The Good German (Bestselling Backlist)

by Joseph Kanon

  He left the last file open on the table and went outside for a smoke, sitting on the steps in the sun. A yellow afternoon light washed the trees of the Grunewald. Hours, to find nothing. Had Tully spent the day here?

  “Need a break?” Bernie said from the doorway. “You lasted longer than most. Maybe you have a stronger stomach.”

  “They’re not like that. Office politics, mostly. Production stats. Nothing.”

  Bernie lit a cigarette. “You don’t know how to read them. That’s not German, it’s a new language. The words mean something else.”

  “Häftlinge”, Jake said, an example.

  Bernie nodded. “Poor bastards. I guess it made it easier for the secretaries to type. Instead of what they really were. See the ‘disciplinary measures’? That’s hanging. They strung them up on a crane at the tunnel entrance so everybody had to pass under when they went to work. They let them swing for a week, until the smell got bad.”

  “Discipline for what?”

  “Sabotage. A loose bolt. Not working fast enough. Maybe they were the lucky ones—at least it was quick. The others, it took weeks before they dropped. But they did. The death rate was a hundred and sixty a day.”

  “That’s some statistic.”

  “A guess. Somebody took a pencil and averaged it out. For what it’s worth.” He walked over to the steps. “I take it you didn’t find what you wanted.”

  “Nothing. I’ll go through them again. It has to be there somewhere. Whatever it is.”

  “Trouble is, you don’t know what you’re looking for and Tully did.”

  Jake thought for a minute. “But not where. He must have been fishing too. That’s why he wanted your help.”

  “Then maybe he didn’t find it either.”

  “But he came. His name’s right there in the book. It has to be here.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now I look again.” He flicked the cigarette end into the dusty yard. “Every time I think I’m getting someplace, I’m back where I started. Tully getting off a plane.” He stood up and brushed the seat of his pants. “Hey, Bernie, can I twist your arm for another favor? Talk to your pals in Frankfurt again—see if Tully’s on a flight manifest for July sixteenth. On whose okay. I asked MG, but if I wait for them I’ll be eighty. They have this way of getting lost in somebody’s In box. And see if anybody knows where he went the weekend Brandt left.”

  “Frankfurt, they said.”

  “But where? Where do you spend the weekend in Frankfurt? See if he said anything.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. Just a loose end. At least it gives us something to do while I figure out these files.”

  Bernie looked up. “You know, it’s possible he got it wrong—that there isn’t anything here.”

  “There must be. Emil came to Berlin for them. Why would he do that if there’s nothing in them?”

  “Nothing you want, you mean.”

  “Nothing he’d want either. I just read them.”

  “That depends how you look at it. Want a theory?” Bernie paused, waiting for Jake to nod. “I think von Braun sent him.”

  “Why?”

  “It took about two weeks to round up the scientists after we got to Nordhausen. They were all over the place down there. Von Braun himself didn’t surrender until May second. So what were they doing?”

  “I give up, what?”

  “Putting their alibis in order.”

  “That’s a DA talking. Alibis for what?”

  “For being part of what you just read about,” Bernie said, nodding toward the building. “‘It wasn’t us, it was the SS. Look, it’s right here. They did everything. We’re just the eggheads.’ Might be a useful thing to have when people start asking questions. Which we did, after we got a look at their factory help. Von Braun was the team leader—he had the technical files, the real trump card. But these aren’t bad as a bargaining chip. Clean hands.” He held up his own. “‘Let’s shake and make a deal. Here are the specs and the drawings. Let’s make some rockets together. The rest of it—you can see, we weren’t responsible, it was SS.’”

  “But it was SS—it’s all there.”

  “Then he was right to want them, wasn’t he? He’s even convinced you.”

  “Come on, Bernie, they didn’t string anybody up. They were in Peenemünde until February—it says so in the files. How much could they know?”

  “Everybody knew,” he said sharply, using his courtroom voice, making another case. “That’s what no one wants to believe. Everybody knew. Renate Naumann knew. Gunther knew. Everybody in this goddamn country knew. You think somebody who could get an SS car those last weeks didn’t know? They didn’t stop hanging people after February—they had to have seen it. Not to mention all the others. They had forty camps for workers there, Jake, forty, and people were dying in all of them. They knew.”

  “That doesn’t make them—”

  “No, just accessories. You think they’re any better because they knew how to work a slide rule? They knew.” He stopped, dropping his prosecutor’s voice. “And I can’t touch them. Lucky for them the SS liked to take all the credit. So they’re off a very big hook. Worth coming to Berlin for, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, it’s a theory. Got a better one?”

  “Then why send Emil? Why not some flunky?”

  “Maybe he was the only one willing to go. He had a wife here.”

  Jake looked away, then shook his head. “Except he didn’t come alone. There were two men with him. Why risk sending him?”

  “He knew what to look for.”

  Jake sighed. “So did Tully. He came here. There has to be something. And I’m missing it.”

  Bernie shrugged. “You read the files.”

  “Yes,” he said, then looked up. “But I’m not the only one. Keep my seat warm, will you? I’ll be back later.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get a second opinion.”

