Ten minutes later Hoffner stepped out onto the eighth floor. He had expected more, something white and sleek, with black moldings and glass everywhere—or at least a sense of entitlement etched across the face of the woman behind the desk. Instead, everything was shades of brown in a faint yellow light, and small. Two chairs sat a few meters from the desk, a low table between them, bare except for an overturned glass and pitcher: the water inside looked as if no one had dared a sip in quite some time. The smell was also stale—wood and oil—with that mustiness that lives in old men’s closets. The woman was pretty enough, but perhaps only by comparison. Hoffner made his way over, and the floor creaked.
“Herr Chief Inspector,” she said, standing. She was barely taller than her chair. “The Herr Direktor is expecting you. May I offer you a glass of water?”
“Thank you, no.”
Stepping out from behind the desk, she said, “This way, please,” and, motioning to the door, led the way. After years of practice, she had learned to keep the creaking in check. She knocked once and opened it. There was some sort of nodded exchange between them before Hoffner stepped through, and the door closed behind him.
Here, at last, was the real light. The entire office—easily half the floor—was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. A conference table stood about halfway in—neat, pristine—and designed in that thin-grained wood the Danes seemed to be shipping in by the cartload these days. The chairs were all metal, with high-angled backs that made comfort an impossibility. The only one with a bit of cushioning stood at the end. It was larger than the rest.
“Just put it on the table, Chief Inspector.”
Hugenberg sat behind a desk below one of the distant windows. He was still too far off for Hoffner to make out any real details, save for the shock of peppery hair that seemed to rise from the top of his head like clipped stalks of corn. He was on the telephone.
“Yes, of course that makes sense,” Hugenberg said into the receiver. Hoffner was surprised by the easy cadence in the voice. The man sounded almost genial. “No, no, no, we won’t bother with that . . . That’s right.” He laughed. “Very good. You’ll send it over this afternoon. I’m delighted.” Hoffner made his way past the table and now watched as Hugenberg tried to get a word in. “Yes . . . yes . . . Wonderful.” Hugenberg motioned for Hoffner to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “All right, then . . . Yes, this afternoon . . . Excellent. Wiedersehen.” Hugenberg hung up and retrieved a large cigar from his ashtray. Again he motioned to the chair. “Please.” Hoffner remained standing, and Hugenberg said, “Do you smoke a cigar?” He pushed a box across the desk and opened its lid. “I find them very relaxing.”
Hugenberg was more bull-like than Hoffner expected. There were pictures, of course, but the man was famous for keeping his distance—always poorly lit in the back row, or off to the side, or in profile. There had even been a competition for a full-on photo a few years back, but no one had had the courage to send anything in: Why bother when it had been a Hugenberg-owned paper that had run the contest?
It was the knuckles, though, that caught Hoffner’s eye. They were thick and a deep red, the kind usually found in a butcher’s shop. They matched the ears perfectly. Only the little round glasses and broad white mustache lent the face anything patrician. Hoffner closed the lid.
“So,” Hugenberg said. “Here we are.” He smiled and nodded at the bag. “I assume that’s the device.”
“It is.”
“Fully destroyed?”
Hoffner nodded.
“Not even the blueprints?” said Hugenberg.
“Not even the blueprints.” Hoffner placed the bag on the desk. All he had wanted was to see the expression on Hugenberg’s face. Even that was a disappointment.
Hugenberg brought his hand to his ear and pinched at the lobe. It was almost playful. “I’ll have a hell of a time convincing my board to buy out Ufa, now, won’t I?” He let go of the ear and said easily, “Films are the next logical move, though. I’m sure I’ll find a way to convince them.”
Hoffner was feeling the heat in the room. He was also fighting back the first wave of nausea from exhaustion. He needed to get out of here. “I’m sure you will.” He swallowed. “You’ve always got your tanks as a nice sideline, though—in the meantime. We’ll all just have to wait and read about that in the papers, won’t we?” Again no reaction. “Enjoy your device, mein Herr.”
