“I am.”
“So you consider this a political case?”
Trger took a moment. He was gauging Hoffner, not the case. “The Herr
Direktor
and I are old friends,
Kommissar.
He has been kind enough to extend the services of his department.”
Hoffner had no reason to believe that fealty was the sole reason for the Polpo’s continuing interest in his case. Weigland might have convinced Trger and his fellow Directors of that, but Hoffner knew otherwise. “I see.”
“I’m not sure you do,
Kommissar.
” There was nothing combative in the tone: it was a simple statement of fact. Trger continued: “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this site. Are we clear on that?” Hoffner nodded. “Good, because where we are standing doesn’t actually exist.” Trger saw the surprise in Hoffner’s eyes. “Yes. We first moved ground here just over five years ago. December of 1913. This was going to be the grand terminus for a line leading all the way back into the heart of the city. By the end of the decade. That was the aim,
Kommissar.
That was what the Kaiser wanted.”
“Forgive me, Herr
Direktor,
” said Hoffner, “but I don’t recall reading anything about a proposed line this far out.”
“Of course you don’t. No one does. The Kaiser was afraid that if news got out that an underground train—not a tram, mind you, or an omnibus, not something in the daylight,
Kommissar
—but something like this was being designed to connect Berlin West to the scum of Kreuzberg and Prenzlauer—well then, a great many people might have had good reason to make the Kaiser’s life as uncomfortable as possible. Safety, insulation—that sort of thing. What the Kaiser knew was that his Charlottenburg faithful simply needed time to see how wonderful his new underground trains were going to be. He knew they would eventually come begging for their own, so why not have the trains at the ready when they did?”
“But only as far as the zoo,” said Hoffner.
“Yes.”
“No reason for the Kaiser to press his luck by taking the trains into the heart of the West.”
Trger was enjoying this more than he was letting on. “Something like that,
Kommissar.
”
“And then the war came.”
“Exactly. We all discovered that the Kaiser was more interested in the world beyond Berlin than in her trains. Everything came to a stop, and the Number Two U-Bahn line happily drifted into oblivion. That is, of course, until last week. I can’t say we enjoyed hearing that women were being killed and then moved to our sites, but until this morning,
Kommissar,
no one knew about that. Luckily, they still have no idea about the Rosenthaler station. That, I have no doubt, will come out soon enough. When it does, our firm will have to answer some rather unpleasant questions. That, however, does not concern us. Embarrassment fades. The sites in the middle of town threaten no one.” He paused. “This one, however, does—especially given recent events. You understand what I am saying now,
Kommissar
?”
Hoffner did. The revolution had made an underground site this far west far more troubling. The image of a ten-thousand-strong mass moving down the Siegesallee in early January was still fresh in everyone’s minds: how much more frightening would the prospect be of an endless stream of such filth making its way out from beneath the streets in the dead of night? At any moment, they could emerge like rats to run rampant. Herr
Direktor
Trger and his cohorts might be willing to stomach the hysteria produced by a maniac on the loose; they would not, however, tempt the kind of panic that could tear Berlin apart at the seams. “And you’ve managed to keep it hidden all this time?” said Hoffner.
“They think we’ve been building a holding pool for some enormous fish,” said Trger. “Tell me, Herr
Kommissar,
does this look like a holding pool to you?”
Hoffner said, “May I see the body, Herr
Direktor
?”
“You understand our concern,
Kommissar.
”
Hoffner spoke candidly: “That the Polpo knows how to keep the press at bay, and that we in the Kripo—especially those of us who live in Kreuzberg—have never been quite as useful? Yes, Herr
Direktor.
I understand that quite well. May I see the body now?” Hoffner enjoyed the sudden tension that was radiating from Weigland.
Trger, on the other hand, seemed amused by the jab. “Then we’re clear,
Kommissar
?”
“Absolutely, Herr
Direktor.
”
“Naturally, my colleagues and I are eager to assist you in any way we can.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Herr
Direktor.
