by Joseph Kanon
Brian turned up after dinner, bringing a newspaper and a bottle of NAAFI scotch.
“Well, safe and sound. That looks nasty,” he said, pointing to the shoulder. “You ought to see to that.” He opened the bottle and poured two drinks. “Quite a hidey-hole, I must say. I saw a lovely thing in the hall. Nothing under the wrapper, by the looks of it. I don’t suppose they give out samples. Cheers.” He tossed back the shot. “How’d you find it?”
“It’s British owned.”
“Really? That’s the stuff.”
“Anybody see you come here?”
“Well, what’s to that? At my age I’m expected to pay for it.” He glanced over. “No, no one. Jeep’s in the courtyard behind, by the way. I thought you might like it off the street. Tempting.”
“Thanks.”
“I take it that’s the husband,” he said, nodding toward the living room. “The one moping on the couch. What are the sleeping arrangements, or am I being prurient?”
“Thanks for that too. I owe you.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll collect. Your stunt, my exclusive. Fair?”
Jake smiled.
“You made the papers,” Brian said, handing it to him. “At least, I assume it’s you. No names. Not much sense either.”
Jake opened it up. PEACE headlined in bold across the top, with the picture of Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima. At the bottom right, in smaller type, WWIII BEGINS? WHO FIRED FIRST?, an account of the Chancellery shoot-out as confusing as the crossfire, with the implication that everyone had been drunk.
“You can’t imagine the hullabaloo. Well, maybe you can. Russians have been stamping their feet, cross as anything. Formal notes, want a special Council session, the lot. Say they won’t march in the victory parade—there’s a loss. Want to tell me what really happened?”
“Believe it or not, this is what happened. Except the Russians weren’t drunk.”
“That would be a first.”
“And I’m not in it,” Jake said, finishing the piece.
“Strictly speaking, boyo, you weren’t. You were with me.”
“Is that what you told them?”
“Had to. No end of questions otherwise. You’re the most popular man in Berlin these days. Absolutely belle of the ball—everybody wants to dance with you. If they knew where you were. Damned if I do. Came down to the dining room with a lady, offered me a lift—I might have been a little the worse for wear—dropped me on the Ku’damm for a nightcap, and that’s the last I saw you. As for this,” he said, pointing to the paper, “what I hear is there was a civilian in the middle of it. Nobody knows who. German, would be my guess. Of course, the Russians aren’t saying, but they’re not supposed to be missing anybody in the first place.”
“But I spoke English.”
“Americans think everyone does. You tell them who you were?”
“No. And I spoke German to the Russians. Sikorsky wouldn’t have had time to—”
“You see? Believe me, nobody’s thinking about anything except covering their behinds. Damned silly, when you think of it, going to the bunker for a drink. Wanted to dance on Hitler’s grave, I suppose. Very unwise, all things considered. The point is, you were seen leaving the Adlon with me. Witnesses. And if I don’t know you, who would? That is the way you wanted it, isn’t it?”
Jake smiled at him. “You don’t miss a trick.”
“Not when the story’s mine. Exclusive, remember? It doesn’t do to share with your gang. So fair’s fair? What’s it all about?”
“It’s yours, I promise. Just wait a little.”
“Not even a taste? What in god’s name were you and the general wagging about? The late general, I should say. There’s a service tomorrow, by the way—all the Allies. That awful band of theirs, no doubt. I suppose you won’t be sending a wreath.”
“That’s right,” Jake said, not really listening. “You don’t know.”
“No, I don’t know,” he said, imitating Jake’s voice. “Until you tell me.”
“No, I mean nobody knows. What he said to me. Nobody knows. It could have been anything.”
“But what did he say?”
“Let me think for a minute. It’s important. I need to work this out.”
“You don’t mind, then?” Brian said, pouring another drink. “Always so gripping to watch someone think.”
“Anything. I mean, suppose he had told me?”
“Told you what?”
Jake was quiet for a minute, sipping his scotch.
“Hey, Brian,” he said finally, still brooding. “I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“Have a drink at the press camp. My treat.”
“And?”
“Talk loose. Have a few. You saw me and I’ve got hold of a story and wouldn’t cut you in on it so you’re annoyed.”
“So I would be. And the point is?”
“I want everybody to know that I’ve got something. It’s like the village post office there—it won’t take long to get around. Wait, even better. Got some paper?”
Brian took out a notebook and handed it to him, then watched as he wrote.
“Send this to Collier’s for me—here’s the cable address.”
Brian took it and read aloud. “‘Save space next issue big story scandal.’ And when you don’t send one? They won’t like that.”
“Well, I might. So will you. But chances are this won’t go out anyway. They censor the cables. Young Ron’ll take one look and start playing Chicken Little. He’ll be all over the place with it.”
“All over me, you mean.”
“Ask him what the fuss is all about—he’ll go shy on you. Then ask him who Tully was.”
“Someone you mentioned in passing when I saw you.”
“That’s right. I called it my Tully story.”
“And this is going to get you what, exactly?”
“The man who killed him. The other American.”
“The bird in the bush. You’re sure there is one.”