Hoffner turned to go, and Hugenberg said, “Tanks, Chief Inspector?” Hugenberg had kept his smile. “Oh, you must mean the ones you told Kurd Wenkel about at the Tageblatt. You telephoned him, what—an hour ago?” Hoffner turned back, and Hugenberg said, “I own the Tageblatt, Chief Inspector. I was the first one Wenkel called.”
In his current state, Hoffner couldn’t be sure if he had just been threatened or laughed at. Either way, it felt like defeat. He steadied himself and said, “So the story never runs.”
For a moment Hugenberg looked concerned. “Are you all right, Chief Inspector?”
Hoffner felt his legs beginning to go. What could be better—a final show of weakness at Hugenberg’s feet. There was no point in trying to deny it. “I’d take a glass of water if you have it.”
Hugenberg poured one from the pitcher on his desk and slid it across to Hoffner. Hoffner took it and sat. His head was getting light as he drank.
Hugenberg said, “I can have the Fräulein bring in something to eat?”
Hoffner had missed it entirely. There had been no threat, no laughter. This kind of certainty took years to perfect. Hugenberg had reached the point where intimidation had no meaning. “No,” said Hoffner. “You’re very kind, mein Herr. The water will do.” Hoffner finished the glass.
Hugenberg said, “By the way, we will be running the story. You did such nice work, you should have your name in the papers.”
Hoffner set the glass on the desk. “Thanks, but I’ll take a pass.”
“Shame. You deserve it.”
“A regular hero.”
Hugenberg tapped out his cigar. He had yet to take a puff. “The warehouses might not have exactly what you thought they had—tanks sound so ominous—but I’m sure they’ll find something there when Wenkel opens them up. A few submarine propellers, aeroplane wings. What do you think? That should be enough to make it frontpage news.”
Everything was unraveling. “So the tanks are gone.”
“Tell me, Chief Inspector, what exactly did you think you were accomplishing? Except for putting a lot of people in danger. I was sorry to hear about the American woman.”
Hoffner said, “I thought I was investigating a murder.”
“I’m sure the Thyssen matter will prove to be suicide, don’t you?”
Such perfect and complete certainty, thought Hoffner. “And the American?” he said. He had nothing to lose now. “These new political friends of yours. They’re not so easily controlled, are they?”
Hugenberg placed the cigar in the ashtray. “It’s a pity, you know,” he said as he sat back. “Captain Lohmann’s a good man. Clever. Perhaps a bit too clever—all that misdirection and false resignation papers. Your little visit caught him by surprise. Luckily, he’s a very good actor when he needs to be, although maybe not quite good enough. But he’s doing wonders for German business. This will be a blow to the Navy, having his name raked across every headline. My guess, someone in the cabinet will have to step down as well.”
“You’re really going to protect these people, aren’t you?”
It was as if Hugenberg had been waiting for the question. “There are always growing pains, Chief Inspector. A group like—” He hesitated. “A group like these new political friends—they have the right idea, but they’re just too eager. They think revolutions actually take place in the streets. Things are a little subtler now. Not for me to say, but that might be the reason Herr Thyssen ended up in that tub.”
Hoffner’s head was clearing. He poured himself a second glass. “Becaus
e of his lack of subtlety.”
“It’s not that hard to follow, Chief Inspector, is it?” Hugenberg retrieved his cigar and Hoffner drank. “Feeling better?”
Hoffner bobbed a nod. “Much. Thanks.”
Hugenberg said, “Let’s just suppose—you and I—that Thyssen had been given the chance to develop a sound device, and that somewhere in the process he’d used that chance to make some films of his own without consulting anyone else.” This seemed to stick in Hugenberg’s throat. “Say, with a group of young men primarily from old Freikorps units—Thyssen being Freikorps himself. Now suppose again that these units are somewhat infamous for their sexual appetites, and that it’s those sorts of things that end up on film. Just as a lark, you understand. Very private showings. No one the wiser.” Hugenberg’s voice sharpened momentarily. “Foolishly kept hidden behind a single locked door.”
“Sounds like a Thea von Harbou script,” said Hoffner.
