Hoffner was in a good drunk by the time he made it back to Droysenstrasse. The lights were out in the house, but Lotte had been kind enough to leave the back path lit. He wove his way through the yard, found the door to the carriage house, and hoisted himself up the stairs.
As it turned out, the lecture out at the stadium had been just the tip of the iceberg. Radek, in full political lather, had spent the last three hours taking everyone through the latest reports coming out of Spain and the Rhineland. On Spain he was a bit spotty; his sources were having trouble getting through. Imagine that? But on the rearming of the Rhineland, there he was fully informed.
“Five months and no one’s raised a finger against us.” He liked to slap his own down onto the table for emphasis. “And we went in on bicycles, for Christ’s sake. They’ll let us do whatever we want, and it’ll be the same in Spain.”
It was unclear whether this was good or bad news to Radek. He had fallen asleep before explaining. The fact that his pillow had been the chest of a very fat and very naked girl made it clear that he had no idea where or who he was at the time.
Hoffner steadied himself at the top of the stairs. He did his best with a few of his buttons before finally just pulling the shirt over his head. His shoes and trousers dropped to the floor without too much effort as he fumbled his way onto the bed. Had he been any less drunk he might have jumped at the sudden sight of Elena looking back at him.
“I hear you’re going to Spain tomorrow,” she said.
Hoffner took a moment to appreciate the very fine pair of breasts staring up at him. He nodded.
“So you might be killed,” she said. “And then we’d never have done something this stupid.”
He needed another few moments before saying, “I’m drunk.”
“Yes,” she said. “Is that going to get in the way?”
This required no thought. He shook his head.
“Good.”
She pulled back the rest of the covers and invited him in.
Climbing Boots And Short pants
At 8:00 a.m. on the dot, the band of the Berlin Guards Regiment sounded Ein Grosses Wecken-a grand reveille-outside the Hotel Adlon. Luckily, Hoffner was far enough removed across town to sleep through it.
The members of the International Olympic Committee, however, were not. Given just over an hour to wash, shave, and eat-always avoid the rabbit crepes at the Adlon-they were then shuttled off to either the Berlin Cathedral or the Church of St. Hedwig (Protestants on the left, Catholics on the right) for an hour of religious observance so as to fortify themselves for the day’s events. While they prayed, thousands of children-all across the city’s recreation fields-began to perform in exhibitions of group gymnastics, obstacle races, and synchronized club twirling: the object here to show the many athletic pursuits of Berlin’s schoolchildren. Mendy, having watched the neighborhood children prepare for these displays over the last weeks, and eager himself to twist and leap and bend along with them, had been told he was too young and too Jewish to be included. Lotte decided to keep him inside for the day.
Still later, as Hoffner stirred from a remarkably deep sleep (retirement and robust late-night exertions will do that), an honor guard from the Wehrmacht, along with various uniformed Hitler Youth detachments, looked on from Unter den Linden as the Belgian delegate-a Monsieur Baillet-Latour-laid a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; so nice to have all the hostilities between the two countries long forgotten, even better to see military sacrifice as the prelude to amateur sport.
By mid-morning, it was Hermann Goring-always so dapper in his sky-blue uniform-welcoming the IOC members and his Fuhrer to the Old Museum in front of the Royal Palace a few blocks down. While Hoffner shaved, thousands of SS men and ever more Hitler Youth regaled them by singing:
Hoist up our flags in the wind of the morning!
To those who are idle, let them flutter a warning!
No one was even remotely idle as the dashing Baldur von Schirach-twenty-nine and leader of the Youth-stepped to the podium and addressed the crowds with the truly inspirational words, “We, the youth of Germany, we, the youth of Adolf Hitler, greet you, the youth of the world.” Unter den Linden erupted in applause and cheering as the torchbearer finally appeared.
There was a quiet intensity along the avenue as the white-clad young man jogged slowly to the museum, lit the flame, and then jogged back across the square, where another pyre awaited him. The “flames of peace,” so Goring had promised, would burn throughout the games. No one had mentioned Berlin’s good fortune to have several libraries and bookstores in the immediate vicinity, should the flames need feeding.