“Somebody tried to have me killed in Potsdam. It wasn’t Tully—he was already dead. Yes, I’m sure.”
“Steady. You don’t want any more excitement, not like this,” Brian said, indicating Jake’s shoulder. “Twice lucky. Third time—”
“Third time he comes to me. He’ll have to. Ever hear of a squeeze play?”
“And this will squeeze him out?” he said, holding the paper.
“Part of the way. The way it works is to get the Russians to do the rest. They think Emil’s loose. He is still loose. What if they had the chance to get him back? Sikorsky’s dead. Tully’s dead. Who else do they send to get him?”
“Especially if he can get you as well? I don’t like that. And how do you intend to manage this, may I ask?”
“Just go have the drink, okay? We’re almost there.”
“With loose talk. Which he’ll hear.”
“He’s heard everything else.”
“One of ours, then.”
“I don’t know. The only one I know it isn’t is you.”
“Very trusting of you.”
“No. It was an American bullet. You buy British,” Jake said, pointing to the bottle.
Brian folded the paper and pocketed it. “Speaking of which, you’ll want this back.” He brought a gun out of the pocket. “If you’re determined to keep asking for trouble.”
“Liz’s gun,” Jake said, taking it.
“Something of a rush at the Adlon, but I managed to pick it up. Just in case.”
“He killed her, you know. Sikorsky.”
“So that’s it?” Brian said. He got up to go. “It’s a fool’s game, getting even. It never turns out the way you expect.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then it’s a lot to do for a story.”
“How about getting away with murder? Is that enough?”
“Dear boy, people get away with murder all the time. You’ve only to look around you. Espec
ially here. Years of it.”
“Then let’s stop it.”
“Now I do feel old. Nothing like the young for putting things right. Well, I’ll leave you to it. And this lovely scotch. Second thought, perhaps I won’t,” he said, picking up the bottle. “Never know how many rounds I’ll have to buy before the old tongue loosens up properly. On my expenses, too.”
“Thanks, Brian.”
“Well, Africa together—it has to count for something. No point in telling you to be careful, I suppose. You never were. Still, Russians. I should have thought you’d have your hands full sorting out your ménage.” He nodded to the next room.
“It’ll sort itself out.”
“The young,” Brian said, sighing. “Not in my experience.”
It took Jake ten minutes to dress, his stiff arms fumbling with the buttons, even tying his shoes a small agony.
“You’re going out?” Lena said, looking up from the table where she and Erich were leafing through a magazine rescued from one of the girls. Life, pictures from another world. Emil sat on the couch, his face vacant, lost in himself.
“I won’t be long,” Jake said, starting toward her to kiss her goodbye, then stopping, even the most ordinary gesture somehow awkward now. Instead he rubbed Erich’s head.
“Rosen said to rest,” Lena said.
“I’m all right,” Jake said, feeling Emil watching him so that, like an intruder, he wanted to hurry out, away from them. “Don’t wait up,” he said to Erich, but taking them all in. Only Erich moved, giving him a little wave.
The street was a relief, the comforting anonymity of the dark. A soldier in a jeep. He drove out toward Kreuzberg, not even noticing the ruins. Even Berlin could become normal, a question of what you were used to.
He found Gunther playing solitaire, a half-full bottle on the table beside him, methodically laying out rows of cards like his columns of obvious points.
“A surprise visit,” Gunther said, not sounding surprised at all, barely looking up from the cards.
“I thought I’d bring you up to date,” Jake said, sitting down.
Gunther grunted, continuing to lay out cards as Jake told him about the Adlon, not even pausing when bullets hit the Chancellery steps.
“So once again you’re lucky,” he said when Jake finished. “And we still don’t know.”
“That’s why I’ve come. I have an assignment for you.”
“Leave me alone,” he said, turning over a card. Then he looked up. “What?”
“I want you to go to a funeral tomorrow.”
“Sikorsky’s?”
“A friend. Naturally you’d want to go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And pay your respects to his successor. I assume his number two—they haven’t had time to bring anyone in yet. Maybe his boss. Either way, whoever’s Sikorsky now. It’s good business, for one thing.” He glanced at the stacks of black market boxes.
“And the other?”
“New business.”
“With me,” Gunther said, raising an eyebrow.
“You have to think of it from his point of view—what he knows or what he’s been told. They must have grilled the Russians at the Adlon. What he knows is that Sikorsky saw us there—Lena and me—and let us pay a visit. He knows Brandt escaped and Sikorsky was killed chasing him. He knows the Americans don’t have him—Tully’s partner would have told him. So where is he? The logical place?”
Gunther made a questioning sound, still playing.
“Where he’s always wanted to be—with his wife. Who came with me. And I’m a friend of yours. And you—you kept tabs on me for Sikorsky,” Jake said, slapping the words down in order, jack, ten, nine. “His source.”
Gunther stopped. “I told him nothing. Nothing important.”
“So he said. The point is, they know he got it from you. They know you know me. They might even think you know where I am. Which means—”
“An interesting situation, I agree,” Gunther said, turning a card slowly. “But I don’t know where you are. I have never wanted to know that, if you remember. To be in this position.”
