The man turned to him. “Do I?”
Hoffner was having trouble matching the gaze. “The drugs. I assumed-”
“What? That Communists can’t peddle drugs? We run it as a collective, if that makes you feel any better. Are even the good Germans like this now?”
Hoffner found himself staring into the man’s eyes even as the words gutted him. “No,” he said quietly. “They’re not.”
“And you believe that?”
It was all Hoffner could do to answer. “I’m trying to find one of the good ones. My son. I assume your Vollman is another.”
The man studied him. There was a moment’s uncertainty. “Your son?”
“Yes. A filmmaker.”
Again the man waited. Hoffner saw another moment in the eyes before the man said, “The boy from Pathe Gazette?”
It was said so easily, and yet Hoffner felt it to his core. Georg had been here. Hoffner nodded.
The man thought something through and then turned to Piera. “Your son, Piera,” he said. There was regret in the voice. “I was sorry to hear about that.”
“So was I,” said Piera. “You know where this Vollman is?” The man nodded and Piera said, “Then you’re lucky. I would have broken the arm.”
The man knew every twist and bend of the Raval’s back alleys. Piera had stayed behind. The morning’s events had taken it out of him. Still, he was in better shape than the one with the beard. The knee was already the size of a melon. Piera offered no apologies.
They drew up to a building and the man pulled out a set of keys. The alley was empty. Even so, he peered off in both directions. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and ushered Hoffner in.
Four worn wood stairways later they stood in front of a single door, and it was through here that they discovered the sleeping Karl Vollman.
The room was a nice molting of chipped plaster and paint, with a tiny sink and spigot wedged into one corner. Water stains-browns and yellows-provided what color there was, while an angled window looked out on endless lines of clothes drying in the heat. Everything smelled of rust. Had there been an easel and a few stacks of drying canvas, Hoffner might have hummed the first bars of “Che gelida manina,” but the place was too hot for frozen little hands, and there didn’t seem to be much hope in it, even if Vollman was sleeping soundly.
Vollman was in undershirt and trousers, with his shoes neatly at the foot of the bed. Even sleeping, there was a power to the body, the arms pale and muscular. Most distinctive, though, was the shock of white hair on a man no more than fifty.
Hoffner’s guide stepped toward the cot and placed a hand on Vollman’s shoulder. Vollman remained absolutely still until he took in a long breath and suddenly bolted upright. The sinew in the chest tightened and then released.
The man said, “Karl.” He spoke in German.
Vollman stared straight ahead. He rubbed his face briskly and began to nod. It was only then that he noticed Hoffner.
“Monsieur,” said Vollman. “Je suis soulage que vous soyez ici. Etes-vous pret a partir?”
Hoffner needed a moment. “What?”
The man from the club said, “He’s saying-”
“I know what he’s saying,” said Hoffner. “He thinks I’m taking him to Paris.”
Vollman spoke in German. “Yes.”
Hoffner said, “You think it’s not safe for you here.”
“No.”
“And why is that?” Hoffner always felt a moment’s regret watching a man’s eyes give in to the truth.
Vollman said, “Who is this?”
Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to Vollman. “My name is Hoffner.” He took one for himself. “I believe you know my son.”
Paris faded.
Hoffner thought he would see a few moments of calculation in the eyes-how else were chess men meant to react? — but Vollman showed nothing. He just sat there, remarkably well-shaven, although his shirt and trousers did show several days of sleep and sweat.
Hoffner said, “You’re here because of my son.”
Vollman focused. He looked over, reached for the cigarette, and placed it in his mouth.
Hoffner said, “I’m sorry for that.”
“Is he dead?”
Hoffner lit Vollman’s cigarette, then his own. “No.”
“You know that for certain?”
Hoffner let the smoke stream from his nose. He said nothing.
Vollman stood and headed for the sink. “I ran out of German cigarettes about a week ago,” he said. “Don’t much like the Spanish ones.” He placed the cigarette on the edge of the sink and pulled a hand towel from some unseen hook. He began to wet it. “Leos here doesn’t smoke, so he doesn’t care.”
