It went wrong from the start. The Russians, for no apparent reason, had set up a checkpoint at the Brandenburg Gate, and by the time Jake had shown his ID and was waved through he was late. He lost more time trying to find his way through the deserted shell of the Adlon, rescued finally by a man in a formal cutaway who appeared out of the dark like a ghost from the old days, a desk clerk without a desk. Given the damage, it seemed a miracle that anyone still lived here at all. The lobby and main block facing the Linden were smashed, but a rough path had been cleared through the rubble to a wing in the back. The clerk led him with a flashlight past small heaps of brick, stepping over them as if they were just something the hall maid hadn’t got around to yet, then up a flight of service stairs to a dim corridor. At the end, as surreal as the rest of it, was a brightly lit dining room, buzzing with Soviet uniforms and waiters in white jackets carrying serving dishes. The open windows looked down on the gaping hole where Goebbels’ garden had been, and Sikorsky sat near one of them, blowing smoke out into the night air. Jake had barely started toward him when a hand caught his sleeve.
“Whatever are you doing here?”
Jake jumped, more nervous than he’d realized. “Brian,” he said numbly, the florid face somehow surreal too, out of place. He was sitting at a table for four, with two Russian soldiers and a pale civilian.
“Not the food, I hope. Although Dieter here swears by the kohlrabi. Have a drink?”
“Can’t. I’m meeting someone. Interview.”
“You couldn’t do better than this lot. Took the Reichstag. This chap here actually planted the flag.”
“He did.”
“Well, he says he did, which comes to the same thing.” He glanced across the room. “Not Sikorsky, is it?”
“Mind your own business,” Jake said.
“You won’t get anything there. Blood out of a stone. You’ll be at the camp later? Ought to be quite a blowout.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you heard? The Rising Sun’s about to set. They’re just waiting for the cable. Be all over then but the shouting, won’t it? Six bloody years.”
“Yeah, all over.”
“Cheers,” Brian said, lifting his eyes toward Sikorsky as he raised his glass. “Watch your back. Killed his own men, that one did.”
“Says who?”
“Everybody. Ask him.” He drained the glass. “Actually, better not. Just watch the back.”
Jake clamped him on the shoulder and moved away. Sikorsky was standing now, waiting for him. He didn’t offer to shake hands, just nodded as Jake took off his hat and placed it on the table facing his, brim to brim, as if even the hats expected a standoff.
“A colleague?” Sikorsky said, sitting down.
“Yes.”
“He drinks too much.”
“He just pretends to. It’s an old newspaperman’s trick.”
“The British,” Sikorsky said, flicking an ash. “Russians drink for real.” He poured a glass from the vodka bottle and pushed it toward Jake, his own eyes clear and sober. “Well, Mr. Geismar, you have your meeting. But you don’t speak.” He took a puff from his brown cigarette, holding Jake’s eyes. “Something is wrong?”
“I’ve never looked at a man who wanted to kill me before. It’s a strange feeling.”
“You weren’t in the war, then. I’ve looked at hundreds. Of course, they also looked at me.”
“Including Russians?” Jake said, poking for a reaction. “I heard you killed your own men.”
“Not Russians. Saboteurs,” he said easily, unaffected.
“Deserters, you mean.”
“There were no deserters at Stalingrad. Only saboteurs. It was not an option. Is this what you want to discuss? The war? You know nothing about it. We held the line. Guns in front, guns at your back. A powerful inducement to fight. It was necessary to win. And we did win.”
“Some of you did.”
“Let me tell you a story, since you are interested. We had to supply the line from across the Volga, and the Germans had the shore covered from the cliffs. We unload the boats, they shoot at us. But we had to unload. So we used boys. Not soldiers. We used the children.”
“And?”
“They shot them.”
Jake looked away. “What’s your point?”
“That you cannot possibly know what it was like. You cannot know what we had to do. We had to make ourselves steel. A few saboteurs? That was nothing. Nothing.”
“I wonder if they thought so.”
“You’re being sentimental. We didn’t have that luxury. Ah,” he said to the waiter, handing him some coupons. “Two. There is no menu, I’m afraid. You like cabbage soup?” “It’s one of my favorites.”
Sikorsky raised his eyebrows, then waved the waiter away. “It’s as Gunther says. Fond of jokes. A cynic, like all sentimentalists.” “You’ve discussed me with him.”
“Of course. Such a curious mix. Persistent. What did you want? That, I still don’t know.” “Did you pay him too?”
“To discuss you?” A thin smile. “Don’t concern yourself. He is not corrupt. A thief, but not corrupt. Another sentimentalist.” “Maybe we don’t want to be steel.”
“Then you will not win,” Sikorsky said simply. “You’ll break.”
Jake sat back, staring at the hard soldier’s face, the shine of sweat literally metallic in the bright light. “Tell me something,” he said, almost to himself. “What happens when it’s over?” The old question, turned around. “The Japanese are going to surrender. What happens to it all then? All the steel?”
Sikorsky looked at him, intrigued. “Does it feel over to you?”
Before he could say anything, the waiter came with the food, his frayed white sleeve too long for him, almost dipping into the soup. Sikorsky began to eat noisily, not bothering to put out his cigarette.
“So, shall we begin?” he said, dropping a chunk of bread into, the soup. “You want to make conditions, you say, but you really have no intention of bringing Frau Brandt to us. So what are you playing at?”
“What makes you say that?” Jake said, thrown off-balance.
“She’s the woman I met in the Linden? Not just a friend, I think.” He shook his head. “No, no intention.”
“You’re wrong,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice firm.
“Please. But it’s of no importance. I’m not interested in whether Herr Brandt has his wife. Pleasant for him, perhaps; of no importance to me. You see, you have brought the wrong thing to the table. Next time, try coal, something that’s wanted. You can’t negotiate with this.”
“Then why haven’t you moved him?”
“I have moved him. The minute you told me where he was. If you knew, perhaps others know too. A precaution. Of course, perhaps not. You work on your own, Gunther says. He admires that in you. A man like himself, maybe. But he’s a fool.” He looked up from the soup. “We are not fools. So many make that mistake. The Germans, until we destroyed them.” He took the soaked piece of bread into his mouth and sucked it.
“But you kept him in Berlin,” Jake said, not letting it go.
“Yes. Too long. That was your Lieutenant Tully. Keep him, I may need his help, he said. A mistake.”
“Help in doing what?”
“Get the others,” Sikorsky said simply.
“Emil would never-”
“You think not? Don’t be too sure what a man will do. But as it happens, I agree with you. Not like Tully. Now there was a man who would do anything.”
“Like use Lena. To make Emil help.”
