“No. He thinks he’s doing a great job. They’re making their quotas anyway. You think it means something, bringing Saratov in?”
“My friend, everything means something with them. It’s a chess game, Moscow, one move here, another there. Except in this game the king is never put in check. Never.” He looked up. “This is valuable, Herr Meier. A pity Willy isn’t here—a feather in his cap. To know this before it happens.”
“So should Markovsky be worried? He had a lot to drink.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean much with them. But it’s interesting, yes. Worried about a promotion. We’ll look some more at the tea leaves, see what they say. Your friend, she was with you?”
“That’s why I was there. A drink at the M?we. Well, drinks. He had a pal with him. Ivan.”
“His flunky, yes. So what else did they talk about?”
“There was a story about Leuna. The heavy water plant there.”
“Leuna?” Dieter said. “Just like that they mention Leuna? You must have a gift for this,” he said, then grinned, an unexpected gesture, his whole face different. “We’ve been trying to find the exact location for months, and now—just like that.”
“They had a lot to drink.”
“Among friends,” he said, nodding to Alex. “It’s working. He trusts you.”
“Not for much longer. He’s leaving whenever Saratov gets here.”
Dieter frowned, then looked up. “The evening went well? You might see him again? A dinner before he leaves?”
“I could ask Irene.”
“A sad occasion for her,” Dieter said, thinking. “She might prefer a dinner alone.”
Alex shrugged. “She might be relieved. The POW’s her brother.”
Dieter stared at him. “And when were you going to tell me this?”
“Does it matter?”
“Amateur. Such foolishness. You’ll get us all—” He looked up. “Markovsky knows this?”
“No. At least, he didn’t say and presumably he would have.”
“Presumably,” Dieter said, sarcastic.
“And he’ll be gone. Not his problem.”
“No. Ours.”
“Look, Erich might have gone to her. Or me. So they’ll check. But he doesn’t know you.”
“And that makes it safe,” Dieter said, dismissive. “When did he escape?”
“Two, three days ago.”
“Then you’re already on borrowed time. You should have your head examined.” He looked back at the statues, scanning the empty fountain. “All right, get him. I’ll find a place.”
Alex looked at him, a question.
“Somewhere safe, but not with me. No connection.”
“Where?”
Dieter shook his head. “The fewer people know, the safer he’ll be. No links to break. No chain.”
“Part of the training?”
“No, I know how these things work. I was for many years with the police.”
“The Berlin police? During—?”
“Yes, during the Third Reich.” The hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “A conversation for another day. Better have him come alone.”
“But—”
“A little trust, Herr Meier. Even in this business.” He glanced down at his watch. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”
“No,” Alex said, his face suddenly warm. “Isn’t that enough?”
“For one day, yes,” Dieter said, another smile. “So. I’ll expect your friend. Alone. And you? What’s on the agenda today?”
“A meeting at DEFA.”
“Such a life. Film stars. Say hello to Fr?ulein Knef for me,” he said, turning to go.
“One last thing. Quick question. What does it mean if the Party calls your membership book in for review?”
“This has happened?”
“To an émigré. From America. I just wondered—”
“If it’s only one, it could be anything. A travel request. Some personal problem. If it’s several, many, then maybe a sign.”
“Of what?”
“One of the great Russian spectacles. A purge. A great sport for Stalin, before the war. And now for us. We sit back and watch them pick each other off. They haven’t tried it here yet, too busy stripping the factories. But an opportunity for us if they do. You’ve heard of only the one?”
“An opportunity how?”
“To recruit. A test of faith, even for the strongest believers. No sense to it. Why him? Why me? Think of the exiles, dreaming of their Socialist Germany. Here? No, in Mexico.” He looked over at Alex. “America. So they come, still in their dream. And then they see what it’s really like. A bloodletting. To cleanse the Party? Yes, to cleanse it of them, terrify them. And now where is your faith? An opportunity.” He nodded. “Interesting times. Keep your ears open.”
* * *
Fritsch offered to send a car, but Alex took the S-Bahn instead, a little time to think on the ride out. Charlottenburg, streets of charred, hollow buildings, as bad as anything in the East. Westkreuz. The big railway yards at Grunewald, a maze of switches and platforms, where the Jews had been collected to be shipped east, rounded up in trucks or simply told to report to the station. Had his parents brought suitcases? All of it open, in broad daylight. Everybody saw. Everybody knew. Then the trees of the Grunewald itself, the lakes. Somewhere after that, no sign, they crossed back into the Soviet zone, the western sectors an island again.
He got off at Babelsberg, crossed over the tracks, and started the long walk to the studio. In Hollywood the soundstages were giant rounded adobes, baking in the desert sun. Here they were brick, tucked into the suburban woods, even the gates shaded by giant overhanging trees.