The Good German (45 page)

“A piece of what?”

“The interview. Renate Naumann. The one you asked for, remember? Christ, here I’m turning cartwheels for the Soviets and you could care less. Typical.”

“She asked to see me?”

“Maybe she thought you’d catch her good side. I wouldn’t wait on this, by the way. The Russians change their minds every five minutes. Besides, you could use the story. The natives are getting restless.” He pulled a telegram from the same pocket and held it up.

“You’ve read it?”

“Had to. Regulations.”

“And?”

“‘Great mail response hero story,’” he quoted without opening it. “‘Send new copy ASAP. Friday latest.’” He tapped Jake’s chest with both papers. “Saved by the bell, hero. You owe me one.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, taking them. “Put it on my bill.”

Liz’s darkroom was a small, musty enclosure near the coal bin, with deep wooden crates in one corner for root vegetables. A table with three trays for solutions under a dangling light fixed with her portable red bulb. A few tins of developer and some prints hanging from a string like laundry. A box of matte paper. Why not let the old couple have it all? It was bound to be worth something in the market. But who took photographs these days? Were there weddings anymore in Berlin?

Liz, at any rate, had taken a lot. The table was littered with contact sheets, the loose pile held down by a heavy magnifying glass, the kind librarians use to read small type. Jake looked through it, and the postage-stamp frames zoomed up to life size. Powerful enough to see if a gleam was coming off boots. He put it in his pocket, then stacked the rest of the equipment at one end of the table. Against the wall there was a side table with another set of prints. He flipped through. The same pictures he’d seen upstairs, but different shots, not quite as sharp—discards, the ones no editor would ever see. The Chancellery. The airport again, Ron still grinning, but the background even less clear. It was when he held it up to the dim light, looking for boots, that his eye caught the dull shine of the gun hanging on the wall.

He put down the print, reached for the holster, and brought it over to the light. A Colt 1911. But everyone had one—standard issue. He took it out, surprised at its weight. The gun she should have been wearing in Potsdam. Three of them in the market. He stared at it for a minute, reluctant even now to let his mind follow the thought through. Had it been fired? They could match the bullet, the carbon firing marks as distinctive as fingerprints. But this was crazy. He opened the gun. An empty chamber. He lifted it to his nose. Only a hint of old grease, but what had he been expecting? Did the smell of firing hang in the chamber like ash, or did it drift away? But no bullets. Not even loaded, a showpiece to keep the wolves away. So much for Frau Hinkel, surrounding him with deception. He dropped the gun onto the prints, then scooped up the pile with both hands and carried it all back upstairs.

The magnifying glass was small, but it did the trick—the background still wasn’t sharp, but at least the blurs took shape. Uniforms passing in front of other uniforms. Definitely boots. He followed the line up—an American uniform, a face that might have been Tully’s,
had
to be, anchored by the boots. So Liz had caught him after all. But so what? There was nothing he hadn’t known before. Tully had arrived and now stood looking left at something. Jake moved the glass across the picture. But there was only the back of Brian’s head, the same uniforms as before, none of them looking toward Tully, and then the white edge.

He sat back and tossed the picture on the table, frustrated, Ron’s grin a kind of taunt. When his face fell on its double in the pile, he even seemed to move his head in a laugh. One more, Liz would have been saying, moving around for a better angle, Ron the fixed point in a stereoscope. How many had she taken? Jake leaned forward, grabbing up the prints. Enough for a small panorama? He collected the airport shots from the discard pile and laid them out with the others in a fan shape, ignoring Ron, piecing together the overlapping bits of background—Brian’s head on Brian’s head, moving left, matching the exit doors, until the edges were covered and he could look across the crowd with Tully.

He picked up the magnifying glass and moved in a straight line left from Tully’s face—soldiers going about their business, the annoying bulk of Ron’s head blocking the view behind, but now more faces beyond the edge of the first picture, some sharper than others, a few looking back in Tully’s direction. Somebody waiting with a jeep. Jake forced himself to move the glass slowly—in the crowd you could miss a face in a blink—so that when he neared the edge he caught it, a shape out of place, narrow straight board patches across the shoulders, the wrong uniform. Russian. He stopped the glass. Body turned toward Tully, as if he had sighted him, and then the face, almost clear among the blurs because it was so familiar, the broad cheeks and shrewd Slavic eyes. Sikorsky had met him.