“I thought this too-that it was his plan. So, as you say, I looked for her-the bargaining chip. But now I see it was a mistake. Tully didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“About you. What use is a wife with another man? No use. The unfaithful Frau Brandt. You see, Mr. Geismar, you have come on a fool’s errand. You offer her-you pretend to offer her-but I want his colleagues, not his wife. She’s of no use to me anymore. She never was, it seems. Thank you for clarifying this matter. It’s time Brandt left Berlin. There’s no reason to keep him here now. Not at Burgstrasse. You knew that how? ”
“He was seen,” Jake said.
“By the Americans? Well, as I thought-better to move him. And he has work to do. A mistake, this waiting. Eat your soup, it’s getting cold.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You don’t mind, then?” Sikorsky reached over to switch the plates. “To waste food-”
“Help yourself,” Jake said, his mind still wandering, trying to sort things out. The bargaining chip. But Tully hadn’t looked for her. He’d gone to the Document Center. Had Sikorsky known? Still giving away nothing, eating soup. Behind them, Brian’s table had got louder, glasses clinking in a toast, a spurt of laughter reaching him like an echo as he stared at the soup plate. You’ve brought the wrong thing to the table.
“Why did you ask me here, then?”
“It was you who asked me,” Sikorsky said blandly, tipping his plate to spoon the soup.
“And you thought it would be amusing to tell me to go fly a kite.”
“Amusing, no. I’m not so fond of jokes as you. An idea of mine. A different negotiation. Something we both want. Shall I surprise you?” Try me.
“I’m going to take you to Emil Brandt.”
Jake looked down quickly, not trusting his own reaction. A white tablecloth, stained, Sikorsky’s blunt fingers resting against the spoon.
“Really. And why would you want to do that?”
“It would be useful. He is-what did you call it? Mooning. It’s true, he speaks of her. ‘When is she coming?’” he said, raising his voice in a falsetto. “It would be better for his work not to have these false hopes now. Would he believe me? But you, her sweetheart,” he said, twisting his mouth over the word. “You can say goodbye for her, and he can leave in peace. A small service.” He wiped the corner of his mouth, then crumpled the napkin on the table.
“You’re a real prick, aren’t you?”
“Mr. Geismar,” Sikorsky said, his eyes almost twinkling. “I’m not the one sleeping with his wife.”
“And when does all this happen?” Jake said, pretending to be calm.
“Now. He leaves tomorrow. It’s better, if the Americans know Burgstrasse. They will excite themselves. You can put their minds at rest too. He’s not coming back.”
“They’ll protest.”
“Yes, they like that. But he’ll be gone. Another who has chosen the Soviet future. Shall we go?” He reached for his hat.
“You’re going too fast.”
Sikorsky smiled. “The element of surprise. Very effective.”
“I mean we’re not finished. I still don’t have what I want.”
Sikorsky looked at him blankly.
“Information. That was the deal.”
“Mr. Geismar,” he said, sighing. “At such a moment.” He dropped the hat and took out another brown cigarette instead, checking his watch. “Five minutes. Your friend at the market? I’ve told you, an unfortunate-”
“You were there to point me out. Why?”
“Because you were a nuisance,” he said quickly, bored, waving some smoke away. “You’re still a nuisance.”
“To whom? Not to you.”
Sikorsky looked at him, not answering, then turned to the open window. “What else?”
“You said you wanted to know who killed Tully. Why?”
“Isn’t that obvious to you? My partner in crime, as you would say. Now we’ll have to arrange another source of supply. An inconvenient death.” He turned back. “What else?”
“You met him at Tempelhof. Where did you take him?”
“This matters to you?”
“It’s my story. I want to know the details. Where?”
Sikorsky shrugged. “To get a jeep. He wanted a jeep.”
“At the Control Council?” Jake said, taking a shot.
“Yes. Kleist Park. There are jeeps there.”
“And after?”
“After? It’s your idea that we should make a tour of Berlin? Be seen together?”
“You were seen at Tempelhof.”
“By whom?” he said, suddenly alert.
“By the woman you killed at Potsdam.”
“Ah,” he said, frowning, not quite knowing what to make of this, then brushed it away with some ash on the table. “Well, she’s dead.”
“But you were seen. So why meet him in the first place?”
“You can guess that, I think.”
“To give him money.”
Sikorsky nodded. “Of course. With him it was always money. Such a love of money. An American failing.”
“That’s easy for you to say when you print it with our plates.”
“Paid for with blood. You envy us that bookkeeping? We paid for every mark.”
“All right. So you paid him off for Brandt.”
“As a matter of fact, no. It’s important to you, these details? He was paid for Brandt when they arrived at the border. Cash on delivery.”
“Tully drove him to the Russian zone?” Not a weekend in Frankfurt after all.
Sikorsky leaned back, almost smug, a veteran telling war stories. “It was safer. To fly Brandt out would have been risky-easier to trace. He had to disappear, no trail. So Tully drove him. Not such a great distance. Even so, you know he demanded gasoline for the return trip? Always a little something extra. He was that kind of man. Another detail for you. He went back on Russian gas.”
“So why pay him at Tempelhof?”
“For future deliveries.”
“In advance? You trusted him?”
Sikorsky smiled. “You didn’t know him. Give him a little, he’d be back for more. You could trust him to do that. A safe investment.”
“Which you lost.”
“Regrettably. But it’s not important. As you say, we can print more. Now, you’re satisfied? Come, you can see the end of the story.”
“Just one more thing. Why do you care who killed him? That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it? To see what I could tell you.”
“And you have. You’ve told me what I want to know. You don’t know.”
“But why should it matter at all? You’ve got Brandt. You didn’t care about the money. Revenge? You didn’t give a damn about Tully.”
“About him, no. About his death, yes. A man drives off and is killed. A victim of bad company? In this case, I must say, nothing could be more likely-a man like him, not a surprising end. But the money is still there. Not so likely. Unless, instead, it’s something else. The Americans. If they know about our arrangement. In that case, some action would need to be taken before-well, before anything else happened. So what does our Mr. Geismar want? I wonder. Is he working for them? Then I watch your face as you move your pieces up, your questions, and I know. It’s only you. When you play chess with a Russian, keep something in reserve, Mr. Geismar, a piece in the back row. Now, enough foolishness.”
He reached again for his hat. Jake gripped the edge of the cloth, as if the table itself, like everything else, was slipping away. Do something.
“Sit down,” Jake said.
Sikorsky glanced up sharply, bristling, not used to taking orders, then slowly moved his hand back.
“That’s better. I don’t play chess. And you’re not as good at reading faces as you think you are. What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you? A man who tried to kill me?”