Lotte was at the kitchen table reading through the Tageblatt when Hoffner finally appeared at the door. She kept her eyes on the paper. “You’ll be joining us for lunch?” she said.
He was still feeling the whiskey at the back of his throat; it was enough just to nod. He noticed Elena by the sink, washing and peeling something. Mendy was under the table with a train.
Lotte continued to read. “Yes or no?”
Hoffner managed a croaked, “Yes.”
Lotte looked up and said, “If you could fix another plate, Elena, that would be very nice.”
Elena dried her hands and moved to the stove. “Bit of a cold, Herr Chief Inspector?” she said.
“No,” he said. “Just getting old.”
“You’ve a long way to go there, Herr Chief Inspector,” she said. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Hoffner caught Lotte staring at him for a moment. Just as quickly she leaned under the table. “Lunch, Mendy.” She looked back at Hoffner. “We’re all done playing.”
It was nearly half past one before Hoffner made it to the middle of town. The crowds were already out at the stadium, the athletes due to arrive within the hour, Hitler by four. To keep them all entertained, the Olympic Committee had enlisted the services of the Berlin Philharmonic, the National Orchestra, and-how could they go on without them? — the Bayreuth Wagner Festival choir, all three en masse with soaring renditions of the Meistersinger overture, Liszt’s Les Preludes, and anything else with lots of trumpets and trombones. The stadium had yet to open its beer and wine concessions, so the louder the better.
Hoffner stepped down from the tram, crossed Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, and pushed through the door at number 17.
The Berlin office of the British Pathe Gazette Company was three rooms at the top of a rather sweet if old five-floor walk-up: one secretary, four filmmakers, and all of them with the singular task of covering Germans in the news. Hoffner had stopped in twice before: the first time three years ago, to see Georg’s new digs; the second last month, when Mendy had been rushed to the hospital after falling down the stairs. The telephones at Georg’s had somehow gone out. Luckily, Hoffner had been at the Alex, only a fifteen-minute walk-or ten-minute run-depending on the traffic. Papi and Opa had arrived at the hospital to find Mendy unbroken and utterly delighted to be sporting a very long bandage on his leg. He had limped for two days after-each day a different leg-until Lotte had told him to knock it off.
Anthony Wilson was leaning out an open window behind his desk, peering off into the distance, when Hoffner stepped into the office. Hoffner shut the door, and Wilson ducked his head under his arm to see who it was.
“Hallo there, Inspector.”
Wilson was a young thirty-two, with too much enthusiasm for a man his age. He continued to peer back in this odd position before saying, “Join me?” Wilson returned to his viewing, and Hoffner had no choice but to step over, remove his hat, and inch his head out. The damp was oddly thick up here.
Wilson said, “A fellow across the way on four says that when the street’s clear, you can actually hear the music.” He was straining his ear westward. “Out at the stadium, I mean.”
Even his German sounded like public school English. Hoffner imagined all those years Wilson had spent working on the “Bosch” while his friends had been struggling through
Horace and Sappho. Not much newsreel work, though, in ancient Rome and Athens.
The wind picked up, and Hoffner said, “You know that’s not really possible, Herr Wilson.”
“Oh, I know,” he said. “But they get a nice kick out of seeing the Englishman stick his head out the window. They’re placing bets on it. How long I can go. They don’t think I know about it. They’ll be wondering who you are in a minute or two.”
“So we’ll be out here that long?”
Wilson looked over, then smiled. “Fair enough.” He ducked under, and Hoffner followed. Immediately, Wilson began to smooth back what little hair he had. He was tall like Georg, but with an inordinately narrow head. “Someone on the fourth floor’s just won a bit of money.” He smiled again, motioned Hoffner to a chair, and took his own behind the desk.
Hoffner stepped over and sat. He was trying to convince himself that Wilson’s airy mood was a good sign. Then again, the man might just have been an idiot.
“Any word?” asked Hoffner.
Wilson’s face did its best with a look of seriousness: the mouth remained closed even as the jaw dropped a bit. Was it possible for the face to grow longer?
