“And if he had come over? Then what?”
Alex looked at her, not answering. No witnesses.
“Get his feet,” he said finally, lifting Markovsky from behind.
They half dragged him to the embankment edge. A drop, not high, just a small splash, all the drunk would hear. Feet over, positioning him so gravity could help slide the rest of him in. The body moved and then stopped, sleeve caught, the coat beginning to come off. Alex leaned over, frantic, pulling on it, away from the snag, some rusty rod sticking out of the blasted concrete. And then it was loose, the body falling away in a rush, hitting the water and sinking, the heavy coat stuffed with bricks dragging him under until there was just water, the wet shine of the surface. Gone.
“Come on,” Alex said, holding her. “Before anyone else comes.”
But there was no one out now, even Luisenstrasse deserted, not a single car heading for the bridge. Everyone asleep—where they were too, in their stories.
“Stay with me,” she said at her door.
“I can’t. I can’t come here now. Not until it’s safe again.”
“I’m afraid.”
He put his hand up to her hair. “Not you.”
“But how will I see you?”
“I’ll come to DEFA tomorrow. Fritsch offered me a tour, remember?” He smoothed her hair back. “That’s all we can do now. Meet in public. You never could have done this alone. Get him to the river. So they won’t suspect you unless they think—” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “It’s just for now.”
“They’ll find out,” she said, shivering.
“Not if we’re careful. There are no witnesses.”
But on the walk back, the city looming up around him, threatening, it occurred to him, a new wrinkle, that there had been a witness after all. Two people in the room. He imagined the small cell in Hohensch?nhausen, one bright light. And she will tell us. That’s the ending. If they suspected her. In her hands now.
In Rykestrasse there were no cars watching the street, no one in a doorway. He tapped gently three times before he used the key, but Erich hadn’t heard, sound asleep. In the bedroom, the smell of medicine and night sweat, Erich’s face had changed again, not Fritz anymore, but Erich as he had been, a boy, at peace. The living room was quiet too, the sleeping city outside. Only his heart seemed to be awake, beating fast, knowing he was running out of time.
5
SPREEBOGEN
HE WAITED FOR A few minutes by Little Red Riding Hood, then moved on to Snow White, making a circle around the fountain basin. Just walk in the park, Dieter had said, and I’ll come. But how would he know? There was morning traffic on Greifswalder Strasse, a roar of trucks loud enough to cover the sound of the airlift until they stopped for a red light and the droning came back, there even when you weren’t aware of it, like a nervous tremor. He couldn’t stay here forever looking at fairy tale figures. Maybe Dieter had meant him to walk through the park, toward the rubble mountain.
“Good morning,” Dieter said, coming from behind.
Alex turned, almost jumping. “How did you know I was here?”
“I live across the street,” he said, motioning with his head. “I keep a lookout. My cinema. You have a cigarette?”
He bent forward while Alex lit it for him.
“Something’s wrong?”
“I need to hide someone. A safe place. For a while.”
“One of us?”
“A German. POW. He escaped.”
“And you want to help him? Take a risk like that? In your position? Didn’t they teach you anything? Your training?”
Alex shook his head. “They just threw me off the dock and told me to swim. Can you help?”
“Who is he?”
“Somebody from the old days. He’s sick. He needs to get to the West.”
“Not an easy trip to make these days.”
“He has something to offer. They had him working in the mines. In the Erzgebirge.”
Dieter raised his eyebrows.
“So he has information. I’m sure we’d be interested. But first I have to hide him somewhere. He can’t stay with me.”
“With you? Are you crazy? You have an escaped prisoner in your flat? After we went through all this trouble—?”
“If they catch him, they send him back. Worse. Can you help?”
“When?”
“Now,” Alex said. “They know who he is. His family. There’s a link to me, so they’ll ask.”
“Wonderful,” Dieter said, drawing on the cigarette. “All right, bring him to me.”
“You? I didn’t—”
“See the building across? With the missing plaster? Flat five. I’ll be there waiting. What else? You seem—”
“When does Campbell get here? I need to see him.”
“Why?”
“Something’s come up.”
“That you can’t tell me.”
Alex said nothing.
“So, now we’re careful. Before, let’s hide a fugitive under the bed, no problem at all, but now we’re careful.”
“It’s important. I need to talk to him. Is he here?”
Dieter thought for a minute. “Go to the Adlon. Later. Four, five, maybe. See if any mail came for you.”
“Then he is—”
“I don’t know yet. Just ask. By then, maybe I’ll have news. There’s some hurry?”
Alex looked at him.
“All right,” Dieter said, not pushing it. “What else? Have you seen Markovsky?”
“Last night. He was celebrating. They’re sending him back to Moscow.” Keep him alive, even to Dieter.
“What?” Dieter said, genuinely alarmed.
“I know. So much for our source.”
“He’s being recalled?”
“Promoted. Although there’s some question about that. He seemed worried about it.”
“Well, Moscow,” Dieter said vaguely.
“The new guy’s Saratov. Ever hear of him?”
Dieter nodded. “An old Stalinist. Close to Beria. And they’re sending him here?” He tossed the cigarette, brooding. “Why, I wonder. The mines, there’s some trouble there? Did Markovsky say?”