“Is that all? If I wanted to kill you, I could do it here. I still could.”
“I doubt it. Not with witnesses.” He jerked his head toward Brian’s table. “An accident in the market, that’s more your line. Too bad you didn’t do it yourself. I’ll bet you’re a good shot.”
“Excellent,” Sikorsky said, exhaling smoke.
“But a lousy judge of character. Let’s watch your face now and see what comes up. Tully wasn’t going to deliver anything, he was playing you for a sap. He was going home at the end of the week-don’t bother, it’s true, I’ve seen his orders. He was just collecting a little something extra before he ran out on you.”
Sikorsky stared at him stonily, his face showing no reaction at all.
“Mm. I thought so. Want more? He also had an appointment with a Public Safety officer. That interest you? It should. He liked to collect twice. Maybe you weren’t the highest bidder.”
“For what?” Sikorsky said quietly.
“What he was going to use to get to the others at Kransberg. A little going-out-of-business sale. And you can take my word for it, it wasn’t Emil or his wife.”
“Why should I take your word for anything?”
“Because I know where he went that day and you don’t. You just told me so yourself.”
“Where?”
“Well, if I told you, then both of us would know. What would be the sense in that? This way, I can buy a little insurance-something to keep your finger off the trigger. I’m too valuable to shoot.”
Sikorsky stubbed out his cigarette, rubbing it back and forth. “What do you want?” he said finally.
Jake shook his head. “Your information isn’t good enough. You see, you brought the wrong thing to the table. I don’t want to see Emil. You can tell him goodbye yourself.”
“You don’t want to see him,” he said skeptically.
“Not especially. But his wife does. All I wanted was to make an arrangement, as a favor to her. No skin off your nose, as far as I could see. But no. You just want to prove what a tough guy you are. Steel. So nobody gets what he wants.” He paused, then looked up. “She wants to see him. That’s still the deal. If I were you, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to move him-if you want us to have another little talk.”
There was a roar behind them as Brian, in his cups now, laughed at one of his own jokes.
“An old newspaperman’s trick,” Sikorsky said sarcastically. “This too, I think.”
“Suit yourself. I’d give it some thought. You know, suspicion’s a funny thing-it eats everything up. Even steel can rust. A Russian failing.” Now it was his turn to reach for his hat. “Anyway, thanks for the soup. When you change your mind, let me know.”
He stood up, so that Sikorsky was forced to rise as well, eyes still locked on his.
“It seems we’ve wasted our time, Mr. Geismar.”
“Not exactly. There was only one thing I wanted to know, and now I do.”
“One thing. Yet so many questions.”
“A newspaperman’s trick. Get people talking and they’ll usually tell you what you’re looking for.”
“Is that so?” Sikorsky said dryly. “And what have you learned?”
Jake leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “That it’s still going on. It didn’t end with Tully-you just want us to think so. That’s why you want me to see Emil-so I can tell everybody I saw him go and I know who his delivery boy was. Case closed. But it isn’t. You just told me so. Future deliveries. Emil had to disappear, no trace. Why? Tully gets killed. Game over? No, an inconvenience, just a hitch in the operation. Was he going home? Not the end of the world either. Why? Because he wasn’t working alone.” Jake leaned back. “It’s like Stalingrad, isn’t it? You’re still protecting your supply line. Tully wasn’t your partner, he was just one of those kids the Germans could pick off. Expendable. As long as the boats kept running. You don’t care who killed him, just whether we know how it all worked. And now here’s Geismar, sticking his nose in. He makes the connection to Tully, half the story. So let’s let him think he’s got it all, let’s even give him a goodbye interview. I told you you were a lousy judge of character. Do you think I’m going to stop? When this started, I thought I had a bad apple in the black market. Then it kept getting bigger and bigger. Not just Tully, not just Brandt. Not even just you. Now it’s a whole rotten barrel. With your supplier still in place, selling us out. That’s the story I want.”
Sikorsky stood still, expressionless. “If you live to write it.”
“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?” Jake said, nodding toward Sikorsky’s holster. “If you’re sure I’m the only one who knows. Are you?”
They stood facing each other for another second, not moving.
Jake put on his hat. “Checkmate.”
Sikorsky stared at him, then slowly raised his hand palm out in a stop sign. Then, resigned, he turned it down toward the table, gesturing to Jake to take his seat. “You are attracting attention.”
Sikorsky sat down, but even after Jake followed he said nothing, looking away toward the room, as if he were sifting through his options. Jake waited him out. How would he start? But Sikorsky stayed silent, apparently at a loss, his gaze stuck over Jake’s shoulder. Then, unexpectedly, he raised his eyebrows and smiled oddly, no more than a tremor of his closed mouth.
“You’re a poor chess player, Mr. Geismar,” he said, still looking past Jake.
“Am I?”
“Very. Even a poor player knows not to move up the queen.”
Now the smile broadened, almost a smirk, so that Jake turned to follow it, feeling some new disturbance in the room.
She was standing near Brian’s table, letting him take her hand, hair pinned up, the palm of sequins glittering on the front of her dress, the whole room quiet, looking at her. In the startled second that followed, Jake saw everything in a rush, a jerky loop of film-Brian kissing her hand, offering a drink, the Russians getting up, Lena shaking her head politely, then finally her face coming toward him, bold and determined, flushed with its own daring, the same face that had jumped off the sailboat into the Havel. He felt himself rise, the room skidding around him, but in the panic of everything going wrong what struck him, and wouldn’t let go, was the sequins, that she had dressed for Emil.
“Frau Brandt,” Sikorsky said, moving a chair. “An opportune visit. You’ve come to see your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Good. He’ll be pleased. Mr. Geismar here has refused our invitation. But you, I think, may feel differently.”
“Refused?” she said to Jake.
“The general isn’t interested in a meeting. They’re taking Emil east tomorrow,” Jake said evenly.
“East? But then-” She halted, stopped by his glance.
“Yes,” Sikorsky said. “So you see, opportune. Of course, you would be welcome too. An honored guest of the state.”
“You mean he’s leaving?” She turned to Jake, glaring. “Did you know this?”
“A little surprise from the general. We were just discussing a different arrangement. A later departure date.”
“Oh,” she said, looking down, finally aware. “A later date.”
“Unnecessary now,” Sikorsky said.
“I thought he wouldn’t believe you,” she said weakly, still looking down at the table.
“You were correct. My apologies,” Sikorsky said to Jake. He poured some vodka and moved the glass to Lena. “A drink?”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “Leaving. So I won’t see him.”
