The Good German (Bestselling Backlist) Page 31

  “She’d be better off with us, you know,” Shaeffer said, still calm.

  “She’s all right where she is.”

  But was she? The Russian had asked for her.

  “Want to tell me how you found her?” Shaeffer said, watching him. “We tried everything. No fragebogen, no neighbors, nothing.”

  “You might have tried his father. Why didn’t you, by the way?”

  “His father?” Shaeffer said, surprised. “His father’s dead.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Brandt told me so himself. I’m the one who debriefed him.”

  “You never mentioned that.”

  “You didn’t ask,” Shaeffer said, moving a checker into place.

  “Well, he’s alive. I saw him. Why would Emil say that?”

  Shaeffer shrugged. “Why didn’t you tell me where his wife was? People like to keep a little something back. Question of trust, maybe. He know anything?”

  “No, he hasn’t seen him either. Nobody has. Nobody since Tully. But you’re not interested in him.”

  Shaeffer looked down, smoothing out the sheet. “Look, let’s smoke a little pipe here. Since you’ve got your nose under the tent. I could use the help.”

  “Doing what?”

  “What you’ve been doing. We still have to find him. I’m out of commission. You’re not.”

  “No thanks to you. Let’s start with Tully and see how we do.”

  “They were friends at Kransberg. Well, friends. Brandt spoke English and Tully liked to listen. Late-night stuff. Brandt was the moody type. Depressed. How everything had gone wrong. You know, booze talk.”

  “Tully told you this?”

  “Well, it’s possible the rooms were bugged. So we could hear what the guests had to say.”

  “Nice.”

  “The Nazis put the taps in. We just took them over when we moved in.”

  “Some difference.”

  “I don’t think you understand how it is there. The scientists are bargaining. They want to make sure there’s work, some deal to get them out. So they don’t give everything all at once. A little at a time, to keep us interested. They check with von Braun before they tell us anything. I don’t blame them—they’re just looking out for number one. But we’ve got to know. Not just what’s on paper—what’s up here.” He tapped his temple.

  “All right, so they’re pals.”

  “And Brandt waltzes out of there and Tully drives him and no one tells us. So that by the time we do hear about it, he’s Mr. Innocent and Brandt’s gone and still nobody’s making the right connection.”

  “Which is?”

  “They think it’s a fuckup. Brandt cons Tully into giving him a pass. Just a nice guy.”

  “And you don’t think so?”

  “I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny either. I checked. The guy’s an operator. You know he was selling releases to Germans?”

  “I heard.”

  “A real piece of work. Twice sometimes—that’s how it came out. But they couldn’t prove it. His word against theirs. A bunch of Germans squealing. Who’s got time to investigate that? But Brandt—that’s something else. I get interested. And here’s the thing—it was Tully’s idea, skipping out. So I figure he’s up to his old tricks.”

  “Tully’s idea?”

  “Nobody thinks to check the taps,” Shaeffer said. “We only make transcripts when the guests are talking science. The rest of the time, our guys are reading a comic or taking a leak or something. So I get the monitor for that night and ask him what they were talking about. Nothing, he says, personal stuff. Like what? Nothing, Tully just told him they’d found his wife. Nothing,” he said sarcastically.

  “But they hadn’t.”

  “No. But I didn’t know that then. What I knew was that Tully’d got himself a paying customer. The one thing Brandt wanted. So I figure they negotiate a little private business. Brandt never made any noises about leaving before. He doesn’t clear it with von Braun—he just goes. Tully even drives him out. So when I hear that, I blow some whistles to yank Tully in, but by that time he’s gone too.”

  “To Berlin. Why?”

  “Payday, probably. They didn’t have money at Kransberg. I figured Brandt got the cash from his wife.”

  “But he never found her.”

  “Then Tully had one pissed-off German on his hands.”

  “No,” Jake said, shaking his head, thinking. “They didn’t meet up again in Berlin. Why would Tully want to do that if he’d lied about the wife?”