  Shaeffer had moved from bed to chair, but the bandage was still in place, apparently itching now, because he was scratching himself when Jake walked in.

  “Well, my new partner,” he said, pleased to have a diversion. “Got something for me?”

  “No, you’ve got something for me.” Jake sat on the bed. “You went to the Document Center to read the A-4 files. What did you find?”

  Shaeffer looked at him, a boy surprised at being caught, then smiled. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s right, nothing.”

  “That must have been disappointing. After looking twice.”

  “Real shamus, aren’t you?”

  “Your name’s in the sign-in book. Tully’s there too. Same day. But you knew that.”

  Shaeffer looked up. “No.”

  “But you’re not surprised either.”

  Shaeffer scratched himself again, saying nothing.

  Jake stared at him, then sat back, folding his arms over his chest. “We could do this all day. Want to tell me what you were looking for, or should we play twenty questions?”

  “What? Something I didn’t already know, that’s what. I didn’t find it.”

  Jake unfolded his arms. “Talk to me, Shaeffer. This isn’t as much fun as you think. Man follows Tully to a place same day he’s killed, looks at the same files, carries the same kind of gun that killed him—I’ve known people convicted on less.”

  “Now who’s being funny. For ten cents I’d pop you one. I told you, I didn’t know he was there.”

  “Let’s try it a different way. Brandt said something to Tully. I assume you picked this up on one of your taps?”

  Shaeffer nodded. “I didn’t think anything of it at first. You know, the monitors jot down things that might be of interest—when they’re listening. So you get these scraps. You have to figure out the rest yourself. Unless it’s technical—then they take down everything.”

  “And this wasn’t.”

  “One of their personal chats. This and
that. And then he says, ‘Everything we did, it’s in the files.’ Words to that effect, anyway. Nothing funny about that—it was all there in Nordhausen, they didn’t hold anything back. Tons of the stuff. They want to use it themselves, right? So why hold anything back? And then he walks and I’m going through the transcripts and I thought, what if? Maybe he means the other files. It’s worth a check. But nothing new there, unless you saw something I didn’t. So I figured he did mean the Nordhausen files.”

  “But Tully didn’t think so. And he knew something you didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “The rest of the conversation.”

  Shaeffer considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “But there’s nothing there. I looked.”

  “Twice.”

  “So twice. Maybe my German’s not as good as yours.”

  “How’s Breimer’s? He’s in the book too. Is that why you asked him along? Or did he have reasons of his own?”

  “He’s out of this—”

  “Tell me or I’ll ask him myself. Partner.”

  Shaeffer glared at him, then dropped his shoulders and began picking at the adhesive tape. “Look, we’re walking a fine line here. These guys are the best rocket team in the world—there’s nobody else near them. We have to have them. But they’re German. And some people are sensitive about that. It’s one thing if they just followed orders—who the hell didn’t?—but if there’s anything else, well, we can’t embarrass Breimer. We need his help. He can’t—”

  “Give jobs to Nazis.”

  “To bad ones, anyway.”

  “And you thought there might be something embarrassing in the files.”

  “No, I didn’t think that.” He looked away. “Anyway, there wasn’t. I don’t know what the hell Brandt meant, if he meant anything. The important thing is what wasn’t there. These guys are clean.”

  “Teitel doesn’t think they’re so clean.”

  “He’s a Jew. What do you expect?”

  Jake looked over at him. “Maybe not to hear an American say that,” he said quietly.

  “You know what I mean. The guy’s on a fucking crusade. Well, he’s not getting these guys. There’s nothing there.”

  Jake stood up. “There must be. Something Tully figured he could sell to the Russians.”

  “Well, not that they were Nazis. The Russians don’t care.”

  “And neither do we.”

  Shaeffer raised his head, poster-boy chin out. “Not these guys.”

  Outside, the light had begun to fade, the lingering soft end of the day. In the billet they’d be getting ready for dinner, the old woman ladling soup. Jake left the jeep and walked down Gelferstrasse, thinking of that first evening when Liz had flirted with him in the bath. About the time Tully must have been reading files, waiting for someone. Or had he been surprised? Start the numbers over. Tully arriving at the airport. Somewhere in the blur of Liz’s pictures, unless they were just another empty file too.

  The old man was setting the table as he passed by the dining room, avoiding the drinks crowd in the lounge. Upstairs, his room had been dusted and aired, the pink chenille spread stretched tight. Maid service. Liz’s photographs were stacked neatly on the vanity table, just as he’d left them, in no particular order. The wrecked plane in the Tiergarten, some DPs off in the corner. Churchill. The boys from Missouri. Another, but not a duplicate, the pose slightly shifted. Liz was like all the photographers he’d known—snap lots of pictures and pretend the good one was the only one you’d taken, a random art. One he’d missed before, him looking at the rubble in Pariserstrasse, shoulders slumped, his face slack with disappointment. In a magazine, without a caption, he might have been a returning soldier. He glanced up at his real face in the mirror. Somebody else.

