,” the man said as he buzzed by, and Hoffner pulled back. When he looked out again, Hoffner saw Mila a few meters off, standing directly across from him.

She was in a different pair of trousers, slightly lighter blouse, but the belt, hair, and eyes were exactly the same. She was smiling at him.

She walked over. “You always do what you’re told?”

The shock of seeing her left Hoffner momentarily at a loss.

“We’re down here,” she said, “but you’re welcome to stay with your new friend if you like.”

Piera, Leos, and a third man-with oddly drooping eyes and a scar across his left cheek-were working through several bowls of beans and chicken when Mila and Hoffner drew up.

Hoffner said, “Pawn to-”

“Yes.” Leos cut him off as he continued to eat. “He likes all that. You wouldn’t be standing here if he wasn’t tucked away.”

Mila sat, and Hoffner took the chair next to her. He said, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“And I didn’t expect to find my father being held hostage.” She was smiling.

Leos had his glass to his lips. “That’s unfair,” he said.

“You would have killed him, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So what else would you call it?”

Leos thought a moment, shrugged, and drank.

Hoffner said, “You just happened to stop by the Ritz?”

She poured them both some wine. “Workers’ Canteen Number One,” she corrected. “And no. When my father goes to the club, I bring him lunch. When he gets kidnapped, I tend to follow along.”

Leos said, “So now it’s kidnapping.” He chewed through a bone. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me I actually killed him.”