“Let me help. You need only to sign the paper,” he said, pointing to the desk. “It’s all been arranged.” Anxious, clearly wanting to leave.
Alex took out his key and handed it to the desk clerk. Hurry, before he sees you. But Markus was already coming over to them. Alex clutched Ruth’s key in his palm. What if he wanted to shake hands?
“Ah, you’re leaving?”
“Markus.”
“And I was hoping we could have coffee. Continue our conversation. Well, another time.”
“Yes. But soon?” Alex said, friendly, keeping the fiction going. “I’d stay now except they’ve got a car waiting for me.”
“An honor for an honored guest,” Markus said, managing a smile. “So, a flat already. It’s very efficient, the Kulturbund.” This to Martin.
“No, it was the housing authority,” Martin said. “But lucky, certainly.”
“Yes, lucky. Perhaps a word from Major Dymshits.”
“I don’t know,” Martin said, uncomfortable.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” Alex said, feeling the key in his hand, squeezing it.
“No, no, just to talk. Maybe a good thing, your having to go. I should be getting to work, not drinking coffee.” But not moving, a speech that seemed endless, each word like a rope tying them to the floor. And still the key. Alex turned to the desk.
“Is Peter here this morning? The boy?”
The desk clerk nodded and whispered something to another bellhop, presumably a go-find-him request.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” Alex explained.
“We should hurry,” Martin said. “The car—”
“There is one thing I wanted to ask you,” Markus said. “I just remembered. You will find this odd, maybe.”
Alex waited.
“Do you carry a gun?”
“A gun?” Alex said, surprised. “No. Why? Do you think I need one?”
“Need? No. But many people keep a gun here. Berlin can be a dangerous city. I was curious if you had brought one from America. And someone took it maybe. We had an incident with American bullets. So to find the gun—”
“Markus, there must be thousands of American guns in Berlin. Thousands.”
“Army guns, yes. But not this one. A gun a civilian might have. Or so the bullets suggest. There are not so many of those in Berlin. So we have to check.”
“So you ask me?”
“To eliminate you,” Markus said calmly. “Someone just arrived from America. Someone who was in Lützowplatz—”
“What does Lützowplatz have to do with it?”
“That’s where the incident took place.”
“The traffic accident you mentioned.”
“Well, perhaps it was more than that.”
“With bullets? Yes. Well, I didn’t see anybody shoot anybody either. Just my house—or what’s left of it.”
“It was a simple query.”
Alex looked at him, saying nothing, then spied Peter across the room. “There he is. Excuse me a moment.” He went over quickly, before Peter could reach them and took his hand, a tip movement, a bill slipped into a ma?tre d’s palm. Peter’s eyes widened at the feel of the key, then looked up, a kind of approving glance for the smooth handover. He put his hand in his pocket, then saw Markus.
“You know he’s K-5?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. He’s just poking around. If he asks you—”
“I know what to say. He talks to Oskar.” Indicating the doorman.
“Thanks for this. I’ll tell Dieter.”
Peter bowed, backing way, Adlon training.
“You know it’s not necessary to tip here,” Markus said when he came back.
“I know, I keep forgetting. Old habits.”
“Bourgeois habits.”
“Well, he’s just a kid.”
“He did a special service for you maybe?”
“No. It’s just, a kid—”
“Not the best lesson, perhaps. I know, you mean to be generous, but what does such an exchange do? Reinforce an artificial distance between the classes.”
“It was only a mark,” Alex said easily. “An East mark.” Something Peter was likely to have.
“Well, I am perhaps too didactic. I’ve been told this. But you know, it’s true all the same.”
“We should go,” Martin said. “The car—”
Markus glanced at Alex’s suitcase. “A light traveler.”
“Just until the rest of my things arrive. Well, until our coffee then.”
“You can leave messages at the Kulturbund,” Martin said to Markus. “In fact, there is good coffee there. You would be most welcome.”
This seemed to amuse Markus, who smiled. “I will find you, don’t worry,” he said to Alex. “You don’t mind my saying? A very nice coat.” He ran his eyes over it, appraising. “It’s English?”
“No, just Bullocks Wilshire.” And then, at Markus’s blank expression, “A store. In California.”
“When people say ‘English coat’ what do they usually mean? I’m so ignorant of such things.”
“Tweed, I guess,” Alex said, wondering what he was asking. “Anyway, not Bullocks.”
“Of course, if it’s not German, they might say any foreign coat was English. American. English. How many would know the difference? It’s a difficulty with witnesses. Sometimes they don’t know what they’re seeing.” His eyes cool again, steady, not letting it go at all. The old woman? One of the English soldiers? Or nobody? Just his way of pulling a string to see if anything twitched.
* * *
The flat was in a nineteenth-century block of pale stucco and ornamental balconies, facing the street, not one of the gloomy back courtyards. Rykestrasse seemed to have escaped any serious bombing, the buildings shabby but intact. A few doors down there was a synagogue that had been converted to stables and at the end a small park with the red brick water tower that Alex could see from his window if he leaned out and craned his head.
“The SA took it over,” Martin said, pointing out the tower to him. “They tortured people in the basement.” He pulled his head back inside. “So, it seems comfortable to you? I realize, not so big, but the light is good. And even—” He paused for effect. “A telephone.”