Hoffner listened to the silence and then darted out. There was a tarp of sorts draped across the mound, but it was the poles he was interested in. He took hold of one and felt the wood in his hands. Reaching farther down, he found the curve of an iron blade. This was a trowel. For a moment, he thought it might work, until he wondered what exactly he was meant to do with it: wave it around wildly and hope Hermann might oblige by placing his head in its path? More than that, the boy would have a gun. Hoffner set it back down. The trowel was useless.
It was only then that he realized what was under the tarp. Of course—they were building here; the whole place was a work in progress. He pulled up the flap and found exactly what he needed: row after row of bricks. He realized he would have to get close enough to the boy in order to inflict some damage, but at least now he had something that packed a punch.
The sound of movement in the grass caught him by surprise, and Hoffner quickly turned to see a beam of light edging its way beyond the side of the building. He grabbed one of the bricks and raced back to his perch by the wall. The light suddenly widened and turned, and the boy stepped around the corner.
“Hermann,” barked Hoffner. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The boy was even bigger up close. He stood, momentarily stunned. “Who the—”
Hoffner ran at him, the brick held high. Hermann looked confused until, dropping his flashlight, he quickly reached inside his coat. Hoffner now leaped forward, landing with all his weight on the boy’s chest and arm. It was enough to bring them both down, Hermann’s free hand reaching up for Hoffner’s throat even as Hoffner landed blow after blow of the brick onto the boy’s head. The grip on his throat was unimaginable, as if his windpipe might snap, but Hoffner could feel the blood in his own hand, the brick growing tackier with each thrust. Finally he smashed it onto the boy’s nose and the grip released. There was a long burst of air as the head fell back. A moment later the boy’s body went limp.
Hoffner rolled off. He lay on his back, his chest heaving as his throat continued to choke for air. Minutes passed, and still he stared up, waiting for the throbbing in his head to subside. The brick finally fell from his hand, and Hoffner brought himself up. He thought he might vomit. Instead, he spat. He could hear the boy’s halting breath: at least Hermann was alive. Behind them a flat pancake of light spread out across the grass. Hoffner got to his feet and picked up the flashlight. He then headed for the sound-stage door.
A hastily rigged padlock and chain hung across its handle. More offputting were the bullet holes strafed along the wall. Hoffner followed their path to the grass, where a few drops of blood caught in the light. He knelt down. They were dry. Evidently this was where Herr Gunther had taken it in the leg.
Hoffner stood and tried his luck with the chain. Two minutes later he returned with Hermann’s gun and fired a single shot into the padlock. The sound echoed as the bolt jolted back, and Hoffner slid it from the chain. He tried the handle, but that, too, was locked. A second shot left a gash in the jamb, and Hoffner pushed open the door.
The flashlight was no match for the pitch black inside. It managed to bring out only a few darkened shapes, but there was no hope of defining them. Instead, he slipped the gun into his belt and aimed the flashlight at the wall nearest him. He began to scan for a switch that might connect with the overhead lights—he was hoping that Herr Bagier’s control booth lever might not be the only way to bring one of these places to life.
Ten meters in, he found a box with a set of metal tubes sprouting out and up toward the ceiling. Hoffner pulled it open and flipped the switch. The place instantly filled with a white light, and he was forced to bring his hand up to his eyes. It was almost a minute before the pain receded and he was able to squint out.
What he saw at first confused him. He tried blinking, but nothing changed. He then peered up, but that, too, made no sense. There were no wires hanging from high above, no theatrical lights. And there was no sound booth peering out to monitor it all.
Instead, set out in perfect rows were what looked to be tanks—far bigger than anything he had seen during the war, but tanks nonetheless. For a moment, he imagined them to be set pieces for some futuristic epic, but it was impossible to think that anyone had managed to paint all this with such unerring detail. The metal casings around the wheel tracks had a weight that made them look impenetrable. The turrets seemed thicker still. And the guns—massive things—cast endless shadows across the floor.
