It was Gunther who chose the place.
“Not the station. It’s too exposed. And there’s Herr Brandt to consider. ”
“Emil? I’m not taking Emil.”
“You must. It’s Brandt he wants. He won’t show himself for you.” He got up with his coffee, cold sober, and walked to the map. “Imagine what he’s thinking. He can’t lose him again. If you’re alone, what has he accomplished, even if he kills you? Still no Brandt. No, he wants a simple pickup. You don’t suspect anything, so he surprises you, and he takes Brandt away. Or both of you. You for later. But the meeting must happen somewhere he can’t risk drawing attention. If he kills you there, he’ll lose everything. You need that protection.”
“I can take care of myself,” Jake said, touching the gun on his hip.
Gunther turned, the beginning of a smile on his face. “So it’s true. Americans say such things. I thought only in Karl May.” He glanced at the bookshelf. “But in real life, foolish, I think. In real life, you get protection.”
“Where? I still have to do it alone. There’s no one I can trust.”
“Do you trust me?” He caught Jake’s eye and, almost embarrassed, turned back to the map. “Then you won’t be alone.” “You’re going to cover me? I thought you-”
“Someone has to. In a police operation, always use a partner. Two set the trap. One, the cheese. The other, the spring. Snap.” He clicked his fingers. “He thinks he surprises you, but I surprise him. Otherwise-” He paused, thinking. “But we need protection.” “There’s nowhere in Berlin with that much protection.” “Except tomorrow,” Gunther said. “What occurred to me was to use the American army.” “What?”
“You know they parade tomorrow, all the Allies. So we meet here,” he said, putting his finger on Unter den Linden. “In the Russian zone?”
“Herr Geismar, even the Russians won’t shoot you in front of the American army.” He shrugged. “Very well.” He moved his finger left, past the Brandenburg Gate. “The reviewing stand will be here, inside the British zone.” “Just.”
“It doesn’t matter, as long as the army is there. So, opposite the reviewing stand. Stay in the crowd.”
“If I’m that protected, why would I go away with him?” “Well, he might have a gun in your back. Discreet, but persuasive. That’s what I would do. ‘Come quietly,’” he said in a policeman’s voice. “They usually do.”
“If that’s the way the Russians play it.”
“They will. I’m going to suggest it to them.” He turned from the map. “The problem is, we don’t know. I would feel better if we knew who to expect. Now we wait until the last minute-his surprise. You can set the trap, but a surprise is never safe. Logic is safe.”
“I know, follow the points. Find anything in the persilscheins?” Jake said, glancing at the table.
“No, nothing,” Gunther said glumly. “But there must be some point we’re missing. There is always a logic to a crime.”
“If we had the time to look for it. I’m out of leads. My last one died with Sikorsky.“
Gunther shook his head. “No, something else. There must be. I was thinking, you know, about Potsdam, that day in the market.”
“We know that was him.”
“Yes, but why then? It must be a point, the when. Something happened to make him strike then. Why not before? If we knew that-”
“You don’t give up, do you?” Jake said, impatient.
“That’s the way you solve a case, logic, not like this. Traps. Guns.” He waved his hand toward the bookshelf. “Wild West in Berlin. You know, we can still-”
“What? Wait for him to pick me off while you work it out? It’s too late for that now. We have to finish it before he tries again.”
“That’s the logic of war, Herr Geismar, not a police case.” Gunther moved away from the map.
“Well, I didn’t start it. Christ, all I wanted was a story.”
“Still, it’s as you say,” Gunther said, picking up his funeral tie from the table. “Once you begin, nothing matters but the finish.” He began threading it under his shirt collar, not bothering with a mirror. “Let’s hope you wink.”
“I’ve got a good deputy and the U.S. Army behind me. We’ll win. And after-”
Gunther grunted. “Yes, after.” He looked down at the tie, straightening the ends. “Then you have the peace.”
The afternoon at the flat was claustrophobic, and dinner worse. Lena had found some cabbage to go with the B-ration corned beef, and it sat on the plate, sodden, while they picked around it. Only Erich ate with any enthusiasm, his sharp Renate eyes moving from one sullen face to another, but even he was quiet, used perhaps to wordless meals. Emil had brightened earlier at the news that he’d be turned over tomorrow, then lapsed into an aggrieved sulk, spending most of the day lying on the couch with his arm over his eyes, like a prisoner with no yard privileges. The ersatz coffee was weak and bitter, merely an excuse to linger at the table, not worth drinking. They were all relieved when Rosen turned up, grateful for any sound louder than a tense clinking spoon.
“Look what Dorothee found for you,” he said to Erich, handing him a half-eaten bar of chocolate and smiling as the boy tore off the foil. “Not all at once.”
“You’re good to him,” Lena said. “Is she better?”
“Her mouth is still swollen,” he said. A slap two nights before from a drunken soldier. “Too swollen for chocolate, anyway.”
“Can I see her?” Erich said.
“It’s all right?” Rosen said to Lena and then, when she nodded, “Well, but remember, you must pretend she looks the same. Thank her for the chocolate and just say, Tm sorry you have a toothache.‘”
“I know, don’t notice the bruise.”
“That’s right,” Rosen said softly. “Don’t notice the bruise.”
“Can I do anything?” Lena said.
“She’s all right, just swollen. My assistant will fix her up,” he said, handing Erich the bag. “We won’t be long.”
“And that’s the life you give her,” Emil said to Jake when they’d gone. “Whores and Jews.”
“Be quiet,” Lena said. “You’ve no right to say such things.”
“No right? You’re my wife. Rosen,” he said dismissively. “How they stick together.”