  “Well, I didn’t know he had. See? I told you we could use you.” He leaned back, turning it over. “But he came.”

  “Anything in the taps about friends in Berlin? Tully know anybody here?”

  Shaeffer glanced up at him. “He knew Emil Brandt.”

  “You trying to say Emil killed him?”

  “I’m trying to say I don’t care. I just want him back. Tully’s not important.”

  “He was important enough to shoot.”

  “Him? Maybe he just got in the way,” Shaeffer said irritably, adjusting his bandage.

  “Maybe,” Jake said. Like a girl taking pictures. “Be useful to know.”

  “Not anymore,” Shaeffer said, wincing now, distracted by the bandage. “All I know is, he was going to lead me to Brandt and he didn’t.” He looked up. “Glad to hear about the wife, though. That’s something. At least the bastard didn’t get paid.”

  “No, he got paid.” Jake looked again out the window, another jolt. With Russian money.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Shaeffer said, meaning the bullet. “What is it?” he said, following Jake’s stare.

  “Nothing. Just thinking.” Move her. He picked up his cap. “I’d better go. You want the nurse for that?” He nodded at the bandage.

  “Just thinking, huh?” Shaeffer said, studying him. Then his face hardened, back in the poster. “Don’t think too much. I want him back. I don’t care what he did.”

  “If he did.”

  “You just find him,” he said evenly, then smiled. “Christ, the wife. We could make a good team, the two of us.”

  Jake shook his head. “People get shot around you.” He looked out the window again. “What if the Russians already have him?”

  “Then I’d want to know that too. Where.”

  “So you can organize another raiding party? The Russians wouldn’t like that.”

  “So what?”

  “You might not be so lucky next time. Liz won’t be there to take one for you.”

  Shaeffer glared at him. “That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

  “All right, skip it.”

  He looked down. “I liked Liz. She was a good egg.” A kid in a soda fountain booth.

  “All right,” Jake said again, an apology.

  “You’ve got some fucking nerve. Anyway, what makes you so sure it was me? You can’t tell anything with the Russians. How did they even know I’d be there? Tell me that.”

  “Why were you? Shopping in the Russian zone—not the smartest idea in your line of work.”

  “That was Liz. She wanted a camera. I figured, why not? How would they know? How did they know?”

  “Maybe a greifer spotted you.”

  “What’s that? A kraut word?”

  “Sort of a lookout scout.” Jake started for the door, then turned. A greifer. “The name Sikorsky mean anything to you?”

  “Vassily?”

  “That’s right. He was in the market that day. Would he know you by sight?”

  Shaeffer looked away, silent.

  Jake nodded. “Make sure Breimer gets the guard.”

  “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” He pulled a gun out from under the sheet and patted it.

  Jake stood still for a second. Just a casual extension of his hand, like a fielder’s mitt. “You always keep one in bed? Or just lately?” He reached for the doorknob. “Better stay away from the window.”

  Shaeffer aimed the gu
n there, target practice. “A Colt 1911 will stop anything at this range.”

  Jake looked over at him. “A Colt 1911 stopped Tully too.”

  Shaeffer turned, frowning, still holding the gun. “Says who?”

  “The ballistics report.”

  “So? It’s a standard-issue piece of equipment. There are only about a million of them around.”

  “Not in German hands. Or do you think Tully gave him one with the pass?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That Emil didn’t do it. Not with one of those.”

  Shaeffer glanced up, then smirked. “That’s right, I remember. You think I did. ‘Where were you and Breimer on the night of—’ whatever the fuck it was.”

  “July sixteenth,” Jake said. “And where were you?”

  Shaeffer lowered the gun. “Go fuck yourself.” He put it back under the covers. “You don’t listen. I’m the only one who wanted him alive. He was going to lead me to Brandt, remember?” He stared at Jake for another second, then let it pass, shaking his head. “You’ve got a funny way of making friends.”

  “Are we? I’m still trying to figure that one.”

