The Second Son: A Novel (28 page)

The motorcyclist led them up the stairway and, somewhere on the third floor, took them into an office that looked like a small banquet hall. The wall facing the street was a series of long, narrow windows that stepped out onto equally narrow balconies, each with a singular view of Our Lady of the Pillar. It was unclear which of the buildings was keeping watch on which, but Hoffner imagined that the man at the far end of the room—desk, bookcase, and telephone—readily deferred to the will of the Holy Mother across the square.

A second man in uniform approached. He and the motorcyclist exchanged a quick salute, and the motorcyclist retreated. The man then motioned Mila and Hoffner toward the distant desk—a sudden and almost jarring “Señor, Señora” to break the Spanish silence—before leading the way.

The other man stood as they drew up. He was tall, with a chiseled face, a nobleman in the most recent guise of Spanish privilege. He was no more than twenty-five, his hair black and slicked above a high forehead, his uniform perfectly pressed. Where Durruti had defined hunger and passion, this showed centuries of refinement. The only flaw was a red patch of skin under the right eye. Something from birth. Something to cause shame.

He was a career officer, only weeks removed from his betrayal of the Republic. He wore his treason with the easy assurance of a divine right.

“I am Captain Doval.” The voice was nasal and lingered on the words. “I have been expecting you, Señor, though not expecting you.”

From the slight curl of the lip, Hoffner imagined this to be some form of humor.

Hoffner offered a clipped nod. “Captain.” His Spanish was once again fluent, though no less Germanic. “What we have to discuss does not concern the señora. She has a brother in your garrison whom she wishes to see. The last name is Piera.” He looked at Mila.

“Carlos,” she said. “First Sergeant Carlos Piera, under General Cabanellas.”

The curl inched toward a smile. “We are all under General Cabanellas, Señora, but I shall see what I can do.” Doval nodded to the second man, who retreated to a small desk and a telephone. The conversation was brief and successful.

The second man said, “Your brother will be in the Gran Café within half an hour. The señora is welcome to wait in the anteroom just here”—he motioned to a door beyond the desk—“until an escort can be found to take her to the café.”

Hoffner said, “I’d like to see this anteroom.” He removed his papers from his jacket pocket and placed them on the desk. “You may examine my papers while I’m with the señora.”

Hoffner took Mila by the elbow. He had been swimming in Nazis for the past three years; it was easy enough to strike a convincing pose. The Spaniards offered their own clipped nods before Hoffner led Mila to the door and through.

The room was small, one window, a few chairs, and with a second closed door that led out to the corridor. Hoffner shut the door behind him and held his finger to his lips. Waiting perhaps fifteen seconds, he suddenly pulled the door open. As expected, the second man was only half a meter off, ostensibly reading through a file.

Hoffner said, “A glass of water for the señora. And one for myself. And perhaps a few crackers. I’ll take mine at the desk.”

He waited for the man to move off before closing the door. Mila was at the far end by the open window. Hoffner joined her.

“You’re very good,” she said quietly. “You’ve even got me believing you’re a son of a bitch. You know what you’ll say to them?”

“No.”

It had been a long time since he had seen admiration in a woman’s eyes. It was there only a moment before she said, “The captain seems young.”

“He does. How long do you think you’ll need?”

“Not long. Half an hour.”

“Good.”

A small wind came through the window and she looked up at him. Hoffner was learning to trust her silences. She slowly brought her hand to his cheek and pressed her lips to his. When she pulled back, he was still staring at her.

“That would take longer,” he said.

It was good to see her smile. She rubbed her thumb across his lip and said, “A handkerchief would be better.”

Hoffner pulled one from his pocket and wiped off what lipstick remained.

She said, “You didn’t need me to get you through last night or this morning. You could have gone south on your own. You knew it in Barcelona.”

“Zaragoza needs guns,” he said. “Coming here helps me find my boy.”

