by Joseph Kanon
“Admiring your handiwork?”
He turned to find Muller standing behind him, his uniform army crisp in the sweaty room.
“What’s it mean, anyway?” Muller said, pointing to the scribbles.
“Reviews. In shorthand. OOTAG,” Jake said, pronouncing it as a word. “One of the all-time greats. NOOYB—not one of your best. Like that.”
“You men have more initials than the army.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“The only one I hear these days is FYIGMO—fuck you, I got my orders. Home, that is,” he said, as if Jake had missed it. “I suppose you’ll be heading home too, now that Potsdam’s over.”
“No, not yet. I’m still working on something.”
Muller looked at him. “That’s right. The black market. I saw Collier’s. There’s more?”
Jake shrugged.
“You know, every time there’s a story like that, it’s an extra day’s work for somebody, explaining it.”
“Maybe somebody should clean it up instead.”
“We’re trying, believe it or not.”
“How?”
Muller smiled. “How do we do anything? New regulations. But even regulations take time.”
“Especially if some of the people making them are sending money home too.”
Muller threw him a sharp look, then backed off. “Come for a smoke,” he said, a gentle order.
Jake followed him out. A line of jeeps stretched along the dusty broad sweep of Argentinischeallee, but otherwise the street was deserted.
“You’ve been busy,” Muller said, handing him a cigarette. “I saw you in the movies.”
“Yeah, how about that?”
“I also hear somebody’s been making inquiries in Frankfurt about our friend Tully. I assume that’s you?”
“You forgot to mention what a colorful character he was. Hauptmann Toll.”
“Meister Toll, since you like to be accurate. Not that it matters. Comes to the same thing.” Another weak smile. “Not one of our best.”
“The whip’s a nice touch. He ever use it?”
“Let’s hope not.” He drew on his cigarette. “Find what you were looking for?”
“I’m getting there. No thanks to MG. Want to tell me why you’re holding out on me? For the sake of accuracy.”
“Nobody’s holding out on you.”
“How about a ballistics report? On a second sheet that wasn’t there. I suppose that got mislaid.”
Muller said nothing.
“So let me ask you again. Why were you holding out?”
Muller sighed and flicked his cigarette toward the street. “That’s easy. I don’t want you to do this story. Clear enough? Some low-life gets in trouble in the black market and the papers start yelling corruption in the MG. We don’t need that.” He glanced at Jake. “We like to clean up our own mess.”
“Including murder? With an American bullet.”
“Including that,” Muller said evenly. “We’ve got a criminal investigation department, you know. They know what they’re doing.”
“Keeping it quiet, you mean.”
“No. Getting to the bottom of it—without a scandal. Go home, Geismar,” he said wearily.
“No.”
Muller looked up, surprised at the abrupt answer.
“I could make you go home. You’re on a pass here, just like everyone else.”
“You don’t want to do that. I’m a hero—it’s in the movies. You don’t want to run me out of town now. How would that look?”
Muller stared for a minute, then smiled reluctantly. “I admit there are better options. At the moment.”
“Then why not stop being army brass for five seconds and give me a little cooperation? You’ve got an American dead. The CID isn’t going to do a damn thing and you know it. You could use the help.”
“From you? You’re not a policeman. You’re just a pain in the ass.” He grimaced. “Now, how about letting me serve out my time in peace? Go make trouble somewhere else.”
“While you’re waiting, would it interest you to know the money on him was Russian?”
Muller’s head snapped up, then held still. The one thing that always got the MG’s attention. “Yes, it would,” he said finally, looking steadily at Jake. “How do you know?”
“The serial numbers. Ask the boys in the CID, since they’re so professional. Still want me off the case?”
Muller looked down at the ground, moving his foot in a small circle, as if he were making a decision.
“Look, nobody’s trying to hold out on you. I’ll get you the ballistics report.”
“That’s all right. I’ve seen it.”
Muller raised his head. “I won’t ask how.”
“But while you’re being so friendly, you could do me another favor. Kind of make it up to me. You didn’t find any travel orders on him.”
“That’s right.”
“What about an airport okay? Who got him on the plane? I need somebody to check the dispatchers. July sixteenth.”
“But that could take—”
“I figure your secretary might have some time on her hands. If she could call around for me, I’d appreciate it. They’d listen to you. Me, it might take weeks.”
“You haven’t had any problem so far,” Muller said, looking at him carefully.
“But this time I’d have some help from the top. For a change. You know how it is. And while she’s at it, one more thing? Check a flight listing for an Emil Brandt. Previous week and since.” He took in Muller’s blank expression. “He’s a scientist Tully sprang from Kransberg. Dustbin. Heard of it?”
“Where are you going with this?” Muller said quietly.
“Just have her do it.”
“Dustbin’s a secret facility.”
Jake shrugged. “People talk. Hang around the press camp more. You’d be surprised what you pick up.”
“You can’t write about it. It’s classified.”
“I know. Don’t worry, I’m not interested in Dustbin. Just Meister Toll.”
“I’m not sure I understand the connection.”
“If I’m right, just wait a little and you can read all about it in the papers.”