“No, no. Dear lady, you can see him now. That’s what I’m telling you.” He turned to Jake, enjoying himself. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he said smoothly.
Lena answered for him. “Yes. I want to see him. You can arrange that?”
Sikorsky nodded. “Come with me.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Jake said, moving his hand to cover hers. “You think I’m going to let her walk out of here with you?”
Sikorsky rolled his eyes. “Your friend is suspicious. Like a Russian,” he said, playing. “Calm yourself. We don’t go far. Upstairs. Then I’ll bring Frau Brandt back to you and we can finish our talk. An interesting conversation,” he said to Lena. “Mr. Geismar still has things to tell me.” He looked at Jake. “You’ll be the guarantee for her return.”
“Upstairs?” Jake said. “You mean he’s here?”
“I thought it better to keep him close. For his safety. And you see how convenient.”
“Had it all figured out, didn’t you?”
“Well, I did not expect Frau Brandt. Sometimes-”
“Then figure again. She doesn’t go. Not like this.”
Sikorsky sighed. “A pity. But it’s of no importance.”
Lena looked at Jake, then slipped her hand out from under his. “Yes, I’ll do it.”
“No, you won’t.”
“It’s my choice,” she said to him.
“As you say, Frau Brandt,” Sikorsky said. “Your choice. Have a drink, Mr. Geismar. We won’t be long.”
Jake looked from one to the other, cornered. Sikorsky moved his chair back.
“If she goes, I go with her.”
“You don’t think your presence would be intrusive?” Sikorsky said, amused.
“I won’t be watching them, just you. Try one move-”
Sikorsky waved his hand, brushing this away.
“All right,” Jake said, “then sit here nice and quiet while I tell Brian where we’re going. If we’re not back down in fifteen minutes, he’ll-”
“What? Bring in reinforcements? But you came alone.”
“You sure?” Jake said, standing.
“Oh yes,” Sikorsky said easily. “My men had instructions to inform me if you were followed. At the checkpoint.”
Jake stopped for a minute, taking this in. All figured out. And what else?
Sikorsky nodded toward the other table, where Brian was laughing. “A poor choice of hero.”
“Good enough to pull an alarm. I don’t intend to disappear without a trace. And you don’t want to make that kind of noise. Not you.”
“As you wish. And give him your gun.” He smiled. “Or did you intend to use it upstairs?” He wagged his forefinger. “A little trust, Mr. Geismar. Please.” He pointed to the gun, holding his gaze until Jake took it out and put it on the table.
Lena sat up, rigid, as if it were something alive, waiting to strike, there all along under the words. Jake watched her as he moved to the other table to speak to Brian. Her shoulders were straight and tense, and he saw that she was finally frightened, but as he came back, leaving an open-mouthed Brian, she got up without a word. When Sikorsky led them out of the room, even the waiters stopped to watch, caught by the flash of sequins.
The walk down the hall felt like a forced march, quiet and plodding. When they started up the stairs, Lena grabbed his arm, as if she were about to trip.
“I didn’t know,” she said, almost whispering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve ruined everything.”
“No, I’ll think of something,” he said in English. “He still wants to talk to me. Just see Emil and get out. Don’t wait.”
“But what about-”
“There’s enough light?” Sikorsky said from above.
“I’ll think of something,” he said, hushing her.
But what? The checkpoint, arranged. Emil ready to go. All the pieces moved into place. But Sikorsky wanted to talk, not sure what Jake knew. Ready for a bargaining chip, if Jake could think of one, something that might threaten the supply line. Where Tully had gone in his jeep that day, maybe, anything to play it out a little further, until Lena was safely away. Just one more move. Except Sikorsky always seemed one ahead.
There was no mistaking where they were going-a door with two guards in front carrying machine guns, menacing in an ordinary hotel corridor. The guards came to attention as Sikorsky approached, looking straight ahead as he swept past, ignoring them, and reached for the handle.
“Wait a minute,” Lena said, hesitating, flustered. “It’s just-so silly. I don’t know what to say.”
“Frau Brandt,” Sikorsky said, with almost comic exasperation, as if she were rummaging through her purse.
Lena took a breath. “Yes, all right.”
Sikorsky opened the door, letting her go first.
Emil was reading at a table near the window, jacketless, looking exactly the same, the only person Jake had seen in Germany who seemed not to have lost weight. The same dark hair and wire glasses, the same pale skin and drooping shoulders, all the same. When he turned and started to get up, too astonished to smile, his face turned soft. He gripped the back of the chair.
“Lena.”
For an instant, Jake could see him take in the good dress, the pile of blond hair, like the ghost of some old Adlon evening, his eyes moist, not yet ready to believe his happiness.
“Visitors, Herr Brandt,” Sikorsky said, but Emil seemed not to have heard him, moving toward her, still dazzled.
“They found you. I thought-” Then he was there, his face against her hair, his hand scarcely touching the back of her neck, as if a stronger physical contact would make her disappear. “How you look,” he said, his voice low and familiar. Jake felt a tiny nick, like a paper cut.
Lena moved back, his arm still around her, and reached up to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You’re well?”
He nodded. “And now you’re here.”
She dropped her hand to his shoulder. “It’s just for a little while. I can’t stay.” She saw his confused face and took another step back, out of the embrace, then turned to Sikorsky. “Oh, I don’t know what to say. What have you told him?”
Emil finally looked at the others, stopping, dumbfounded, when he saw Jake, a different kind of ghost.
“Hello, Emil,” Jake said.
“Jacob?” he said, uncertain, almost sputtering.
Jake stepped closer so that they were literally head to head, the same height, and now he saw that Emil had changed after all, the eyes no longer just shortsighted and vague but hollow, the life behind them scraped away.
“I don’t understand,” Emil said.
“Mr. Geismar has brought Frau Brandt to visit,” Sikorsky said. “He was concerned that she be returned safely.”
“Returned?”
“She has decided to remain in Germany. A patriot,” he said dryly.
“Remain? But she’s my wife.” Emil turned back to Lena. “What does it mean?”
“You will have things to say to each other,” Sikorsky said, glancing at his watch. “So little time. Sit.” He indicated a frayed couch. “Mr. Geismar, come with me. These are private matters, you agree? It’s safe-the same room.” He nodded to an open connecting door.
“He’s staying with you?” Jake said.
“A suite. Convenient for guests.”
For the first time, Jake looked around the small sitting room, shabby from the war, a crack running up the wall, the couch covered with Emil’s rumpled sheet. Guards outside.
“I don’t understand,” Emil said again.
“They’re sending you east,” Lena said. “It was a chance to see you. Before it was too late. There-how else to say it?”
“East?”
