Jonathan Rabb - The Second Son

“Zaragoza needs guns,” he said. “Coming here helps me find my boy.”

“Yes,” she said, something too knowing in her eyes, “I’m sure it does.”

She stared up at him, and he felt his hand move to the soft of her back. He kissed her again, her lips parched but smooth. She drew him in closer and he released. There was a rapping at the door.

Mila said, “Don’t underestimate them.”

Hoffner used the handkerchief again and turned to the door. “Come.”

The door opened, and the second man stepped through with a plate of crackers and cheese and a glass of water.

Hoffner said, “Good.” He turned to Mila with a nod. “Senora. I’ll see you at the cafe.” With nothing else, he headed into the office.

“You came through Barcelona?”

Captain Doval sat behind his desk. He held Hoffner’s papers casually in his long fingers, which showed a recent manicure.

“Yes,” said Hoffner. He placed his empty glass on the desk and reached for another cracker. The cheese was surprisingly fresh.

“And you encountered no difficulties?”

Hoffner dabbed his finger at the crumbs on his shirt. “You wear a red neckerchief, raise your hand with a ?Viva la Republica! and Barcelona is your friend.” He licked at the crumbs.

“I wish it were all so easy.”

“It will be.” Hoffner finished the cracker and brushed off his hands. “So. I can expect your help in finding this man?”

Doval’s expression remained unchanged. “Your German. Herr Bernhardt.”

“Yes.”

There really had been no other choice. If guns were coming in, this was where they would be heading. Besides, it was always best to bring a bit of truth to the table with a man like Doval. And arrogance-German arrogance-with crackers, brushed hands, and a thoroughly polished indifference.

Doval placed the papers on the table. He rubbed something off one of his nails, and said, “Papers are an easy thing to come by these days, Senor Hoffner. Especially in Barcelona.”

Hoffner showed nothing. “I imagine they are.”

“A Safe Conduct is impressive.”

“Especially one signed by Senor Franco.”

Doval seemed less convinced. He waited before saying, “Your Spanish is excellent.” Even a compliment seemed a sneer.

Hoffner could see where this was going. Papers wouldn’t be enough. Funny, he thought: where better than Nationalist Spain to be forced to have it all come down to an act of faith. It was now just a matter of waiting for the right moment. Hoffner continued, “But not your German.”

“No-I don’t speak German.”

“Odd,” said Hoffner. “I would have expected a bit more from the Reich’s liaison.”

“Odd is having a member of the Reich appear without warning.”

Hoffner appreciated Doval’s impatience. It was coming now. “You’re going to waste both our time, aren’t you?”

“I have a man with the woman at the cafe.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“He can detain her if need be.”

“Or shoot her. Or you could shoot me. There are so many possibilities for you.”

Doval tried to match Hoffner’s effortlessness, but it came off as preening.

“You will admit it’s surprising,” said Doval. “A German with rare yet ideal papers arriving with a Spanish woman. She was also in Barcelona?”

“She was.”

“And you just happened to be carrying a second Safe Conduct for her?”

Doval was taking them closer and closer. Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. He chose not to offer one. “You ask very good questions.”

“I hope they’re not wasting your time.”

“Not at all.” Hoffner lit up and let out a long strain of smoke. “When we speak about Bernhardt, I’ll be happy to explain it to you.”

“Assuming I know who this Bernhardt is.”

Hoffner took another pull. “But that’s not the point, is it-whether you know.”

The power of German arrogance lay in its cruelty; Spanish arrogance relied too willingly on dignity. It placed Doval at a considerable disadvantage.

Hoffner said, “The better question is why do I know about Herr Bernhardt, and why do I choose to come to a rebel stronghold to talk about him. The rest is meaningless. I’m assuming you can set up a direct telephone line to Berlin.”

Doval needed a moment. He had never imagined the request coming from across the desk. “Yes.”

“How long will it take?”

Again Doval hesitated. He was convincing himself of the logic. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

“Good. And you have someone here who speaks a perfect German?”

“I have.”

“Then I’ll save us both some time.” Acts of faith require so little preparation, he thought. “You’re to have your man contact Gruppenfuhrer Edmund Prager at the SS offices of the Sipo in Berlin. Prager. With an umlaut. I have the number, but coming from me you’d question it. So we’ll sit together while your man tracks it down. When he has the Gruppenfuhrer on the line, I’ll tell your man what he needs to ask. And then you’ll tell me what I need to know about Bernhardt. We’re clear?”

Eighteen minutes later the telephone on Doval’s desk rang through. Hoffner had spent the time drinking a second glass of water and finishing the cheese and crackers.

Doval said nothing. Instead, he chose to watch Hoffner. It was an old technique and not terribly effective in the hands of a man still green with his own power.

Doval nodded to the man who had promised a perfect German, and the man picked up the telephone.

“Hello?” The man’s eyes darted as he listened. “Yes … slower please … yes … thank you … I can wait.” The eyes settled on the rind of cheese before suddenly refocusing. “One moment.” He cupped the receiver and looked at Doval. Doval looked across at Hoffner, and Hoffner said in Spanish, “You’re to tell the Herr Gruppenfuhrer that SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Nikolai Hoffner is in Zaragoza, Spain, at the Nationalist headquarters with a Captain Doval.”

Doval nodded to the man. The information was relayed in German and Hoffner watched as the man continued to listen. Either Prager would understand or Hoffner would be dead. It was as simple as that.

The man with the perfect German said in Spanish, “I think he’s asking why you’ve contacted him, Captain.”

Doval again looked at Hoffner, and Hoffner said, “You’re to say this and only this: ‘Braunschweig.’ ”

Doval again nodded and the man said hesitantly into the receiver, “Braunschweig.” There were several more seconds of darting eyes, and the man said in Spanish, “SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Hoffner has the Gruppenfuhrer’s complete authority. Contact is not to be made again.” The man listened for more and then said, “Hello?… Hello?” He held the receiver out to Doval. “The line has disengaged, Captain.”

Doval was looking across at Hoffner. “Set it down, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”

The man placed the telephone in its cradle, saluted, and moved to the door. Doval waited until they were alone.

“I’ve never heard of this Prager,” said Doval. His caution remained.

“No,” said Hoffner, “I’m sure you haven’t.” It was nice to know that two old bull cops could still wreak a little havoc. “The Gruppenfuhrer’s immediate superior is SS Obergruppenfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich. That, I suspect, is a name you’re more familiar with. We can put a call directly through to the Obergruppenfuhrer if you prefer.”

Doval had evidently spent time enough in the company of the SS not to give way to this kind of bullying. Instead he said, “Langenheim never mentioned Braunschweig.”

Langenheim, thought Hoffner. All the names from Georg’s wire were finding their way onto the table. Granted, Hoffner had no idea how Doval knew Langenheim-or who Langenheim might be-but at least they were heading in the right direction.