“Stop it. Such talk. He doesn’t know about the boy.”
“They always know each other.”
Lena glanced at him, dismayed, then stood up and began to clear. “Our last evening,” she said, stacking the plates. “And how pleasant you make it. I wanted to have a nice dinner.”
“With my wife and her lover. Very nice.”
She held a plate for a second, stung, then dropped it on the stack. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s no place for a child here. I’ll take him to Hannelore’s tonight.”
“You can’t get back before the curfew,” Jake said.
“I’ll stay there. It’s no place for me either. You can listen to this nonsense. I’m tired.”
“You’re leaving?” Emil said, caught off-guard.
“Why not? With you like this. I’ll say goodbye here. I’m sorry for you. So hurt and angry-there’s no need to end this way. We should be happy for each other. You’ll go to the Americans. That’s the life you want. And I’ll-”
“You’ll stay with the whores.”
“Yes, I stay with the whores,” she said.
“You’ve got a nerve,” Jake said.
“It’s all right,” Lena said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t mean it. I know him.” She moved toward him. “Don’t I?” She lifted her hand to place it on his head, then looked at him and dropped it. “So angry. Look at your glasses, smeared again.” She took them off and wiped them on her skirt, familiar. “There, now you can see.”
“I see very well. How it is. What you’ve done,” he said to Jake.
“Yes, what he’s done,” she said, her voice resigned, almost wistful. “Saved your life. Now he’s giving you a chance for a new one. Do you see that?” She lifted her hand again, this time resting it on his shoulder. “Don’t be like this. You remember in the war-how many times? — we wondered if we would survive. That’s all that mattered then. And we have. So maybe we survived for this-a new life for both.”
“Not all of us survived.”
She moved her hand away. “No, not all.”
“It’s convenient for you, maybe, that Peter’s gone. In your new life.”
Only her eyes reacted, a quick wince.
Jake glared at him. “Listen, you bastard-”
Lena waved her hand, stopping him. “We’ve said enough.” She looked down at Emil. “My god, to say that to me.”
Emil said nothing, staring at the table.
Lena went over to the bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a snapshot.
“I have something for you,” she said, carrying it over. “I found it with my things.”
Emil held the picture in front of him, blinking, his shoulders sinking as he studied it, everything softening, even his eyes.
“Look at you,” he said quietly.
“And you,” Lena said over his shoulder, so intimate that for a second Jake felt he was no longer in the room. “Would you like it?”
Emil looked up at her, then pushed the photograph away and stood, holding her eyes for another minute before he turned and without a word crossed the floor and closed the bedroom door behind him.
Jake picked up the picture. A young couple, arms around each other on a ski slope, goggles pushed up over their knit caps, smiles as broad and white as the snow behind them, so young they must be someone else.
“When was this?” he said.
“When we were happy.” She took the picture from him and glanced at it again. “So that’s your murderer.” She put it down. “I’ll get Erich. You can do the dishes.”
“Don’t look for me. I will see you,” Gunther had said, and in fact when Jake and Emil arrived at the parade he was nowhere in sight, hidden somewhere in the crowd of uniforms that bunched around the Brandenburg Gate and then straggled out through the wasteland of the Tiergarten on the Charlottenburger Chausee. The Allies had won even the weather-the humid, overcast sky had turned bright and cloudless for the parade, with a breeze strong enough to flap the marching rows of flags. Posters of Stalin, Churchill, and Truman hung from the arch, and through the columns Jake could see the troops and armored vehicles beginning to flow toward them down the Linden, thousands of them, with more crammed along the pavement to cheer. There were only a handful of civilians-grim-faced curiosity seekers, small bands of apathetic DPs with nowhere else to go, and the usual packs of children, for whom any event was a distraction. The rest of Berlin had stayed home. Along the gray avenue of charred tree stumps and ruins, the Allies were celebrating themselves.
When Jake got to the reviewing stand the first bands had already passed, an overture of blaring horns. He thought of the other parades here, five years ago, the trees of the Linden shaking from the heavy thud of boots back from Poland. This was looser and more colorful, the French almost playful in their red pompoms, the British marching so casually they seemed already demobilized, shuffling home. The spit and polish had been left to the 82nd Airborne, wearing shiny helmets and white gloves under shoulder straps, but with the music and scattered applause the effect was more theatrical than military, show soldiers. Even the reviewing stand, with bunting and microphones for speeches later, rose up from the street like a stage, filled with generals in uniforms so elaborate they looked like bassos ready to burst into song.
Zhukov was the gaudiest, both sides of his chest lined with medals that ran all the way to his hips. Next to him, Patton’s plain battle jacket and few ribbons had a kind of defiant simplicity. But the drama was in the positioning. Zhukov, front and center, would take a step forward only to find Patton moving up with him, so that by the time he reached the railing, finally upstaged, they had become a bobbing vaudeville turn of generals. The press responded, snapping pictures from their own viewing stand, and Jake saw that even General Clay, usually somber, was trying to suppress a smile, almost winking at Muller, who answered with a tolerant roll of his eyes, silver-haired Judge Hardy still, suffering fools. For a second Jake wished he were just covering it all for Collier’s — the noisy air, the absurd jockeying, the backdrop curtain of the burned-out Reichstag in the distance. An interview with Patton maybe, who would remember him and was always good copy. Instead, anxious, he was searching the crowd for a face. What he thought, as more troops marched by, was that he had never seen so many guns in his life and that Gunther had been wrong, he didn’t feel protected at all. Any one of them, milling around, waiting to make a move.
“We’re going to watch the parade?” Emil said, puzzled.