“Does it? I’ve never seen one of her films.”
“You prefer the live show.” Hoffner took another drink.
Hugenberg continued: “Now imagine that Thyssen’s personal escapades had somehow gotten the Americans nosing around. That would have been a case of overeagerness getting the better of him, don’t you think? And if pressure had been brought to bear to stop these films, and Thyssen had ignored those warnings—and then somehow misplaced the device and its blueprints—well then, the strain of the thing might have made a man like that take his own life.”
Hoffner set the glass down on the desk. “Or have his death point the finger at Fritz Lang, the one man responsible for getting the Americans involved in the first place.”
Hugenberg studied Hoffner’s face and said, “Imagine that.” He waited before saying, “Either way, Chief Inspector, it sends a message back to Thyssen’s party. Time to do some housecleaning. Weed out the mavericks and undesirables. And everyone comes out ahead.”
Hoffner nodded to himself and said, “Except for the American, and a little accountant somewhere.”
“As I said, growing pains. I’d leave mention of the Freikorps and the films out of your report. The American is up to you, but I always think strain is reason enough with these sorts of things.”
No threats, no intimidation. Hoffner wondered how many others over the years had sat here and been privy to Herr Hugenberg’s good counsel. It made taking a jab at the man seem almost worthwhile. “Gums up the works for your secret war, though,” said Hoffner. “No Ufa sound stages—no tank factories.”
“Secret war?” For the first time Hugenberg seemed surprised. “You’re not that naïve, are you, Chief Inspector? We haven’t finished with the last one yet.” He waited and then said, “You think signing a few pieces of paper in a railway carriage put an end to that?” He shook his head slowly. “Not on the terms we were given. Trust me, the French are waiting. The English as well. They think they’re safe across the water, but they’re getting ready all the same. And the Americans—they’ve already begun to take Germany, getting their hands into our businesses, bringing everything that smacks of America over here so that we’re sure to welcome them with open arms—more jazz, please, more films—when they finally march through the Brandenburg Gate. If I were a cynical man—and, of course, I’m not—I’d say the Americans did all this just to make sure they’d have a reason to come back.”
Hugenberg was aching for the question, and Hoffner hadn’t the reserves to deny him: “And if you were a cynical man?”
“Well, I might wonder why the Americans took so long to get into the war in the first place. Why, in fact, they got in at all. You see, we’d managed to get ourselves into a nice little stalemate by ’17. Something we Europeans have been very good at for the last five hundred years or so. The usual course has always been a treaty, the announcement of joint mea culpas, little bits of this and that being divided up—”
“The burying of the dead,” said Hoffner.
Hugenberg showed only a moment’s hesitation. “The Americans came in and changed all that. Suddenly the English fleet that had been building up since 1910—and that had been allowed to squeeze the life out of good German trade—was forgotten. France and Belgium sucking up what remained of Africa and leaving us none of it, that was simply sour grapes. Lo and behold, there had been no reason for us to attack in 1914. It was all our fault. And now we would have to pay—for everything. And the Americans? They went home to congratulate themselves. The great heroes making the world safe for democracy. But what about the mess they left behind? Inflation, starvation, reparations? They had vanquished the demon. Now it was time for the demon to take care of himself, just as long as the Americans were an ocean away.”
Hoffner said, “And that’s what your tanks are for?”
“What these National Socialists have right, Chief Inspector, is that Germany comes first. Versailles allows the English and the French and the Americans to prepare themselves for the moment when they’re ready to finish the job. We can’t be so blind or so reckless as to not see it coming, or to forget how to defend ourselves. And we certainly won’t manage that on three rifles, a slingshot, and a tugboat.” Hugenberg reached for the pitcher and poured himself a glass. “If you think about it,” he added, “I should be thanking you. This business with Phoebus—it’s out now. What everyone’s been expecting us to do all along. So we’ll run the stories, condemn Captain Lohmann and the Navy, and show genuine remorse. And they’ll all wave a finger at us and think it’s done.” He drank.
“Until you find a way to take Ufa.”