Hoffner stepped over, hoping to see a line of wooden props behind them, but there was none. He rapped a knuckle against the side of the tank nearest him—again hoping for wood—but the dull clang of iron echoed in his ears. Still unwilling to admit what this was, he grabbed hold of one of the side rungs and climbed up to the turret. Pulling up the hatch, he peered in: endless levers and dials filled the inside of the cockpit. For some reason, he felt the need to lean in and sweep a hand along them. There was nothing but steel and metal across his palm.
As he stood upright, Hoffner took in the enormity of what lay beyond him. It was row after row of tanks, a silent legion undeterred by the blazing light from above. There was a precision to them that seemed to defy their lumbering weight, a power in the black symmetry of every gun, every wheel, every casing set out in perfect order. The absolute stillness only compounded their menace. He glanced beyond the last row, and his mind went cold. Hanging along the entire length of the far wall were more wheel casings, more axles, more tracks. Below them stood what he could only imagine to be other engine parts, laid out in clumps along the floor, with the half-formed bodies of still more tanks nestled in and among them. These he had no need to touch. These he knew were real. All of it was real.
He had no time to think, as a machine gun–like battering suddenly filled the hall. Hoffner leaped to the ground and instinctively pulled Hermann’s gun from his belt as he raced to the lighting box. The sound was all around him. He flipped the switch and everything went black. Inching his way to the door, he peered out.
He felt it at first on his face, then his hands—wet, cold, and raw. He then saw it in the streetlamp light. Torrents of rain were heaving down. Everything else was perfectly still as he stepped out and let it pour through him.
The sky had finally given in.
CHAPTER FIVE
TOMORROW
IN THE WINTER OF 1889—in the wake of the last incident of White Sky—a Professor Doktor Ludwig Klingman of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry and Electrochemistry published an article in Das Journal der meteorologischen Phänomene und des Grundes titled “Weisserhimmel und die Methoden für das Sichern gegen seine Nachmahd,” detailing how best the city’s residents might return to normal life in the aftermath of the phenomenon. Hoffner, a student at Heidelberg at the time, had read the piece with great enthusiasm and had even sent a copy of his own paper on Klingman’s work to the great man himself. The Herr Professor Doktor had been kind enough to respond with a letter, which, if not quite as enthusiastic, had at least been civil in tone. Klingman pointed out that Hoffner might be confusing a deductive relationship between mineral crystallization and eye irritation—most notably in the ciliary muscle and the suspensory ligament—with an inductive relationship, thus making for some rather odd observations. In fact, it was Klingman who had suggested that Hoffner focus his attention on something that might take advantage of his more deductive inclinations. The kind of science Klingman was engaged in had little place for that kind of reasoning. He had also advised Hoffner to continue wearing protective eyewear or gauze covering if he should return to Berlin before Lake Havel had risen at least four centimeters (4 cm) from a “cleansing rain.” Until then, Berlin would still be recovering.
Hoffner took the last turn onto Göhrener Strasse and tried to ignore the freezing damp that seemed to be in every fold of his suit. He imagined the relief of the late Herr Professor Doktor Klingman on hearing of the torrential downpour: thus far for Hoffner, though, it had managed to produc
e only a dull pain in his lower back, thus making the driving all the more uncomfortable. Young Hermann had been kind enough to leave the keys to the Daimler on the seat. Hoffner guessed the boy might not be needing them for quite some time.
Sifting through the last hour in his head—and its myriad implications—Hoffner had come to the bold conclusion that he needed a hot bath. Anything beyond that was a muddle: films, sound, sex, tanks—it was all too much to make sense of. There was also the matter of a change of clothes—it had been days on that—and he suspected that distractions like these were good for him. He had no idea why, but what was the point in worrying about that?