”
Trger waited. He continued to gaze at Hoffner as he spoke to Weigland. “You shouldn’t have let this one get away to the Kripo, Gerhard. That’s not like you.”
Weigland tried a smile. “No, Herr
Direktor.
”
“
Any
help at all,
Kommissar.
”
Hoffner nodded.
Weigland waited to make sure that Trger was finished before motioning Hoffner in the direction of the body. “It’s this way,” he said as he led Hoffner to the end of the tunnel; the three directors started back for the ladder.
“Always have to be clever, don’t you?” said Weigland under his breath.
Hoffner said dryly, “You have some very impressive friends, Herr
Direktor.
I’m very impressed.”
“Just finish the case, Nikolai. Make all our lives easier.”
The woman was lying facedown in the dirt, at most a day since she had been killed. Hoffner crouched down next to her and saw the drag marks leading up to the spot; he saw the ripped bodice of her dress, the age in her face, the diameter-cut design etched across her back, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was not the work of Paul Wouters.
Hoffner might have been guessing had he come to the conclusion from her clothes alone. The dress and shoes were too young for a woman her age, and there was nothing of the solitary nurse or seamstress in them. Hoffner drew out his pen and lifted up the back hem of her dress. There, as he had expected, he found the telltale sign just above her knee: a little purse was tied on tightly to her thigh. He weighed it in his hand. It was still filled with coins. This woman had been a prostitute, and far more than Wouters could ever have handled.
The clothes and occupation, however, were only confirmation for what Hoffner saw in the design. He ran his thumb along the ruts. He pressed down onto the cold flaps of skin. They were jagged, their angle wrong. These had come at the hands of the second carver.
Hoffner glanced down the tunnel and felt Weigland’s gaze over his shoulder. Someone had gone to great lengths to create the perfect setting. Everything was laid out exactly as it had been in Senefelderplatz two days ago, as it had been over the last month and a half at each of the other sites: the Mnz Strasse roadwork, the sewer entrance at Oranienburger Strasse, the Prenzlauer underpass, the grotto off Blowplatz. Everything perfect, thought Hoffner, and just a day after Herr Braun’s revelations.
He was about to turn back to the body when something else stopped him. Hoffner continued to stare down the tunnel. He saw it in the lights hanging from above, in the placement and dimension of the wooden boards along the dirt walls. It was in the layout of the planks, in the steel beams, in the height of the ceiling, its contours—everything about the tunnel. He had been distracted, first by Trger, then by the victim. Now it was infinitely clear.
Hoffner jumped up and started toward the directors, who were almost to the ladder. He quickened his pace. “Herr
Direktor.
” He began to run as he yelled out, “One moment, please.”
Trger stopped. He turned around. “Herr
Kommissar
?”
Hoffner drew up to him. He could hear Weigland trying to catch up from behind. “Herr
Direktor.
” Hoffner spoke with intensity. “This site. These sites. How are they designed?”
Trger seemed unsure of the question: “You mean how is the tunnel built, Herr
Kommissar
?”
“No, the designs, Herr
Direktor.
How are they configured?”
Trger glanced momentarily at his colleagues. “We have a model. What’s called a Master Draft. It acts as a central plan. Why,
Kommissar
?”
“Each site, Herr
Direktor
? Each one is designed in the same way?” Hoffner felt the pieces falling into place.
“In theory, yes.” Trger was still not sure what he was explaining. “One basic tunnel design. One basic track design. It makes for much more cost-effective production of materials, instruction to foremen, so forth and so on.” Trger was finished answering questions. “Why is this of any importance?”
“So the Senefelder site would be almost identical to this one?”
“More or less, yes.” Trger was growing impatient. “Why are you asking this?”
“Even something as involved as the Rosenthaler Platz station. An arcade. That, as well?”
Trger answered abruptly. “With a few modifications, yes. The same construction.
Kommissar,
what has this to do with your case?”
Images were flying through Hoffner’s head. He saw the frustration in Trger’s eyes. “Thank you, Herr
Direktor.
