Wilson’s eyes showed a moment of genuine regard. Both men knew it had no place here.
Hoffner said, “I’ve been thinking of taking a trip to Spain.”
“Have you? Bit dodgy there right now.”
“I’m going after him.”
“No, I don’t think you are.”
“And why is that?” Hoffner watched as Wilson took a drink. “Where was he filming, Herr Wilson?”
“The retired Kripoman decides to go and—”
“Yes,” said Hoffner. “I know. Get himself killed. I’ve been warned.”
“Oh, I don’t care if you get killed.” There was nothing malicious in the voice, not even a hint of that very brave English self-sacrifice. Wilson was simply trying to move them beyond the obvious. “I’m sure that would be tragic in some meaningless way—and isn’t that always the worst sort of tragedy—but I just don’t think you’d be much good. Do you even have Spanish or Catalan?” Hoffner said nothing, and Wilson continued. “Nothing better than seeing a nice little German in his climbing boots and short pants, sweating his way from one café to the next, asking about his boy gone missing: ‘Excuse me, señor, do you speak German?’ ”
“And I imagine Georg was fluent?”
Wilson gave nothing away. “Now if the boy happened to be some sad-sack Communist or socialist out to fight back the new fascists, I doubt anyone pays much attention. More troubling when the boy works for a British newsreel company—and a Jew to boot—and his daddy starts asking around. You see where I’m going with this?”
Hoffner looked at the bald pate across from him; even the shine seemed more credible now. “You really think the SS doesn’t know exactly what you are?”
“What the SS does or doesn’t know isn’t my concern. I just don’t like helping them along. And if they’re interested in Georg, so much the easier to let his sixty-year-old father lead them right to him.”
“I’m glad I inspire so much confidence.” Hoffner set his glass on the desk. “And why would the SS be so concerned with Georg?”
“The Spanish fascists haven’t a chance if they don’t get help from the outside; we both know that. And we both know where that help will be coming from. The trouble is, we’re all promising not to get involved in Spain—England, Russia, Italy, France. Even the Germans are willing to make that promise. Imagine if someone starts nosing around and finds out that the Nazis won’t be keeping their word. Especially when they’re the ones throwing the big international party out at their new stadium. Not so good for the image. Not so good for Georg.” He took a last pull and crushed out the cigarette in the ashtray.
“So what did you send Georg off to find?”
Wilson flicked something from his finger and sat back casually. “I didn’t send him off to find anything.”
Men like this were always so effortless with a lie, thought Hoffner. “I see—because of that promise you’ll all be making not to get involved.”
“We won’t be getting involved.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”
Wilson was no less glib. “We do happen to be running a news organization, Inspector. On occasion that means having to film the news. Barcelona and its Olimpiada—that was news. So Georg went.”
“And he just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Whatever the reason he went, there’s nothing I can do to stop you from going after him now. I’m just hoping you understand what’s at stake.”
“Georg’s life, I think.”
“Oh, is that what you think this is about—a single life?” Wilson set his glass on the desk. “If you’re that naïve you won’t make it out of the Friedrichstrasse Banhof.”
“I’m not much on trains.”
“Then he’ll be dead by the time your boat docks.”
“I’ve always found flying much more efficient.”
For the first time Wilson hesitated. It was the silence that held him.
“You have a plane,” he finally said. “That’s good. That’s very good.” He took another cigarette and lit up. “Don’t tell me how or where. Unregistered planes are a rare thing to get hold of these days.”
Wilson stared at Hoffner for another few moments and then was on his feet. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and stepped over to the floor safe. Kneeling down, he used two of the keys to open it. He retrieved a single sheet of paper and shut the door. He set the page in front of Hoffner. There were five words written on it:
HISMA: BERNHARDT, LANGENHEIM; HANSHEN: VOLLMAN
“His last wire,” said Wilson. “Five days ago from somewhere in Barcelona. It’s impossible to say where.”
Hoffner continued to stare at the sheet. “And you’ve decided I should have this now?”
Wilson sat. “We don’t have enough people in there to send someone looking for him. You know that. Not that sending someone in would be much good. But since you’re taking that trip…”
“These are German names. I’m a German.”
Wilson was now leaning back, his eyes fixed on Hoffner. “I’ll keep that in mind. We think these are the names of contacts he made or locations. The trouble is, we need to keep a low profile. As I said, not the time for us to be digging around. Hisma and Hanshen might be names. More likely they’re not. That’s where I’d start.”
“Very generous of you.”
“Yes—it is. Of course, you don’t have to go if you don’t want.”
It was Wilson’s strongest card: giving Hoffner a way out and knowing he would never take it.
Hoffner picked up the sheet. “From the look of it, Bernhardt and Langenheim are connected to Hisma. Vollman to Hanshen.”
“I agree. So that should make it easier.”
Hoffner had no idea why Wilson thought that. Nonetheless, he folded the paper and placed it in his coat pocket.
“And when I find him?”
“You’ll bring him back.”
Hoffner saw a drop of whiskey in his glass. He picked it up and tossed it down. He stood.
He was at the door when he turned and put on his hat. “By the way, I don’t own a pair of climbing boots.”