  Another sharp look. “Just find him.” Shaeffer sank back against the pillows with a grunt, forcing a smile. “You’re all alike, you guys. Smart talk. Always something smart.” He looked up, his eyes steel again, Aryan gray. “Just don’t forget whose uniform you’ve got on. We’re on the same team over here. The same team.”

  “Is that the same one Liz was on?”

  “Yeah, well,” he said, looking down. “Things happen, don’t they? Wartime.”

  “We’re not at war with the Russians.”

  Shaeffer looked over at the newspaper with its black headline, then raised his head. “Says who?”

  Afternoon light was streaming into the flat, but Hannelore was already putting on lipstick to go out.

  “A little early, isn’t it?” Jake said, watching her lean into the mirror.

  “It’s a tea party. It’s supposed to be early. A jause, no?”

  “A Russian tea party?” he said, amused. A table of stolid commissars, with the Mad Hatter pouring out.

  “No. My new friend, a Tommy. A real tea party, he said. You know, like before, with cups and everything.”

  Spiked, followed by another party on the couch.

  She blotted her lips. “You just missed Lena. She’s at Frau Hinkel’s. You should go too. You can’t imagine what she knows.”

  “She went to a fortune-teller?”

  “It’s not like that. Not a gypsy. She knows things, she really does.”

  Jake looked out the window toward Wittenbergplatz, searching the street. Windows fronting the square, exposed, the wonderful light suddenly a liability. “Hannelore? Have you noticed anyone hanging around outside? A Russian?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, gathering her purse. “He went back. He’s not looking for me.”

  “No, I meant—” he said, then stopped. Why would Hannelore notice anything?

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” she said. “It’s behind KaDeWe.”

  He locked the door behind them and followed her down the stairs. “Your friends,” he said. “Anyone know about another flat?”

  She turned, stung. “You want me to leave? This is my flat, you know. Mine. Just because I’m kindhearted—”

  “No, not for you. For Lena. Her own place. It’s an inconvenience for you like this.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind really. I’m used to it. It’s cozy, you know? And you’re so good about the food. How would we eat? And where would she go? Nobody has a flat unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless she has a friend. You know, important.”

  “Not like me,” he said, smiling.

  “No. A general, maybe. Someone big. That’s who has flats. And the whores.” A world of difference in her mind.

  A work party was clearing one edge of Wittenbergplatz, women in army trousers loading carts. In the hot sun, everything smelled of smoke.

  “He’s from London,” Hannelore said as they crossed the street, her high heels wobbling on the torn pavement. “Would I like it there, do you think?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, but it’s all the same now.” She spread her hand to take in the ruined square. “All like this.”

  “Not like this.”

  “Yes, they said so on the radio. During the war. Everything was bombed.”

  “No. Just a few parts.”

  “Why would they lie about that?” she said, sure of herself, Goebbels’ audience. “There,” she said when they reached KaDeWe. “In the next street. There’s a sign with a hand. How do I look?”

  “Like an English lady.”

  “Yes?” She fluffed her hair, looking in the shard of plate glass, still there, then waved him off. “Oh you,” she said, laughing, and teetered away toward the west.

  The sign was a crudely drawn palm with three lines sketched in—Past running along the top, Present through the middle, and a spur with Future snaking across the heel. How many wanted the upper part read now? Frau Hinkel was on the second floor, marked with a zodiac, and he opened the door to a crowd of women sitting quietly in chairs like patients in a doctor’s waiting room. Berlin had become a medieval city again, black markets to transmute watches into gold, witches to glimpse the future in a pack of cards. A few years ago they had measured the curve of light.

  But what did it matter? There was Lena, a surprised smile spreading across her face as he entered. A woman happy to see you, he thought, like nothing else, even better than good fortune. “Jacob,” she said. The others looked up at him, frankly interested, then lowered their eyes, the familiar reaction to a uniform. The woman next to Lena moved, making a place. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Hannelore.”

  “I know it’s silly, but she kept after me,” she said, still smiling, leaning close in a whisper, away from the others. “What’s wrong? You look so—”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just the day. I went to a trial.”