He took the steps up to his flat and reckoned it to be somewhere past one in the morning: Schiller, his landlord, usually kept the phonograph running until after midnight, but the place was silent. Hoffner fumbled with his keys—his hand had gone stiff from the brick and the chill—but he finally managed to get the door open. Almost at once, the smell of spoiled meat wafted out. He couldn’t remember whether he had tossed out the last of Maria’s meal before heading off the other night. It was all a blur now, but the thought of opening a window to air the place out was just too much. Instead, he dropped his coat and jacket on the floor and headed for the bathroom.
Flicking on the light, Hoffner stared at himself in the mirror. The scabbing around his mouth had risen in nice red blotches from the cold, but at least the cheek was beginning to lose its color. He peered in to take a closer look and caught sight of something else in the reflection. It was the edge of the bathtub. It looked as though there was water in it.
Hoffner turned and saw Leni’s lifeless face staring back at him. Her head lay propped up against the far wall, her breasts hovering above the water. A single bullet hole nestled just below her chest.
Hoffner found himself on his knees, vomiting. Leaning over on his hands, he waited for the second wave, but it never came. He spat and waited again. When his legs finally began to give out, he slumped down and leaned against the wall of the tub. Leni’s hand hung loosely over the edge, the white of her fingers now streaked a pale blue. Hoffner stared at them: it was as much of her as he could bring himself to look at.
The door to the bathroom slowly inched forward, and Alby Pimm appeared above him. Pimm stared down at Hoffner—an oddly consoling look on his face—and said quietly, “What the hell have you done, Nikolai?”
HOFFNER SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE in his robe as Pimm hung the last of the wet clothes over a chair. Hoffner had no idea how he had gotten here.
“Drink it, Nikolai,” said Pimm as he pulled over another chair and sat. He nodded at a glass of whiskey on the table. It was only then that Hoffner noticed it. He cupped his hand around the glass for nearly half a minute before bringing it to his lips and tossing it back. He winced at the sudden heat in his throat. Pimm pushed over a second, but Hoffner shook his head.
“When was the last time you ate?” Pimm said.
Hoffner continued to stare at the floor. “You’re very concerned with that tonight, aren’t you—my eating?”
Pimm reached for an empty glass on the shelf. “Why couldn’t you just do what I asked you to do, Nikolai?”
“Asked or told, Alby?”
Pimm uncorked the bottle. “That’s who you are, isn’t it?” Pimm was beyond accusations: he was simply stating the truth.
Hoffner nudged the empty glass across the table. He saw Leni’s envelope lying at the far side.
Pimm said, “It was in your coat.”
Hoffner pulled the robe tighter around his chest. The booze was helping to clear his head. “When did you get here?”
“About half an hour before you did.”
“And she was here?”
Pimm nodded as he poured himself a glass.
“You just sat in the dark?”
“I did.” Pimm took a sip.
“Best to let me find her myself, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
Hoffner turned to the window and pulled back the shade. He noticed a cat sleeping on one of the stoops. It might have been a pile of rags. He couldn’t tell. “She played it well,” he said.
“Obviously not.”
“And according to you, that’s my fault.” He let go of the shade.
A bit of whiskey had spilled on the table, and Pimm set his glass down in the small pool. “Tell me, did you have the slightest idea what she was doing?” He began to spin the edge in the liquid. “I’m just wondering, given that she’s dead in your tub.”
Hoffner hadn’t the energy for rage. It sat in his jaw like coiled rope. “To hell with you, Alby.”
Inexplicably Pimm managed a grin. “That’s not even an issue anymore.” He let go of the glass. “I’d always hoped you wouldn’t be joining me. Who knows, maybe you’ll be fine. Stupidity might just be the way to salvation.” Hoffner raised a weak fist to strike him, but Pimm caught the wrist and held it there. His grip was remarkably firm. “Are we done crying for ourselves, Nikolai, or are you going to find another way to muck this up?”
Hoffner caught sight of the red and blue on his own knuckles—remnants from his recent spate of beatings—and realized how stupid he must have looked. Pimm was being kind: he was actually taking this seriously. Hoffner unclenched his hand, and Pimm released. For some reason, Hoffner noticed a burn mark on the table. He began to run his thumb across it. It was old and soft—softer than he imagined. “She said she’d be back in a week.”