Jake looked again, afraid the face would dissolve in the fuzzy crowd, something he only thought he saw. No mistake—Sikorsky. Who’d been interested in Nordhausen. Who’d had Willi watch Professor Brandt. It’s a common name, I think, he’d said to Lena outside the Adlon. Connected to Emil, where the numbers met. And now connected to Tully. Sikorsky, who’d been the
greifer
at Potsdam, a different connection. Jake stopped, letting the glass go and reaching without thinking across the table for the gun, feeling the same prickling unease he’d felt behind the Alex. Not different, maybe the same connection after all, a direct line to him, blundering after Tully, the only one unwilling to let it go. Not Shaeffer. Not Liz. He looked up into the mirror at the man Sikorsky had pointed out, standing behind Liz in the market.

Now that he knew, what did he do with it? Call Karlshorst for an interview? He left the billet in an excited rush and then stood in the middle of Gelferstrasse, suddenly not sure which way to turn. A few

lights had come on in the dusk, but he was alone in the street, as deserted as a western town before a shoot-out. He felt the gun, strapped to his hip. In one of Gunther’s stories he’d be facing down the posse until the cavalry arrived. With an empty gun. He moved his hand away, feeling helpless. Who could he go to? Gunther, shopping for a new employer? Bernie, absorbed in a different crime? And then oddly enough, he realized he was already where he needed to go. Don’t forget whose uniform you have on. The cavalry was just down the street, scratching at a bandage.

Breimer had joined Shaeffer for dinner, the two of them sitting with trays on their laps. Jake stopped halfway through the door.

“What?” Shaeffer said, reading his face.

“I need to see you.”

“Shoot. We don’t have any secrets, do we, congressman?”

Breimer looked up expectantly, fork in hand.

“Sikorsky has him,” Jake said.

“Has who?” Breimer said.

“Brandt,” Shaeffer answered absently, without looking at him. “How do you know?”

“He met Tully at the airport. Liz took a picture—no mistake. Sikorsky’s had him all along.”

“Fuck,” Shaeffer said, pushing away the tray.

“That’s what you thought, isn’t it?” Breimer said to him.

“I thought ‘might.’”

“Well, now you know,” Jake said. “Has.”

“Great. Now what do we do?” Shaeffer said, not really a question.

“Get him back. That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

Shaeffer looked up at him. “It would be nice to know where.”

“Moscow,” Breimer said. “The Russians don’t have to go through the damn State Department to get things done—they just do it. Well, that’s that,” he said, leaning back. “And after all we—”

“No, he’s in Berlin,” Jake said.

“What makes you say that?”

“They’re still looking for his wife. Brandt’s no good to them if h
^e
won’t cooperate—they want to keep him happy.”

“Any suggestions?” Shaeffer said.

“That’s your department. Put some men on Sikorsky. It’s just a matter of time before he goes visiting.”

Shaeffer shook his head, thinking. “That might be a little unfriendly.”

“Since when did that stop you?”

“You boys don’t want to go starting anything,” Breimer said unexpectedly. “Now that we’re in bed again.” He picked up the
Stars and Stripes
on the windowsill. Russia joins war on japs. “Just in time for the kill, the bastards. Who asked them?” He put his fork down, as if the thought had ruined his appetite. “So now we play nicey-nicey and they’d just as soon slit your throat as look at you. If you ask me, we picked the wrong fight.”

Jake looked at him, disturbed. “Not if you read the Nordhausen files,” he said. “Anyway, maybe you’ll get another chance.”

“Oh, it’s coming,” Breimer said, ignoring Jake’s tone. “Don’t you worry about that. Godless bastards.” He looked over at Shaeffer. “But meanwhile you’d better keep the cowboy stuff to a minimum, I guess. MG’ll be bending over for the Russians now.” He paused. “For a while.”

“It’s no good anyway,” Shaeffer said, still thoughtful. “We can’t tail Sikorsky. They’d pick it up in a minute.”

“Not if you had the right tail,” Jake said, leaning against the bookshelf, arms folded.

“Such as?”

“I know a German who knows him. Professional. He might be interested, for a price.”

“How much?”

“A
persil”

“What’s that?” Breimer said, but nobody answered. Instead, Shaeffer reached for a cigarette, staring at Jake.