She nodded. “And it’s because of me, I know it. You were safe there. And now-all this,” she said, her voice catching. “Oh, why did you leave? Why did you believe that man?”
Emil looked at her, shaken. “I wanted to believe him.”
“Yes, for me. Like before. That last week, to come to Berlin-I thought you were dead. My fault. All these things, for me.” She stopped, lowering her head. “Emil, I can’t.”
“You’re my wife,” he said numbly.
“No.” She put her hand gently on his arm. “No. We have to make an end.”
“An end?”
“Come,” Sikorsky said to Jake, suddenly embarrassed. “We have other matters.”
“Later.”
Sikorsky narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “As you wish. In fact, it’s better. You can stay until he’s away. No one to pull the alarm. You can have the couch. You don’t mind? He says it’s not bad. Then we can talk as long as you like.”
“You said he was leaving tomorrow.”
“I lied. Tonight.” One step ahead.
“Talk about what?” Emil said, distracted. “Why is he here?”
“Why are you here, Mr. Geismar?” Sikorsky said playfully. “Would you like to explain?”
“Yes, why do you come with her?” Emil said.
But Jake didn’t hear him, his mind fixed instead on the hard eyes above Sikorsky’s smile. As long as you like. All night, waiting to hear something Jake didn’t know. Locked up here until he did. Worse than cornered-caught.
“But she leaves,” Jake said, looking directly at Sikorsky.
“Of course. That was the agreement.”
But why believe this either? He saw Lena being bundled onto a train with Emil, while he sat, helpless, in his Adlon cell, making up stories. I lied. They’d never let her go now.
Sikorsky put his finger on Jake’s chest, almost poking it. “A little trust, Mr. Geismar. We’ll give her to your friend. Then we’ll have a brandy. It loosens the tongue. You can tell me all about Lieutenant Tully.”
“Tully? You know Tully?” Emil said.
Before he could answer, there was an abrupt knock on the door, so unexpected that he jumped. Two Russians, chests half covered with medals, started talking to Sikorsky even before they were in the room. For a second Jake thought they’d come for Emil, but their attention was elsewhere, some crisis that involved quick spurts of Russian back and forth, a blur of hands, until Sikorsky, annoyed, waved them to the bedroom door. He glanced at his watch again.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to miss your explanation,” he said to Jake. “An interesting moment. Frau Brandt, there isn’t much time. I suggest you save the details for later.” He looked at Jake. “Send your husband a letter. Perhaps Mr. Geismar will help you with it.“ He raised his head and barked out something in Russian to the other room, evidently answering a question only he had understood. ”Of course, it’s better like this. The personal touch. But hurry, please. I’ll only be a moment-a small office matter, not so dramatic as yours.“ He turned to go.
“Why should he help you with a letter?” Emil said. “Lena?”
Sikorsky smiled at Jake. “A good starting point,” he said, then crossed over to the bedroom with another burst of Russian, leaving the door open so that the sound of him was still in the room.
Jake looked away from the door, his eyes stopping at the crack in the wall, another collapsing house, suddenly back there again, the creak of joists whistling inside his head. No newsreel cameras waiting outside this time, machine guns, but the same calm panic. Get her out before it comes down. Don’t think, do it.
“Why do you bring her?” Emil said. “What do you have to do with all this?”
“Stop it,” Lena said. “He came to help you. Oh god, and now look. Jake, what are we going to do? They’re going to take him. There isn’t time-”
He could hear the sound of Russian through the open door, low, like the rumbling of the settling wall in Gelferstrasse. He’d just walked out the door. A hero. People saw what they wanted to see. I’ll only be a moment.
“Time for what?” Emil said. “You come here together and-”
“Stop it, stop it,” Lena said, tugging at his sleeve. “You don’t understand. It was for you.”
He did stop, surprised by the force of her hand, so that in the sudden quiet the sound of Russian in the next room seemed louder. Jake glanced again at the crack. One more move. The element of surprise.
“No, keep talking,” Jake said quickly. “Just say anything. It doesn’t matter what, as long as they think we’re talking.” He took off his hat and put it on Emil’s head, lowering the brim, testing it.
“What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“Maybe. Keep talking. Lena, say something. They need to know you’re here.” He started tearing off his tie. “Come on,” he said to Emil, “strip. Hurry.”
“Oh, Jake-”
“He’s crazy,” Emil said.
“Do you want to get out of here or not?”
“Get out? It’s not possible.”
“Take off the goddamn shirt. What have you got to lose? They’re giving you a one-way ticket to Nordhausen, except this time you’re one of the guys in the tunnel.”
Emil looked at him, amazed. “No. They promised-”
“The Soviets? Don’t be an ass. Lena, help. And say something.”
She looked at him for an instant, too frightened to move, then Jake nudged her toward Emil and she started unbuttoning his shirt. Pale white skin. “Do what he says. Please,” she said. Then, raising her public voice, “You know, Emil, it’s so difficult, all this.” The words dribbled out, a kind of nervous gibberish.
Jake dropped the holster belt on the couch and unzipped his pants. “We’re the same size. Just keep the brim down on the hat. They don’t know me. All they’ll see is the uniform.”
Lena was keeping up a patter, but flagging. Jake stepped out of the trousers. This would be the moment. Caught literally with his pants down.
“Quick, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know about Nordhausen?” Emil said.
“I was there.” He flung the pants at him. “I saw your work.”
Emil said nothing, staring.
“Jake, I can’t do it,” Lena said, struggling with the buckle.
Wordlessly, almost in a trance, Emil unhitched it and dropped his pants.
“Right. Now it’s your turn,” Jake said to Emil. “Put these on and say something. Loud, but not too loud. Just a little spat. Lena, come here.” He nodded at Emil to start talking and took her by the shoulders. “Now listen to me.”
“Jake-”
“Ssh. You walk out of here with the uniform.” He jerked his head toward Emil, putting on Jake’s pants. “Like nothing happened. The guards don’t care about us, just him. We’re the visitors. Don’t say anything, just go. Casual, see. Then you go downstairs to Brian and get out fast. Tell him it’s an emergency, now, understand? But keep him with you. If Brian doesn’t have a car, take the jeep. It’s on the Linden, keys in the pants there, got that? Then go like hell. They’ll follow.
Don’t go through the Brandenburg, they’ve got a checkpoint. Okay? But fast. Pull Brian away if you have to. Go to the flat and stay there and keep him out of sight.“ He pointed his thumb to Emil, dressed now. ”Ready?“ he said to him, straightening the army tie. ”See, a real American.“
“What about you?” Lena said.
“Let’s get him out first. I told you I would, didn’t I? Now get going.”