The man from the club said, “I’ve different things to care about.”
Vollman ran the cloth along his neck and forehead. “That’s always a good excuse, isn’t it?” Vollman rinsed his mouth, placed the towel back on the hook, and retrieved his cigarette. “He has no idea why he’s protecting me. That makes him a good friend, so I forgive him the cigarettes. You’ve come all the way from Berlin, so you must have a great deal that needs forgiving.”
Hoffner felt oddly at home with a man like this.
Vollman said, “You should go, Leos.”
The man from the club waited and then looked at Hoffner. He said, “I’ll take Piera to the Ritz. Two hours. If you don’t show, I’ll kill him. Fair enough?”
Hoffner liked when things were made this clear. He nodded.
“And you give my friend here your cigarettes,” the man said. “So I don’t have to hear him whine about it anymore.”
Hoffner tossed the pack onto the cot as the door pulled open and shut behind him.
Vollman was not a Jew. It was the least surprising thing about him, even if he did come from a long line of true believers-years spent organizing in the working-class districts of Berlin, with a few scars on his right arm to show for it. He had been at school in Switzerland with all the best revolutionaries and had even spent time with Lenin before the mad dash to Moscow. That Lenin had gotten it completely wrong, and paved the way for Stalin and his thugs, hardly had Vollman giving up on the Soviet experiment just yet. Stalin would have his chance to make things right here in Spain; all would be forgiven if the tanks and planes and men began pouring in.
That said, it wasn’t all that unusual a story until Vollman decided to explain why he was in Spain. He had come as a special envoy of the Unified State Political Administration, working with its foreign department, what he referred to as INO through OGPU. Hoffner stared blankly, and Vollman simplified: he was, for lack of a better term, an agent of Soviet Intelligence. And while that might have been staggering on its own, it seemed even more implausible that Vollman should feel the need to share the information with Hoffner. Yet even that seemed reasonable enough.
“What else would I be?” Vollman said easily, as he lit his third cigarette. He was sitting on the cot. “Why else would Georg and I have been in touch with each other? Birds of a feather.”
Hoffner took a long pull and nodded as if this made any real sense to him.
Vollman said, “I’m not saying anything you don’t know.”
Hoffner realized it was in his best interest to agree. “It’s a recent piece of information, but yes. I knew why Georg was here.”
Vollman reached for his shoes. “You haven’t made some horrible mistake, have you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Vollman began to lace up. “It’s rather funny if you think about it. Three Germans in Spain-a civil war-one working for British Intelligence, one for Soviet Intelligence, and one”-he finished lacing and looked over-“one looking for the other two.”
Hoffner felt the slightest threat of violence slip into the room. “I’m looking for just one,” he said.
“And yet you’ve found the other.”
There was nothing to be gained in retreat. Hoffner dropped his cigarette to the floor and
began to crush it under his shoe. “You could get to Paris any time you like, couldn’t you?”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Your friend Leos seems to be going to great lengths to get you there.”
“He does, doesn’t he? Did you take a few cracks at him yourself? He’s been very good at letting people thrash him on my behalf.”
“It’s very kind of you to let him.”
Vollman’s gaze turned to a smile. It was an odd reaction, odder still to see genuine warmth in it. “It’s a sweet little line-the kindness of my cruelty. I imagine it once had a place.”
There was nothing mocking in Vollman’s tone, more nostalgia than derision. Hoffner was moving well beyond his depth.
Vollman said, “It’s only cruel if that sort of cruelty still exists-the one where a man uses another, wittingly or not, in the name of some larger cause. ‘I will sacrifice you, Leos…’ ” Vollman watched as the words floated out the window. “It’s such a dangerous thing to rely on-sacrifice. Even more ridiculous to ask it of someone. Are we such fools as to think there’s nobility in any of this?”
Hoffner imagined Georg standing in his place, sifting through a conversation built on unspoken truths and unadorned lies, and only then did he realize that he had no idea what his son might be capable of.