  The airport. He pulled the glossy out of the pile and studied it, moving his eyes slowly over the picture as if he were developing it, trying to sharpen figures in the blur. The effect, oddly, was like looking at the shot in Pariserstrasse, a scene out of context. Had he really been there? A second of time he’d missed. Ron standing at the center with his cocky grin, the Tempelhof crowd swirling behind him. The back of a head that might be Brian Stanley’s, the bald spot catching the light. A French soldier with a pompom hat. Nothing. He picked up the next photograph, almost the same but angled, Liz having moved farther left. If you flipped from one to the other, the figures moved, like old posture pictures. Off to the right, a small gleam. Polished boots? He brought the photograph close to his face, fuzzier, then held it out again. Maybe boots, the right height, but the face was indistinct. He flipped them again, but the gleam didn’t move. If it had been Tully, he’d been standing still, his side to the camera, looking left.

  The knock was no more than a polite tap, scarcely audible. Jake swiveled to see the old man’s head poking around the door.

  “Excuse me, Herr Geismar. I don’t mean to disturb you.”

  “What is it?”

  For a second the old man just looked, blinking, and Jake wondered if he was seeing his daughter again in her usual seat, dusty with powder.

  “Herr Erlich said to ask you about the basement room. The photographic equipment? It’s not to hurry you, but you understand, we need the room. When it’s convenient.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll clean it out right away.”

  “When it’s convenient,” he said, backing out.

  Jake followed him down the stairs and was almost at the basement door when Ron came out of the lounge, glass in hand. “I thought I saw you slinking around. Dining in tonight?” The same grin, as if he were still in the photograph.

  “Can’t. I’m just clearing out Liz’s things. Where should I send them?”

  “I don’t know. Press camp, I guess. Listen, don’t run away, I’ve got something for you.” He took a folded paper from his pocket. “Don’t ask me why, but they okayed it. She requested it, they said. There something between you two I don’t know about? Anyway, you’re in. Just show them this.” He held out the paper. “Don’t forget, you don’t own this one. Everybody gets a piece of this.”

  “A piece of what?”

  “The interview. Renate Naumann. The one you asked for, remember? Christ, here I’m turning cartwheels for the Soviets and you could care less. Typical.”

  “She asked to see me?”

  “Maybe she thought you’d catch her good side. I wouldn’t wait on this, by the way. The Russians change their minds every five minutes. Besides, you could use the story. The natives are getting restless.” He pulled a telegram from the same pocket and held it up.

  “You’ve read it?”

  “Had to. Regulations.”

  “And?”

  “‘Great mail response hero story,’” he quoted without opening it. “‘Send new copy ASAP. Friday latest.’” He tapped Jake’s chest with both papers. “Saved by the bell, hero. You owe me one.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, taking them. “Put it on my bill.”

  Liz’s darkroom was a small, musty enclosure near the coal bin, with deep wooden crates in one corner for root vegetables. A table with three trays for solutions under a dangling light fixed with her portable red bulb. A few tins of developer and some prints hanging from a string like laundry. A box of matte paper. Why not let the old couple have it all? It was bound to be worth something in the market. But who took photographs these days? Were there weddings anymore in Berlin?

  Liz, at any rate, had taken a lot. The table was littered with contact sheets, the loose pile held down by a heavy magnifying glass, the kind librarians use to read small type. Jake looked through it, and the postage-stamp frames zoomed up to life size. Powerful enough to see if a gleam was coming off boots. He put it in his pocket, then stacked the rest of the equipment at one end of the table. Against the wall there was a side table with another set of prints. He flipped through. The same pictures he’d seen upstairs, but different shots, not quite as sharp—discards, the ones no editor would ever see. The Chancellery. The air
port again, Ron still grinning, but the background even less clear. It was when he held it up to the dim light, looking for boots, that his eye caught the dull shine of the gun hanging on the wall.

  He put down the print, reached for the holster, and brought it over to the light. A Colt 1911. But everyone had one—standard issue. He took it out, surprised at its weight. The gun she should have been wearing in Potsdam. Three of them in the market. He stared at it for a minute, reluctant even now to let his mind follow the thought through. Had it been fired? They could match the bullet, the carbon firing marks as distinctive as fingerprints. But this was crazy. He opened the gun. An empty chamber. He lifted it to his nose. Only a hint of old grease, but what had he been expecting? Did the smell of firing hang in the chamber like ash, or did it drift away? But no bullets. Not even loaded, a showpiece to keep the wolves away. So much for Frau Hinkel, surrounding him with deception. He dropped the gun onto the prints, then scooped up the pile with both hands and carried it all back upstairs.

  The magnifying glass was small, but it did the trick—the background still wasn’t sharp, but at least the blurs took shape. Uniforms passing in front of other uniforms. Definitely boots. He followed the line up—an American uniform, a face that might have been Tully’s, had to be, anchored by the boots. So Liz had caught him after all. But so what? There was nothing he hadn’t known before. Tully had arrived and now stood looking left at something. Jake moved the glass across the picture. But there was only the back of Brian’s head, the same uniforms as before, none of them looking toward Tully, and then the white edge.