“Jake,” she said, reaching for him.
“Later. Come on, say something,” he said to Emil. “And keep the hat down.”
“And if they stop us?” Emil said.
“They stop you.”
“You’ll get us all killed.”
“No, I’m saving your life.” Jake looked up at him. “Now we’re quits.”
“Quits,” Emil said.
“That’s right. For everything.” He reached up and took off Emil’s glasses.
“I can’t see,” Emil said feebly.
“Then take her arm. Move.” He reached for the door handle.
“If you do this, they’ll kill you,” Lena said quietly, a pleading.
“No, they won’t. I’m famous,” he said, trying for a smile but meeting her eyes instead. “Now, quick.” He turned the handle, careful not to make noise. “Don’t say goodbye. Just go.”
He stood behind the door, opening it for them, waving them out with a frantic shooing motion. A second of hesitation, more dangerous even than going; then she looked at him once more, biting her lip, and slipped her arm under Emil’s and led him out. Jake closed the door and started talking, so that his voice would reach the other room, reassuring everyone, even the guards, with the sound of conversation. Use your smart mouth. But how long would the Russians keep talking? In the hall by now, approaching the stairs. Just a few minutes, a little luck. Until Sikorsky came out and reached for his gun. Because of course Lena was right-they’d kill him. No more moves left.
He started buttoning Emil’s shirt, trying to think and talk at the same time. A holster belt on the couch. Why hadn’t he told them to pick up the gun downstairs, or would Brian be sober enough to grab it on his way out? Making his excuses at the table, following them across the field of rubble to the street, not running, stumbling in the dark. They’d need time. He looked around the room. Nothing. Not even a closet, a Wilhelmine armoire. The bathroom was next door, off the bedroom. Nothing but a door to the machine guns and a window to Goebbels’ garden. A soft landing, but not from two stories up. No, three, a hopeless drop. In prison movies they tied sheets together, a white braid, like Rapunzel’s hair. Fairy tales. He glanced again at the couch-one sheet, nothing to anchor it but the radiator under the windowsill, visible to the Russians through the open door. Even the simplest knot would take too long. They’d shoot before he made the first hitch.
He reached for the belt to Emil’s pants, wondering why he was bothering to dress at all. There had to be something, some way to talk himself past the guards. They all wanted watches, like the Russian behind the Alex. But he was Emil now, not a GI with something to trade. He looked toward the window again. An old radiator that probably hadn’t felt heat in a year, even with the control handle all the way open. Old-fashioned, shaped to match the door handle. From the next room there was a sudden burst of laughter. They’d be breaking up soon. How long had it been? Enough time for Brian to get them to the Linden? He talked again to the empty room, the scene Sikorsky had been sorry to miss.
He started threading the belt through the pants loops then stopped, looking up again at the window. Why not? At least it was something to minimize the drop. He picked up the holster belt. Thicker, not the same size. Still. He pushed the end into Emil’s buckle, squeezing it to fit, forcing the metal prong through the thick leather, then pulling it tight. If it held, the double length would give him-what? six feet? “Do you have any better ideas?” he said aloud, as if Emil were still there arguing with him. And the holster buckle was an open square, big enough to slip over the radiator handle, if he was lucky. I’m saving your life.
More laughter. He moved silently toward the doorway, sweating. He wiped his palm dry, wrapped the end of the belt around it, gripping it, and held out the buckle, fixing his eye on the radiator. If it took more than a second, he’d be dead. A short intake of breath for good luck, then he darted forward, slipped the buckle on the handle, and scrambled over the sill. A small clink of metal as it hooked on, evidently unheard over the Russian talk, then a strained grunt as he dropped, catching the belt with his other hand, holding on, trying not to fall, his feet dangling in open air. He held tight for an instant, not trusting the belt yet, then felt himself slipping, a raw burning as the leather slid through his hand until it reached the other buckle, something to grip. Both hands now, his entire weight hanging by a single brass prong, his arms beginning to cramp.
He looked below. Rubble, not a flower bed. He’d need all of the belt, every foot a hedge against a broken ankle. The windows in the back were holes in a smooth facade, no lintels, nothing to break his fall but a pipe that branched off from the corner and snaked across the wall. Europe, where they put the pipes outside. He tried to guess the distance. Maybe just close enough if he let the belt out, something to hold his feet until his arms came back. Then a close slide down, grabbing the pipe in time, a drop in stages. A cat burglar could do it.
He moved his hands carefully off the buckle, just an inch, to the thinner leather of Emil’s belt. One over the other, his hands stinging from the leather burn, as if he were gripping nettles. Still no sound from above, just his own ragged panting and the scrape of his shoes against the plaster. Almost at the pipe.
And then it gave. Either the radiator handle or the other buckle, impossible to tell which, broke off, and he plunged with the belt, his feet hitting the pipe and bouncing off, his hands reaching out for anything on the wall until they met the pipe and clutched, stopping his body with a wrench of his shoulders. He held on, his body jerking, trying to stop his legs from flailing, and then he was going lower again, the pipe bending, weakened, too light for his weight, a groan at the joint near the corner and then a crack, like a shot, as it snapped and a loud crash as he went down with it, metal clanging against the rubble and his own cry as his body smashed against the ground. For a moment he seemed to black out, an absolute stillness between breaths, then another piece of pipe clattered down and he heard shouts from the window, the air filled with noisy alarm, as if dogs had started barking.
Move. He raised his head, wet at the back, a flash of nausea, and rolled slightly on his shoulder, wincing from a sharp pain. His feet, however, seemed all right-just a dull ache in one of the ankles, throbbing with the shock of the fall but not broken. A white shirt anyone could pick out in the darkness. He rolled toward the wall and pulled himself up, bracing against it so that if he fainted he’d be falling backward, not into firing range. Louder shouts now, probably the guards. He sidled toward the recess of a doorway, still in shadow, then jumped, startled at the sound of the blasts, a machine gun firing at random down into the yard. The first thing he’d learned about combat-how the sound exploded in your ears, loud enough to reach inside you, right into the blood.
He pressed into the doorway, away from the bullets. Was it open? But the hotel was a trap, the last place he’d be safe. And what if they weren’t out yet? Head away from the Linden, a few more seconds of diversion. He looked around the yard, trying to fix its layout. An unbroken wall to the corner, then another, seamless. No, a gap where it had been damaged by shelling. Which might not lead anywhere, a rat hole. But the yard itself was impossible-one streak of his white shirt and the bullets would have him. And now there was more light, slim shafts from flashlights, darting in confusion, then raking steadily across the rubble, strong enough to poke into corners, picking up piles of debris and the dull gleam of the pipe, coming toward him. In a minute he’d be in the beam, trapped, like one of the boys huddling against the Volga cliffs, easy target practice.