The amiable smile returned. “How very nice for you.”
* * *
His valise was already packed and waiting by the foyer door when Hoffner got home. There was no point in checking through it; Lotte would have thought of everything. He followed the sound of her piano-playing into the sitting room.
She was working through a rough passage of something. He dropped his hat onto a chair as she continued to play.
“Long meeting,” she said.
He moved a cushion on the sofa and sat. “Yes.”
“And he was helpful?”
“Enough.”
She was making a complete mess of the left hand. She tried a few more times and then stopped. She looked over. “You told him you were going?”
Hoffner nodded. He thought she might launch into something else, but she just sat there, staring at him. Finally she said, “Good.” She stood and stepped out from behind the piano. “Do you have time for an early dinner?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Mendy wouldn’t nap.” She was crossing toward the hallway. “You might want to go up.”
As she passed, Hoffner said, “Wilson seemed very confident.”
She was inside the archway when she stopped. She turned. Her eyes told him nothing. “You don’t mind leftover chicken, do you?”
Hoffner shook his head.
“Good. We’ll have that then.” She tried a smile before moving off down the hall.
Upstairs, Mendy was at his writing table, deep into a drawing.
“I hear we lost the nap again,” Hoffner said.
Mendy continued to draw.
“Maybe you’re getting too old for that.” Hoffner stepped over and cocked his head to see what the boy was drawing: blob and badge were front and center. “Not such a bad thing to be too old for a nap.”
The p
encil continued to move, and Mendy said, “Does that mean I can go?”
“Go where?”
“With you and Papi?”
Hoffner pulled over another small chair. His knees were almost to his chin as he sat. “I don’t think so, Mendy.” He expected the little face to turn, but the boy was showing some resolve. Hoffner said, “Papi always brings you something nice. I can bring you something, too.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“How do you know when you don’t know what it is?”
Mendy finished his drawing, handed it to Hoffner, took another piece of paper, and started in again.
Hoffner watched as the little hand moved, the other pressed down on the page to keep it in place. He couldn’t see the face, not that it would have helped. It was nearly half a minute before Hoffner decided to look again at the drawing he was holding. He then stood.
When he reached the door he said, “Thank you for the picture.” Mendy kept to his drawing, and Hoffner said, “I’ll see you downstairs.”
* * *
Mendy never made it to dinner. In fact, he stayed in his room even after the cab arrived. The worst of it came during the walk down the front path. There was still enough sun in the sky to catch a little face and eyes in the window, but Hoffner refused to turn.
Even so, the thought of them stayed with him for the forty-minute ride. It would have been longer had the cabbie not been clever and taken them south from the start. Anything else and they would have hit traffic heading west to the games. Luckily Johannisthal was far enough south, and far enough east, to keep it immune. Tempelhof, where all the big aeroplanes had been landing, was a zoo now. Mueller had been smart to keep himself out here.
“My tires blow on this,” said the cabbie, “and you’ll be the one paying for the spares. Understood?”
The man had been grumbling for the past ten minutes. Most of the roads around Johannisthal were little more than stomped-down grass and ruts. The modern touches—tarmac and lighting—were reserved for the airstrips: this time of night, the cab’s headlights were no match for the sudden dips and turns.
When the cabbie finally reached his limit, he pulled up about fifty meters from the old air show bandstands and reached back to open the door. They were sitting in the middle of a deserted field, the beams from the headlights spilling out like two narrow pancakes. “You’re close enough,” he said.
The big hangars were beyond another field, but Hoffner was happy enough to let the man go. He stood and watched the taillights bounce along the grass—the engine’s grind a thinning echo—before he picked up the valise and headed across the mud. The smell of sewage and sulfur seemed to follow him. By the time Hoffner stepped into the last of the hangars, his shirt was damp through to the waist.
The place reeked of gasoline, even with the doors wide open. The cement floor was a trail of brown and black puddles, with tire marks crisscrossing the entire landscape. Twelve or so aeroplanes were parked along the walls—German, French, English—most of them stripped of parts in aid of the others. Elsewhere, pieces of engine were neatly laid out on sheets, while wheels and the like rested against walls and toolboxes. As far as Hoffner could tell, there were no signs of life.
Stepping farther in, he recognized a few antiques among the four or five untouched planes: a Sopwith Snipe in nice condition; better still was the single-seater Albatros fighter, 180-hp of liquid-cooled speed. Hoffner remembered how Georg had been able to recite the specifications from memory: little wooden models dragged off to a park or set in rows along a windowsill. Hoffner even recalled helping the boy with one of them. Or two. Or not.
“You’ve lost weight.”
The voice echoed, and Hoffner tried to locate its source. He set his valise down and said, “Hello, Toby.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped drinking?”
Toby Mueller appeared from behind the tail of one of the pilfered planes. Mueller was of average build, but the limp in his right leg made him seem shorter. He had lost part of the foot, along with several fingers, during the war. Neither had stopped him from flying.
Hoffner said, “You’ve quite a collection.”
