Rosa (50 page)

Hoffner waited and then said, “That I’m a son of bitch, and that I deserve his hatred.”

She continued to stare up at him. “You’ll have to do that on your own,” she said. She waited, then said, “You need to go, Nicki. Come back when you want, but not now.” She stood, lifting Georgi into her arms. She started to go but stopped herself. “He saw him do this,” she said. “That’s something else you’ll have to take care of on your own.” She walked past him and into the hall.

H
offner had nowhere else to go but the Alex. He tried to look over the files again, but his mind was incapable of focus; he found himself wandering the corridors of the third floor. A few lights were on, but it was after eleven and Fichte was long gone, not that finding Fichte was what he was after. Still, he moved toward the boy’s office.

In typical fashion, Fichte had left the door open. Hoffner stepped inside, to find a desk, a chair, and a few books scattered about. He wondered how much time Fichte was actually spending down here these days. Hoffner turned on the light and saw a map of Berlin tacked onto the far wall. It was untouched.

He was about to flip through one of the books when he heard something at the far end of the hall. Hoffner stepped out of the office and saw a light spilling from Groener’s office. As good a time as any, he thought. Or maybe he just needed the distraction. Hoffner flicked off Fichte’s light and made his way down the corridor. He made sure he was alone before knocking.

Groener was at his desk when Hoffner pushed open the door to a look of surprise, then annoyance. “Yes?” Groener said coolly.

Hoffner stepped inside. “Turns out we have a mutual friend, Herr Detective Sergeant.”

Groener’s face winced as he shot up and passed Hoffner on his way to the door. Groener made a quick scan of the corridor and then shut the door. He took Hoffner by the arm and brought him closer to the desk. “You idiot.” Groener spoke in a hushed voice; whispering only seemed to intensify the stench. “Of course we have a mutual friend. You don’t leave the door open to talk about him, now do you? How much have you had to drink, anyway?”

It was a fair question, thought Hoffner: one or two at a bar in Kreuzberg, another few in his office. He had hoped to be feeling more of their effect by now, but nothing, it seemed, was going to make tonight any easier. He said, “So how long have you known him?” He took a seat.

Groener was back behind his desk. “Long enough.” He was still the sour little man even in the company of a fellow conspirator.

Hoffner searched his pockets for a cigarette. “Who’s he protecting?” Groener needed more of an explanation. “The third prisoner,” said Hoffner. “At the Eden.” Hoffner found a stray and lit up. “The night Liebknecht and Luxemburg were killed.”

Groener was still trying to follow. He said hesitantly, “I don’t know. He never told me about that.”

Jogiches had been careful here: Groener was only a source, not a confidant. The interview continued: “The Ascomycete 4, the directors of Ganz-Neurath, Wouters’s replacement—you managed to track all that down by yourself, did you, Groener?” Groener nodded through each item on the list. “And you know where they’re keeping Luxemburg?” This time, Groener remained silent. “Well, we can’t have everything, can we?” Hoffner continued. “Still, more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?” Hoffner tapped out his cigarette. “So, why was he having you get in touch with Kvatsch?”

“Who?”

“Kvatsch,” Hoffner repeated more clearly. “The reporter from the
BZ.
Why all the clandestine meetings?”

It wasn’t the pronunciation that had confused Groener. He continued to stare across the desk before slowly shaking his head. “I know no Kvatsch.”

Hoffner knew better. “You’ve been having lunch with him twice a week for the past—” Hoffner stopped; his mind began to sift through a thousand images.
Idiot,
he suddenly thought.
Of course.

Groener had never met Kvatsch. There had been no meetings, no list to compile.

Little Franz had been the leak all along.

Hoffner’s mind continued to race: the boy’s appearance at the Senefelderplatz site; all the wires back and forth to van Acker; the spate of articles detailing the case while he and Fichte had been freezing their asses off outside the
Ochsenhof
—Franz had had time to sort through the files without fear of being spotted; the tip-off to Tamshik to be in the pit rooms; and most recently the trumped-up note from K. At least there Franz had shown a little reluctance. Evidently Tamshik and Braun were paying him more than a few pfennigs for his services.

Hoffner stood and, ignoring Groener, headed for the door. The boy would be upstairs asleep, and Hoffner had questions that needed answering.

He raced down the corridor and nearly collided with one of the interchangeable sergeants from the duty desk. Hoffner tried to sidestep the man, but the sergeant held his ground.

“Herr Chief Inspector,” said the young man. Again Hoffner tried to get around him, and again the man held his ground: “I’ve been trying to find you for the last fifteen minutes. I tried your office—”

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in angrily. “What is it that can’t wait, Herr Sergeant?”

The man needed a moment to recover. “A body’s been found, Herr Chief Inspector. A woman. With the markings.”

“What markings?”

“From the Wouters case.”

“The what?” Hoffner said in complete disbelief.

“The markings. On the back.”

Hoffner tried to clear his head. “You’re sure?” The man nodded. “Where?”

“Kremmener Strasse.”

Kremmener . . .
An image of Lina flashed into Hoffner’s head and he began to run.

T
he cab was still moving as Hoffner opened the door and jumped out. They had cordoned off the street, most of which was eerily quiet. He moved past the barricade and toward a pocket of bright white light that was pouring down from a series of high-wattage arc lamps: it made the milling bodies in the distance look almost ethereal. Hoffner had known which building it would be, the uneven steps, the barren flower boxes. Number 5. The screws in his stomach tightened at the confirmation.

A group of Schutzis was keeping the small crowd at bay. Everyone had seen enough of Hoffner’s picture in the newspapers to let him through without so much as a glance at his badge. He stepped through the line and saw the lone sergeant who was standing by a single sheet-covered body that lay at the bottom of the stoop.

Hoffner felt a numbing in his head as he drew closer. He tried to brace himself for what he knew lay beneath, until he saw the shape. The body was too large, the contours wrong. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t Lina. Hoffner slowed, and the desperate fear he had been carrying with him since the Alex melted away. They had sent him a message:
We know where she is. We know how to find her. Consider yourself lucky this time.
Hoffner knelt down and pulled back the sheet. For several seconds his mind went blank as he stared at the face. Martha’s lifeless eyes gazed up at him and Hoffner vomited.

SIX

HEAVEN ON EARTH

I
n the summer of 1903, married less than a year and recently promoted to detective sergeant, Hoffner had taken Martha out to Wannsee for a day at the beach. He had put a little extra money in his pocket and they had rented two chairs and an umbrella and a cabana-tent of their own. She had packed sandwiches and a bottle of Sekt to celebrate, and after lunch they had changed into swimming clothes and waded out to where the water was coolest. Side by side and staring out across the endless lake, he had finally agreed to have a family. Martha had reached down into the water and pulled up a pebble as a keepsake. Hoffner had found it in a box by their bed the day he had buried her.

The following morning he had been relieved of duty. Präger had talked about the strain of it all, that a man couldn’t be expected to run a case in his position—any case—but the real impetus for Hoffner’s ouster was far more transparent: Präger had been told to clear him out. The order had come from beyond the walls of the Alex. There was nothing either of them could do.

Tonight, Hoffner’s refuge was a grotty little bar deep inside the maze that was Prenzlauer Berg, sawdust strewn across its floor for whatever the shadows might be failing to hide. A woman hovered shamelessly by the bartender, the dim light working in her favor: there might just be a warm bed for her tonight. The rest of the clientele showed a little more decorum: chins drooped to chests, aimless fingers clasped at half-filled glasses. Only the sudden shaking of a head and the quick tossing-back of a drink gave any indication that the place was anything more than a repository for propped-up corpses. Hoffner checked the bottle in front of him and saw it was whiskey he had been pouring back tonight.

Time had taken an odd turn in the past few days: it had slipped by with a steady indifference even as it had remained fixed on that moment in Kremmener Strasse. For the first time, Berlin was pushing forward without him: two more bodies had been found in Charlottenburg; the panic had returned. More than that, rekindled accusations of Kripo incompetence now hung over the city like so many added layers of soiled snow. There was even talk of corruption.

The papers, of course, were rewriting the past. Wouters was no longer the demented madman but the scapegoat for an investigation that had gone terribly wrong: what was the Kripo hiding? The fact that the little Belgian had been shot while wheeling around his final victim had somehow been lost to a collective bout of amnesia. It was even beginning to take its toll on the fledgling government: who was protecting Berlin?

Hoffner read through the articles—coherent moments between bottles—and let everything drift past him. Poor Fichte looked so hapless on all those front pages, no one to buy him a drink this time round.

Hoffner felt a shadow as a figure appeared at the end of his table.

“You’ve enough for two?” said a voice.

Hoffner looked up to see Leo Jogiches standing with an empty glass in hand; Jogiches placed the glass on the table: it had only been a matter of time, thought Hoffner. He took the glass and filled it.

“Difficult to track you down,” said Jogiches as he sat.

“I didn’t know anyone was looking.”

“I’ve had a man at your flat.”

“Then he must have been very lonely.”

Jogiches took a sip of the whiskey. “Keeping yourself busy,” he said as he nodded over at the bottle.

Hoffner poured one for himself. “Not as busy as you,” he said as he set the bottle down; he tapped at the paper that was on the table. “Can’t open one of these without reading about your General Strike. Workers of the world         .         .         .” Hoffner snorted quietly to himself. “It won’t make any difference.”

The Party had called the strike three days ago, even though Jogiches had known it was a mistake: still, Eisner’s assassination had given everyone hope. Who was he to stamp on that? “Worth a try,” said Jogiches. “Someone had to keep them on their toes.”

Hoffner took a drink.

Jogiches said, “I was sorry to read about your wife.”

“Were you?” Hoffner kept his eyes on his glass. “They send a very clear message.”

Jogiches finished off his whiskey and said, “So Munich was a success?”

Hoffner wondered if Jogiches ever saw a human side in all of this. He said plainly, “If by success you mean it was enough to provoke them to kill my wife, then yes.” Hoffner refilled his glass.

Compassion made Jogiches uncomfortable. He said awkwardly, “There are children?”

The questions were growing more absurd. Hoffner laughed bitterly to himself. “Yes,” he said with surprising sharpness. “There are children.” He had spoken to no one about this, and a week’s worth of resentments now spilled out. “And since you’re so interested, the older boy blames me for her death, while the little one hasn’t said a word since. He was asleep when it happened—when they came and took my wife—so you can see how lucky he was, but there’s always the chance that he heard something, isn’t there? A few shouts from beyond the bedroom?” Hoffner took his glass and eyed the liquid. “They’re living with her sisters now.” This carried an added sourness. “Best for everyone, I imagine.” He tossed back the whiskey and placed the glass on the table. “You’ve made the effort. We can move on.”

Jogiches might have expected the venom; or if not, at least he understood it. Either way, he was happy enough to leave it behind them. “So you’ve seen today’s papers?”

“Today’s, yesterday’s, makes no difference.”

“Ah, but it does. They’ve widened their scope.” Hoffner didn’t follow. “The Kripo isn’t all that they’re after, Herr Inspector. Word is that the carvings are being inspired by a lace design. A design from a very specific source.”

It took Hoffner a moment to sift through the booze. When he did, he recalled Brenner’s warning. “They’re claiming it’s a Jew?”

Jogiches nodded. “A boy was beaten outside a shop in the Kurfrstendamm. There was broken glass and some writing at a synagogue.”

For the first time in days, Hoffner stepped outside of himself. The hysteria was taking on a distinct Thulian flavor. Jogiches saw the shift in his expression and said, “And that would be consistent with what you found in Munich?”

Hoffner stared across the table; for several moments he said nothing. He knew he could either pour himself another drink or he could answer. It was as simple as that. Finally he said, “Who was the third prisoner at the Eden?”

Jogiches allowed himself a smile. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you, Inspector?”

Hoffner heard the echoes of “cause” and “truth” in the question: how little Jogiches understood. “The third prisoner,” he repeated.

“A man named Pieck. One of Rosa’s former students. His bad luck to be at the flat the night they were taken.”

“And he saw everything?”

“Yes.”

“They simply let him go?”

“False papers. Good enough to convince the halfwits of the
Schtzen-Division.
They’ve never been terribly bright over there. Pieck slipped away in the confusion.”

“And you trust him?”

“About this, yes.”

“So who gave the orders to separate them?”

“Wolfgang Nepp.” Jogiches paused for effect. “Former
Wehrmacht
general, and current Deputy Minister of Defense.”

T
his was the last item in Jogiches’s private cache, though it hardly made any difference: if the Munich loonies had drummed up disciples in the officer corps and the Polpo, why then not in Ebert’s government? Not that Hoffner needed a reason to share what he had with Jogiches: the events of the last week had made discretion somehow pass.

Hoffner traced the line from Wouters through the substitution of the now-dead Urlicher to the beer-hall Eckart, and finally to Herr
Doktor
Manstein and the Thulian Society. He explained the military connections to the Ascomycete 4, and the link between the Rosenthaler station design and the directors of Ganz-Neurath—those Prussian business interests. He ran through the details on the second carver—the jagged versus the smooth lines—then Tamshik’s appearance at the
Ochsenhof,
and through it all Jogiches listened intently, never once asking a question.

When Hoffner was finished, he poured himself a glass and said, “All the pieces,
mein Herr.
Nice and neat. You can do with them what you will.” Hoffner shot back the whiskey and poured himself another. He expected Jogiches to get up, but the man continued to stare at him from across the table. When it became apparent that Jogiches had no intention of leaving, Hoffner said, “Not enough for you?”

Jogiches waited before answering. “Is it for you?” he said.

Hoffner had answered the question days ago: it was why he was still here. “Let’s just say we don’t share the same needs, you and I.”

“Things have resolved themselves to your satisfaction, then?”

Hoffner did his best to ignore the goading. There was no point in going down this path. He said, “How much of this did you know in January?” Jogiches showed a moment’s surprise. “Rcker’s bar,” said Hoffner. “The day after she was killed. You were there, keeping an eye on me.”

Jogiches recalled their first encounter. “The tired professor. I didn’t think you would have remembered that.” He nodded his approval. “Groener,” he said. “He’d seen Rosa and the carvings when she first came in that morning, and knew the case would go to you. He got in touch with me, told me where I might find you. I suppose I wanted to see the sort of man who would be asked to make sense of it.”

“And?”

“You didn’t seem a complete idiot.”

“No,” Hoffner corrected. “And how much did you know?”

Jogiches took the bottle and refilled his glass. “Not enough to have stopped the killings, if that’s what you mean. Pieck found me the night before. He told me that Rosa had been taken by Vogel. I knew she was no maniac’s victim.” He was about to drink, when he said, “Or, rather, I knew she wasn’t
your
maniac’s victim. Which meant that there was something more to her killing, and more to your killings, than either of us realized at the time.” He finished his whiskey.

“And Munich?”

“That came later, after you’d caught the Belgian. There was money flowing into the
Schtzen-Division.
Rifleman Runge wasn’t shy about spending his. It took me time to trace it. A Munich doctor. More than that I couldn’t find. I assume he was your Herr Manstein. Groener also found telephone logs for calls to and from Munich by a Polpo detective.”

“Braun,” said Hoffner.

“Yes. He was also meeting with Nepp on a regular basis. The arrogance of these people astounds me.”

Hoffner thought about his own trip to Munich: and what had that been, he wondered. He said, “So this Pieck is willing to come forward?”

“If it comes to that.”

Hoffner saw something in Jogiches’s eyes. “You don’t know where he is, do you?”

Jogiches waited: there was nothing apologetic in the tone when he spoke. “No,” he said. “Not that it would make any difference. A Red pointing the finger . . . who’s going to place much stock in that?”

It was an obvious point, but one that Hoffner would never have thought Jogiches willing to accept, at least not so graciously. And then it struck him, the reason why Jogiches had been with this from the start: the reason he was still at the table. “But a Kripo Detective . . . that’s something entirely different, isn’t it?” Hoffner waited for a reaction; when none came, he said, “You or your friend Pieck put things together and no one has to pay attention. You let the Kripo put it together and suddenly there’s a legitimate case.”

For several long moments, Jogiches continued to hold Hoffner’s stare. He then raised his eyebrows and said, “And there it is.” Again he waited. “Tell me, Inspector, would you have trusted anything I might have given you openly? The former lover out for revenge, the mad revolutionary desperate for chaos? Was I wrong? It was all in the aid of truth, so what difference does it make? I certainly wouldn’t have trusted you had the positions been reversed.”