He bent down, picked up a piece of brick, and hurled it right toward the broken pipe, a desperate ring toss. It hit. A sharp clang, with the flashlight beams jerking back, another burst of shots. Without even testing his ankle, he bolted left toward the gap, hearing the crunch of broken plaster under his feet, more shouts in Russian. Just a few more steps. Endless. Then the light was back, shining against the wall and the shelling hole, drawing fire again. He crouched down in a feint, making the light follow him, then leaped away from it and dived into the gap, rolling downward on his bad shoulder and covering his head as the bullets ripped into the plaster at the opening, a furious ricochet whistling, just a foot or so too high. His whole body shaking now, finally in the war.
He rolled again, away from the opening, on a floor covered with glass and scattered papers, office litter. Bullets still tore into the room, one of them hitting metal with an echoing zing. He took his hand away from the back of his head, sticky with blood, opened when he’d hit the ground in the fall, and thought of Liz’s throat, gushing. Just one bullet. All it would take.
And then suddenly the bullets stopped, replaced by more shouting. He kept rolling until he reached a hulk of metal, a filing cabinet, and crawled behind it, raising his head to look out. There were heads at all the windows now, looking at the yard, yelling to each other, but none at Sikorsky’s, the machine guns redeployed, no doubt racing down the stairs, already after him.
He felt his way through the dark room to another, heading toward what he thought must be Wilhelmstrasse, a diagonal from the Adlon wing. Keep going away from the Linden. The next room was lighter, open to the sky, and he saw that he had left the standing part of the building behind. Now there was just a small hill of rubble, then an open patch to the ruined shell of the front. He started running toward the street. They’d come through the courtyard behind. He’d have a few seconds to get out, melt into the ruins while they searched the back of the Adlon. But when he came to an opening, ready to spring, he could hear the boots clomping in the street. Front and behind.
He headed right, snaking his way around another mound of bricks, still parallel to the street. They’d go first to the room with the filing cabinet, hoping to find him dead, not down Wilhelmstrasse. He took in the street again through the building shell. Just keep going. Another room, big, with twisted girders sticking up like teepee frames. Behind him, he could hear the boots entering the building. All of them? One more room, quietly. He stopped. Not just rubble; a small mountain, even the shell collapsed in, a dead end in the maze. He’d have to go back. But the boots were there again, crunching, fanning out through the building. He looked up toward the dark sky. The only way out was over.
He started up the pile, terrified that a slip would dislodge the bricks, send them tumbling down like alarms. If he could make the top, he could get to the next building, breathing space while they searched this one. He reached up, shoulder aching, scrambling on all fours. Bricks moved, settling and falling away as he found one foothold after another, but no louder than small clinks, not as loud as the Russians, still yelling from room to room. But what if the mound dropped sheer on the other side, propped up by a standing wall?
It didn’t. When he reached the top, lying down, he saw that it became one of those aprons of rubble that spilled into the street, without a connection to the next building. He also saw, ducking his head, lights sweep into the street, an open Soviet military car, Sikorsky jumping out, gun in hand, then pointing the car down the street, away from the Linden. Sikorsky stood for a minute, looking everywhere but up, and it occurred to Jake that he could just lie here, perched on his mountain, the one place they’d never look. Until when? The morning sun caught his white shirt and they surrounded him with guns? Another car came down the street, idled while Sikorsky gave a direction, and moved on to Behrenstrasse, the next cross street down, blocking that route. Now the only way out was the unbroken western side of Wilhelmstrasse, if he could get there before the headlights lit up the street. He watched Sikorsky take one of the soldiers and head into the building. Now, while the car was still turning into Behrenstrasse.
He inched down the rubble on his back, as if he were sliding down a sand dune, but the bricks rolled with him, a small avalanche, not sand. In a few seconds they’d hear the clattering over their engine. He crouched, then took a breath and started running down the slope, pitched forward by gravity, flying, so that he thought he’d reach the pavement face first. He staggered from the jolt of hitting flat ground, then hurled himself down the street. How long before they turned? His shoes smacking the pavement now, in shadow and racing south, putting space between him and the wrecked ministry. Getting away with it. Until the air exploded again with a spray of bullets. The Behrenstrasse car, catching his shirt in its lights. He ducked but kept running, looking frantically for another open space in the wall of rubble. Shouts behind him, more boots-probably Sikorsky and his men responding to the gunfire, back in the street.
One long dark stretch, the other Soviet car visible now at the end, standing in the middle of the Voss Strasse intersection, by the Chancellery. Head right somewhere, behind the buildings, the wasteland near Hitler’s bunker. But the rubble ran in an unbroken line here. Shouts in the dark. There would be guards at the bunker, even at night, watching for looters. Who would they think he was, running away from guns? The street would end any second now, with the roadblock, and someone had started firing again, maybe at random, maybe at the pale glow of his shirt.
He swerved right off the pavement into a dark space in the rubble. A cul-de-sac, like a moon crater, one of its rims backing onto the Chancellery itself. He thought of Liz snapping pictures. The long gallery and then the smashed office opening out to the back. No one would be collecting souvenirs now. He clambered up another apron of rubble to the ground-floor window and vaulted through, finally out of the street. He stayed down for a minute, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and started across the room, hitting his shin against an overturned chair, then retreated back to the wall, feeling his way toward the next window. More light here, just faint enough to see that the long gallery was still a mess, a minefield of broken furniture and fallen chandeliers. He moved farther along the wall, avoiding the booby traps of debris in the center. Shouts outside again. They would have reached the roadblock, would be doubling back now to pick their way through the ruins, a rat hunt. Get to the end of the room somehow, toward the bunker. Maybe the guards hadn’t been alerted yet. The element of surprise.
He had reached another chair, stuffing spilling out of the ripped upholstery, when the tall doors banged open, flung back in a hurry. He dived behind the chair, holding his breath, as if even a slight rasp would give him away. Sikorsky with a few men, one of them a Mongol guard from outside. Machine guns and flashlights waving around the still hall. Sikorsky motioned with his hands for them to spread out. For another second no one moved, letting the noisy echo of their entrance die down, then Sikorsky took a step toward the wall with the chair and Jake froze, the back of his neck tingling. Not fear; a trickle of blood running down, soaking into the shirt. How much had he lost?
