A Game of Spies (14 page)

Someone who lived alone, he thought again, who would not quickly be missed. He decided to assign Hauptmann the task of assembling a list: private car owners who would have reason to travel that remote stretch of road.
Unmarried
private car owners who would have reason to travel that remote stretch of road. Except it was a gargantuan task. There was no guarantee of quick results, and he was loath to wait too long.

There was doubtless a better way to go about the hunt. It was simply a matter of finding it.

He leaned back in his chair. The dream occurred to him again: the whisk of his thumb against the lighter's wheel. The phone rang, and he snatched it to his ear. “Frick,” he said.

It was the Wismar
Regierungsrat.
The man had the air of a petty dictator about him; he took his time in explaining himself.

“I have on my desk,” the man said, “a copy of a report. I believe it has originated from your office?”

Frick looked at his mother, gazing placidly toward the window, and didn't answer.

“You are searching for a man, yes? An Engländer. We have a description here. Let me see. Heavy build. Hair, light brown. Eyes, light brown. Distinguishing—”

From his voice, Frick could tell many things. The man was a smoker, with a deposit of congestion in his lungs. But there was something worse down there. A sickness. That was what came from living in the environs that man built for himself, he thought. They were filled with poisons. Perhaps the sickness was the reason the man cultivated the air of the petty dictator. He strove to create control, where in reality there was none.

“—in the right leg.”

“Yes,” Frick said calmly. “That is the man.”

“There has been an incident,
Herr Kriminal Inspector,
in my territory. That is Wismar, of course. But then, I've already told you that.”

“Yes,” Frick said. “You have.”

“The incident occurred just last night. A local woman—her name is Kahr—had given a ride to a man, on her way home from visiting a sister in Berlin. The man fits this description. Heavy build. Hair, light brown. Eyes—”

“Go on,” Frick said.

“Let me see. A ride, yes. She found the man on a back road not far outside of Berlin. His car had failed, he claimed. He claimed to be a German. But his command of the language, according to the woman, was weak. He threatened her—forced her to bring him to her home. In Wismar, as I said. That is my territory.”

Hauptmann was passing by the open door, holding a breakfast
Käsesemmel
in one hand. Frick snapped his fingers. “Where is the man now?” he asked, waving Hauptmann into the office.

“Ah—hold on a moment,
Herr Kriminal Inspektor.”

A hand covered the telephone; Frick could hear the man talking to someone.

Hauptmann smelled of two kinds of perfume. And below that, his own cologne. Was he cheating on his wife? It seemed a fair conclusion. But how could he think that no one would notice the various scents? Because Hauptmann, like the rest of these men, was living in a world of halftones. Nobody
did
notice these things. They had trained themselves not to.

“Here we are,” the
Regierungsrat
said. “The woman managed to escape from the Engländer—but only, I am afraid, after he had taken liberties with her. Now we are not quite certain where he is. But we believe he is on foot. A contingent of brave men have taken it upon themselves to track him. They have been following since last night.”

“Moving in what direction?”

“West,
Herr Kriminal Inspektor.
I would be willing—”

Frick hung up the telephone.

“Dogs,” he said to Hauptmann, and went to retrieve his Luger from his jacket on the couch.

GOTHMUND

Thomas Brandt followed his usual path on his morning walk, inspecting the fishing boats along the harbor as if he might be taking one out himself today, as if his days of fishing were not long in the past. But he moved at a slightly faster clip than usual, for the feeling was still with him—his guest would be arriving soon; if he wasn't there to meet the man, then questions might be raised.

When he neared his cottage again, puffing slightly from the exertion of the walk, he saw Katie Ilgner sitting on the hillock in front of her aunt's house, reading a book with intense concentration. Brandt slowed, hoping to exchange a friendly word. Relations between himself and the Ilgners had been shaky over the past few months, thanks to a series of petty disputes: an incident in which Katie's dog had chewed up Brandt's paintbrushes when he had left them outside overnight, an argument about overgrown devil grass in Brandt's yard, and—most significantly—Frau Ilgner's ever-growing resentment over providing Brandt with hot meals twice a week.