“We’re meeting somebody,” Jake said, glancing at his watch. “It won’t be long.”
“Who?”
“The man who got you out of Kransberg.”
“Tully? You said he was dead.”
“His partner.”
“So it’s another trick. No Americans.”
“I told you, I need you as bait. Then we’ll go see your pals.”
“And the files?”
“It’s a package deal. They get you both.”
“You won’t do that.” You re sure.
“You can’t. Think what it will mean for Lena, a trial.”
“Wonderful how you’re always thinking of her. Listen, you’re getting out with your life. That’s more than you can say for the workers at Camp Dora.”
Emil’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Then go to hell,” he said, turning to go.
Jake grabbed his arm. “Try it and I’ll shoot you in the foot. I’d enjoy it, but you wouldn’t.” They looked at each other for a moment, stalemated, then Jake dropped his hand. “Now watch the parade.”
Jake scanned the crowd. Not a single familiar face. But why would it be someone he knew? On the stand Zhukov had leaned farther against the railing, ready to take the salute from his lancer unit. More stage uniforms, a pounding thud of jackboots, swords actually drawn and raised, flashing in the light, but no longer comic, Goebbels’ old warning, the scourge from the east. A small huddle of DPs turned and started away from the crowd, looking back at the swords, and Jake saw in the cowed hunch of their shoulders that it was really a Russian show, all of it, the rest of the Allies harmless extras. The message wasn’t victory but the crushing boots. No one can stop us. It was a parade out of the next war. Smiles faded on the stand. What happens when it’s over, he’d wondered. Another.
It was then, watching the Russians, that he felt the poke in the small of his back.
“Quite a show.”
He whirled around, hand on his holster.
“Steady,” Brian said, surprised by the abrupt movement. “Hello again,” he said to Emil. “No uniform this time, eh?”
“What are you doing here?” Jake said. Brian? But he’d already had Emil once.
“What do you mean? Everybody’s here. Nothing like a parade. Just look at old Zhukov. Bloody Gilbert and Sullivan. Coming to the press stand?”
“Not now, Brian. Scram.”
But Brian’s eyes were fixed over Jake’s shoulder at the lancers. “Be in Hamburg before Christmas by the looks of them.”
“I mean it. I’ll see you later.” He glanced to either side of him, expecting Gunther to arrive, everything happening too soon.
“You might let me wait out the swords. You don’t want to get in the way of that.” He turned, peering at Jake. “What is it? What are you doing now? ”
“Nothing. Just scram,” Jake said, still looking nervously to the side.
Brian stared at him, then Emil. “Three’s a crowd? Right. I’m off. Save you a place?”
“Yeah, save me a place.”
“If young Ron lets the rope down. I’ve known headwaiters with better manners. Christ, here come the pipers.” He looked again at Jake. “Watch yourself.”
He pushed his way through to the front, hesitating as the last of the Russians passed, then sprinted across the sudden gap to the viewing stands. Jake lost him as he picked his way through the crowd to the back stairs of the press stand, then saw him reappear on top, talking to Ron. Why not Ron? Who’d left the dinner table at Gelferstrasse that night to play poker but could have gone to the Grunewald. Who now had the perfect vantage point to spot Jake in the crowd, waiting for the right moment, a nod of the head to close the trap. But neither he nor Brian was looking in Jake’s direction, busy with themselves. Jake checked his watch. Where was Gunther? Only a few minutes to the agreed time-he had to be in place somewhere nearby. Then why hadn’t he come forward when Brian approached them? What if it had been him, smoothly leading them away without even a snap of the spring?
He almost jumped when the bagpipes started wailing, cutting right to the nerves. On the stand, the British now stepped forward, rearranging the line so that the visiting dignitaries with the generals came into view. Breimer, just behind Clay, in a double-breasted suit, who stayed and stayed, with unfinished business in Berlin. Jake imagined how it might happen-the sighting from the stand, the quick excuse to the others, the unsuspected walk across to Emil, a waiting car. Jake looked behind. No car. And Breimer would never risk anything himself. He was where he belonged, on a speakers’ platform, out of combat. Even Ron was more likely. He glanced back at the press stand. Huddled now with a cameraman, lining up shots of the parade. No one, in fact, was looking toward Jake. But someone must be.
Unexpectedly, the pipers stopped for a demonstration, a blast of jangling air, forcing the unit behind them to mark time. Jake moved his head slowly from left to right, as if he were looking through binoculars, tracking across a field. What combat always came down to: a hunt for prey, every sense on edge, watching for a sudden movement. But everything here seemed to be in motion. People came and went along the parade line, the generals shuffled in the stand, even the stationary pipers were working their bags. Heads bobbed in the crowd, straining to see or falling back for a smoke. A field full of deer, moving at will, none of them stopping long enough to stay in a rifle sight. He turned in a complete circle, away from the parade, taking in the Tiergarten. Already past time and still no Gunther. I can take care of myself. But could he? As he turned back to the parade, sweeping the stands again for a face, it occurred to him that he had got it backward-he was one of the deer, alert but not knowing what to look for. The hunter, lying still, would be watching him.
He was following the pipers as they started up again when he caught it, a flicker near the corner of his eye, the only thing in the swirl before him that was not moving. Absolutely still. A row of pipers passed. If it turned away, he’d be wrong, but another row of heads went by and the dark glasses were still fixed on him. Maybe just watching the parade. Then Shaeffer raised his hand, as if he were going to salute, and took off the glasses, folding them with one hand and slipping them into his pocket without even blinking, his eyes steady on Jake, hard as steel. Not even a nod, just the eyes. Only the mouth moved, more a grim tic than a smile. Snap. Shaeffer. Another row and now they were locked on each other, that split second in a hunt when no one else was in the field. Not surprised to see him, knowing he’d be there, waiting for the crosshairs to clear. Jake held his breath, caught by the eyes. We won’t know who, Gunther had said, but now he did, there was no mistaking the look. Not surprised. The man who’d come for him.
