Rosa (55 page)

“You look better,” said Hoffner.

Fichte swallowed. “You don’t. I’ll get you a plate.”

Hoffner stopped him from calling the man over. “Did you find it?” Fichte nodded and scooped up another helping as Hoffner sat. “And?”

“You’ll be amazed.”

Fichte spoke through mouthfuls, bringing out his notebook and sliding it across the table. Surprisingly, Fichte offered no theories of his own. He simply stated where she was and what he had seen. He might have expected more of a reaction, but was happy enough not to be corrected along the way. When Hoffner remained silent, Fichte grew bolder. “They were supplying Wouters, weren’t they? With the grease, I mean.”

“It looks that way.”

“So they knew what he was doing.”

“Or worse,” said Hoffner.

Fichte understood at once. “You think they brought him here.” Hoffner saw the concentration in Fichte’s eyes. “So why Luxemburg?” Fichte asked.

“That’s why I needed you to find out where she was.”

“You’re going to take her, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tonight. You don’t have to be involved with this, Hans.”

Fichte’s eyes went wide. “They were the ones who killed your wife, weren’t they?” Fichte realized too late the tactlessness of the comment. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte continued, “I am involved in this.”

Hoffner thought as he spoke: “All right, but I don’t know what that means, yet. I’ll telephone you when I do. Two rings and I’ll disengage. We’ll meet here.” Hoffner stood. “And nothing foolish between now and then, Hans. You understand?”

Fichte nodded. He waited until Hoffner was out the door before reaching for his inhaler.

P
imm’s offices were empty, save for a large, lounging man, when Hoffner got back. The man was reading a paper and looked up: the boss would be back soon; Hoffner was supposed to get some sleep; they had all agreed he looked terrible. Too tired to disagree, Hoffner found a sofa in the back and slept.

It might have been two or three hours later when he opened his eyes. He felt no less exhausted and his wrist had cramped from its angle under his chest. He tried to twist it loose as he sat up, and realized that he had somehow slept through the arrival of perhaps a dozen men who were around the far table with Pimm and Jogiches. These weren’t the same breed as this morning, though they were just as identifiable: hobnail boots and balloon caps were the costume of Berlin’s working class—the self-proclaimed proletariat in these circles. Hand any of them a cigar box—or clip a bit of facial scruff, thought Hoffner—and they might just have passed for Pimm’s minions, except perhaps for the sour look of commitment in each of their eyes. That was Jogiches’s work: he was transformed in front of them, feeding off their quiet reverence. Hoffner doubted that Jogiches had had more than a few hours of sleep—pockets here and there—over the last month. There was no telling it, though, in front of his disciples.

Hoffner’s mouth was stale; he went in search of something and found a bottle of beer. It was warm, but he knew it would settle his stomach. He made his way over to the table and listened.

“.         .         .         between eight and eight-fifteen.” Jogiches had a map of Berlin on the table and was pointing to various streets around the Alex. “Any earlier than that will do us no good.” He noticed Hoffner. “You’re with us again, then?” Hoffner mock-toasted with the bottle and let Jogiches carry on. Jogiches addressed the men: “How you get them there is up to you, but it’s absolutely crucial that they avoid any sort of scuffle until they get to Alexanderplatz. You have to make this clear.”

Jogiches took a stab at something inspirational, but it was too late for such gestures: the men had been given something to do. It was enough for them to do it.

When the last of them had gone, Hoffner said, “I thought the time for revolution had passed.”

Jogiches was gathering up the papers. “It has.”

“Do they know that?” said Hoffner.

Jogiches looked up, but it was Pimm who answered. “Does it matter?” he said. “Theft always needs a bit of misdirection, and now we have it.”

Hoffner didn’t see the logic. “First sign of trouble and Braun will get her out of there. He’s too clever for that.”

Jogiches answered, “Not if the bait is too good to pass up.” Hoffner wasn’t following. It was only when Jogiches continued to stare at him that Hoffner understood.

“They’ll kill you if they take you,” said Hoffner.

Jogiches nodded. “More than likely, yes. But they’ll all want to be there when they do, just to find out how much of it I know, how much you know.” Before Hoffner could answer, Jogiches said, “You’ll have Rosa, they’ll have me. Seems a fair trade.”

Hoffner couldn’t help his cynicism. “And you’ll have your final noble act.”

Jogiches shook his head; he seemed strangely at peace. “Nothing so grand,” he said quietly. He went back to the pages. “It’s only a matter of days before they track me down. We both know that.” He picked up the last of the stacks and looked at Hoffner. “I can’t choose when or how I die, Inspector, but I can choose why. And that, in the end, will have to be enough.”

F
ichte had been up in Braun’s office ever since getting back from Rcker’s. For some reason, Braun had chosen today to take him through the various methods of interrogation that the Polpo employed. Fichte had tried to move things along and was praying that he hadn’t missed the telephone call when he finally got back to his office. He called down to the switchboard and, to his relief, was told that nothing had come in.

It was nearly four when the phone finally rang. Fichte counted ten before calling the operator.

“
Bezirkssekretr
Fichte here,” he said. “Was there an error made just now?”

A woman answered quickly. “I don’t believe so, Herr
Bezirkssekretr,
” she said. “I put the call through, but the party must have disengaged.”

“Thank you, Frulein.”