Frau Ilgner had promised her husband, before he had gone off to fight the war, that she would undertake this particular task without complaint. She still brought the meals over on Wednesdays and Sundays, like clockwork, but lately she had offered the plates with a smile so poorly manufactured that it seemed closer to a sneer. She despised Brandt, and he thought that he had a fairly good idea of why this might be so. When Brandt died, his house would become the property of the Ilgners; he had never sired an heir, and the families had been close for generations. But Brandt held on—and on, and on. To Frau Ilgner, his continuing good health must have been a source of frustration. He took endless pleasure in providing this particular aggravation. On the day of his death, he would leave behind few regrets, but one of them would be the knowledge that Frau Ilgner had finally gotten her way.

Katie, a pretty girl of twelve with straw-blond hair that cascaded down her back, was so deeply immersed in her book that she didn't glance up until Brandt had come within a few feet of her. When she did raise her eyes, her face tightened with nervousness.

“Herr Brandt,” she said. “Forgive me, sir. I didn't realize I had …”

She looked around, trying to realize what mistake she had made.

Brandt felt himself smiling. Somehow he had become the short-tempered old man of Gothmund, the man whom the children laughed about in private and tried to avoid in public. He wondered what nicknames they had for him. He wondered if there was any point in trying to explain to this girl that he had once been a child himself, that life had a way of making one's face sour, and that, inside, he was still just the same as she was—wanting nothing more than to sit in front of the harbor and read his books or work on his paintings, without fear of harassment.

“Katie,” he said. “Don't you look pretty this morning. What are you reading, there?”

She shrugged, and tilted the cover to show him. The title was
The Zaniest Summer,
by Cissy van Marxveldt. “Papa sent it to me,” she said.

“Isn't that nice. How is it?”

She shrugged again. “Boring.”

“Well, it's good to read anyway. Reading keeps the mind sharp. Even at my age.”

“Especially at your age,” she said, seemingly without guile.

His smile faded. “Yes,” he said. “Especially at my age.”

“Are you looking for your cousin? She's inside, having breakfast with Aunt Gerda.”

“My … cousin?”

Katie nodded toward her aunt's house. “She was knocking on your door for ten minutes.”

Brandt licked his lips. “She was, was she?”

“Aunt Gerda says you must not have known she was arriving today. Otherwise you wouldn't have gone on your walk.”

“Well,” Brandt said. “She is a bit early. Excuse me, Katie, please.”

He approached the Ilgner house, his blood hissing through his veins with nervousness. Somehow he had known that his visitor would be arriving today. But he had not expected a woman.

He knocked and then waited. After a moment, the door opened and Frau Ilgner was there, looking at him archly.

“Herr Brandt,” she said. “It's not enough for me to keep you supplied with meals, I suppose. It's also my job to look after your cousins, I suppose. Because I don't have enough to keep myself busy, I suppose, without looking after you at every turn.”

Brandt only hung his head, and looked past Frau Ilgner to the woman sitting at the breakfast table.

The woman was young—around twenty, he guessed, although he had some trouble judging the ages of young people these days—and pretty, in an unspectacular way, with shoulder-length auburn hair and the fair complexion of a city-dweller. Their eyes met; then she stood, offering a slight curtsy.

“Thomas,” she said. “It's so nice to see you again.”

She came around the table to embrace him. As her hands closed around his back, she whispered: “Greta.”

“Greta,” he said. “How wonderful to see you.”

“Thank you so much for inviting me. I thought I'd be all right in the city, with Hans gone; but after spending a week by myself, I thought I was losing my mind.”

Frau Ilgner was watching them closely.

“You've grown,” Brandt said. “A young woman now. The time passes so quickly.”

“It does. But you look well, Thomas. Very well.”

“Why don't you have a seat,” Frau Ilgner said, “and join us for breakfast?”

“Thank you, Frau Ilgner. But we've got too much to catch up on for that. We haven't seen each other for … How long has it been?”

“Three years,” Eva said.

“Three years! But thank you anyway, Frau Ilgner. Your generosity is most commendable. And thank you for looking after my cousin. The truth is, I wasn't expecting her quite so early.”