“That’s one thing I have no intention of doing.”
Jake smiled. “Why don’t you wait and see how it comes out? You might change your mind.” He glanced up at him, serious now. “No black eyes.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“Would you take it? Why not just say you have my best intentions and leave it at that? But I’d appreciate the calls.”
Muller nodded slowly. “All right. But I want you to do something for me—work with the CID on this.”
“Carbons in triplicate? No thanks.”
“I won’t have you running around like a loose cannon. You work with them, understand?”
“Now I’m on the team? A minute ago you were sending me home.”
Muller’s shoulders sagged. “That’s before the Russians were involved,” he said glumly. “Now we need to know. Even if that means using you.” He paused, thinking. “You’re sure about the money? The serial numbers? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I thought it was all the same.”
“There’s a little dash. A friend in the black market tipped me off. It’s the sort of thing they notice. Turns out the Treasury Department isn’t as dumb as you thought.”
“That makes me feel a whole lot better.” Muller straightened up. “I wish you did. All right, let’s go back in before I change my mind,” he said, leading Jake to the door. They stopped on the threshold, hit by the blast of noise. A conga line was snaking through the room, legs flying out on the one-two-three-kick, nobody quite on the same beat. “The ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Muller said, shaking his head. “My god, I wish I was back in the army. Drink?”
“You have mine. I’m on my way home.”
“Where is that these days? I haven’t seen you at dinner lately. Keeping co
mpany somewhere?”
“Colonel. There are rules about that.”
“Mm. Strictly enforced,” he said wryly. “Like everything else.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Geismar? Don’t make me regret this. I can still kick your ass home.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jake said. “Just make the calls, please.”
He said goodbye to Tommy, now in a sloppy, bear-hugging mood. The conga line had broken up and with it the rest of the dancing, but the party showed no signs of slowing down. The drinking had reached the stage when jokes could turn into arguments without anyone noticing. Liz was taking some group shots, a line of reporters with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders and their faces fixed in bleary grins. A cheer went up when someone arrived with more ice. It was time to go. He was almost at the door when Liz caught up with him.
“Hey, Jackson. How’s your love life?” She was carrying her shoes in one hand and a camera case in the other, her eyes shiny with drink.
“Okay. How’s yours?”
“Away, since you ask.”
“No more tall Joe?”
“Keep your shirt on. He’s back tomorrow.” She made a face. “They always come back. How about a lift? I don’t think I can make it in these,” she said, holding up the shoes.
“Little unsteady on your feet?” Jake said, smiling.
“These? They gave out about an hour ago.”
“Come on.”
“Here,” she said, handing him the shoes. “Let me get my bag.”
He stood there, shoes dangling from his fingers, and watched her weave over to the table and struggle with a strap that kept missing her shoulder as she tried to fling it in place. Finally he went over and took the bag from her, sliding it onto his own shoulder.
“Well, aren’t you nice? Stupid thing.”
“Come on, you could use some air. What have you got in here?”
She giggled. “Oh, I forgot. You. I’ve got you in there. Wait a minute,” she said, stopping him and fumbling with the zipper. “Fresh out of the darkroom. Well, fresh. I’ve been carrying these around for days.” She pulled out some glossies and shuffled to find the right one. “Here we are. Our man in Berlin. Not bad, considering.”
He looked at himself stepping into the right half of the picture, leaving the Document Center behind. Thinning over the temples, a surprised expression. “I’ve looked better,” he said. The same feeling he’d had seeing his reflection in KaDeWe’s window—someone else, no longer the young man in his passport photo.
“That’s what you think.”
Off to the left Joe stood posing, as tall and blond as a poster Aryan. One of the tech boys, according to Brian. Breimer’s friend. Jake dropped the picture on the pile, then stopped and pulled it back, looking again.
“Hey, Liz,” he said, staring at it, “what’s Joe’s last name again?”
“Shaeffer. Why?”
A German name.
He shook his head. “Nothing, maybe. Can I keep this?”
“Sure,” she said, pleased. “I’ve got a million more where that came from.”
Blond, like a German, Frau Dzuris had said. The right fit. But was it? In the picture, another camera trick, he and Jake were standing on the steps as if they’d been together all along. Nothing was what it seemed.
He glanced at his watch. Frau Dzuris would be getting ready for bed, disturbed by a knock on the door. But not asleep yet. He grabbed Liz’s arm and began tugging her across the floor.
“Where’s the fire?”
“Let’s go. I have to see somebody.”
“Oh,” she said, an exaggerated drawl. She reached over and took her shoes. “Not this time. Let her wear her own.”
Jake ignored her, hurrying them to the jeep.
“You know, it’s none of my business—” she began as she got in.
“Then don’t say it.”
“Touchy,” she said, but let it go, leaning back in her seat as they started down the road. “You know what you are? You’re a romantic.”
“Not the last time I looked.”
“You are, though,” she said, nodding her head, having a conversation with herself.
“What’s Joe doing in Berlin?” Jake said.
But the drink had taken her elsewhere. She laughed. “You’re right. He’s not. Anyway, what do you care?” She turned to him. “It’s not serious, you know. With him. He’s just—around.”
“Doing what?”
She waved her hand. “He’s just around.”
She put her head back against the seat, cushioning it, as if it were too much trouble to hold it upright on the bumpy road. For a second Jake wondered if she was going to pass out, but she said idly, “I’m glad you like the picture. It’s a fast shutter. Zeiss. No blurs.”
The blur instead seemed to be in her speech. They had circled the old Luftwaffe building and were heading into Gelferstrasse, almost there. In front of the billet, he idled the motor and reached for the shoulder bag.
“Can you manage?” he said, fitting the strap in place.
“Still in a hurry, huh? I thought you lived here.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay, Jackson,” she said softly. “I’ll take a hike.” And then, surprising him, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, a full kiss.
“What was that for?” Jake said when she broke away.
“I wanted to see what it was like.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, embarrassed, gathering her bag and getting out. “My timing isn’t the best, either.” She turned to the jeep. “Funny how that works. It might have been nice, though, don’t you think?”
“It might have been.”
“A gentleman,” she said, hitching up the bag. “I’ll bet you’re the type who’ll pretend to forget about it in the morning, too.”
But in fact it stayed with him all the way to Wilmersdorf, the unexpected mystery of people, who they really were. He’d been right about Frau Dzuris, ready for bed and clutching her wrapper, frightened by the knock. And he’d been right about the picture. “Yes, you see, like a German,” Frau Dzuris said. “That’s the one. You know him? He’s a friend?” But in the dim light of the doorway, his eyes never went to the photo, caught instead by the empty space on the cloth over her left breast, where a pin once would have been.
The next day it was Liz who didn’t remember. She was on her way to Potsdam with one of Ron’s tour groups, thinned out by hangovers, and seemed surprised that he mentioned Joe at all.
“What do you want to see him for?”
“He has some information for me.”
“Uh-huh. What kind of information?”
“Missing persons.”
“You going to tell me what you’re talking about?”
“You going to tell me where he is?”
She shrugged, giving up. “He’s meeting me, as a matter of fact. In Potsdam.”
“Why Potsdam?”
“He’s getting me a camera.”
Jake pointed to the one she was carrying, with the prized fast shutter. “He get you that too?”
“What’s it to you?” She smiled, palms up. “He’s a generous guy.”
Jake grinned. “Yeah, with requisitioned cameras. He say where he got it?”
“Ask him yourself. You coming or not?” She pointed to Ron’s car, an old Mercedes. Two reporters were dozing in the back, legs spread out, waiting for the trip to start.
“Too crowded. I’ll follow.”
“Better stick with me. Look what happened the last time we went.”
So in the end she rode with him. They followed Ron’s car until they reached the Avus, then lost it when it jerked into autobahn speed, weaving in and out of the stream of cars heading out of Berlin. The traffic surprised him. In the bright sunshine it seemed everyone was going to Potsdam—trucks and jeeps and cars like Ron’s, snatched from garages for new owners. Behind them an old black Horch filled with Russ
ians barely kept up, but the others were racing on the open highway, prewar driving, with the trees of the Grunewald rushing past.
When they got into town, the bomb damage he’d missed before leaped to the eye. The Stadtschloss, a roofless ruin, had taken the worst of it, and only sections of the long colonnade were left facing the market square. The Nikolaikirche opposite had lost its dome, the four corner towers looking more than ever like odd minarets. Only the Palladian Rathaus seemed likely to survive, with Atlas still perched on top of its round tower, holding up a gilded ball of the world, a kind of bad joke—the British bombers had spared the kitsch.
The Alten Markt, however, was lively. A rickety tram was running in front of the obelisk, and the huge open square was crammed—hundreds, perhaps a thousand people milling between stacks of goods, bargaining openly, as noisy as the medieval market that had given the space its name. It reminded him, improbably, of the souk in Cairo, a dense theater of exchange, hawkers grabbing buyers by the sleeve, the air full of languages, but drained of color, no open melons and pyramids of spices, just scuffed pairs of shoes and chipped Hummel knickknacks and secondhand clothes, closets stripped for sale. But at least there was none of the furtiveness of the Tiergarten market, one eye keeping watch for raiding MPs. The Russians were buying, not guarding, eager to be back in business after the hiatus of the conference. No one whispered. Two soldiers walked by with wall clocks balanced on their heads. None of this would have been here when Tully came. Jake imagined instead a meeting in some quiet corner. Maybe even in the Neuer Garten, just steps from the water. Selling what?
They left the jeep near the empty space in the colonnade where the Fortuna Portal had been and wandered into the crowd, Liz snapping pictures. Ron’s car was nowhere in sight, probably still headed for Truman’s villa, but Jake noticed, amused, that the Horch had had to squeeze in behind the jeep, the only place in Berlin with a parking problem.
“Where are you meeting him?” Jake said.
“He said by the colonnade. We’re early. Look at this—do you think it’s real Meissen?”
She picked up the soup tureen, gilt-edged handles and pink apple blossoms, the kind of thing you could have found by the dozen in Karstadt’s before the war. But the German woman selling it, gaunt and sagging, had come to life.