Pimm finished his glass. “Then I imagine she would have been. She might even have stayed.”
Hoffner’s nail now scraped across the burned wood, digging into it until his thumb began to ache. His throat tightened. “I’ve got nothing now,” he said. “For the first time, absolutely nothing.”
“Please.” Pimm shook his head even as he looked away. “Don’t tell me we’re going down this road—the sad cop who’s lost the girl.”
“Shut up, Alby.” Hoffner looked over. “The case. I’m talking about the case. I can’t see it and I don’t know why.”
Pimm brought out his cigarettes. “You do know why, Nikolai. It’s lying in your tub.”
Hoffner was finding his rage. “Don’t.”
Pimm lit up. “You haven’t even thought to ask why they brought her here.”
“I said don’t.” When Pimm smiled and shook his head, Hoffner said, “Who?”
“Who what?” Pimm was done coddling. “Who brought her here? Jesus, Nikolai, what have you been doing for the past four days?”
Hoffner’s head was clear, and Pimm looked so small sitting across from him. “You tell me.”
Pimm let go with a frustrated laugh. “You don’t even know why she was in Berlin, do you?”
Hoffner stood and grabbed Pimm by the collar, hoisting him off the ground. He could hear himself grunting at the strain of it as he slammed Pimm into the bathroom door, and yet he felt nothing: Pimm was weightless, limp. Hoffner tossed him onto the tile—something shattered behind them—and his head filled with the sound of his own labored breath. “The device,” Hoffner finally said, struggling for air. He wasn’t sure if Pimm had punched him in the gut or if his lungs had given out on their own. Either way, he bent over with his hands on his knees. “It was for the device,” he said. “For the Americans.” He waited and then spat. “No reason other than that.” Hoffner sucked in and waited for Pimm to have done with him.
Instead, Pimm sat quietly. He spat out something of his own: it was blood. Hoffner turned to see him sticking out his tongue. It was oddly pink. Hoffner had never noticed that before.
“You’re a son of a bitch, Nikolai.” Pimm’s finger began to make the rounds inside his mouth. “And you’ve got me bleeding. How the fuck did you do that?” He winced somewhere along the lower gum and said, “Jesus.” He pulled the finger out and spat again.
Hoffner got himself to the toilet. He sat and propped his elbows on his knees. He then dropped his head to his hands. His neck was throbbing. “We need to cover her,�
� he said.
Pimm was slumped against the tub. “That’s your biggest concern, is it?”
“At the moment, yes.” Hoffner pulled two towels from the rack. They were damp and stale. He sat up, then stood. Stepping over to the tub, he laid the first across her torso, impossible not to notice the smoothness of her skin, her eyes mercifully shut. He saw the marks on her arms where he had grabbed her, a string of red welts amid the gray. He thought to reach for them—it was the last time he had held her. Instead, he opened the second towel and draped it across her face.
Pimm spat again. “Better?” he said.
Hoffner turned to him and said, “Did you break a glass?”
Pimm looked up and reached out his hand. “I think that might have been you. Help me up.” Hoffner pulled him to his feet, and Pimm stepped over to the mirror. Again Hoffner sat on the toilet and watched as Pimm opened his mouth wide to resume his search.
“I hate dentists, you know,” Pimm said. He began to pull at his lip to get a better view: it garbled his words. “I hate that you lie there. Not so much for the teeth. It’s that your balls are exposed, lying back, that little tray over your chest. And you can’t even put your hands on them or they’ll think there’s something funny with you.” He spat again and looked at Hoffner in the mirror. “Don’t do that again, Nikolai, all right?” Pimm ran the water, rinsed his mouth, and took a towel. “She was supposed to destroy the device. Find it, the blueprints, and destroy them both, and then take what was left back to the Americans. And we were doing everything we could to make sure that happened. That’s why she was here.”
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