The Informer (13 page)

M
ani stared at the cracks in the wall of his room with a new interest, since every object, the lamp by his bed, the gray sheets, his writing paper and pen, his few books, had undergone a metamorphosis since the business in the street with Breiter. Before they had been neutral, or a little grubby, but now they seemed to accuse him for being impulsive. And he hadn’t done it to get ready to fight the thugs in Berlin so much as he had wanted a distraction from the accounting. He stood up and looked in the box where he kept the receipts that were stained by the cockroaches, yellowed by having been left in the sun, the ink smeared by beer and wine he had applied, as though spilled, to make them look more authentic. They were poor things, he thought, and he had staked his life on them. The paint on the wall of Mani’s room had faded from its original color, a froglike green, to the pastel of a new leaf, and he sat with the receipts in his hands and looked at that washed-out color, as though it were evidence of how time—that Judas—went to work to betray secrets, to reduce strength, to leave people vulnerable. The man from Moscow was in the city, and Mani knew it.

That slight rustle behind the plaster was just a rat, wasn’t it? He thought that he should get a large water glass so that he could put it against the door or the walls to hear better what was happening outside. He told himself he’d have to stop biting his lip, too. It would give him away. Then he looked down at his hands and saw that his fingernails had been bitten down to almost nothing.

Then he thought, That’s not a rat. That’s someone coming.

A knuckle tapped against the door. At the same time, he heard another sound, which was actually a rat in the wall, and for a moment he waited, hearing the two sounds come together right where he sat at the edge of his
bed. Was he going to pretend he wasn’t here or go open the door? He wished he was able to make up his mind and stick with his decision, whatever it might be. The most important thing was to survive, to look for the opening, to take it.

He opened the door about an inch and saw Kathleen, the woman who ran the kitchen downstairs. She was in her late forties with a sunburned face, gray hair, and blue eyes. Her lips were close to his, almost as though she was going to give him a kiss, and then she whispered, “Someone downstairs is asking for you.”

“Who?” said Mani.

“I don’t know,” said Kathleen. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“OK,” said Mani.

“OK what?” said Kathleen.

“OK. OK,” said Mani. He swallowed. “I’ll come down.”

“I don’t like the looks of him,” said Kathleen.

She shrugged and turned back into the hall, going away with a diminishing scratching sound as she shuffled her feet along the floor and then went down the stairs. Mani closed the door and dressed, and he kept thinking, as much as he resisted it, that the rat was the sound of his lies, his fraudulent accounting being revealed for what it was.

In the restaurant Karl sat in his usual corner, enormous, humped over the table, nursing a brandy, his head bent over his hands, which were clasped together. He looked up, though, when Mani came into the room, and with the slightest gesture, the lifting of one scarred brow, the slight movement of his shaggy head, he seemed to say, Look out. I mean it.

The man from Moscow sat at a table near the rear of the room. From his vantage point he could see the door to the street and the one from upstairs. On the table in front of him he had a small cup of coffee, which his fingers touched from time to time, although he didn’t drink from it. His entire attitude was one of quiet, stern caution and infinite patience. His fingers were beautiful.

“Mani?” said the man from Moscow.

“Yes,” said Mani.

“Sit down,” said the man from Moscow.

“Who are you?” said Mani.

“Schmidt,” he said. “Gerhard.”

He held out his passport, which Mani looked at for a moment. No one was better than the people in Moscow at making false documents, and this one was one of the best. He turned it over in the light, admiring the workmanship, the paper, the ink, the stamps, the signatures. The smell. Maybe it was real. Much better than the box of stained receipts upstairs.

“Well, Herr Schmidt,” said Mani.

Herr Schmidt wore a dark jacket. His topcoat and hat were on the chair, and the hat looked like a brown duck that had just been shot. Next to the man’s foot, on the floor, there was a small leather suitcase.

“So, how was the trip from Moscow?” said Mani.

“Oh, fine,” said Herr Schmidt “You can watch the country go by. You can concentrate. You can think things over.”

Mani sat down. He wanted to have some coffee, to wake up, to be right. It was almost as though the man had been waiting for him to come down here, half asleep. The way prisoners were awakened in the middle of the night. Kathleen, though, was in the kitchen. Was it worth going in there to get some coffee, or would it just show that he was vulnerable, not alert?

The features of “Schmidt” were angular, thin, and his eyebrows were prominent so that his eyes were shadowed, but not completely, since there in the dark some of the overhead light was reflected. It was like looking into a well by moonlight. Deep, with a little glow in the distance.

If Mani could just have a cup of coffee.

“Here,” said the man. He pushed the cup over. “Have mine.”

“That’s all right,” said Mani. “I’ll get some in a minute.”

“Are you sure?” said the man. “Oh, here she is. One coffee for Mani. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes,” said Mani.

Gerhard Schmidt had been right about the coffee, and this seemed to reassure him. He knew, or so he seemed to say, what Mani wanted. Mani looked around the room, caught Karl’s eyes. Karl shrugged. That’s the way it begins, he seemed to say.

Kathleen brought the coffee in a small cup and put it down.

“You take it the way I do,” said Schmidt. “Bitter.”

Mani had a sip, hoping the caffeine worked quickly and that he could shake off his lassitude, that feeling of gravity being stronger than usual.

“So,” said Mani. “How are things in Moscow?”

“Excellent,” said Herr Schmidt.

“Here, in Berlin …,” said Mani.

“I know where we are,” said Herr Schmidt with a smile.

“Yes,” said Mani. He swallowed. “We’ve heard about some arrests and interrogations in Moscow.”

“Of course,” said Herr Schmidt, but that’s all he said. Then they sat together in silence.

“What do you want?” said Mani.

They drank their coffee for a while. Mani wanted to say nothing, or as little as possible, and he realized that the man opposite him was trying to get him to give away some small, exquisitely telling detail. This made Mani more reluctant, since even small talk could get him into trouble. Maybe particularly small talk, since he wasn’t on guard when he indulged in it. That was the danger. Even your shield could cause you trouble. Maybe he should offer the accounting now. If he did that, maybe it wouldn’t be looked at, just filed away, like a ticking bomb. No, he thought, keep your mouth shut.

“Let’s not worry about Moscow,” said Schmidt. “It’s done. The interrogations, the arrests. That’s over. It isn’t our concern anyway.”

“All right,” said Mani.

“I wanted to tell you that we have been watching your work,” said Schmidt. “Even the chairman knows your name.”

The Boss, thought Mani. This should have been an honor, but Mani saw the room brighten with terror.

“Does he?” said Mani.

“Oh, yes. He said he had heard good things about Mani Carlson in Berlin. We get regular reports,” said Schmidt. “He is prepared to be generous.”

“And what about you?” said Mani. “Are you part of this?”

“I am just a messenger,” said Schmidt. “I try to keep it simple.”

Mani swallowed. If he could only find some way of slowing things down, of thinking clearly for a moment, or to understand what was happening. He tasted the bitter coffee.

“I am a practical man,” said Schmidt.

Mani started sweating all the harder and then looked down at his cup. When he glanced up Schmidt was looking directly at him. What Mani wanted, right then, was to be in the street opposite one of those young men who shouted insults, who called him Red Scum. Then he would know what to do. Instead, he found himself shaking, and when he tried to be quiet, he was left with an interior noise that was so much like a nightmare.

Maybe this was an interrogation. In that instant, he thought of the advice he had heard from people who had been through it: don’t hold anything back. If they arrest you and put you in a cell, don’t eat the bread. Only drink the water. The bread just makes you hungry. Don’t eat the salt fish. Come clean. If you hold back, they will never be satisfied, since they will think you are always holding something back. You can’t throw yourself on their mercy. That is not part of it. You must make your confession as quickly as possible. That is the best you can hope for. For one instant, Mani wanted to talk and get it over with but then realized this was hysteria.

“I’ve come to ask for your help,” said Schmidt. “I came here to see how things were going.”

“Of course,” said Mani. “I have my accounting upstairs.”

“Yes, good,” said Schmidt. “But my job has changed. I’m interested in something else now.”

Mani drank the bitter coffee.

“We’re concerned about a murder in Berlin.”

“Well, if I can help, I’m at your service,” said Mani.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Herr Schmidt. “A man was doing us a service. It doesn’t matter what it was. It was important to us. It was important to the chairman.”

Mani looked down at the table.

“Hans Breiter was the name of the man,” said Herr Schmidt.

“What was he doing for you?” said Mani.