“Yes,” she said, something too knowing in her eyes, “I’m sure it does.”

She stared up at him, and he felt his hand move to the soft of her back. He kissed her again, her lips parched but smooth. She drew him in closer and he released. There was a rapping at the door.

Mila said, “Don’t underestimate them.”

Hoffner used the handkerchief again and turned to the door. “Come.”

The door opened, and the second man stepped through with a plate of crackers and cheese and a glass of water.

Hoffner said, “Good.” He turned to Mila with a nod. “Señora. I’ll see you at the café.” With nothing else, he headed into the office.

*   *   *

“You came through Barcelona?”

Captain Doval sat behind his desk. He held Hoffner’s papers casually in his long fingers, which showed a recent manicure.

“Yes,” said Hoffner. He placed his empty glass on the desk and reached for another cracker. The cheese was surprisingly fresh.

“And you encountered no difficulties?”

Hoffner dabbed his finger at the crumbs on his shirt. “You wear a red neckerchief, raise your hand with a
¡Viva la República!
and Barcelona is your friend.” He licked at the crumbs.

“I wish it were all so easy.”

“It will be.” Hoffner finished the cracker and brushed off his hands. “So. I can expect your help in finding this man?”

Doval’s expression remained unchanged. “Your German. Herr Bernhardt.”

“Yes.”

There really had been no other choice. If guns were coming in, this was where they would be heading. Besides, it was always best to bring a bit of truth to the table with a man like Doval. And arrogance—German arrogance—with crackers, brushed hands, and a thoroughly polished indifference.

Doval placed the papers on the table. He rubbed something off one of his nails, and said, “Papers are an easy thing to come by these days, Señor Hoffner. Especially in Barcelona.”

Hoffner showed nothing. “I imagine they are.”

“A Safe Conduct is impressive.”

“Especially one signed by Señor Franco.”

Doval seemed less convinced. He waited before saying, “Your Spanish is excellent.” Even a compliment seemed a sneer.

Hoffner could see where this was going. Papers wouldn’t be enough. Funny, he thought: where better than Nationalist Spain to be forced to have it all come down to an act of faith. It was now just a matter of waiting for the right moment. Hoffner continued, “But not your German.”

“No—I don’t speak German.”

“Odd,” said Hoffner. “I would have expected a bit more from the Reich’s liaison.”

“Odd is having a member of the Reich appear without warning.”

Hoffner appreciated Doval’s impatience. It was coming now. “You’re going to waste both our time, aren’t you?”

“I have a man with the woman at the café.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“He can detain her if need be.”

“Or shoot her. Or you could shoot me. There are so many possibilities for you.”

Doval tried to match Hoffner’s effortlessness, but it came off as preening.

“You will admit it’s surprising,” said Doval. “A German with rare yet ideal papers arriving with a Spanish woman. She was also in Barcelona?”

“She was.”

“And you just happened to be carrying a second Safe Conduct for her?”

Doval was taking them closer and closer. Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. He chose not to offer one. “You ask very good questions.”

“I hope they’re not wasting your time.”

“Not at all.” Hoffner lit up and let out a long strain of smoke. “When we speak about Bernhardt, I’ll be happy to explain it to you.”

“Assuming I know who this Bernhardt is.”

Hoffner took another pull. “But that’s not the point, is it—whether you know.”

The power of German arrogance lay in its cruelty; Spanish arrogance relied too willingly on dignity. It placed Doval at a considerable disadvantage.

Hoffner said, “The better question is why do
I
know about Herr Bernhardt, and why do I choose to come to a rebel stronghold to talk about him. The rest is meaningless. I’m assuming you can set up a direct telephone line to Berlin.”

Doval needed a moment. He had never imagined the request coming from across the desk. “Yes.”

“How long will it take?”

Again Doval hesitated. He was convincing himself of the logic. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

“Good. And you have someone here who speaks a perfect German?”

“I have.”

