City of Shadows (58 page)

Schmidt was wrenched by a vision of the little suburban family that spent its annual holiday in a bed-and-breakfast at Baden-Baden staring around them at the plush and chandeliers.

“Quick as you can, then,” he said. “When you get there, phone me at this number.” He gave Esther’s number. “If I don’t answer or you see anybody who looks as if they’re searching for you, put the folder in the mailbox. Can you do that?”

“Sure, I can do it. But is it bad, Siegfried? Can I help?”

“You are helping.” He put down the phone.

Busse said, not unadmiringly, “You
have
been thinking, Inspector.”

“It’s what I’m good at. You all right, Mrs. Noah?”

Esther nodded. She pushed the gun away from her neck and got up. Busse let her. “Coffee, everyone?” she asked.

God, he was proud of her. He leaned over the table and put his hand to her cheek. “That’s my girl.”

He looked at his watch. For Joe, the journey by S-bahn would take less than ten minutes, give him time to get the folder and his coat, walk to the station, walk to the Esplanade at the other end. “Half an hour,” he said. “And I’ll get the coffee. Esther, you pack us a suitcase—noth-ing heavy. If they can squeeze us onto the night plane, they won’t let us take a lot of weight. Just the essentials. Passports. Oh, and a thick scarf; it’s going to be cold. Put in an extra coat.”

He went into the kitchen, Busse with him, following his every move with the gun.

Good, very good. So far.

“As a matter of interest,” he said, “what explanation will you give Hitler as to why Günsche wanted to kill Anna Anderson in the first place?” If Busse was cutting the connection between Anna and Bagna Duze, Günsche’s action would seem not only arbitrary but reasonless, even to Adolf.

“It is obvious,” Busse said. “Major Günsche was secretly a Commu
nist assassin. The Bolsheviks infiltrated him into Röhm’s organization years ago, under cover, to eliminate White Russians.”

God Almighty. It was beautiful. A Red ogre to be added to the fairy tale for Hitler’s delight and the disparagement of Röhm, who had nur
tured it. Olga, Natalya, Potrovskov had all been White Russians. The murders of Hannelore and Marlene, if they came up at all, would be ex
plained away as extraneous—attempts by a Bolshevik assassin to cover his tracks.

“You’ve been doing some thinking yourself,” Schmidt said.

In the living room, he held the cup out to Anna. Her blue eyes stared at him. “I do not die,” she said.

“Immortal, Your Imperial Highness.”

From the darkroom doorway, Esther said, “She’ll need someone to look after her when we go.”

“We are in charge of Her Imperial Highness now,” Busse said. “I shall phone and order my people to come and look after her.”

“No,” Schmidt said. “On our way out, we’ll ask Frau Schinkel to see to her.” He looked at his watch. Ten minutes gone.

“At least let me ring my wife,” Busse said, moving to the phone.

“No.”

“She is expecting me. She will be worried that I am late.”

Schmidt said, “Touch that phone and I won’t answer it when my friend calls.” Whoever Busse called, it wouldn’t be an anxious wife. Frau Busse wasn’t waiting up for a husband she knew to be taking part in the victory parade.

“This is foolishness,” Busse said, but he sat down.

“You can listen to the wireless, if you’d like,” Schmidt said kindly. “Hear what you’re missing.” He got up and turned on Esther’s radio set.

“Magical splendor.”
Off the scale with excitement, a commentator’s voice shrilled into the living room.
“Exhilarating. A million torches are issuing in a new dawn.”
Behind it came the noise of bands and cheers and marching boots.

Not a commentary, Schmidt thought, it’s propaganda—a word pic
ture of a hundred thousand marching Nazis was being transmitted into millions of German homes.

“In the torchlight the banners flame with color as they pass us.”

And most of Berlin’s police lining the route letting them do it.

Esther came out of the bedroom carrying a suitcase. She’d put on a light suede coat, and a smart cloche hat was pulled down over her hair to shade her cheek. A scarf was tucked inside the fox collar. Good girl.

“Now I pass the microphone to the Prussian minister of the interior,”
screamed the commentator.
“A new dawn, Herr Göring.”

Göring, sonorous:
“We bring national rebirth to the Fatherland. This is the Day of Awakening.”

The phone rang. Schmidt got up. The Luger, which had been waver
ing in march time, pointed immediately at Esther.

“Yes?”

“Is that you, Siegfried? Such a time I have had. The crowds.”

“Where are you?”

“At the reception desk. Sweating like a pig, but here. The place has got bigger, Siegfried, and so modern. All these rich young people, where do they come from?”

Schmidt thought of Joe in his off-the-peg suit among Berlin’s smart set. Oh, Christ, I’ve made him noticeable.

“Good man. Unwrap the parcel, just enough to show the reception
ist the folder inside, and then put him on the phone.”

He passed the receiver to Busse. “Check it,” he said.

Busse took over the phone. “This is Major Busse of the Schutz
staffel. Are you the receptionist at the Esplanade? I shall make sure. Give me the number. I will ring you back.”

Doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him, thought Schmidt. “I’ll dial the number, thank you,” he said. Busse gave him the number; he dialed and passed the receiver over.

Busse spoke to the receptionist: “You have a folder? What does it say on its first page?”

He listened, nodded, and handed the phone back to Schmidt.

“Put me back to the gentleman with the parcel, will you? Is that you, my friend? I want you to wrap it up again. Then go and get yourself a drink. Take it
and
the parcel to a window looking out onto Bellevue
strasse. In a little while, a car’s going to drive up and park on the other side of the street. There’ll be three people in it: me, a lady, and an SS officer. If the officer gets out on his own, finish your drink, leave the parcel on the table, and go. But if it looks like one or both of us is being forced to come in with him, I want you to pick the parcel up very quickly, get out by a side entrance, and shove it in the nearest mailbox. In the name of God, don’t let the Nazi see you. Got that?”