” And without another word, Hoffner took hold of the ladder and headed up.
O
ut on the plaza, Sascha was holding court among a group of Schutzi patrolmen. Hoffner caught his breath as he made his way across.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, still winded. The men moved off. “I need a favor, Sascha.”
The boy’s eyes widened, and not for the misuse of his name. This was the first time he had ever heard his father ask for help. “A favor?” Sascha said uncertainly.
“I need you to go back to the Alex. To my office.”
“Now?” he said more eagerly.
“Yes, now. There might be a telephone call. If Herr Fichte shows up, you tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Sascha nodded through the instructions. “And if the telephone call does come in?”
Hoffner had not thought that far ahead. “Good point. You tell the gentleman that I’ll call him back. A Herr Kepner. Take his number. He’s to say nothing else on the line. You’re to make sure of that. Nothing else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Excellent.” Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. “You’re doing me a tremendous good turn, Sascha.” He handed the coins to the boy. “Whatever you don’t use on the trams, you keep for yourself, all right?” He squeezed a hand on the boy’s arm. “Thank you.” He then headed off.
“You’re welcome, Father.” But Hoffner was already out of earshot.
F
ive and a half kilometers across town, a sign had replaced the Schutzi patrolman:
ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.
Evidently it had worked just as well. The Rosenthaler site was completely deserted. Hoffner took hold of the ladder and headed down.
Fifteen rungs in, the cavern became pitch black. He reached the bottom, struck a match, and gently wedged it between two wooden slats.
From the little he could see, Hoffner managed to locate a stray pick lying on the ground. He took it and began to wrap his handkerchief around its wooden end. He then pulled out his flask and doused the cloth in liquor. Holding the pick by its chisel edge, he struck a second match and lit the improvised torch. At once the underbelly of the station opened up in wild shadows in front of him. The odor of feces was long gone, as was any indication that a family had been living down here until ten days ago. Even the boards for the feather beds had been restored to their rightful places.
Trger had been right: the space was virtually identical to the other designs Hoffner had seen in the past three days. The spokes that led out into the arcade were simply other single-line tunnels, those “modifications” Trger had mentioned. They, however, were not the reason Hoffner had come.
He set off down the central spoke and back toward the cavern in which they had first found the body. He deliberately kept his head down, his eyes on the dirt path. He needed to see it from Wouters’s perspective—from the proper angle—and that was possible only from inside Mary Koop’s cavern.
Hoffner made his way through various entryways and along several tunnels before he reached the opening and headed for the far wall. He found Koop’s indented outline in the dirt: six weeks of occupation had kept it fresh. The little ridges of mud seemed to ripple in the torchlight. Even now, her frame looked as if it had been a part of the flooring, all along. Hoffner took in a deep breath and turned around.
“My God,” he whispered.
The design was everywhere. Hoffner could have closed his eyes and traced its path without ever once taking a false step. He moved back to the cavern’s opening and felt himself being pulled into the pattern, not in the way he had felt on the streets of Berlin—not in some conjured reimagining of the ruts and curves of a woman’s back—but in the actual carvings themselves: he turned, and the tunnels turned with him; he reached out for a crossing line, and the wall gave way to an opening that cut across his path; he ran his hands along the walls and felt the cold ridges of human flesh. He had missed it before, too many distractions, too much to get in his way. Now he was a part of the diameter-cut.
The edge of the design ended abruptly at the entryway to a tunnel that led back to the central cavern. Beyond the entryway, two steel support beams were rooted into the walls directly across from each other. Hoffner stepped through the entryway and continued down the tunnel and away from the design, back toward the ladder. He found another set of steel beams perhaps twenty meters on. A third pair appeared, again at the same interval.
Here the construction was almost identical to those in the Senefelderplatz and the Tiergarten. Hoffner turned around and quickly headed back to where the Wouters design began.
He started in through the entryway: twenty meters, forty, sixty. There were no steel beams. The tunnels here were not a part of the Master Draft design. They had been added on, and quickly: too quickly to afford the arrival of the steel beams.