Fichte grabbed his coat and moved down the corridor: his heart was racing. He felt a momentary twinge in his chest and reached into his coat pocket: nerves always worked their worst. He took two quick sucks on his inhaler and then headed down the stairs. Things were about to be set right, he thought. Fichte permitted himself a momentary wave of exhilaration.

He was nearly to the landing when he noticed a sweet metallic taste in his mouth, followed by a sudden heat in his lungs. He stopped and placed his hand on the banister. For a moment he thought it was simply overexcitement, but his chest suddenly convulsed and he began to choke for breath. It felt as if his throat had sealed entirely. He dropped down and struggled to bring his inhaler up to his mouth, but he was losing focus, and there was a drumming in his ears as if he were about to faint. Frantically he wrapped his lips around the nozzle; he pressed down on the cap, but it was too late. Hans Fichte was already dead by the time the mist had passed his tongue.

THE ALEX

The rain had returned, and the streets around the square ran with melting snow.

Hoffner gazed out from the darkness and into the drizzled lamplight. They had chosen a small storefront, its display window offering a perfect view of the side entrances to the Alex. A few soldiers were wandering aimlessly up by the square; another two had positioned themselves inside a doorway across the street and were doing what they could to keep dry: these were the only signs of life. One of Pimm’s men pulled out a cigarette and a voice by the door whispered, “You light that and you lose a finger.” Pimm had placed Zenlo in charge; he was little more than a skeleton’s shadow skulking by the door as he stared out, listening and watching.

Hoffner had waited nearly an hour at Rcker’s. When Fichte had failed to show, Hoffner had told himself that the boy had simply lost his nerve; anything other than that was too much to consider. Across town, Pimm had not been pleased: he had wanted Hoffner nowhere near the Alex tonight, but the best-laid plans . . . “And you’re sure they’ll come for her?”

Hoffner had been sure. “As long as you have everyone in place.”

Pimm had nodded. “He’s done work for me before. He’ll do what he’s told.”

Now it was just after eight, and the first echoes were beginning to rise up from beyond the square, a distant bellowing as if the streets themselves were sucking in for air. No one who had lived through December or January could have mistaken the sound for anything other than an approaching throng. The bodies were massing on the other side of the Platz. The soldiers had heard it as well, and began to head up the street.

“Forty minutes,” said Zenlo. He turned back to the men. “Now you can have your cigarette, idiot.”

T
here was hardly room to breathe.

Jogiches had forgotten the feel of a surging mob, the pulse of bodies all around him. He had forgotten the mood that comes with a column of arms and legs striding as one, the song in the footfall, the rhythm that drains each man of his singularity. It was nearly fifteen years since he had stepped from the shadows and onto the line: then there had been possibility, purpose—Warsaw, Rosa; now he marched alone, drifting within the current, yet no part of it. He gazed up into the night sky and felt the rain on his face, the taste of moist air in his lungs, and he breathed in with a sense of finality. The men around him strode with no such appreciation. For Jogiches, these were the only sensations left to him.

The column turned and the bodies poured out into the square. Jogiches felt the tempo rise. He saw the swarms spilling out from across the square and he ran, faster and faster, just as the first cracks of gunfire echoed into the night.

Z
enlo led Hoffner across the cobblestones and over to the gate. Somewhere beyond the building the battle raged on, but here—on the side street and less than a hundred meters from it—there was an eerie stillness. The army reserves had yet to be called in: only the square had been engaged. Hoffner pulled out his key and opened the outer lock. Zenlo struck a match, and within half a minute the five men were inside the Alex.

The walk to the back stairs was uneventful: all activity was taking place on the other side of the building. What shouts and scampering they heard continued to move away from them. Even so, Hoffner paused at each landing as he led the men up.

At the fourth floor, he stopped again. There was no reason for it: the place felt as deserted as the rest. He began to move, when Zenlo grabbed him from behind and pulled him back down the steps. The grip was remarkable and utterly immobilizing. A moment later, Hoffner heard the faint sound of footfalls rising from down the corridor. He had been completely unaware of it until this moment: clearly these were men who knew their business. Hoffner pressed himself up against the wall with the rest and listened as Zenlo pulled a short blade from his pocket and held it flat against his leg.

The sound grew closer, and a shadow appeared on the corridor wall. From this angle, Hoffner could make out only the top of a head as it passed. He thought it might have been
Kommissar
Braun making his way to the front of the building, but it was only a guess. Hoffner said nothing and waited in the silence. Half a minute passed before Zenlo quietly pocketed the knife. He then motioned for Hoffner to lead them up to the landing.

The corridor was equally still, the door handle as cold as Fichte had described it. At once, one of the men went to work on the lock and within seconds had it open. He stepped back and let Hoffner push open the door. When all five men were inside, Zenlo closed the door behind them and flicked on the light.

The precision of the next few minutes astounded Hoffner. He had always attributed a certain recklessness to theft: this had the grace of a choreographed ballet, two men with the burlap tarp for her body, two others at the tank. Hoffner focused on the jars. Taking them one by one to the sink, he turned on the faucet and began to dump out the contents. The stink of the grease forced him to place his handkerchief up to his face; even with it, he felt a momentary wooziness and had to turn away: this was no time for hallucinations. Only then did he notice a second examining table up against the wall on the far side of the door. A sheeted body lay on top, one of its hands having slipped out. Hoffner placed the bottle on the counter and stepped over. There was no reason to wonder what he would find: Hoffner knew who lay beneath.