“We made good time,” Eva said. “The trains are running so well these days. And do you know, there's almost no crime at all left in Berlin? It's just remarkable.”

“Yes—yes. Well, come along. Do you have any luggage?”

Eva nodded toward a single case resting inside the door. Then she turned to Frau Ilgner. “Thank you so much for your hospitality,” she said. “It's so nice to know that people are still friendly, once you get outside of the city.”

“How long will you be with us?” Frau Ilgner asked.

“Just for a few days,” Eva said airily. “At some point, I'll need to get back to Berlin. My job, you know, won't wait forever. But since Hans went off, the loneliness took me by surprise. It was so kind of Thomas to extend his invitation.…”

“Then I'll see you again.”

“I hope so.” Eva turned back to Thomas and crooked an arm. “Shall we?”

Frau Ilgner watched as they left the house. She kept looking after them for a long minute, her face expressionless. Then she turned away, and began to clear the table.

Eva had achieved such divine distance from reality that she was—against all reason, against all sanity—actually enjoying herself.

When one heard enough bad news, she thought, one slipped away from confronting it. So she had been found out? So she needed to run to an unknown place, to trust a stranger with her life? Why, what fun. At first she hadn't been able to achieve such divine distance. At first—during the night at the rooming house, and all through the long night just passed—she had been taking things all too seriously.

But now she saw things for what they were: a game, a play. All fun, after a fashion. She had found her own theater, here in this remote seaside town. Brandt's small cottage on the Fischerweg looked like a stage set, all deep shadows and too bright colors. She had the feeling that if she could step around a wall quickly enough she would find nothing behind it. It was a façade, constructed entirely for her benefit.

But the fisherman was worried.

He sat at the splintery table and talked—talked endlessly. What had she told the neighbor? The neighbor would be watching them. How long did she plan on staying? How had she gotten here? Were there others coming as well? How many cousins was he expected to have? Noyce had not thought this through, he said. But Noyce was miles away, oceans away, and so he wouldn't have to suffer the consequences. Brandt would be the one to suffer the consequences. Had Noyce made any plan at all?

Eva, who hadn't the faintest idea who Noyce might have been, heard the fisherman out and then answered his questions to the best of her ability. Beneath it all she wanted to reassure him: it was only a game, only a play. He should relax and learn to enjoy it, the way she had.

“I told her we're second cousins. My mother's mother, from Leipzig, was your mother's sister.”

“My mother didn't have a sister,” Brandt said.

“Does Frau Ilgner know that?”

Brandt shook his head—a gesture of confusion, not an answer.

“I'll be gone in a few days,” Eva said. “And yes, someone is meant to meet me here. But I'm not certain if he …”

She trailed off. She was not certain if Hobbs had managed to escape after passing her the message, she had been about to say. But it did not seem prudent to tell the old man any more than she needed to. The play into which she had stumbled, after all, wasn't a romance. It was more like a masquerade ball. And when the masks came off, who knew what faces would be revealed?

“I'm not certain if he'll make it,” she finished, and left it at that.

Brandt looked at her with his rheumy eyes, then puffed out a coil of smoke. “And how did you get here? Railroad, as you said?”

“No. I had a car.”

“Where is it now?”

“I left it outside of town. Don't worry. They won't be able to trace it.”

“You're certain?”

“I would say so. It's at the bottom of a pond.”

He smoked his pipe again, then resumed talking.

During her time in his home, he said, she was to keep a low profile. Damage had already been done by letting Frau Ilgner see her, but that was nobody's fault but his own. He had not been here to meet her. From now on, however, she was to behave like a U-boat—the vernacular for refugees on the run from the Nazis. She would not leave the house at all until she was leaving for good. She would sleep in the bedroom; he would bring out his old pallet for himself and lay it down here, by the fireplace. If anybody asked, they would stay with the story she had told Ilgner. She was a cousin from Berlin, who had become unexpectedly lonely when her husband had gone off to join the service. She had written Brandt a letter, and he had invited her to come spend a few days in Gothmund. Only to get over the worst of it. She had a job, after all, and they would soon expect her back. And beyond that she was to say nothing.