“Like this. We’re getting a drunk home.”
The stairs were more difficult than he anticipated, Markovsky’s feet dragging and getting stuck, so they finally had to carry him, Alex under his shoulders, the rescue position, Irene his legs. They were sweating when they reached the building door.
“All right, ready? Put his arm around your neck. We’re carrying a drunk.”
He opened the door.
“Oh God,” she said, closing it quickly. “His car. It’s a Karlshorst car. There’ll be a driver. Someone waiting.”
“All night? He does that?”
“Well, not when—” She thought for a second. “Can you manage? A few minutes.”
“Here. Against the wall.”
She fluffed her hair, then clutched the top of her coat. “Does it look as if I have clothes on under this? Can you tell?” He shook his head. “Good. I’m just out of bed.”
He watched out of the crack of the open door as she went over to the car, leaning in to speak to the driver, pretending to feel the cold with only a nightgown on, then hurrying back.
“What did you say?”
“He’s staying the night. He’ll call for another car in the morning. Go get some sleep.”
“Why didn’t he come down himself?”
“Too much to drink. He passed out.”
“Good. That’ll work.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got a witness. That he was here, alive.”
“And when he doesn’t call?”
“Didn’t he? He left before you were up.”
“And they’ll believe that?” she said, nervous.
“Let’s hope so. Why would you lie? What motive would you have? He’s no good to you dead. Anyway, he’s not dead. Not until they find him. He’s just—gone.”
“Where would he go?”
“Anywhere but Moscow. He was worried about that all evening. Ivan will back you up. Ivan suggested it. He was afraid of going back. He was afraid it was a trap. For all we know, he was right.”
She looked at him. “When did you learn to think like this?”
“Ready?” he said, not answering. “Shift most of the weight on me.”
They started down Marienstrasse, dark without streetlights. At the corner, an S-Bahn train clattered overhead, on its way to Friedrichstrasse. Alex pointed north.
“Not the bridge?” Irene said.
“Too busy. Just this short block, then over.”
But suddenly there were car lights heading down Luisenstrasse. They huddled in a doorway, Alex’s back to the street. A couple taking advantage of the dark. If anyone noticed.
“Oh God, I don’t think I can do this,” Irene said.
“Yes, you can.”
“But if we don’t report it—”
“Then they don’t have a body.” He shifted his weight, pushing Markovsky farther in, as the lights passed. “And we have a little time.”
They moved back into the street. Up ahead, the lights of the Charité, but everything around them dark, rubble and deserted building sites. When they reached the riverbank, the bomb-damaged Friedrich-Karl-Ufer, he sat Markovsky down on a pile of bricks covered with a tarp.
“Fill his pockets. So he’ll sink.”
Across the water, he could see the hulk of the Reichstag, like a jagged shadow in a nightmare. The Spree bent here, then again farther up, the arc of the Spreebogen, sluggishly winding its way toward Lehrter Station. An industrial stretch, bombed out, the empty Tiergarten on the other side, not likely to draw many visitors. As safe as anywhere, if they could get him to the bottom.
He handed her the bloody towel. “Tie this around some bricks,” he said, loading Markovsky’s pockets.
“And what if he comes up? What if they find him?”
“He should have been more careful at night. Big shot in the SMA? There must be a line a mile long waiting to knock his head in. Take the money out of his wallet, just in case. Maybe a robbery. Anyway, if he does float, let’s hope the current takes him. You don’t want him found here, so close. Moabit, anywhere downstream. Not here.”
“But they’ll know he was with me. The driver—”
“And it was still dark when he left—you were half asleep—and that’s the last thing you know. Berlin’s a dangerous place to walk around at night. Look what happened to him.”
Involuntarily, she glanced down. “He wasn’t so bad, you know.”
“No, he just wanted to lock you up with an interrogator doing God knows what. Not so bad.”
“He wasn’t always like that.”
Alex looked up, surprised, then nodded. “All right, fine, remember the good times. It works better that way. You’re upset he’s missing. He tiptoed out of the flat because he didn’t want to wake you. He was thoughtful that way.”
“Don’t.”
“No, I mean it. You’re upset about him. They need to think that.”
“Shh. There’s someone.”
They both stopped, listening for footsteps. A smoker’s cough, then the sound of spitting.
“Quick,” Alex said, moving Markovsky off the pile of bricks. “Cover him. Lie on him,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I’ll lie on you. He’ll just see a couple, not what’s underneath. Quick.”
She dropped to the ground, lying faceup on Markovsky’s body. Alex covered her, his open coat draped over them. They listened for a second, trying not to breathe. Irregular steps, unsteady, probably a drunk trying to find his way home, not a watchman or a guard. Closer, near the river, as if he were just out for a stroll. Irene’s breath in his ear now, warm. The steps stopped.
“Move,” Alex whispered. “Make him think—” Feeling her beneath him, the idea of it, public and reckless, beginning to excite him, the way they used to do it, the risk itself part of it.
Another cough, spitting again, then a noise of surprise, startled not to be alone. Alex imagined him looking at the moving coat, figuring it out.
“Hure,” the man mumbled. “Quatsch.” Disgusted, something offended in his voice, but moving on, not stopping to watch. In another minute, it was quiet again.
“In the street,” Irene said.
“But he didn’t see a body,” Alex said, lifting himself off.