The bagpipes were almost gone and Shaeffer took a step forward, but the waiting unit behind moved up into place, blocking him with a new row of heads. How long before he could cross? Near the Brandenburg Gate there was a clunking roar, like thunder, and involuntarily Jake darted his eyes toward the line of march. Soviet tanks, heavy and massive, crunching the already torn pavement and coming fast, refusing to be idled. Shaeffer hadn’t even bothered to look, his eyes still frozen where they had been, on Jake. Sikorsky’s face in Liz’s picture, ignoring the crowd at Tempelhof. Shaeffer. Follow the points. Who had the right gun. Who’d debriefed at Kransberg-the perfect opportunity, the perfect cover. Above suspicion for netting the Zeiss engineers-worthless? — while he was cherry-picking the rocket team instead. Who could have tipped off Sikorsky before the Adlon meeting. Who looked for the files. And finally, all that really mattered, who was here, knowing Jake would be here. And who was now waiting to cross the street.
Jake looked quickly behind. No Gunther, just an exposed swatch of park. Two to spring a trap. But why bother at all? All he’d wanted was to know. The point now was to get Emil away before Shaeffer could get to him. The jeep was farther down the chausee, close but too far to reach if someone chased them. Another look to the side, the only place Gunther could be. No civilians, only uniforms. I want you to betray me, he’d said, and maybe Gunther had, keeping his options open after all. Or had Shaeffer got to him already, keeping him somewhere, making sure? Jake took Emil’s arm and saw Shaeffer lift his head and step forward again, ready to spring.
“What is it?” Emil said, annoyed.
If they moved, he’d bolt across, right through the marchers. Jake scanned the crowd again, all oblivious except Shaeffer, no protection at all. Wait for the tanks. Even Shaeffer wouldn’t make a dash through rolling tanks. Hold his eye, make him think they’d wait, stuck.
“Listen to me,” Jake said in a monotone, barely moving his lips, not wanting Shaeffer to read any expression in his face. “We need to get over to the press stand. After the tanks. When I say go, just follow me. Fast.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Never mind. Just do it.”
“Another trick,” Emil said.
“Not mine. The Russians‘. They’ve sent someone for you.”
Emil looked at him, skittish. “For me?”
“Just do what I say. Get ready.”
A clanking of heavy metal as the tanks ground into place before the stand. Zhukov raised his arm, puffed up and solemn. Below him, Shaeffer stood rigid, eyes still looking across, as if he could see through the steel plates as well as the gaps in between. When half the unit had passed, the tanks slowed to a halt, motors still throbbing as they began revolving their gun turrets in a display salute. For an instant, as the row of guns turned in place, Shaeffer disappeared behind the long barrels. Now.
Jake started moving left, toward the front of the unit, but the guns kept swinging around and Shaeffer spotted them through the suddenly empty space. His head jerked up, alarmed, and he left the curb, darting across between two rows of tanks. How long would it take? Seconds. Jake glanced behind. Still no Gunther. No one, in fact. An exposed back. The gun turrets had almost finished circling, the tanks ready to start up again, an impenetrable moving wall soon, with Shaeffer on their side of the parade.
Jake grabbed Emil’s arm and dragged him in front of the nearest row of tanks, his protest drowned out by the deafening motors. Run. Could anyone in the high turrets see them, ignore the command to start moving? A crunch as the gears shifted. Jake yanked at Emil’s arm, sprinting as the creaking tread belts began to roll forward. Jog to the left, ahead of the row. One slip to fall underneath. They were almost at the last tank when he saw it was coming too fast to outrun. He stopped short, steadying himself as Emil bumped into his suddenly still body, and stood wedged sideways between two tanks, waiting for the column to pass. Just enough space after this one if he timed it right. He stared at the treads, almost counting them, then lurched forward the moment the tank passed. “Go!” he shouted, tugging at Emil’s sleeve and pulling him toward the amazed spectator line, barely missing the next set of treads, but there, finally across.
“Where’s the fire?” a soldier said to him, but he kept going, pushing through bodies until they were surrounded, just part of the crowd. They were behind the press stand before he stopped, taking in a gulp of air.
“Are you crazy?” Emil said, panting, his face white.
“Go up there and stay with Brian-the man from the Adlon. He knows you. Try to keep out of sight. And don’t go anywhere, with anyone. Got it?”
“Where are you going?”
“To make a diversion.”
“It’s still not safe?” Emil said, worried.
Wasn’t it? Who would snatch them in front of the press corps, safer in the end than the army itself? But who knew what Shaeffer would do? His last chance.
“He’s still out there. He may not be alone.” A man who could get Russian uniforms for a raiding party. Jake turned.
“You’re leaving me here?” Emil said, glancing around for an opening, ready to bolt.
“Don’t even think about it. Believe it or not, I’m the best chance you’ve got. So we’re stuck with each other. Now go on up. I’ll be back.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Then all your problems will be over, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Emil said, looking at him. “They will.”
“But you’ll be on a train to Moscow. Plenty of time to think things over then. Right now, just do what I say if you want to get out of here. Come on. Now.”