“ ‘Any word,’ ” Wilson repeated pensively. He looked across at Hoffner. “No. No word, Inspector. But I shouldn’t be too concerned.”
The English were always so good with an empty phrase. Hoffner waited and then said, “The trouble is, Herr Wilson, I am.”
There was some quick nodding from Wilson as he retreated. “Yes, yes, of course you are. I am as well. Naturally. I just mean it’s still early days. Everyone involved with POG was moved to a safe-”
“Pog?” Hoffner interrupted.
Wilson seemed surprised by the question. “POG-People’s Olympic Games?” When Hoffner said nothing, Wilson added, “Why Georg went?”
Another favorite of the English: the meaningless acronym.
Georg’s reason for going to Spain was, of course, not news to Hoffner. In fact, it had been impossible to be in Berlin over the past few months and not hear all the updates on the highly controversial, if equally pointless, Protestspiele. Barcelona for the people. Barcelona for the Games of Protest. Ludicrous.
“No,” Hoffner said. “I know why Georg went, Herr Wilson. I just didn’t know the games were called”-he hesitated-“POG.”
Wilson flipped open a cigarette box on his desk and offered one to Hoffner. “Well, technically, it’s just a few of us here at Pathe Gazette, Inspector. Makes it so much easier in wires and the like. POG this. POG that. You understand.” He lit Hoffner’s cigarette and took one for himself. “No point in using it now, though, is there? Still, as I said, everyone was moved to a safe spot once the trouble began.” He lit up.
“And where exactly do you find a safe spot in Spain these days, Herr Wilson?”
Wilson let out a stream of smoke. For an instant Hoffner thought he saw something behind the eyes: it was strangely familiar and then just as quickly gone. Wilson said, “That’s probably a very good question, Inspector.”
“And yet I shouldn’t be concerned.”
“Georg wanted to go on filming. Do you blame him? We both know he’s gotten himself out of deeper holes than this.”
“Has he?” Hoffner saw it again in the eyes. He let it pass. “And how does one lose track of a man eager to go on filming?”
“It’s a war, Inspector.” The tone was mildly sharper. “It takes time for things to settle in.”
It was a callous answer, and not in keeping with the Wilson of only moments ago. Hoffner took a long pull and said, “By the way, it’s no longer inspector. Just Herr Hoffner. My papers went through yesterday.”
“Really?” Wilson said. He leaned in and, focusing on the glass, began to curl his cigarette into the ashtray. “Good for you.”
And there it was: the eyes and the voice coming together. Hoffner was struck by how obvious it seemed.
It was the way Wilson had said it-“Good for you”-that went beyond mere congratulations. There was a relief in the voice, as if making it to the end of a career unscathed deserved a nod of admiration. As if, one day, Wilson hoped he might make it there himself.
Hoffner continued to watch as Wilson played with the ash. “Yes-it is,” he said. “I imagine you’d like to get there one day yourself.”
Wilson stayed with the cigarette. “Pardon?”
“The job. It can be rather dangerous. Nice when you survive and get the pat on the back at the end.” Hoffner watched Wilson spend too much time with the ash. Finally Hoffner said, “Which branch?”
Wilson took a moment too long before looking up. “Which branch…? I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The amiable smile was really quite a feat.
“War Office or Admiralty? Or is the British Secret Intelligence Service all under the same roof these days?” When Wilson said nothing, Hoffner added, “Thirty years, Herr Wilson. I think I know when I hear a cop.”
A car horn from the street broke through, but Wilson continued to stare. His smile became more masklike as the eyes began to sharpen: rare to see intelligence growing on a man’s face.
“Just like that,” he said. There was now a quiet certainty in the voice.
“Like what?” said Hoffner.
“Georg said you were uncanny at what you did. Hard to believe that good.” There was nothing accusatory in it. “When did he tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Wilson crushed out his cigarette and then nodded to himself. “Fair enough.” He sat back. “We can play it that way. He’s too useful to us to care one way or the other.”