Hugenberg’s smile returned as he set down the glass. “You see, even you have faith, Chief Inspector.” He sat back. “And just think of the possibilities. Tanks in one studio, propaganda films in another. What better way to convince a country to go back to war than through a few patriotic films. Maybe even some newsreels. Much more effective than what I tell them to think in my newspapers. I could be wrong, but this Goebbels fellow looks to have a knack for that sort of thing.”
“And the rest of them?” said Hoffner.
Hugenberg stared across the desk. “They really trouble you, don’t they?” He waited before saying, “One might think you have something personal vested in it.”
Hoffner was too worn down to know if Hugenberg had just given up Sascha. This, though, had all the trappings of a genuine threat. Hoffner said, “I’ve dealt with them before, yes.”
“Really?” Hugenberg continued to show nothing. “What are the chances of that, do you think?” Again he waited before saying, “As I see it, we seem to be in a position to help each other. I want to make sure you don’t look foolish when you talk to the papers about this, and you want me to clamp down on my new friends. Fair enough. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll convince Herr Goebbels to ratchet things up—beat up some Jews in the street and so forth. He’ll jump at the chance, and then I propose to the Reichstag that we place a ban on any National Socialist organizing, say for a year. Coming from me, it’ll pass in a heartbeat. My young friends get taught a lesson for their recent mistakes, and you don’t say anything you might regret. Does that sound reasonable?”
It was the only false step Hugenberg had taken—making this moment seem spontaneous. Hoffner wondered if the ban was already in the works. Whatever the reason, he knew it was all that was left to him.
“So I’m the hero, after all,” said Hoffner.
“There are no heroes, Chief Inspector.” Hugenberg returned his cigar to the ashtray. “There are no villains. That’s not the way things work. They just move on and the world takes care of itself. And someone like you never really has a part in that.” He glanced at the clock. “Unfortunately, I suspect I have several impatient young men waiting outside my door. You’ll be good enough to tell the Fräulein to send them in. Thank you for the device.” He glanced at it for a moment. “Odd sort of memento.” Hugenberg picked up the telephone and dialed. Evidently this was the way every meeting began and ended.
With nothing else
left him, Hoffner pushed himself up and turned to go. Looking to the door, he realized how much farther the way out now seemed.
SASCHA WAS STANDING across the street, smoking a cigarette and stamping his feet for warmth, when Hoffner emerged from the building. Hoffner waited for a tram to pass and then darted across. Luckily, the cold air was already bringing some life back to his head. He was even feeling hungry.
“You’re late,” said Sascha.
“Your friend Hugenberg likes to talk.”
The morning had taken too much out of the boy for him to hide his surprise. “How did you get in to see Herr Hugenberg?”
“You talked to your friends about Georg?”
The boy’s gaze hardened: he should have known better than to try and engage his father. “They’ll leave it alone.”
“They know he’s your brother?”
Sascha’s face grew more sour. “That would open up a great many things, wouldn’t it? No, your films managed that.”
“My films?” said Hoffner. “That’s a neat trick, Sascha, if you can believe it.” To feel that much hatred peering through him and to have none to give back: it left Hoffner sad for the boy, sadder for himself. “You don’t have to play this out,” he said. It sounded so hollow coming from a place of such self-pity. “You don’t have to be this for them.”
A weariness unfair in a twenty-four-year-old settled on the boy’s face, and for a moment, it gave Hoffner hope.
“You’re young enough,” said Hoffner. “It’s not to the point where you have to believe what the world tells you you are or, worse, accept it so you can live with yourself.” In the end this was all he had for his son: a chance at redemption through a father’s self-loathing. “You still have the choice.”
It was, of course, nowhere near enough. “You actually think I’m that weak, don’t you?” Sascha’s eyes sharpened. “Of course you do. And that’s why you and I are so very, very different.”
It had been foolish to think there was anything here to be saved—for himself or for the boy. Salvation was never meant for the likes of them. Hoffner waited and then said, “It’s the last time we’ll see each other, I imagine.”
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