Emil hesitated for an instant, then placed his hand on the wooden rail of the stairs and began to climb. Jake squeezed his way back to the front of the spectators. Get Shaeffer’s attention before he looked toward the stand. But the eyes were already there, frantically searching through the crowd on Jake’s side, then stopping, a surprised glowering, when they caught his face. Another Russian unit was passing in tight formation. Head away from the stand. Jake started to move left, just behind the front row, still visible but surrounding himself with other heads, so that Emil’s might be one of them. Across the street, Shaeffer followed, his tall frame stretching up over the crowd to keep Jake in sight. Jake pushed toward the thicker crowds at the gate, brushing past clumps of indifferent GIs. Away from the stand. He glanced over the columns of marchers. Still there, head turned toward Jake as he moved, the same determined eyes, exasperated, waiting for a break in the line. He must have seen by now that only Jake’s head was moving down the street, Emil left somewhere behind. Why keep coming? Not a diversion anymore, a running to ground. First Jake, then go back for Emil. Who would believe him, relieved to see the friendly debriefer, and close his own trap.
Up ahead, Jake could see the Big Three draped on the Brandenburg. After that the street widened out into Pariserplatz, a bulge of crowd where it would be easier to get lost. More Russian troops, rifles shouldered, the tall blond head keeping up with Jake across the rows of gray tunics. Beyond them, past the gate, a halt in the march, a gap big enough to use. Shaeffer would cross there. Jake went faster, trying to put more distance between them. He edged past the gate into the crowded square. A band was playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” He glanced behind. Shaeffer, just as he’d thought, was running across the open space before the band could fill it. On his side now. Jake looked up the Linden, the sidewalks lined with Russians. He’d have to melt into the crowd, backtrack toward the Reichstag. But the crowd was denser here, a cover but also an obstacle, slowing him down. Behind, over the marching band, he heard Shaeffer shout his name. Lose him now. He pitched forward as if he were wading through mud, his body ahead of his feet.
The Russians were less good-natured than the GIs, grumbling as he passed through them, and he knew, stuck in a wall of bodies, that he wasn’t going to make it. Did it matter? Shaeffer wouldn’t shoot in this crowd. But he wouldn’t have to. The Russian zone, where people disappeared. A formal inquiry, a shrug of shoulders over toasts. Why had he left the stand? Shaeffer couldn’t risk exposure in the west. But here Jake could be swallowed up without anyone ever knowing. Even if he made a scene, he’d lose. Russian MPs, a quick call to Sikorsky’s successor, and only Shaeffer would go back. Nothing would have happened. Missing, like Tully.
“ Amerikanski” the Russian said as Jake bumped into him.
“Sorry. Excuse me.”
But the Russian was looking ahead, not at him, where some American troops were following the band. He stepped back to let Jake pass, apparently thinking he was trying to join his unit. Don’t forget whose uniform you’ve got on. He looked at the parade. Not the showy 82nd; ordinary uniforms like his own, Gunther’s protection. He ducked his head, crouching down out of Shaeffer’s line of sight, and wormed his way through to the curb, keeping low as he darted into the march. A few Russians on the edge laughed-hungover, a familiar scrambling, sure to catch hell later. He sidestepped ahead of the moving ranks and near the middle of the row nudged a soldier aside to make a place, joining the line.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’ve got an MP after me.”
The soldier grinned. “Get in step then.”
Jake skipped, a fumbling dance move, until his left foot matched the others, then straightened his shoulders and began swinging his arms in time, invisible now just by being the same. Don’t look back. They were passing the point where Shaeffer would be, head swiveling, furious, plowing through the Russians, looking everywhere but at the parade itself.
“What did you do?” the soldier mumbled.
“It was a mistake.”
“Yeah.”
He waited to hear his name shouted again, but there was only Sousa, tinkling bells and drums. As they tramped through the gate into the west, he smiled to himself, marching in his own victory parade. Not the Japanese, a private war, left behind now in the east. They were approaching the stand, moving faster than anyone could through the crowd. Even if Shaeffer had given up and started heading back, it would be minutes before he’d reach the press stand, long enough to hustle Emil into the jeep and get away. He looked to the side, a quick check. Patton saluting. Enough time, but still only minutes. At least now he knew. Except what had happened to Gunther.
It was easier getting out of the parade than getting in. After the reviewing stand there was a brief halt, and while they marched in place Jake skipped over to the side and back through the curbside crowd to the press stand. Only minutes. What if Emil had bolted after all? But there they were, not even up in the stand, huddled by the stairs having a smoke.
“There, what did I tell you? He always does come back,” Brian said. “Catch your breath.”
“You’re down here? Did he try to run?”
“Naw, good as gold. But you know Ron. Curiosity killed the cat. So I thought-”
“Thanks, Brian,” Jake said in a rush. “I owe you another one.” He looked back over his shoulder. No one yet. Brian, watching him, motioned his head away from the stand.
“Better go if you’re going. Safe home.”
Jake nodded. “If I’m not-just in case-go see Bernie Teitel. Tell him who you’ve been babysitting and he’ll send up a flare.” He took Emil’s arm and began to lead him away.
“Try newspaper work next time,” Brian said. “Easier all around.”
“Only the way you do it,” Jake said, touching his shoulder, then moving off.
They crossed with a few GIs who’d had enough and were taking advantage of another break in the line to drift away through the park.
“Who’s Teitel?” Emil said. “An American?”
“One of your new friends,” Jake said, still slightly out of breath. Just a little farther to the jeep.
“A friend like you? A jailer? My god, all this for Lena? She’s free to do as she likes.”
“So were you. Keep walking.”
“No, not free.” He stopped, making Jake turn. “To survive. You go along to survive. You think it’s different for you? What would you do to survive?”