Hoffner watched the self-satisfied indifference across the desk.
Georg-an agent of British Intelligence. Hoffner was torn between a feeling of pride and terror.
“How long?” he said.
“How long what?”
“How long has Georg been with you?”
Wilson looked up. “What is it you want, Herr Inspe-” He caught himself. “Herr Hoffner?”
“He wouldn’t have told me. You know that.”
Wilson continued to stare. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have.” He waited, then reached down to the bottom drawer. He returned with a bottle and two glasses and placed them on the desk: it seemed every office in Berlin was fitted with a set. “You really had no idea, did you?” Hoffner said nothing and Wilson poured. “Amazing how he fell into our laps. But then, everything got tossed around in ’thirty-three, didn’t it?” Wilson recorked the bottle, took his glass, and sat back.
“I’m sure it’s easy to see it that way, from a distance.”
“No, no, I know,” Wilson said blandly. “I’m sure Georg was devastated. Angry. Six years with Ufa and they throw him out.” Hoffner’s eyes remained empty. “Ufa-Tonwoche has always been a second-rate newsreel studio,” Wilson said. “Georg was too good a cameraman and director to be stuck there. He was lucky to move on.”
“So you made him your offer before they found his work too degenerate?” Hoffner took his glass. “Or was that later when you recognized his talents and his anger?” He drank.
Wilson took another cigarette from the box and lit it. “I think I’m going to continue calling you inspector, Inspector. It’ll make me feel so much better about all this.”
“Is that in some manual someplace?”
Wilson smiled as he exhaled. It was his first honest expression in the last ten minutes. “I’m sure it is.” He took another pull. “You’re expecting me to say that my father was some old beat cop, tough, hard-drinking, and this is my way of making him proud.”
“No,” Hoffner said. He finished his own cigarette and began to crush it out. “Your father was a banker-Harrow, Eton-the same places you went. The only moment of real disappointment came when you chose Oxford over Cambridge-or Cambridge over Oxford-whichever let him know you were your own man.” Hoffner let go of the cigarette. “He finds the whole newsreel business silly, but if he only knew what it was you were really doing … Closer?”
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br /> To his credit, Wilson had kept his smile. “It was Winchester, then Cambridge.”
“My mistake.” Hoffner brushed the ash from his hands. “Old beat cops don’t produce men like you, Herr Wilson. They produce the boys who go and die for your principles.”
Wilson’s eyes showed a moment of genuine regard. Both men knew it had no place here.
Hoffner said, “I’ve been thinking of taking a trip to Spain.”
“Have you? Bit dodgy there right now.”
“I’m going after him.”
“No, I don’t think you are.”
“And why is that?” Hoffner watched as Wilson took a drink. “Where was he filming, Herr Wilson?”
“The retired Kripoman decides to go and-”
“Yes,” said Hoffner. “I know. Get himself killed. I’ve been warned.”
“Oh, I don’t care if you get killed.” There was nothing malicious in the voice, not even a hint of that very brave English self-sacrifice. Wilson was simply trying to move them beyond the obvious. “I’m sure that would be tragic in some meaningless way-and isn’t that always the worst sort of tragedy-but I just don’t think you’d be much good. Do you even have Spanish or Catalan?” Hoffner said nothing, and Wilson continued. “Nothing better than seeing a nice little German in his climbing boots and short pants, sweating his way from one cafe to the next, asking about his boy gone missing: ‘Excuse me, senor, do you speak German?’ ”
“And I imagine Georg was fluent?”
Wilson gave nothing away. “Now if the boy happened to be some sad-sack Communist or socialist out to fight back the new fascists, I doubt anyone pays much attention. More troubling when the boy works for a British newsreel company-and a Jew to boot-and his daddy starts asking around. You see where I’m going with this?”
Hoffner looked at the bald pate across from him; even the shine seemed more credible now. “You really think the SS doesn’t know exactly what you are?”
“What the SS does or doesn’t know isn’t my concern. I just don’t like helping them along. And if they’re interested in Georg, so much the easier to let his sixty-year-old father lead them right to him.”
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