Joseph Kanon - A Good German

Muller stared for a minute, then smiled reluctantly. “I admit there are better options. At the moment.”

“Then why not stop being army brass for five seconds and give me a little cooperation? You’ve got an American dead. The CID isn’t going to do a damn thing and you know it. You could use the help.”

“From you? You’re not a policeman. You’re just a pain in the ass.” He grimaced. “Now, how about letting me serve out my time in peace? Go make trouble somewhere else.”

“While you’re waiting, would it interest you to know the money on him was Russian?”

Muller’s head snapped up, then held still. The one thing that always got the MG’s attention. “Yes, it would,” he said finally, looking steadily at Jake. “How do you know?”

“The serial numbers. Ask the boys in the CID, since they’re so professional. Still want me off the case?”

Muller looked down at the ground, moving his foot in a small circle, as if he were making a decision.

“Look, nobody’s trying to hold out on you. I’ll get you the ballistics report.”

“That’s all right. I’ve seen it.”

Muller raised his head. “I won’t ask how.”

“But while you’re being so friendly, you could do me another favor. Kind of make it up to me. You didn’t find any travel orders on him.”

“That’s right.”

“What about an airport okay? Who got him on the plane? I need somebody to check the dispatchers. July sixteenth.”

“But that could take—”

“I figure your secretary might have some time on her hands. If she could call around for me, I’d appreciate it. They’d listen to you. Me, it might take weeks.”

“You haven’t had any problem so far,” Muller said, looking at him carefully.

“But this time I’d have some help from the top. For a change. You know how it is. And while she’s at it, one more thing? Check a flight listing for an Emil Brandt. Previous week and since.” He took in

Muller’s blank expression. “He’s a scientist Tully sprang from Kransberg. Dustbin. Heard of it?”

“Where are you going with this?” Muller said quietly.

“Just have her do it.”

“Dustbin’s a secret facility.”

Jake shrugged. “People talk. Hang around the press camp more. You’d be surprised what you pick up.”

“You can’t write about it. It’s classified.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m not interested in Dustbin. Just Meister Toll.”

“I’m not sure I understand the connection.”

“If I’m right, just wait a little and you can read all about it in the papers.”

“That’s one thing I have no intention of doing.”

Jake smiled. “Why don’t you wait and see how it comes out? You might change your mind.” He glanced up at him, serious now. “No black eyes.”

“Do I have your word on that?”

“Would you take it? Why not just say you have my best intentions and leave it at that? But I’d appreciate the calls.”

Muller nodded slowly. “All right. But I want you to do something for me-work with the CID on this.”

“Carbons in triplicate? No thanks.”

“I won’t have you running around like a loose cannon. You work with them, understand?”

“Now I’m on the team? A minute ago you were sending me home.”

Muller’s shoulders sagged. “That’s before the Russians were involved,” he said glumly. “Now we need to know. Even if that means using you.” He paused, thinking. “You’re sure about the money? The serial numbers? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I thought it was all the same.”

“There’s a little dash. A friend in the black market tipped me off. It’s the sort of thing they notice. Turns out the Treasury Department isn’t as dumb as you thought.”

“That makes me feel a whole lot better.” Muller straightened up. “I wish you did. All right, let’s go back in before I change my mind,” he said, leading Jake to the door. They stopped on the threshold, hit by the blast of noise. A conga line was snaking through the room, legs flying out on the one-two-three-kick, nobody quite on the same beat. “The ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Muller said, shaking his head. “My god, I wish I was back in the army. Drink?”

“You have mine. I’m on my way home.”

“Where is that these days? I haven’t seen you at dinner lately. Keeping company somewhere?”

“Colonel. There are rules about that.”

“Mm. Strictly enforced,” he said wryly. “Like everything else.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Geismar? Don’t make me regret this. I can still kick your ass home.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jake said. “Just make the calls, please.”

He said goodbye to Tommy, now in a sloppy, bear-hugging mood. The conga line had broken up and with it the rest of the dancing, but the party showed no signs of slowing down. The drinking had reached the stage when jokes could turn into arguments without anyone noticing. Liz was taking some group shots, a line of reporters with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders and their faces fixed in bleary grins. A cheer went up when someone arrived with more ice. It was time to go. He was almost at the door when Liz caught up with him.

“Hey, Jackson. How’s your love life?” She was carrying her shoes in one hand and a camera case in the other, her eyes shiny with drink.

“Okay. How’s yours?”

“Away, since you ask.”

“No more tall Joe?”

“Keep your shirt on. He’s back tomorrow.” She made a face. “They always come back. How about a lift? I don’t think I can make it in these,” she said, holding up the shoes.

“Little unsteady on your feet?” Jake said, smiling.

“These? They gave out about an hour ago.”

“Come on.”

“Here,” she said, handing him the shoes. “Let me get my bag.”

He stood there, shoes dangling from his fingers, and watched her weave over to the table and struggle with a strap that kept missing her shoulder as she tried to fling it in place. Finally he went over and took the bag from her, sliding it onto his own shoulder.

“Well, aren’t vou nice? Stupid thing.”

“Come on, you could use some air. What have you got in here?”

She giggled. “Oh, I forgot. You. I’ve got you in there. Wait a minute,” she said, stopping him and fumbling with the zipper. “Fresh out of the darkroom. Well, fresh. I’ve been carrying these around for days.” She pulled out some glossies and shuffled to find the right one. “Here we are. Our man in Berlin. Not bad, considering.”

He looked at himself stepping into the right half of the picture, leaving the Document Center behind. Thinning over the temples, a surprised expression. “I’ve looked better,” he said. The same feeling he’d had seeing his reflection in KaDeWe’s window-someone else, no longer the young man in his passport photo.

“That’s what you think.”

Off to the left Joe stood posing, as tall and blond as a poster Aryan. One of the tech boys, according to Brian. Breimer’s friend. Jake dropped the picture on the pile, then stopped and pulled it back, looking again.

“Hey, Liz,” he said, staring at it, “what’s Joe’s last name again?”

“Shaeffer. Why?”

A German name.

He shook his head. “Nothing, maybe. Can I keep this?”

“Sure,” she said, pleased. “I’ve got a million more where that came from.”

Blond, like a German, Frau Dzuris had said. The right fit. But was it? In the picture, another camera trick, he and Jake were standing on the steps as if they’d been together all along. Nothing was what it seemed.

He glanced at his watch. Frau Dzuris would be getting ready for bed, disturbed by a knock on the door. But not asleep yet. He grabbed Liz’s arm and began tugging her across the floor.