“Right now, I’m getting us out of here. Come on, you can make your excuses in the jeep.”
“The war’s over,” Emil said, almost shrill, a pleading.
Jake looked at him. “Not all of it.”
Behind Emil, something moved on the landscape, a blur faster than the marchers and the idling crowd, coming closer through the park. Not on a road, where it should be, out of place, bumping over the torn-up ground.
“Christ,” Jake said. Coming toward them.
“What is it?”
A black Horch, the car at Potsdam. No, two, the second obscured in the dust churned up by the first.
“Get to the jeep. Now. Run.”
He pushed Emil, who staggered, then caught his arm, both of them dashing for the jeep. Of course he wouldn’t have come alone. The jeep wasn’t far, parked behind the crowd with a few others, but the Horch was close enough to hear now, the noise of the motor like a hand on his back. He pulled out his gun as he ran. To do what? But if it came to it, a shot in the air would draw attention, give them at least the protection of the crowd.
They were almost at the jeep when the Horch pulled ahead, blocking them with a squeal of brakes. A Russian in uniform jumped out and stood by the door with the motor still running.
“Herr Brandt,” he said to Emil.
“Get out of the way or I’ll shoot,” Jake said, pointing the gun upward.
The Russian glanced at him, almost a smirk, then nodded at the other car pulling up behind. Two men, civilian clothes. “By that time you will be dead. Put the gun down.” Sure of himself, not even waiting for Jake to lower his hand. “Herr Brandt, come with us, please.” He opened the back door.
“He’s not going anywhere.”
“Not with travel permits, no,” the Russian said blandly. “No need, you see. A different arrangement. Please.” He nodded to Emil.
“You’re in the British zone now,” Jake said.
“Make a protest,” the Russian said. He looked at the other car. “Shall I ask my men to assist?”
Emil turned to Jake. “Now see what you’ve made for us.”
The Russian blinked, confused by this dissension in the ranks, then opened his hand toward the back seat. “Please.”
“I said I’d shoot and I will,” Jake said.
The Russian waited, but the only movement was the opening of the passenger door. Gunther got out and walked toward them, gun drawn.
“Get in the car, Herr Brandt.”
For a moment, as Jake stared at the man with the pointed gun, his lungs seemed to deflate, his whole body going limp with disappointment. I want you to betray me. Emil shuffled reluctantly to the car. The Russian closed the rear door. Snap.
“A good German cop,” Jake said quietly, looking at Gunther.
“Now you,” Gunther said to Jake, waving his gun toward the car. “In the front.”
The Russian looked up, surprised. “No. Brandt only. Leave him.”
“Get in,” Gunther said.
Jake crossed over to the passenger side and stood by the open door. There was a high-pitched whistle. He looked over the roof of the car. Down the road, Shaeffer had stopped running, two fingers in his mouth, then lunged forward again. A soldier detached himself from the crowd, running behind him. The rest of the trap, closing up the rear.
“What are you doing?” the Russian said to Gunther.
“I will drive.”
“What do you mean?” he said, alarmed now.
Gunther swung his gun toward the Russian. “Over with the others.”
“Fascist swine,” the Russian shouted. He jerked his gun out, his hand stopping midway as Gunther’s bullet hit him, an explosion so sudden it seemed for a second he hadn’t fired at all. There was a rush of movement around them, like the startled flight of birds in a field. Spectators nearby ducked without looking, a reflex. On the reviewing stand a delayed reaction, aides shoving the generals down. Yells. The men in the other car jumped out and raced over to the fallen Russian, dazed. Jake saw Shaeffer stop, just a beat, then start running in a crouch. Everything at once, so that Gunther was already in the car before Jake realized it had started moving. He leaped in, holding on to the open door as he pulled his other leg inside. They spun left, back onto the broken ground of the park, bouncing violently, heading west toward the Victory Column, racing ahead of the parade at their side. Gunther swerved away from a shallow bomb crater and hit a deep rut instead, jolting the car, smashing Jake’s sore shoulder against the door.
“Are you crazy?” Emil shouted from the back, his hand on the top of his head where it had bumped the roof.
“Stay down,” Gunther said calmly, twisting the wheel to avoid a stump.
Jake looked back through the dust. The other Horch had started after them, jouncing over the same rough ground. Farther behind, a jeep, presumably Shaeffer, was tearing away from the crowd that had formed around the dead Russian. Through the open window, bizarrely, came trumpets and the steady thump of drums, the world of five minutes ago.
“I tried to delay them,” Gunther said. “The wrong time. I thought you would be gone, know something was wrong.”
“Why you?”
“You were expecting me. I would lead you to the car, for the per-mits. But he saw Brandt. Running. So. An impulsive people,” he said tersely, holding the wheel as they bounced over another hole in the pitted field.
“You were pretty impulsive yourself. Why you and not the American?”
“He couldn’t come.”
Jake glanced back. Gaining a little. “He did, though. In fact, he’s coming now.”
Gunther grunted, trying to work this out. “A test maybe, then. Can they trust a German?”
“They got their answer.” Jake looked over at him. “But I should have. I should have known.”
Gunther shrugged, focused on driving. “Who knows anyone in Berlin?” He jerked the wheel, skirting a Hohenzollern statue that had somehow survived, only the face chipped away by blast. “Are they still there?” he said, not trusting himself to look away to the rearview mirror. Jake turned.
“Yes.”
“We need a road. We can’t go faster like this.” The traffic circle at the Grosser Stern was now in sight, a bottleneck jammed with marchers. “If we can cut across-hold on.” Another swerve to the left, jolting the car away from the parade, deeper into the battered park. In the back Emil groaned.