“I can’t promise that,” he said, flicking his lighter. “My signature doesn’t mean shit. He’d have to work on spec. Of course, if he actually located Brandt—”

“You’d find a better signature. I’ll ask.”

“You’re talking about hiring a German?” Breimer said.

“Why not? You do,” Jake said.

Breimer’s head snapped back, as if he’d been slapped. “That’s an entirely different matter.”

“Yeah, I know, reparations.”

“You don’t want to get mixed up with Germans,” Breimer said to Shaeffer. “FIAT’s an American operation.”

“Suit yourself,” Jake said. “Somebody’s got to get to Sikorsky__—

he’s the only lead we’ve got.“

Shaeffer looked at him through the smoke, not saying anything.

“Well, you guys think it over,” Jake said, moving away from the shelf, impatient. “You wanted me to find Brandt. I found him. At least how to find him. Now the ball’s in your court. Meanwhile, can I borrow some ammo?” He patted the gun. “Liz was fresh out. Same Colt, too,” he said to Shaeffer.

“I thought press weren’t allowed to carry arms,” Breimer said, missing the look between them.

“That’s before I started working for FIAT. Now I get nervous. I notice you carry one.” He nodded toward the bulge in Breimer’s pocket.

“For your information, this is going to a boy’s father in my district.”

Shaeffer opened the drawer to his nightstand, took out a box, and threw it to Jake.

“Careful you don’t shoot yourself with it,” Jake said to Breimer. “Hell of a way to lose an election.” He sat on the bed and fit the bullets into the gun, then snapped it closed. “There, that’s better. Now all I have to do is learn how to use it.”

Shaeffer, who’d been quiet, running the tip of his cigarette around the ashtray, now looked up. “Geismar, this isn’t going to work, you know.”

“I was kidding. I know how—”

“No, with Sikorsky. We’re not going to get anywhere with a tail, yours or ours. I know him. If he’s got Brandt stashed away, even his own men aren’t going to know where. He’s careful.”

“They must have their own Kransberg. Start there.”

Shaeffer looked down at the ashtray again, avoiding eye contact. “You have to bring her in.”

“Bring who in?” Breimer said.

“Geismar’s a friend of the wife’s.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake—”

“No,” Jake said. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“Yes, she is,” Shaeffer said quietly, jaw set. “She’s going to see her

husband. And we’ll be right behind her. It’s the only way. We’ve been waiting for Brandt to come to her. Now the fun’s over. We have to give Sikorsky what he wants. It’s the only way to flush him out.“

“Like hell it is. When did you get this bright idea?”

“I’ve been thinking it over. There’s a way to work it, but we need her. You set it up with Sikorsky—or get your friend to do it, even better. That might be worth
a persil
. She goes to visit, we’ll have a team on her the whole time. There’s no danger to her, none. We get them both back. I guarantee it.”

“You guarantee it. With bullets all over the place. Not a chance. Think again.”

“No bullets. I said, there’s a way to work it. All she has to do is get us there.”

“She’s not bait. Got it? Not bait. She won’t do it.”

“She’d do it if you asked her,” Shaeffer said calmly.

Jake got up from the bed, looking from one to the other, both sets of eyes fixed on him. “I won’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“And risk her? I don’t want him back that much.”

“But I do,” Shaeffer said. “Look, the best way to do this is nice— makes for a better team effort. But it’s not the only way. If you won’t bring her in, I’ll do it myself.”

“After you find her.”

“I know where she is. Right across from KaDeWe. You think we didn’t watch
you
?” he said, almost smug.

Jake looked at him, surprised. “You should have watched harder, then. I moved her. I wanted to keep her out of the Russians’ hands. Now it looks like I’ll have to keep her out of yours too. And I will. Nobody touches her, understand? One move and we’re gone again. I can do it, too. I know Berlin.”

“You used to. Now you’re just a guy in uniform, like the rest of us. People do what they have to do.”

“Well, she doesn’t have to do this. Get another idea, Shaeffer.” He started moving toward the door. “And by the way, I resign. I don’t want to be a deputy anymore. Go watch someone else.”

Breimer had been following this like a spectator, but now interrupted, his voice smoothing over, folksy. “Son, I think you forget

whose side you’re on. Kind of thing happens when you get your head up some kraut skirt. You need to think again. We’re all Americans here.“