  “What trial?”

  But it was the smile he wanted, not another terrible story. Not Renate, not Gunther, not any of them. Blue skies. He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get out of here. Someone found me a boat. It’s still light—we could go for a sail.”

  “A boat,” she said, delighted, then frowned. “Oh, but I can’t. We’re expecting some children at the nursery. I have to help Pastor Fleischman. Don’t be disappointed. Tomorrow, all right? Look how dusty you are,” she said, brushing his arm, proprietary. “What?”

  “Just looking.”

  She flushed, then busied herself again with his sleeve. “You should have a bath.”

  “Hannelore’s just gone out,” he said, an invitation. “We’d have the flat to ourselves.”

  “Ssh.” She glanced over at the others.

  “You could take one with me.”

  She stopped moving her hand and made a face, mischievous, darting her eyes to signal that they were being overheard.

  He leaned closer, whispering. “I’ll tell you your fortune.”

  A small laugh, tickled by his breath in her ear. “Yes?” she said, then grinned. “All right. I’ll come some other time. It’s such a wait here.”

  But as they got up, a small boy, presumably a little Hinkel, darted behind the curtain into the other room, and before they could reach the door Frau Hinkel herself appeared, holding back the curtain and looking at Jake. “Come,” she said. “You.”

  Jake looked at the line of customers, embarrassed, but no one said a word, resigned to ceding place to soldiers. Lena pulled him toward the curtain, eager.

  The room, like Frau Hinkel, was plain and ordinary—no beads, no turbans and crystal balls, just a table with some chairs and a worn deck of cards.

  “The cards can tell us what is and what might be, but not what will be. Do you understand?” she said as they sat, a seer’s insurance policy
, but simply delivered, her voice soft and comforting. She held the deck out to Lena to shuffle.

  “You go first,” Lena said, nervous, not touching the cards.

  “I don’t—” Jake started, but Frau Hinkel had put them in his hands. An old deck, slick with use, the face cards looking like Hohenzollerns.

  When she started laying them out in rows, he felt an unexpected prick of apprehension, as if, despite all reason, they might actually reveal something. He knew it was just theater, a fairway con, but he found himself wanting to hear good news whether it was real or not, a fortune cookie’s message of happy journeys and long life, cloudless. But didn’t everybody? He thought of the tired faces outside, all hoping for a lucky sign.

  “You have lucky cards,” Frau Hinkel said, as if she had heard him. “You have been lucky in life.”

  Absurdly, he felt relieved. But was anyone unlucky here for twenty-five marks?

  “Yes, it’s good. Because you have been close to death.” A safe guess after years of war, he thought, beginning to enjoy the act. “But protected. Here, you see? By a woman, it seems.”

  He glanced up at her, but she was laying out more cards, covering the first set, absorbed in them.

  “A woman?” Lena said.

  “Yes, I think so. But perhaps simply by this luck, I can’t tell. A symbol. Now it’s the opposite,” she said, staring at the fresh row. “Now you are the protector. A risk, some danger, but the luck is still there. A house.”

  “The newsreel,” Lena said quietly.

  “There, again. The protector, like a knight. A sword. Perhaps a rescue. You are a warrior?” she said easily, the archaic word natural to her.

  “No.”

  “Then a judge. The sword of a judge. Yes, that must be it. There is paper all around you. Lots of paper.”

  “There, you see?” Lena said. “He’s a writer.”

  Frau Hinkel pretended not to hear, busy with the cards. “But it’s difficult for you, the judge. You see here, the eyes face in two directions, not just one, so it’s difficult. But you will.” She laid out another set. “You have interesting cards. Contradictions. The paper keeps coming up. The luck. But also deception. That explains the eyes, looking both ways, because there is deception around you.” Speaking as if she were working it out for the first time, what must have been a routine. “And always a woman. Strong, at the center. The rest—it’s hard to say, but the woman is always there, you keep coming back to her. At the center. May I see your hand?”