Jake knew that Gunther was taking them south, toward the American zone, but all the landmarks he had known were gone, the stretch ahead of them desolate, broken by stumps and twisted scraps of lampposts. Ron’s lunar landscape. The ground was even rougher, not as cleared as the border of the chausee, the earth thrown up here and there in mounds.
“Not far,” Gunther said, rising out of his seat over a bump, even the solid Horch springs pounded flat, and for a moment, looking behind at the dust, the cars coming after them, Jake realized, an unexpected thought, that Gunther finally had his Wild West, stagecoach bucking across the badlands at a gallop. And then, eerily, the other Horch entered the Karl May dream too, firing at them from behind. A firecracker sound of shots, then a shattering pop at the back window.
“My god, they’re shooting at us,” Emil yelled, his voice jagged with fear. “Stop. It’s madness. What are you doing? They’ll kill us.”
“Keep flat,” Gunther said, hunching a little farther over the wheel.
Jake crouched and peered back over the edge of the seat. Both vehicles firing now, an aimless volley of stray shots.
“Come on, Gunther,” Jake said, a jockey to a horse.
“It’s there, it’s there.” A clear space of asphalt in the distance. He steered right, as if he were heading back to the Grosser Stern, then sharply left, dodging a fallen limb not yet scavenged for firewood, confusing the two cars behind. More shots, one grazing the back fender.
“Please stop,” Emil said, almost hysterical on the back floor. “You’ll kill us.”
But they were there, crashing over a mound of broken pavement piled up at the edge of Hofjagerallee and landing with a loud thunk on the cleared avenue. Improbably, there was traffic-two convoy trucks, grinding toward them on their way to the traffic circle. Gunther shot out in front of them and wrenched the wheel left, tires squealing, so close there was an angry blast of horn.
“Christ, Gunther,” Jake said, breathless.
“Police driving,” he said, the car still shuddering from the skid.
“Let’s not have a police death.”
“No. That’s a bullet.”
Jake looked back. The others weren’t as lucky, stuck at the side of the road until the trucks lumbered past. Gunther opened up the engine, speeding toward the bridge into Liitzowplatz. If they could make it to the bridge, they’d be back in town, a maze of streets and pedestrians where at least the shooting would stop. But why had the
Russians fired in the first place, risking Emil? A desperate logic__ better dead than with the Americans? Which meant they thought they might lose after all.
But not yet. The Horch behind them had picked up speed too on the smooth road. Now the route was straight-get past the diplomatic quarter at the bottom of the park, then over the Landwehrkanal. Gunther honked the horn. A group of civilians was trudging down the side of the road with a handcart. They scattered in both directions, away from the car but still on the road, so that Gunther had to slow down, pumping the brake and the horn at the same time. It was the chance the Russians were looking for, racing to close the gap between the cars. Another shot, the civilians darting in terror. Still coming. Jake swiveled to his open window and fired at the Horch behind, aiming low, a warning shot, two, to make them slow down. Not even a pause. And then, as Gunther slammed the horn again, the Russians’ car began to smoke-no, steam, a teakettle steam that poured out of the grille, then blew back over the hood. A lucky shot ripping into the radiator, or just the old motor finally giving up? What did it matter? The car kept hurtling toward them, driving into its own cloud, then began to slow. Not the brake, a running down.
“Go,” Jake said, the road finally clear of civilians. Behind them, the Horch had stopped. One of the men jumped out and rested his arm on the door to take aim. A target gallery shot. Gunther pressed the accelerator. The car jumped forward again.
This time Jake didn’t even hear the bullet, the splintering pop through the window lost under the noise of the engine and the shouts behind. A small thud into flesh, like a grunt, not even loud enough to notice, until the spurt of blood splashed onto the dashboard. Gunther fell forward, still clutching the wheel.
“Gunther!”
“I can drive,” he said, a hoarse gargle. More blood leaping out, spattering the wheel.
“My god. Pullover.”
“Not far.” His voice fainter. The car began to veer left.
Jake grabbed the wheel, steadying it, looking around. Only the jeep was chasing them now, the Horch stranded behind it. They were still moving fast, Gunther’s foot on the pedal heavy as dead weight. Jake threw himself closer, putting both hands on the wheel, trying to kick Gunther’s foot off the pedal. “The brake!” he shouted. Gunther had slumped forward again, a bulky, unmovable wall. Jake held on to the wheel, his hands now slippery with blood. “Move your leg!”
But Gunther seemed not to have heard him, his eyes fixed on the blood still spilling out onto the wheel. He gave a faint nod, as if he were making sense of it, then a small twitch of his mouth, the way he used to smile.
“A police death,” he mumbled, almost inaudible, his mouth seeping blood, then slumped even farther, gone, his body falling on the wheel, pressing against the horn, so that they were racing toward the bridge with the horn blaring, driven by a dead man.
Jake tried to shove him aside, one hand still on the wheel, but only managed to push his upper body against the window. He’d have to dive underneath to move Gunther’s feet, get to the brake, but that would mean letting go.
“Emil! Lean over, take the wheel.”
“Maniacs!” Emil said, his voice shrill. “Stop the car.”
“I can’t. Grab the wheel.”
Emil started up from the floor, then heard another shot and fell back again. Jake looked through the shattered window. Shaeffer, blowing his horn now, signaling them to stop.