Hoffner said, “So, a German socialist working for Soviet communism-and there’s no great cause? I find that highly unlikely.”
“My cause was Germany. Same as yours. That’s long gone. It’s now just making sure the world keeps things balanced.”
“Comrade Stalin never struck me as such a pragmatist.”
“Who said anything about Stalin?” Vollman flicked a bit of ash to the floor. “A grotty little attic-never been the place for ideologies and five-year plans, has it?”
Hoffner was thinking another chair would have been nice right about now. “So the true believer turns out to be not so true. I imagine there’s something sad in that.”
“Why? Would you really want a zealot holed up in here?”
“It’s a long way from this to a zealot.”
“Is it? All it takes is the word ‘truth’ or ‘message’ or ‘cause’-or ‘sacrifice.’ I don’t much cotton to those. For me it’s always been much easier to look at the more practical side of things. Guns, tanks, planes. Who has them, how they get more. That’s why Georg was here. That’s why I’m here. To see how these Spanish generals plan to wage their war. And who they plan to get their weapons from. The practical. That’s why he told me you’d be here.”
Hoffner was getting tired of meeting himself through other people’s eyes. “I’m surprised he mentioned me.”
“No, you’re not. He said you’d come if things went sour. He was actually proud of that.”
Hoffner needed a moment; there was too much caught in his throat to find an answer. “So things have gone sour?”
“He’s been out of touch for what-four days, maybe five?”
“A week.”
Vollman’s eyebrows rose as if to make his point. “That’s not good.”
“No.”
“And you think you’ll just go off and find him?”
“I found you, didn’t I?”
Vollman liked the answer. He moved past it quickly. “The world has never been so ready to declare its allegiances. They’ll all be shipping themselves into Spain by the truckload in the next weeks, months, and every one of them with his arm raised in whatever salute suits him best. It’s a terrible thing to know how pointless it’s all going to be.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Of course I’m here. Who else is going to make sure all those theories and truths don’t muddy what really matters?”
Hoffner nodded quietly. “That balance you and Georg and all the rest of your attic-dwelling friends are keeping safe for us. How lucky for me to be able to thank you in person.”
There was no ruffling Vollman. “Georg might tell you he sees something more in it, something nobler-that can get a man in trouble-but I wouldn’t hold it against him.” Vollman finished his cigarette and began to crush it against the metal leg of the bed. “As for the rest of us, we know exactly why we’re in Spain. We’ve come for the dry run. Germany, Italy, England”-he dropped the butt to the floor-“Comrade Stalin. We’re here to see how it all works before moving onto the big stage. The Spanish have always had such remarkable timing.”
“Your sacrificial lambs.”
Vollman’s smile returned. “They’ve led themselves to the slaughter. There’s no sacrifice in that.”
Hoffner wondered how long it took a man to rid himself of any feeling for the world beyond him: a month, a year, a lifetime watching his own truths ground down to nothing? Easier, then, to toss them all away and damn the world for still trying.
“So your friend Leos,” Hoffner said. “He thinks he’s protecting a frightened little chess player up here, even though the anarchists are running the streets. So what’s he protecting you from?”
Vollman reached for another cigarette; it was clear why he had run out so quickly. “I’m just a poor helpless refugee,” he said, as he lit up. “Leos thinks I might have overheard something or seen something at his club. I need to get out of this war-torn country.”
“And yet here you sit-waiting.”
“Barcelona’s always been much better after dark.”
“And he has no idea what you do then, after dark?”
“It’s all a bit loose-Leos doesn’t press-but there might be a few people who’ve taken an interest in me.”
“And how long have the SS been in Barcelona?”
Vollman spat something to the floor. “A week, ten days. Not early enough to have saved it for themselves.”
“But early enough to have known about Georg?”
Vollman took another pull and let his head rest against the wall. He waited until the smoke had streamed from his nose. “You wouldn’t still be clinging to any hopes of something noble in this, would you? That would be a disappointment.”