“If they believe that. Maybe they don’t think you’re so high-minded. Maybe they just think you’re a rat.”
Gunther glanced up, then went back to his cards. “Are you trying to provoke me? Don’t bother.”
“I’m trying to show you how he’ll see things. When you talk to him tomorrow.”
“And what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to betray me.”
Gunther put down the cards, reached for his glass, and sat back, looking at Jake over the rim. “Go on.”
“It’s time to move up in the world. Cigarettes, watches, a little bar gossip—there’s no real money in that. But even a small-time crook gets a chance once in a while. Something big to sell. Sometimes it falls right into your lap.”
“I take it Herr Brandt is that opportunity.”
Jake nodded. “I came to you to get some travel permits. To get the happy couple out of town.”
“And I would have these?”
“They’re on the market. You’re in the market. They’ll think you could. But now you’ve got a situation. You want to keep your options open. Your friend Sikorsky is gone—why not make some new friends, and a bundle on the side? Hard to resist.”
“Very.”
“So you arrange to meet us, with the permits. If someone else shows up instead—”
“Where?” Gunther said, oddly precise.
“I don’t know yet,” Jake said, brushing it aside. “But in the American zone. That’s important. They need to send an American. If they’re Russians, I’ll smell a setup right away. It has to be an American, so I won’t suspect until it’s too late.”
“And they’ll send him, your American.”
“He’s the obvious person. He knows who I am. And he’ll want to come. I’ve put the word out that I’m on to something. He can’t take that chance. He’ll come.”
“And then he will have you.”
“I’ll have him. All you have to do is lead him to me.”
“Be your greifer,” Gunther said, his voice low.
“It can work.”
Gunther moved his eyes back to the cards and began to play again. “A pity you weren’t on the force, before the war. Sometimes the bold move—”
“It can work,” Jake said again.
Gunther nodded. “Except for one thing. I have no quarrel with the Russians. As you say, I want to keep my options open. If you succeed, where am I? With no options. The Russians will know I betrayed them. Get someone else.”
“There isn’t anyone else. They’ll believe you. It’s your case too.”
“No, yours. It was interesting to help you, a way to pass the time. Now it’s something else. I don’t make myself conspicuous. Not now.”
Jake looked at him. “That’s right. You never did.”
“That’s right,” Gunther said, refusing to be drawn.
Jake reached over and placed his hand on the cards, stopping the play.
“Move your hand.”
Jake held it there for another minute, staring at him.
“Leave me alone.”
“How long do you intend to stay dead? Years? That’s a lot of time to pass with your head down. You’re still a cop. We’re talking about murder.”
“No, survival.”
“Like this? You tried that once. A good German cop. So you kept your head down and people died. Now you want to stick it down a bottle. For what? A chance to snitch for the Russians? You’d be working for the same people. You think it’ll be any different?” He pushed his chair away, frustrated, and walked over to the wall map. Berlin as it used to be.
Gunther sat stonily for a second, then laid down another card, almost a reflex.
“And the Americans are so much better?”
“Maybe not by much,” Jake said, his eyes moving left, toward Dahlem. “But that’s who’s here. Th
at’s the choice.” He turned from the map. “You have a choice.”
“To work for the Americans.”
“No, to be a cop again. A real one.”
Neither of them said anything for a minute, so when the door rattled with a sharp knock, it seemed even louder in the thick silence. Jake looked up, alarmed, expecting Russians, but it was Bernie, pushing through the door with folders under his arm just as he had that first night at Gelferstrasse, running into a plate. Now it was the sight of Jake that stopped him in mid-dash.
“Where have you been? People are looking for you, you know.”
“I heard.”
“Well, it’s good you’re here. Saves a trip,” he said, not explaining and moving toward the table. “Wie gehts, Gunther?” He looked down at the cards. “Seven on the eight. Things a little blurry?” He picked up the bottle, gave it a quick glancing measurement, and put it aside.
“Clear enough.”
“I brought the Bensheim copies you asked for. I’ll need them back, though. We’re not supposed to—”
“According to Herr Geismar, unnecessary now.”
“What’s Bensheim?” Jake said.
“Where Tully was before Kransberg,” Bernie said.
“To cross the t’s,” Gunther said, opening one of the folders, then looking at Jake. “Not bold, methodical. So often there’s a pattern. I thought, to whom was he selling these persilscheins? Which Germans? Perhaps someone I would recognize. An idea only.”
“So that’s what they look like,” Jake said, coming over and picking one up.
The usual buff-colored paper and ragged type wedged into boxes, ink scrawled across the bottom. The name on top was Bernhardt, no one he knew. A different page layout, yet still familiar, like all the occupation forms. He scanned down the sheet, then handed it back. Innocuous paper, but worth a reputation to Bernhardt.
“But as I say, no longer necessary,” Gunther said.
“Why’s that?” Bernie said.
“Gunther’s retiring from the case,” Jake said. “He wants to do his drinking elsewhere.”
“Still, you don’t mind if I look? Since you went to the trouble?” Gunther said, taking the folders.
“Be my guest,” Bernie said, pouring himself a drink. “Did I walk into the middle of something?”