“Grab the fucking wheel!” Jake yelled. Another truck appeared in the oncoming lane. Now there wasn’t even the option of spinning in circles, hands slipping around the bloody wheel, trying to keep a grip. The bridge ahead, then people. Get the brake. With one hand he pushed hard against Gunther’s leg, a cement weight, but moving, sliding back from the gas pedal, wedged now at the bottom. A little more and the car would slow. Only a matter of seconds before something gave.
It was the tire. A stopping shot from Shaeffer, more effective than a horn blast. The Horch careened wildly, as if Jake’s hands had left the wheel. Heading straight for the truck. Jake wrenched the wheel back hard, swerving right, missing the truck, heading off the road in the other direction, but after that lost all control, plunging past some piles of rubble, bouncing furiously, the wheel meaningless. He shoved at Gunther’s leg again, dislodging it from the pedal. But the car was moving on its own now, a last surge of momentum that carried it away from the bridge, over the embankment, only choking to a stop in midair. Nothing beneath them, a giddy suspension. Not even a full second at the top of a roller coaster, an impossible floating through nothing. Then the car pitched down.
Jake crouched lower, bracing himself against Gunther, so that he didn’t see the water as they plunged into the canal, just felt the shock of the crash, throwing him forward against the dash with a crunch, a sick snapping sound at his shoulder, his head bumping hard against the wheel, a sharp pain that blotted out everything but the last instinct, to take a deep gulp of air as the water rushed in to flood around him.
He opened his eyes. Murky, almost viscous water, too cloudy to see far. Not a canal anymore, a sewer. Absurdly, he thought of infection. But there wasn’t time to think about anything. He lifted himself, shoulder throbbing in a spasm, and reached over the seat with his good hand, grabbing Emil’s shirt and pulling at it. Emil was moving, not dead, squirming up off the floor. Jake yanked the shirt, lifting him over the seat and pushing him toward the window. Buoyant, floating weight, just a matter of steering him out, but the front was crowded, Gunther taking up precious space.
Jake leaned back, twisting Emil’s body so that he could shove it head first, watching Emil’s feet flailing as he kicked his way out. Hurry. The canal wasn’t deep; enough time to get to the surface if his air held. He began to follow through the window, bumping his head again on the frame, pulling himself with one arm, the other useless. Halfway out, Emil’s shoe caught his shoulder, kicking, the pain so startling he thought he might black out and sink, the way rescuers were accidentally taken down by the thrashing of the people they were trying to save. His legs were now through the frame. He began to stroke up to the surface but the shoe struck him again, a strong kick, catching him now at the side of the head, a solid running pain to his shoulder. Don’t gasp. For Christ’s sake, Emil, move away. Then another kick, downward, not flailing this time, deliberate, intended to connect. Another. One more and he might be knocked out, bubbles rising to the surface, not a weapon in sight. No more air. He swam sideways with his good arm, only one effort left, and pushed up. Gentle Emil. What would you do to survive?
As he broke the surface, he barely got a gulp of air before the hand caught his throat and started to push his head back under. A squeal of tires and shouts from the bank. The hand came away. Jake pulled his head up, sputtering.
“Emil.”
Emil had turned to look at the bank, once a solid wall, now bombed in places to slopes of rubble. Shaeffer and his man were picking their way down, their attention on the awkward footing, away from the water. A minute, maybe. Emil looked back at Jake, still gasping, his shoulder now an agony.
“It’s over,” Jake said.
“No.” Barely a whisper, his eyes on Jake. Not like Shaeffer’s, a hunter’s, but something more desperate. What would you do? Emil reached for him and caught his throat again, and as Jake’s head went under, he saw, with a sinking feeling worse than drowning, that he was losing the wrong war-not Shaeffer’s, the one he hadn’t even known he was fighting. A kick to the stomach now, forcing out air, as the hand gripped his hair, holding him under. Losing. Another kick. He’d die, the kick marks no more suspicious than crash bruises. Emil getting away with it again.
He yanked his head down, pulling Emil with him, scratching at his fingers. No good punching through water. He’d have to claw the fingers off. Another kick, below his stomach, but the hand was letting go, afraid perhaps of being dragged under with his victim. Do what he expects. Die. Jake sank lower. Emil couldn’t see through the thick water. Would he follow? Let him think it had worked. He felt a final kick, the shoulder again, and for a moment he was no longer pretending, sinking deeper, without the strength to pull himself back up, the dizziness before a blackout. His feet hit the roof of the car. Below, he could see Gunther’s head lolling out of the car window, floating like kelp. The way he’d look. Bastards. He dropped, bending his knees, no breath left at all, then pushed away with a last heave, away from Emil, toward the bank.
“Here he is!” Shaeffer shouted as his head bobbed up. He sucked in air, choking, spitting the water that came with it.
The other soldier had waded in to get Emil, who gazed at Jake in shock, then dropped his head, looking down at his hand, where the scratches were welling with blood.
“You all right?” Shaeffer was saying. “Why the hell didn’t you stop?”
Jake kept gasping, drifting toward the bank. Nowhere else to go now. Then he felt Shaeffer’s hand on his collar, dragging him onto the bank, struggling, then gripping his belt and yanking, like Tully being fished out of the Jungfernsee. He fell back against the broken concrete, looking up at Shaeffer. A splash, the sound of water dripping as Emil came out a few yards away.
He closed his eyes, fighting a wave of nausea from the pain, then opened them again to Shaeffer. “You going to finish me off here?”
Shaeffer looked at him, confused. “Don’t be an asshole. Here, let me give you a hand,” he said, reaching for him.
But he grabbed the wrong arm. As Shaeffer pulled him up, Jake’s shoulder went hot with pain and he couldn’t stop the scream, the last thing he heard before everything finally, almost a relief, did go black. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter