The Second Son: A Novel (29 page)

Doval might not have found the sweating German—with his half stories and vague papers—compelling, but Hoffner had brought something else with him: the aura of Nazi infallibility. It was enough to cut through any lingering concern.

“It was the nephew,” said Doval. “The boy from Barcelona. No doubt you’ve met him.”

Nephew, thought Hoffner. The drug addict was a nephew. Which meant there was a second, older Bernhardt. Hoffner had spent a career being told things he was meant to know. It made revelations like this quickly digestible.

Hoffner said, “I don’t trust anyone involved with that. Opium is a mind without control, too easily persuaded. When was he here?”

Doval flicked a bit of ash into the ashtray. “Six days ago. He said he was having trouble establishing contacts.”

“The Chinese were being less than accommodating?” Hoffner let this settle for only a moment. “As I said, I don’t trust any of it. I haven’t from the start.” Hoffner finally saw what he had been hoping for: an instant of mutual understanding. They would find common ground in their distaste for the drug lines. Hoffner said, “Bernhardt thinks he’s helping the nephew. I’m here to make sure he understands that’s no longer in his best interests. Where was the nephew heading?”

“South.”

“And the elder Bernhardt knew this?”

“I assume so.”

Hoffner decided to take a chance. “You assume so? You have wires to this effect?”

It was not a good choice as Doval looked momentarily puzzled. “I don’t think I follow.”

The throbbing became a dull ache. Hoffner retreated to frustration. “The elder Bernhardt. Did he communicate this to you?”

Doval was no less forthright. “He made it clear we were no longer to continue in this direction.”

“With the Chinese and the drugs?”

“Yes.”

“And the nephew knew this?”

“Yes.”

“He knew the guns were still coming from the south?”

Doval’s hesitation returned. The SS never asked; they gave orders. This was too many questions. Regardless, Hoffner had swum well beyond his limits; there was no point in worrying about getting back to shore now.

“The elder Bernhardt,” Hoffner pressed. “He made it clear that the drug lines were no longer a possibility, that the new routes were to go through Teruel.”

Doval showed a moment’s pause. This had struck a nerve.

Hoffner said, “I’ve said something that confuses you, Captain?”

Doval kept his eyes fixed on Hoffner. “No, Hauptsturmführer, you haven’t.”

The answer was too weak, and with nothing behind it. “You’re aware of Teruel, Captain?”

“Yes,” said Doval. “Of course.”

“You’re not filling me with tremendous confidence. I need to see these wires.”

“You continue to refer to routes, Hauptsturmführer.” Doval spoke with an unexpected resolve. “What routes would those be?”

The gaze across the desk showed none of the weakness of only moments ago. Mila had been right. These were not men to be underestimated. Hoffner wondered if this was where Doval had been leading him all along.

Hoffner waited. He took another pull on his cigarette. He let the smoke spear through his nostrils. And then he did what any good Nazi would do. He smiled.

“You don’t speak German,” said Hoffner. His voice carried a newfound respect. “Now I see why.” He leaned forward and slowly crushed out his cigarette. “Ambition is a far more vital quality.”

Doval showed nothing, and Hoffner knew it was only a matter of time before there would be a second telephone call to Berlin.

Hoffner continued. “Bernhardt chose not to tell you about the routes, Captain. I have to accept that. My mistake was assuming you knew, Teruel notwithstanding. If that means you take me outside and shoot me, so be it.”

Doval sat remarkably still. Hoffner returned the gaze and understood the reason Gabriel and his kind had taken no time for celebrations: if this was Spain’s future, there would be no Spain worth remembering.

Doval said, “I wouldn’t bother taking you outside, Hauptsturmführer. The walls in my office are sturdy enough.”

Hoffner gave in to another smile, and Doval opened the top drawer of his desk. He reached in and pulled out a thin file of papers. He handed them across and sat back while Hoffner read.

A WAY THROUGH

The air outside was remarkably fresh. Or perhaps it was just that Hoffner felt himself breathing again for the first time in the last hour. The young lieutenant assigned to escort him to the café walked with no such appreciation for the air.

Hoffner said, “Your German was excellent on the telephone.”

The young lieutenant nodded once. He spoke again in German. “Thank you, Hauptsturmführer.”

“In the coming weeks, Captain Doval will need you more than he knows.”

“Yes, Hauptsturmführer.”

Hoffner found himself lighting a cigarette as he walked.

He suspected Doval might be telephoning to Berlin at this moment, perhaps even to Langenheim. That said, there was very little in the wires to concern Doval—at least in showing them to someone who had mentioned routes and guns and Teruel.

As far as Hoffner could tell, the wires served as confirmation: the nephew had been in Barcelona; he had come to Zaragoza; he had gone on to Teruel. After that, he was due to head west, stopping along the way in places now, or soon to be (God willing), in fascist control: Cuenca, Tarancón, Toledo, Coria, and finally Badajoz on the Portuguese border; a straight line across the heart of Spain.

More than that, there were contact names in each of the towns and cities, along with addresses for each man. Hoffner had written them all down.

The travel itinerary was the elder Bernhardt’s way of assuring Captain Doval and his fellow liaisons across the country that mechanisms were being set in place to guarantee the steady flow of guns and ammunition from Germany into Spain. How they hoped to accomplish that—and how these contact names played a role—remained the mystery.

Hoffner was guessing Georg might be trying to piece that together himself.

“Here we are,” the young lieutenant said.

Hoffner tossed his cigarette to the ground and followed the boy to the café door.

*   *   *

The Gran Café was wall-front windows and wooden pillars throughout, with the smell of fresh coffee and garlic hanging in the air. Mila was at a table at the back, beyond the bar. A man in the uniform of a
requeté
sat with her. He was reading through a letter.

Only two of the other tables were occupied: a trio of officers sat knee to knee as they sipped silently through bowls of something brown; closer to the door an old priest was reading a newspaper and drinking from a glass of yellow liquid. He looked up with a gentle smile as Hoffner stepped inside. Mila’s own escort stood by the bar with a cup of chocolate and a plate of churros. The strips of dough were powdered and had left white specks under his nose. They made the man’s sharp nod to Hoffner’s lieutenant somewhat less imposing.

Hoffner drew up to Mila’s table. The lieutenant was now with his friend at the bar, delicately trying to inform him of the powder. There was a flurry of nose activity over Hoffner’s shoulder, and Mila said, “Everything all right?”

Hoffner nodded. The brother looked up with the same features as his father, although here they were hidden behind a neatly cropped beard and mustache. It was unclear whether he had been crying, but the eyes showed a heaviness. He stood. He was tall like his sister.

Hoffner said, “Sergeant Piera.”

“Señor Hoffman.”

Mila corrected. “Hoffner.”

Piera looked at his sister. His mind was clearly elsewhere. He looked again at Hoffner. “Yes, of course. Señor Hoffner. My apologies.”

Hoffner motioned to the chairs, and the two men sat. Mila said nothing, and Piera went back to his letter. Hoffner noticed a loose stack of perhaps twenty on the chair beside him, a brown piece of twine at the side. Three of the letters had already been opened and read.

Mila kept her eyes on her brother as he flipped to the back of the one in his hand, read it, and set it down. He stared for several moments before saying, “That’s the last?” His eyes remained fixed on the table.

“Yes,” said Mila.

Piera’s eyes moved as if he were reading something only he could see. “She wrote well.”

“She did.”

He nodded. His mind was struggling to find its way back. The eyes filled and his breathing became heavier, but he refused to cry. Mila placed her hand on his.

She said, “I don’t like the beard.”

Even his smile showed pain. “Then you’re lucky you don’t have to see it that often.” He looked at Hoffner. “Forgive me. A friend has died. I’ve just been told of it.”

It was clearly more, but Hoffner knew to say only, “I’m sorry.”

Piera tried to move past it. “You’ve been to see Captain Doval?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve come from Barcelona?”

Hoffner nodded. He had no intention of opening this up, but Piera saved him by saying, “Thank you, then. For bringing Mila. I won’t take any more of your time.”

Piera stood. He reached down and collected the letters, and Hoffner noticed how large the hands were. Odd to notice that, he thought. He watched as Piera embraced his sister. Mila was not so good with the tears. She rubbed her eyes against her brother’s shoulder. Piera released her and said, “It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?”

She stared into his face. “Yes. It is.”

“To see each other this way.”

They were finding anything to keep him from going. She nodded. “Yes.”

Piera looked at Hoffner. “She’s a doctor, you know. Did you know that?” Hoffner nodded and Piera tried a ragged smile. “Of course you knew. We could use doctors this side, too.” He looked at his sister and seemed momentarily confused.

Her eyes filled, and she said, “Be well, Carlos. God be with you.”

Piera stared a moment longer and then nodded. He looked again at Hoffner and went past him. As he walked to the door, Piera set his beret on his head. He opened the door and stepped out onto the street.

Mila watched him through the glass, even when she could no longer see him.

She said, “I asked him to come with us.”

Hoffner could only imagine that moment.

“We should go,” he said. He turned to the soldiers at the bar. “Lieutenant.” He was once again the man from Berlin. “Bring my car around. And I’ll have a cup of the chocolate with the—” He pointed to the strips of dough.

“Churros,” the man said.

“Yes. And call ahead to the city’s southern barricade. The road to Teruel. Tell them to expect us in the next half hour.”

*   *   *

The sky took on a deep blue just before sunset, softening a landscape that was growing more desolate by the hour. The few patches of green now came as sudden eruptions, clumps on a hillock or straggling weeds of wild brush that seemed beaten down by earth and rocks. It was a place unchanged for centuries, and it made the past a kind of comfort.

There had been no further contact with Captain Doval. The car had appeared fully gassed; the two lieutenants had been sent on their way. Nonetheless, it was now more than an hour, and Hoffner was still expecting to peer into the rearview mirror and see the dust of an approaching car rising in the distance.

Mila was staring out, her head resting back against the seat. She had slipped in and out of sleep, barely moving, not even to swat the fly that seemed incapable of finding its way to an open window. The thing battered itself against the dashboard, and she began to follow the lazy line of telephone poles, one after the other after the other.

Hoffner was fighting off his own exhaustion, the strain from his performance still knotted in his neck. Even the miracle of having come through did nothing to help. His head felt light, and there was a tackiness at the back of his throat. He imagined that nausea would follow, but for now he focused on the road.

Again he glanced in the mirror, and Mila said, “Either they’re coming or they’re not. Staring in the mirror won’t change it.”

She was suddenly aware of the fly. She followed its flight, cupped it in her hands, and held it before releasing it at the window. She closed her eyes and let the last of the sun stretch across her face.

It was nearly a minute before she said, “Do you ever miss her—your wife?”

Hoffner felt the back of his neck compress.

He had been foolish just beyond the city. He had let her ask questions. More foolish, he had answered them. Now she had Martha’s death and Sascha’s hatred to toss back at him. Seventeen years removed and he still felt the stale taste of his own arrogance in his mouth. The Nazis had been nothing then—nothing but a distant rumbling from Munich and the south. And yet he had underestimated them. He had dismissed them as thugs and charlatans, and they had murdered his wife. To have his son blame him for her death and to let them steal his Sascha away—maybe that was what lingered in his throat.