“Yah,” said Mueller, as he rubbed a bit of grease off his good hand: the fingers on the other held the rag like two pincers. “Didn’t think I’d actually be seeing you.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
They had known each other for over twenty years, Mueller the gimp World War I ace and Hoffner the cop who made sure he never got caught for smuggling. They had met on a hillside in the Tyrol, toasting Victor König, Hoffner’s onetime partner and Mueller’s squadron leader. Two months later they had buried König. It was a bond impossible to break.
“No, it’s good for me,” said Mueller. “Eight—ten hours. Bit long on my own.”
“So you were going anyway?”
Mueller’s smirk held just the right mix of disbelief and mockery. “No, Nikolai, I’m doing all this for you. Here, let me get your bag.” Mueller remained where he was and nodded over to a single-propeller biplane. “We’re taking the Arado. You can put it in the bomb hold.”
Hoffner picked up the valise and made his way over. The plane was two seats in tandem set behind the twin wings, the whole thing maybe eight meters in length, two and a half meters in height. Hoffner had expected them to be taking the beauty next to it, a red single-wing affair, with room for at least four, and who knows what else in the undercarriage. If Mueller was planning on making this a business trip, the red one looked to have far more room for merchandise.
Mueller saw where Hoffner was looking. “She’s nice, isn’t she?”
Hoffner found the latch on the Arado and shoved his valise inside.
Mueller said, “They’ve clocked her at nearly three hundred kph. And that’s not even in a dive. It’s like riding cut glass.”
Hoffner had no idea what Mueller meant but nodded anyway as he started over.
Mueller said, “She’d have us there in six hours, maybe less.”
“But she’s not yours, is she?”
“Oh, she’s mine. Had her down in Marseilles last week for some very nice fishing.”
“I’m sure the catch was good.”
“The catch is always good, Nikolai.”
Whatever Mueller was smuggling, Hoffner knew not to get involved in the details. “She’s just not for us,” he said.
Mueller’s smirk reappeared. “It’s a night flight, Nikolai. The Lockheed might be quick, but she’s not so good after dark. Trust me. The little Arado is a much better bet.”
Hoffner was rarely impressed by Mueller’s acquisitions, but this was something even for him. “How the hell did you get your hands on an American plane?”
Mueller’s smirk became a broad smile. “Well, there might have been a girl or two, and some French Air Corps mechanics involved, but I can’t really say.”
“Or,” said Zenlo Radek, who was now standing at the hangar’s entrance, “he might just have walked in here one day and found the plane waiting for him.”
Both Hoffner and Mueller looked over to see Radek in a dinner jacket and bow tie, his hair slicked back: hard to imagine the skin on his forehead looking more strained than usual, but there it was. He was carrying a small satchel.
Hoffner turned back to Mueller, and Mueller’s smile reemerged. “Well, it might have been something like that, too.” Mueller patted a few fingers on Hoffner’s shoulder and began to limp off toward the Arado. “Evening, Herr Radek.”
Radek was now making his way over. “She’s all gassed, Toby?”
Mueller nodded and ducked under the propeller. “All gassed.”
Hoffner turned again to Radek and said, “Very nice. Casino night?”
“Big party out at Göring’s.”
“And you’re bringing the girls?”
Radek drew up and held the satchel out to Hoffner. “Here.”
Hoffner hesitated before taking it. He pulled back the flap and saw two or thre
e thick rolls of Spanish pesetas, the same in German marks and English pounds. There were perhaps ten packs of cigarettes. Tucked in at the bottom was a Luger pistol and several boxes of ammunition.
Radek said, “No idea if the peseta is still worth anything, but the marks and pounds should do you all right. I was thinking of throwing in some francs, but no one ever wants francs, do they?”
Hoffner closed the flap. “Didn’t know Toby was on the payroll.”
“He likes it that way.”
“So what’s he taking to Spain?”
“You.”
“And bringing back?”
Radek laughed quietly. “Toby thinks he deserves a holiday—gimping around Spain with a few bandages on his shit hand and leg. He thinks it’ll have all those girls eager to soothe his pain.”
From somewhere Mueller’s voice rose up. “I’ll be a regular war hero. ¡Viva la Revolución!”
“It’s a civil war, idiot!” Radek shouted back. He looked at Hoffner. “He also heard you needed a lift.”
“And you couldn’t convince him otherwise?”
“I might not have tried all that hard.”
There was a chance Hoffner might give in to the sentiment. Instead, he said, “Then I’ll try not to get myself killed.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Hoffner felt his stomach lurch as the plane climbed over Berlin. He peered out at the lights and saw the brightest of them off in the west. They were circling the stadium in a ring of fire, Nazi spectacle at its best. He stared at the flames, as they wavered and pitched, and imagined them washing over the city whole. He then turned his eyes to the night and did what he could to forget them.
3
FINGERS SO RAW
It was like climbing through sifted dust. The heat smelled of the sea, but it was only a tease. Worse was the sand that kicked up from the path and clung to the skin like dying ants. Mueller seemed to be enjoying it.
“I’m not impressed,” Hoffner said, as Mueller continued to hum. “You’re baking in this the same way I am.”
Mueller placed his good hand on the rock face and ducked around a jutting stone. “How’s that valise holding up?”
The Second Son: A Novel Page 8