“Then I’ll save us both some time.” Acts of faith require so little preparation, he thought. “You’re to have your man contact Gruppenführer Edmund Präger at the SS offices of the Sipo in Berlin. Präger. With an umlaut. I have the number, but coming from me you’d question it. So we’ll sit together while your man tracks it down. When he has the Gruppenführer on the line, I’ll tell your man what he needs to ask. And then you’ll tell me what I need to know about Bernhardt. We’re clear?”

*   *   *

Eighteen minutes later the telephone on Doval’s desk rang through. Hoffner had spent the time drinking a second glass of water and finishing the cheese and crackers.

Doval said nothing. Instead, he chose to watch Hoffner. It was an old technique and not terribly effective in the hands of a man still green with his own power.

Doval nodded to the man who had promised a perfect German, and the man picked up the telephone.

“Hello?” The man’s eyes darted as he listened. “Yes … slower please … yes … thank you … I can wait.” The eyes settled on the rind of cheese before suddenly refocusing. “One moment.” He cupped the receiver and looked at Doval. Doval looked across at Hoffner, and Hoffner said in Spanish, “You’re to tell the Herr Gruppenführer that SS Hauptsturmführer Nikolai Hoffner is in Zaragoza, Spain, at the Nationalist headquarters with a Captain Doval.”

Doval nodded to the man. The information was relayed in German and Hoffner watched as the man continued to listen. Either Präger would understand or Hoffner would be dead. It was as simple as that.

The man with the perfect German said in Spanish, “I think he’s asking why you’ve contacted him, Captain.”

Doval again looked at Hoffner, and Hoffner said, “You’re to say this and only this: ‘Braunschweig.’ ”

Doval again nodded and the man said hesitantly into the receiver, “Braunschweig.” There were several more seconds of darting eyes, and the man said in Spanish, “SS Hauptsturmführer Hoffner has the Gruppenführer’s complete authority. Contact is not to be made again.” The man listened for more and then said, “Hello?… Hello?” He held the receiver out to Doval. “The line has disengaged, Captain.”

Doval was looking across at Hoffner. “Set it down, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”

The man placed the telephone in its cradle, saluted, and moved to the door. Doval waited until they were alone.

“I’ve never heard of this Präger,” said Doval. His caution remained.

“No,” said Hoffner, “I’m sure you haven’t.” It was nice to know that two old bull cops could still wreak a little havoc. “The Gruppenführer’s immediate superior is SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich. That, I suspect, is a name you’re more familiar with. We can put a call directly through to the Obergruppenführer if you prefer.”

Doval had evidently spent time enough in the company of the SS not to give way to this kind of bullying. Instead he said, “Langenheim never mentioned Braunschweig.”

Langenheim, thought Hoffner. All the names from Georg’s wire were finding their way onto the table. Granted, Hoffner had no idea how Doval knew Langenheim—or who Langenheim might be—but at least they were heading in the right direction.

“No,” said Hoffner. “I’m sure not.”

“And the woman?”

Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes. This time he offered one to Doval. “The woman is no concern of yours.” Doval took one and Hoffner lit it. “She has a brother who fights for you. That should be enough.” He lit his own and sat back. “When was Bernhardt here?”

Doval was doing what he could to reassert control. He sat back as he stared across through the smoke. “He wasn’t,” he said.

Hoffner knew to tread carefully. Any moment this could all come crashing down. He began to feel a dull throbbing at the back of his neck. He took another careless pull on the cigarette and said, “Really?”

“But I would have assumed you knew that.”

Doval was proving surprisingly adept. Hoffner let the smoke trail from his nose. “Would you?” he said. His only choice was a quiet contempt. “And when would I have learned this, Captain, having been in Barcelona for the past four days? When I telephoned to Berlin from the Ritz? I’m sure no one at the anarchist telephone exchange would have thought to ask why.” And with no time for a response, “I need to know when Bernhardt was here. Do we understand each other?”