Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Weigland’s frustrations came to a boil. “It was for you. And your wife would still be alive if you had understood that.”

Hoffner lashed back. “So why didn’t the great Herr Polpo Direktor do anything to stop it?”

“Because,” Weigland barked, “we needed to find out who was funding all of this activity under our noses.” Weigland realized his voice was carrying: he spoke in a sharp whisper. “You don’t think Braun and his cronies would have willingly volunteered that information, do you? It wasn’t enough to have scum like this in my department. No. They were being told what to do by someone, or some group, that we had yet to find. This isn’t a little criminal case, Nikolai. This isn’t something that ties up neatly and gets folded away in a map when it’s done.”

Hoffner now realized how far he had underestimated Weigland all along. “When?”

“When what?” snapped Weigland.

“When did you know about Braun?”

“Christ, Nikolai. Months ago. Before your case ever began.”

“And Munich?”

Weigland seemed reluctant to say. He took a long pull on his cigarette and glanced out over the river.

Hoffner waited through the silence. “It wouldn’t have been when I made the trip, would it?”

Weigland hesitated before turning to Hoffner. “We were getting close. We would have found it eventually.”

“And in the meantime, a few more bodies pile up?”

“Don’t lecture me, Nikolai. Yes. You did some very clever work. Remarkable even. But you can see where it’s gotten you.”

“You were the one who had the Commissioner remove me from the case, weren’t you? Once, of course, you had the information you needed.” Weigland said nothing. Hoffner added, “Another Hoffner career ambushed at your hands. Well done.”

Weigland snapped back, “Is that what you think?” Weigland waited before unleashing his final volley: “Your father also liked maps, Nikolai, but he wasn’t as clever with them as you are-a great deal of ambition but not a lot of talent, cheap little medals notwithstanding. So, when it was clear that he wasn’t going to make it into the Polpo, it was his idea to leak your mother’s background. He knew what it would do. Let that take the blame instead of the truth.” Weigland paused: he seemed to be lost in a string of long-forgotten arguments. “The trouble was, over the years, he began to believe it himself.” Anger drained out of him. “He was a good friend,” Weigland said absently. “I suppose I let myself believe it, as well.”

Hoffner stared across at Weigland. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. All those years listening to his father rail against the injustice-the betrayal when he had chosen the Kripo over the Polpo, his mother standing meekly by, condemning him with her silence-all of it meaningless. And Weigland had been there, trying to shield him from it all along. Hoffner felt a sudden, distant rage. All those years. He had trouble masking his anger as he spoke: “So why the need to find me? Another trinket you’ve been keeping for me?”

Weigland spoke plainly: “Get yourself out of the city, Nikolai. Until this is done. I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”

“Protect me? You can’t even control your own men.” Before Weigland could answer, Hoffner said, “It ends tonight. Just keep yourself away from the Alex.” Without so much as a nod, Hoffner turned to go.

Weigland called after him. “Why? What happens tonight?”

Hoffner stopped and looked back. “Tonight I relieve you of your burden, Herr Direktor. ” He then turned and headed up the embankment.

Fichte was busy with a plate of noodles and sausage-the first time in a week he had found his appetite-when Hoffner stepped into the bar. Only the barkeep seemed to take any notice. The man reached for a bottle of brandy and a glass, but Hoffner shook him off and headed over to Fichte’s table.

“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.

Pimm’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.