Joseph Kanon - A Good German

He sat back and tossed the picture on the table, frustrated, Ron’s grin a kind of taunt. When his face fell on its double in the pile, he even seemed to move his head in a laugh. One more, Liz would have been saying, moving around for a better angle, Ron the fixed point in a stereoscope. How many had she taken? Jake leaned forward, grabbing up the prints. Enough for a small panorama? He collected the airport shots from the discard pile and laid them out with the others in a fan shape, ignoring Ron, piecing together the overlapping bits of background-Brian’s head on Brian’s head, moving left, matching the exit doors, until the edges were covered and he could look across the crowd with Tully.

He picked up the magnifying glass and moved in a straight line left from Tully’s face-soldiers going about their business, the annoying bulk of Ron’s head blocking the view behind, but now more faces beyond the edge of the first picture, some sharper than others, a few looking back in Tully’s direction. Somebody waiting with a jeep. Jake forced himself to move the glass slowly-in the crowd you could miss a face in a blink-so that when he neared the edge he caught it, a shape out of place, narrow straight board patches across the shoulders, the wrong uniform. Russian. He stopped the glass. Body turned toward Tully, as if he had sighted him, and then the face, almost clear among the blurs because it was so familiar, the broad cheeks and shrewd Slavic eyes. Sikorsky had met him.

Jake looked again, afraid the face would dissolve in the fuzzy crowd, something he only thought he saw. No mistake-Sikorsky. Who’d been interested in Nordhausen. Who’d had Willi watch Professor Brandt. It’s a common name, I think, he’d said to Lena outside the Adlon. Connected to Emil, where the numbers met. And now connected to Tully. Sikorsky, who’d been the greifer at Potsdam, a different connection. Jake stopped, letting the glass go and reaching without thinking across the table for the gun, feeling the same prickling unease he’d felt behind the Alex. Not different, maybe the same connection after all, a direct line to him, blundering after Tully, the only one unwilling to let it go. Not Shaeffer. Not Liz. He looked up into the mirror at the man Sikorsky had pointed out, standing behind Liz in the market.

Now that he knew, what did he do with it? Call Karlshorst for an interview? He left the billet in an excited rush and then stood in the middle of Gelferstrasse, suddenly not sure which way to turn. A few lights had come on in the dusk, but he was alone in the street, as deserted as a western town before a shoot-out. He felt the gun, strapped to his hip. In one of Gunther’s stories he’d be facing down the posse until the cavalry arrived. With an empty gun. He moved his hand away, feeling helpless. Who could he go to? Gunther, shopping for a new employer? Bernie, absorbed in a different crime? And then oddly enough, he realized he was already where he needed to go. Don’t forget whose uniform you have on. The cavalry was just down the street, scratching at a bandage.

Breimer had joined Shaeffer for dinner, the two of them sitting with trays on their laps. Jake stopped halfway through the door.

“What?” Shaeffer said, reading his face.

“I need to see you.”

“Shoot. We don’t have any secrets, do we, congressman?”

Breimer looked up expectantly, fork in hand.

“Sikorsky has him,” Jake said.

“Has who?” Breimer said.

“Brandt,” Shaeffer answered absently, without looking at him. “How do you know?”

“He met Tully at the airport. Liz took a picture-no mistake. Sikorsky’s had him all along.”

“Fuck,” Shaeffer said, pushing away the tray.

“That’s what you thought, isn’t it?” Breimer said to him.

“I thought ‘might.’”

“Well, now you know,” Jake said. “Has.”

“Great. Now what do we do?” Shaeffer said, not really a question.

“Get him back. That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

Shaeffer looked up at him. “It would be nice to know where.”

“Moscow,” Breimer said. “The Russians don’t have to go through the damn State Department to get things done-they just do it. Well, that’s that,” he said, leaning back. “And after all we—”

“No, he’s in Berlin,” Jake said.

“What makes you say that?”

“They’re still looking for his wife. Brandt’s no good to them if h^e won’t cooperate-they want to keep him happy.”

“Any suggestions?” Shaeffer said.

“That’s your department. Put some men on Sikorsky. It’s just a matter of time before he goes visiting.”

Shaeffer shook his head, thinking. “That might be a little unfriendly.”

“Since when did that stop you?”

“You boys don’t want to go starting anything,” Breimer said unexpectedly. “Now that we’re in bed again.” He picked up the Stars and Stripes on the windowsill. Russia joins war on japs. “Just in time for the kill, the bastards. Who asked them?” He put his fork down, as if the thought had ruined his appetite. “So now we play nicey-nicey and they’d just as soon slit your throat as look at you. If you ask me, we picked the wrong fight.”

Jake looked at him, disturbed. “Not if you read the Nordhausen files,” he said. “Anyway, maybe you’ll get another chance.”

“Oh, it’s coming,” Breimer said, ignoring Jake’s tone. “Don’t you worry about that. Godless bastards.” He looked over at Shaeffer. “But meanwhile you’d better keep the cowboy stuff to a minimum, I guess. MG’ll be bending over for the Russians now.” He paused. “For a while.”

“It’s no good anyway,” Shaeffer said, still thoughtful. “We can’t tail Sikorsky. They’d pick it up in a minute.”

“Not if you had the right tail,” Jake said, leaning against the bookshelf, arms folded.

“Such as?”

“I know a German who knows him. Professional. He might be interested, for a price.”

“How much?”

“A persil”

“What’s that?” Breimer said, but nobody answered. Instead, Shaeffer reached for a cigarette, staring at Jake.

“I can’t promise that,” he said, flicking his lighter. “My signature doesn’t mean shit. He’d have to work on spec. Of course, if he actually located Brandt—”

“You’d find a better signature. I’ll ask.”

“You’re talking about hiring a German?” Breimer said.

“Why not? You do,” Jake said.

Breimer’s head snapped back, as if he’d been slapped. “That’s an entirely different matter.”

“Yeah, I know, reparations.”

“You don’t want to get mixed up with Germans,” Breimer said to Shaeffer. “FIAT’s an American operation.”

“Suit yourself,” Jake said. “Somebody’s got to get to Sikorsky__ he’s the only lead we’ve got.“

Shaeffer looked at him through the smoke, not saying anything.

“Well, you guys think it over,” Jake said, moving away from the shelf, impatient. “You wanted me to find Brandt. I found him. At least how to find him. Now the ball’s in your court. Meanwhile, can I borrow some ammo?” He patted the gun. “Liz was fresh out. Same Colt, too,” he said to Shaeffer.

“I thought press weren’t allowed to carry arms,” Breimer said, missing the look between them.

“That’s before I started working for FIAT. Now I get nervous. I notice you carry one.” He nodded toward the bulge in Breimer’s pocket.

“For your information, this is going to a boy’s father in my district.”

Shaeffer opened the drawer to his nightstand, took out a box, and threw it to Jake.

“Careful you don’t shoot yourself with it,” Jake said to Breimer. “Hell of a way to lose an election.” He sat on the bed and fit the bullets into the gun, then snapped it closed. “There, that’s better. Now all I have to do is learn how to use it.”