“Geismar!” Sikorsky shouted into the air, another echo, looking now toward the end of the gallery, where the office and garden windows were. “You cannot leave here.” Not through the garden anyway, and not back into the street either. “No more shooting. You have my word.” All the while motioning to the others to begin their sweep, guns ready. In Stalingrad they’d fought building by building, a war of snipers. “We have Brandt,” he said, cocking his head to hear a reply. Jake let out a breath, half expecting it to echo. But did they? No, they’d raced around the Adlon too fast, not stopping for anything. A poor chess player.
Sikorsky nodded and his men began to move with their flashlights, only one of them left stationed by the door. But armed. Jake followed the lights. They’d sweep to the end, then back, until they were sure. No way to get to the garden. He raised his head a little, glancing out the window. Distract the Mongol, make a break for it across Voss Strasse. But the open car was there at the corner, ready to fire, maybe a second Mongol still posted on the steps. Back the way he had come, to the moon crater? Every step echoing in the giant room, no weapon except a splintered armrest. Endgame.
The Russians were nearing the end of the hall, shining lights into the office where GIs had chipped off pieces of Hitler’s desk. Two of them dispatched to check the room, then back, returning now toward Jake’s end. How many? Four, plus Sikorsky. He heard the crunch of glass, a chandelier globe caught underfoot. Minutes. Then they stopped, heads swiveling, alert to a sound. Had Jake moved, paralyzed behind his chair? No, a different sound, not in the room, getting louder-a pop, a grind of motors, raucous whoops. Jake strained a little closer to the window, looking out. Rumbling down Wilhelmstrasse, almost in the headlights. “It’s over!” he heard in English. “It’s over!” Football game yelling. Then he could see the jeep, soldiers standing with beer bottles, fingers raised in Churchill Vs. In the light now. Americans, like some phantom rescue party out of Gunther’s westerns. If he could get through the window, he’d be almost there. The Russians at the roadblock, too stunned to react, looked around in bewilderment, not knowing what to do. Then, before Jake could move, the GIs, still whooping, started firing into the air, victory fireworks. “It’s over!”
But all the Russians heard was gunfire. Startled, they started firing back, a machine gun strafing the jeep, one GI flung back, then whirling, falling forward over the windshield.
“What the fuck are you doing?” a GI screamed, the reply lost under another barrage of shots.
Then the GIs were crouching, firing too, into the roadblock, and Jake saw, horrified, that it was the Potsdam market again, a confusion of screams and bullets, real combat, men actually going down in the crossfire.
Inside the Chancellery, Sikorsky’s men raced toward the doors, stumbling over pieces of debris, shouting to each other. Gunfire must mean that Jake was out there. They ran out onto the steps, saw the American jeep at the roadblock, and started firing. The Russians in the street, caught by surprise shots from the side, automatically swerved and fired back. Open stairs, nowhere to hide. The Mongol was hit first, falling headlong, the others ducking. Sikorsky yelled out something in Russian, then clutched his stomach. Jake watched, amazed, as he sank to his knees, bullets still raking the columns behind him. “Fuck! Ed’s hit!” somebody yelled. Another round into the blockade from the jeep. Then a hoarse scream in Russian from the steps, and all at once it stopped, the soldiers in the roadblock looking, dazed, at the Chancellery, Sikorsky still kneeling there, his uniform finally visible to them as he rolled over.
“Are you fucking crazy?” the GI yelled, bent over his friend. “You shot him!”
The Russians, crouching for cover, held their guns out, waiting to see what would happen, not ready to believe they weren’t under attack.
“You shoot!” one yelled in broken English.
“You idiot! We’re not shooting. You’re shooting. It’s over!” The soldier took out a handkerchief and waved it, then stepped tentatively out of the jeep. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
A Russian stood up beside the car and took a step toward him, both holding their guns. Then no one said anything, a stillness you could touch, the others beginning to move from their places in slow motion, staring at the bodies in the street, appalled. The Russian looked toward the steps, terrified, as if he expected to be punished, still not sure what had happened. The Mongol, not dead, called out something, and the Russian just kept looking, stupefied, not even moving when Jake limped out of the building, went over to Sikorsky, and picked up the revolver near his hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” the GI called, spotting him. A man in civilian clothes.
Jake looked down at Sikorsky. His eyes were glazed but he was still alive, breathing hard, struggling for air, his front coated with blood. Jake knelt down next to him, holding the revolver. The other Russians still didn’t move, confused, as if Jake were another inexplicable phantom.
Sikorsky twisted his mouth in a sneer. “You.”
Jake shook his head. “Your own men. It was your own men.”
Sikorsky looked toward the street. “Shaeffer?”
“No. Nobody. The war’s over, that’s all. The war’s over.”
Sikorsky grunted.
Jake looked at the stomach wound, welling blood. Not long. “Tell me who he was working with. The other American.”
Sikorsky said nothing. Jake moved the revolver in front of his face. The Russian in the street stirred but made no move, still waiting. What would they do if he fired? Start killing each other again?
“Who?” Jake said. “Tell me. It can’t matter now.”
Sikorsky opened his mouth and spit at him, but weakly, without force, so that the strand of saliva fell back on his own lips.
Jake put the gun closer to his chin. “Who?”
Sikorsky glared at him, still sneering, then looked directly into the gun. “Finish it,” he said, closing his eyes.
The only one who could tell him, slipping away, the last thing that would go wrong. Jake looked at the closed eyes for another second, then took the gun away from Sikorsky’s face, drained.
“Finish it yourself. It took my friend about a minute to die. The one you killed. I hope it takes you two. One to think about her. I hope you see her face.”
Sikorsky opened his eyes wide, as if in fact he were looking at something.
“That’s right, like that. Scared.” Jake stood up. “Now take another for the kids in the boat. See them?” He stared for another second, Sikorsky’s eyes locked on his, even wider. “Steel,” he said, then walked down the stairs, not turning even when he heard the strangled gasp behind him. He handed the gun to the stunned Russian.
“Will somebody tell me what the fuck is going on here?” the GI said.
“Speak German?” Jake said to the Russian. “Get your men out of here.”
“Why did they shoot?”
“The Japs surrendered.” The Russian looked at him, dumbfounded. “These men are wounded,” Jake said, suddenly dizzy. “So are yours. We have to get them out. Move the car.”
“But what do I say? To explain?”
Jake looked down at a Russian in the street, spattered with blood. As stupid and pointless as it always was.
“I don’t know,” he said, then turned to the GI, feeling the back of his head. He brought his hand back down, bloody. “I’m hurt. I need a ride.”
“Jesus.” The GI turned to the Russian. “Move, you fuck.”
The Russians looked at them both, uncertain, then waved his hand at the driver to start the car.
In the party jeep, the men moved to make a place, one of them still holding a beer bottle.
“So the war’s over?” Jake said to the GI.
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