“Method of recruitment. You volunteered cooperation—that’s the best, of course. I made sure you had that designation.”
“What are the other methods?”
Markus looked at him, not saying anything.
“Am I supposed to write these up for you?”
“No, I can write them. Just come and talk to me. As old friends do. Have coffee. You can read this before you sign, there’s no hurry. Just bring it with you when you come to tell me how it is with her. Maybe another drink at the M?we. Do you know what I think is possible?”
Alex looked up.
“She may ask you to help her. With Markovsky. It’s hard to do this alone. And who else can she trust?” His face smooth, without irony.
Alex looked down again at the report. “What’s K?”
“Your code name. So no one knows your identity.”
Willy’s voice. A protected source.
“What is it?”
Markus glanced to the side, flushing, oddly embarrassed. “Kurt,” he said. “You don’t mind? You remind me of him sometimes. So I thought—” He paused. “Maybe it brings us luck. In our friendship. Imagine, if we find Markovsky. What it would mean for us.”
* * *
Surprisingly, there was mail waiting at the Adlon.
“Fr?ulein Berlau left these for you,” Peter said.
An envelope with two tickets to Mother Courage. Compliments of Bert, the note read, but it was practical Ruth who’d probably remembered. January 11. Opening night, gold, worth cartons of cigarettes to someone.
“And this,” Peter said, handing over a postcard.
Everything seemed to stop for a second. The Santa Monica Pier, his Peter’s scrawl on the back. He looked at the postmark. The day he’d left. How many hands had it passed through since? Wondering if “see you soon” was code, not just what you said on cards. He read it twice: “Hope everything is ok, I went fishing but didn’t catch anything, see you soon.” An ordinary card but with his voice, flooding into Alex’s head, then the sound of the gulls, the rides farther down the pier, the sun flashing on the water, his voice asking for ice cream, like some bright vision you saw the moment before you died, a moment of perfect life.
“Would it be possible, do you think, for me to have the stamps?” Tentative, formally polite.
Alex looked up.
“Stamps from America,” Peter said, a complete explanation.
Alex nodded, an automatic response, still clutching the card. Could they steam them off, pry them away somehow? His thumb brushed across the glossy front, touching the sunny day, all he had.
But this Peter was waiting, eyes shiny with anticipation. Alex tore off the stamp corner and handed it across, then glanced down again at the card. The perfect day with a jagged edge.
“News from home?”
Alex turned to the voice at his side.
“Ernst Ferber, Herr Meier. We met at the Kulturbund.”
“Yes, of course. RIAS. I’ve been thinking about—but you’re here? In the East?”
Ferber smiled. “Oh, don’t believe all the stories. Berlin is still Berlin. And people still have birthdays.” He nodded toward the dining room. “But special occasions only. I try not to wear out my welcome. The police have better things to do than watch dangerous characters like me. And of course I bring friends with me.” For the first time Alex noticed a cluster of men farther back in the lobby. “Safety in numbers, yes?” Ferber said, almost winking, his rimless glasses catching the light. “And you, are you brave enough to cross over? It’s very interesting now. A city under siege. But the spirit is remarkable. Seventeen hundred calories a day. Do you know what that means? How many tablespoons? Electricity for two hours only. And yet—” He stopped. “It’s a great story. And no one knows how it ends. You should see it while it’s happening. Before it’s history.”
“I can hear it,” Alex said, raising his eyes. “Do you really think it can work?”
“Frankly? I don’t know. Dropping candy for children, it’s one thing. Coal—” He opened his hands, a question mark gesture. “But come see for yourself.”
“I’d like that,” Alex said carefully. “You gave me your card. I’ve been meaning to—” A social call, in case he had to explain anything later. “You understand, a private visit. I won’t do anything on the radio.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Just coffee.” He held up a finger. “Ersatz coffee, of course, not like here. No Adlon cabbage soup either. But conversation—”
“Yes, we’ll have interesting things to talk about,” Alex said, his voice flat but pointed, so that Ferber looked up, alert to shifts in tone. “How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Ferber said, not expecting this, now all attention, an animal listening for snapping twigs. “Yes, of course. Excellent.”
“Good. I’ll call your secretary, fix a time? I should tell you, I don’t have any West marks.”
Ferber made a half bow. “My invitation, my pleasure. Anyway, you know it’s not so much, ersatz. But the chance to talk—”
“I’ll try to make it worth your while,” Alex said, obvious code now.
Ferber looked at him, not sure where to take this.
“We can take a walk. See history in the making,” Alex said.
Ferber waited for a minute, as if he were listening to this again. “Yes, a walk,” he said finally. “That would be pleasant. Well, till tomorrow then.” He glanced down, noticing the card. “Ah, it was ripped in the post? A clumsy censor perhaps.”
“No, for the stamps,” Alex said, nodding toward Peter. “A collector.”
“It’s from America?” Ferber said, curious.
“My son. He went fishing,” Alex said, a wry smile.
“May I see?” He turned the message over to the picture. “This is where they fish?” He shook his head. “What a place. He’s coming here?”
“Soon, I hope. When things are better.”
“In Berlin? You’re an optimist, Herr Meier. Well, here’s Franz,” he said as a man approached them. “Tomorrow then. Kufsteiner Strasse. In Sch?neberg.”