“I asked about Georg.”
“Of course you did. And of course they knew. There are never any great surprises in this. Not for those of us who sleep in shithole attics. It comes down to who gets the guns and where they get them from. And how long they can keep it a secret. We know it. The British know it. The Nazis know it. That’s why ideology is meaningless. Something else Georg said you’d understand.”
The truth, once untapped, was such an easy thing for men like this. They used it like a weapon. “So he’s looking for guns?” said Hoffner.
“And planes and tanks and ships and anything else they might try to get through to the generals in the south. Franco has thirty thousand troops sitting in Morocco. He needs to move them across the water to the mainland, and he needs something for them to fight with once he gets them across. It’s a little game. The Nazis say they won’t send in the guns, and everyone says they believe them. And then we all go looking for the way the Nazis will send in the guns. It’s more about the where and the how than the what.”
“And Han Shen’s?”
Vollman stared across at Hoffner. It was another few moments before Hoffner saw it.
“The opium lines,” Hoffner said.
“Nice little network for delivery, if you think about it.”
Hoffner hadn’t. “And the Nazis-they think they can use the drug lines to supply guns for the fascists?”
“They did a week ago.”
“And now?”
Vollman shrugged, took another pull, and tossed the match to the floor. “That depends on whether they know who’s running it. If they think it’s still the Chinese, the Nazis will send the guns. Naturally they won’t know it’s Leos and his Communists who’ll be getting them. That’ll make the Barcelona anarchists stand up and take notice of their clever little Communist friends. Duping Berlin. Nice twist, don’t you think?”
“And if the Nazis have figured it out?”
“Then there’ll be a lot of dead Chinese and dead Communists. That’s the way things always go at the beginning. Trial and error.”
There wasn’t even a hint of feeling. “And Georg knew all this?”
Vollman took another pull. He seemed to be deciding whether to mislead or enlighten. “He was following something south,” he said. “Down to Teruel. Something to do with the guns. That’s my gift to you.”
“So who are Bernhardt and Langenheim?” Hoffner thought it time for a little strafing of the truth of his own.
Vollman had been at this too long, though, to show any kind of reaction. He continued to stare across before taking a final pull. “You should get to the Ritz. Leos isn’t one for idle threats.”
“And Hisma?” said Hoffner.
The silence this time was too long. Vollman said, “You should go.”
“I imagine Georg expected me to pass those names along.”
“He’s a clever boy.”
“It’s B-E-R-N-”
“Yes,” said Vollman. “You’ll need to head south if you want to find him.”
“And you’ll be here in Barcelona?” Hoffner knew there would be no answer. He waited and then moved to the door. He had the handle in his grip when Vollman said, “Pawn to queen bishop three. It’s the Caro-Kann defense. My specialty. Leos likes to know I’m safe.”
Hoffner had his back to him. So this was what safety felt like, he thought. He nodded and opened the door.
The wide avenue of the Rambla was up and moving as Hoffner made his way through the heat. Open-backed trucks carrying men and rifles, men and grain, men and pigs, trundled between the lines of trees, careful to avoid the still uncleared piles of brick and stone. A week ago trucks like these, then filled with boys eager for the fight at Huesca or Zaragoza, or maybe even as far west as Madrid, had been cheered on by the thousands. Even now the frenzy of those first few days hung in the branches-hats and scarves tossed high and abandoned-but who could deny the sound of victory still echoing in the leaves?
Vollman had talked a great deal; he had said almost nothing. It was clear he recognized the names in the wire: Langenheim and Bernhardt. Hisma might have been something new to him-or maybe Hoffner just wanted to think that-but at least things were now on the table. This was about guns and the way the Nazis would get them into Spain. And Georg had been sent to expose that. In a world gone mad on truths and malice, ideologies and sacrifice, this was nothing more than a boy’s playground game. Smack the bully and make him cry. That tens of thousands of Spaniards might have to die in the process hardly seemed to matter.
The Second Son bt-3 Page 15