“For us,” said Herr Schmidt. “Your interests are the same as ours in
Moscow.” Herr Schmidt turned his coffee cup up to get the last, bitter dregs. “You will do what we tell you. I am giving you your orders.”

“What happens if I have things to do here? Action to take that I see as being important,” said Mani. “What about people who betray us?”

Herr Schmidt took a deep breath and then took a moment to stare at Mani. It was as though he had been given something shoddy, a lousy coat when he had paid for a good one.

“I’m giving you your orders,” said Herr Schmidt. “You have no interests aside from the Soviet’s. That’s it. It doesn’t matter what you think, or what you want to do. Why, you may have all kinds of crazy ideas. But you will do what we tell you to do. And that is to attack the Weimar government. That’s it. If you are worried about anything else, then you aren’t doing your job.”

“And what about the thugs?” said Mani.

“Your job is to attack the government,” said Herr Schmidt. “We’ll worry about the Nazis and the others.”

“From where? Moscow? What about what’s happening here?”

“I’m giving you your orders,” said Herr Schmidt. “Is that clear? Attack the government. Find out about Breiter.”

Mani nodded.

“Say it,” said Herr Schmidt.

“What was Breiter doing for you?” said Mani.

Herr Schmidt put out one hand, as though asking for an instrument used in interrogations. Then he nodded, bit a fingernail, and stared at Mani. How much to tell? Just enough to make Mani feel on the inside, but really just enough to make sure he would be eliminated soon? Was that the right summation?

“Breiter did some negotiations for us with the German army. The Boss wants a strong Germany between us and Europe. Maybe that means helping the Germans rearm. Maybe it means helping the Germans get around the limitations on arms from the Treaty of Versailles. Breiter helped. So, of course, we want to know why someone did this. That’s all.”

Mani swallowed and glanced at Karl. Then Mani swallowed again, but it felt like he was choking.

“Here,” said Herr Schmidt. “Have a little coffee.”

Mani had a sip of the cold coffee.

“Will you find out who did this?” said Herr Schmidt.

“Yes,” said Mani. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face.

“Strangely hot in here, isn’t it?” said Herr Schmidt.

“Yes,” said Mani. “Maybe I’ve got a fever.”

“Why, you should take care of yourself,” said Herr Schmidt. He reached over and put his fingers on Mani’s forehead. “Cool as a cucumber.”

“Maybe it’s an allergy,” said Mani.

“Yes,” said Herr Schmidt. “Of course. That’s probably it.” Then he laughed and said, “Mani, Mani, don’t worry. I’m your friend.”

Mani tried, by force of will, to stop sweating, but it didn’t do any good. He couldn’t swallow either.

Herr Schmidt pushed the suitcase toward Mani.

“This is a gesture from the chairman. You are going to be paid more and more regularly. You can do your work here. Keep after the government. Make trouble.”

“Of course,” said Mani. “I’ve appreciated what I had before.”

“I’m very glad to hear about the accounting,” said Herr Schmidt. “We will take a look at that.”

“Yes,” said Mani.

“So, find out about Breiter,” said Schmidt. “Find out who did this thing.”

He pushed the suitcase farther toward Mani. Then he finished his coffee and put it down with a harsh click.

“Count your blessings,” he said. “It’s hard to get good coffee in Moscow.”

“How long are you going to be in Berlin?” said Mani.

“Oh,” said Schmidt. “I have some things to do. I’ll be around. I’ll check in on you. And, if I miss you I can always ask you to come to Moscow. You’ll come, won’t you, if we ask? You can bring the accounting.”

The coffee cup made a diminutive click, like a tumbler falling into place, when Mani put it down.

“Will you come?” said Schmidt.

“Yes,” said Mani.

“Glad to hear it,” said Schmidt. “Everyone will be glad to hear it.” He pushed the suitcase against Mani’s leg. “Don’t spend it all in one place. And, of course, go on with the accounting. A revolution means keeping track of everything.”

The man from Moscow stood up, like a piece of equipment being unfolded from a case, a camera tripod, for instance, and with his legs apart, he reached down and picked up his coat, which he swung around and stuck his arms through, as though he had practiced putting this coat on in a hurry. He looked around the room, as though taking inventory, and then down at Mani, who tried to appear calm, businesslike, although he was still sweating. He looked like something that had been dragged out of the river, hair pasted to the side of his face, skin white.