“What is it, Siegfried? What is this trouble?”

“A misunderstanding, that’s all. We’re clearing it up. Have you got that?”

He was aware of sounding abrupt. He wanted to call Joe by his first name, say good-bye, thank him for past kindnesses, mention Ikey, but he didn’t dare. Busse was listening to every word, and there must not be the slightest trace that would lead the bastard to that good old man.

“I got it. It’s exciting, Siegfried. Like I am a spy.”

“I love you, old friend. Do one more thing for me. Very important.”

“Anything, Siegfried, you know that.”

“Get out of the country.”

He put the phone down. “Satisfied?”

“There is no need for this elaborate nonsense,” Busse said. “I have given my word.”

“Indulge me. Shall we go?”

On the way out, Esther stooped down to kiss Anna, who’d taken her
self to sit by the wireless. “Good-bye, darling. Take care of yourself.”

“Good-bye,” Anna said.

Busse waited, his gun on Schmidt, while Esther called in on Frau Schinkel and asked her to keep an eye on Anna.

They got into the car. Busse switched on its radio before Esther drove off.
“And there is Herr Hitler himself, taking the salute.”
The com
mentator might have glimpsed God.
“Listen to the acclamation as the columns pass him.”
The roar wasn’t just from the radio; it came through the hood of the car, a tidal wave of sound washing through the Tier
garten from Linden and the Brandenburg Gate.

Half the West End was blocked by detour signs, and they had to take a long way around to Bellevuestrasse. “Here,” Schmidt said. “Park here.”

The street was busy with people, families, all moving toward the pa
rade, most of them carrying little paper flags with swastikas on them.

As ever, the Esplanade was crowded with the haute monde getting themselves ready for the nightclubs, its great windows showing groups of glittering people standing in groups, talking and laughing. Schmidt looked for Joe Wolff’s face but didn’t see it. He’ll be there, though, al
ways trustworthy—like father, like son. But this is the tricky bit.

Busse was lingering in the car, staring toward the hotel; Schmidt could almost see his mind measuring times and distances.
If I take them with me under arrest, can I get into the bar before the folder disappears?

No, you can’t, you bastard. And you can stop looking about for a policeman—they’re lining the procession route. Never one around when you want one.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” Busse asked. “Have you a code, you and your friend?”

“We’ll stay in the car until we see you wave from the window,” Schmidt said. He tried to sound casual and hoped like hell Busse
didn’t see the sweat on his face. “I’ve kept my word, you keep yours. How about driving us to Tempelhof afterward? See us off the premises, as it were. Getting a cab tonight will be impossible, and the lady’s tired.”

“Very well.” Busse took the keys out of the ignition. He started to cross the road, looked back, and then went on.

Schmidt leaned forward and put his face against Esther’s. “Got the passports?”

“In my handbag.”

He began struggling with the suitcase in the restricted space of the backseat. “Did you bring another coat?”

“It’s in there.”

“Yeah, here it is. Put it over your arm. Leave the rest. I’m not carry
ing this bloody case to the station—too damn heavy.”

Esther’s voice was deliberately calm. “Do I gather we are not going to Tempelhof?”

“No, we’re not. They’ll be waiting for us. At this moment Busse is making the necessary phone call. He doesn’t intend to leave us alive.”

“Oh, God.” He heard the fear in her voice. So did she. She said, try
ing for control, “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to watch the procession like everybody else. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go.”

As they left the car, he tore the swastika pennant off its hood. He caught sight of Busse’s face in one of the Esplanade windows, saw it slide out of view as the man made for the exit.

“Run.”
He caught her arm, and they ran toward Pariser Platz, dodg
ing around families heading in the same direction. Crowd and noise loomed up like a turbulent sea, and they dived into it, squirming and pushing. Schmidt’s hand was pulled out of Esther’s, and for one minute he panicked; if he lost her now, it would be forever. Then he saw her struggling and had to fight to go back for her. He grabbed hold of her and dragged her along like an angry father with a recalcitrant child.

If Busse was following them, they couldn’t spot him—wouldn’t, even if he were only a few paces away; they were hemmed in toward the rear of massed chattering, cheering people, most of them staring upward at
the tips of banners and eagle standards being carried by men they

couldn’t see.

“Take your coat off,” Schmidt said.

“What?” The noise of the bands and the crowd was deafening.

“Take your coat off. Put the other one on.”

She nodded and slipped one arm out of her light-colored coat, then the other, letting it fall to the ground. The people on either side didn’t notice, wouldn’t have noticed if she’d stripped naked. In the crush it was difficult to put on the new coat—it was black, Schmidt was glad to note, very different from the one Busse had seen. A man who was pressed against her complained, “Stop shoving!” without looking to see what she was doing. She took her hat off. For the first time, he noticed that she had her camera on a strap around her neck.

“Scarf,” he said.

“What?”

“Put your scarf around your face.”

They started to move in the direction of the Brandenburg Gate; it was impossible to keep in the center of the press, and in wriggling through they found themselves near the front and for a minute glimpsed the columns passing by—and were transfixed, like everybody else. The marchers came on and on, sweeping through the pillars of the great gate surmounted by
Victory
in her chariot, one phalanx, then another, an
other, as they had been all night, as they would continue, units Schmidt didn’t recognize, bands, more columns, more swastikas, as if monstrous, human-size ants were invading the city, glorious and terrible.

More terrible was the crowd watching them. “Look, Hans,” a man shouted to the child on his shoulders. “You are seeing history.” People cried, “Heil, Heil,” and stomped in time to the marchers. A divided, suffering, and humiliated city was being healed by spectacle, its pride raised high on poles, its people ready to be led by a tiny figure waving at a window.