Hoffner waited, then said, “I imagine it was.”
Hermannsohn smiled quietly and then motioned to the gate. “The body is this way.”
Hoffner was about to follow when he saw the uncertainty in Sascha’s eyes: there had been no mention of a murder or a body during the tram ride out. How could there have been? The complete absurdity of this moment only now came clear to Hoffner. What had he been thinking? “I can’t take you inside, Alexander.”
Sascha showed an instant of relief before nodding in disappointment. “Well, then, I’ll wait here, Father.”
The boy acted with such poise, thought Hoffner. “Good man,” he said. For just a moment, Hoffner placed a hand on Sascha’s arm. Somehow, neither seemed to mind it. He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small flask. He opened it and handed it to Sascha. “Should keep you warm for a while.” Sascha hesitated. “Go on. She doesn’t have to know.” Sascha took a quick sip, and coughed as he handed it back. Hoffner smiled. Just a boy, he thought. What had been so frightening in that? Hoffner then held the flask out to Hermannsohn. “Kommissar?” Hermannsohn politely refused. “No, I didn’t think so.” Without taking a drink, Hoffner pocketed the flask and followed Hermannsohn out into the Gardens.
There was something so depressing about the zoo in rain. The little buildings-some Frenchman’s notion of international kinship-were each designed in the style of the countries from which the animals had come. Laden with ice and damp, they looked less like invitations to foreign climes than sodden gingerbread houses. A merry skip past them became a somber slog: not much fun in knowing what dreary looked like in China or India or darkest Africa.
Hoffner said, “Nice when the Polpo puts in an appearance on a criminal case. Or did I miss the Oberkommissar’s point yesterday?”
Hermannsohn ignored the question; he seemed the type to ignore anything he found unpleasant. He took them past the elephant house-Hoffner wondered how many elephants actually roamed the Taj Mahal-and into the more remote regions of the Gardens. “You were planning on bringing the boy to the site,” said Hermannsohn. “I find that most interesting.”
“Do you?” Hoffner could change the subject just as easily. “As interesting as I find having the Tageblatt and the Morgenpost on hand?”
“Ah, yes,” said Hermannsohn. “You really never can trust these Schutzi patrolmen, can you?” He led Hoffner away from the animal houses and down a path that wound its way past a public toilet and beyond a small utility shed. The trees grew thicker as they walked.
They came to a link chain that hung across the path. A small sign dangled from it that read, DURCHGANG VERBOTEN. Two exclamation points hammered home the message: Passage Forbidden!! Hoffner knew his Berliners. This would have been enough to keep a small band of revolutionaries at bay. Hermannsohn stepped over the chain. Hoffner did the same. Half a minute later, they came to a clearing.
Hoffner was genuinely surprised by what they found: at the clearing’s center was the all-too-familiar fencing, scaffolding, and power engine that had come to define Berlin under construction. Two Schutzi patrolmen stood at either end of the small opening to the pit. Beyond them was a wider gap in the trees, an avenue for a single wagon to make its way through with supplies. More interesting were the three black Daimler convertible saloons that were parked at its edge; their chauffeurs were each enjoying a nice smoke.
“At least your man is consistent,” said Hermannsohn, as he led Hoffner toward the ladder.
Hoffner kept his eyes on the automobiles. The chauffeurs’ coats were not yet soaked through: they had not been here long. “I had no idea they were building this far out,” he said.
“They’re not,” said Hermannsohn. He reached the ladder and started down. Hoffner followed.
Had Hoffner been looking for consistency, the excavation site would have served perfectly. The climb down brought him into a cavern that seemed almost identical to the one he had seen two nights ago in Senefelderplatz, police lamps and all. Even the group of four men standing at the far end of the tunnel felt eerily familiar. That, however, was where the similarities ended.
It was clear from their clothes which of the four belonged to the Daimlers above. Like their automobiles, three of the men were long and sleek: Russian fur lined their coat collars; English wool creased the cuffs of their trousers; and their boots had the shine of Italian leather. War had done nothing to compromise their politically impudent tastes. For Hoffner, though, it was the fingernails-even at this distance and in this light-that made plain the stratum from which these men had descended: flat and pink, and never once having been cut by the men themselves. Hoffner knew exactly who they were: Prussian businessmen, and a far more dangerous breed than their military counterparts. War never thinned their numbers; inflexibility never stifled their success. They spoke to one another in hushed tones, a language that required fewer words, though greater subtlety of gesture, than the patter that flowed from the jaws of common Berlin. These were men who survived-and survived well-no matter who might be wielding the reins of government.
The fourth among them was Polpo Direktor Gerhard Weigland, in all his roundness. He looked completely out of place, nodding continuously while the others spoke. When he caught sight of Hoffner, he clumsily cleared his throat. The others turned.
“At last,” said Weigland with no small amount of relief. “Gentlemen, this is the Kripo detective I’ve been telling you about.” Hermannsohn remained in the shadows as Hoffner drew closer. “Kommissar Nikolai Hoffner, may I present the Directors of Firma Ganz-Neurath. Herren Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf”-Weigland motioned with his arm-“Kommissar Hoffner.”
Hoffner had never been the recipient of three such crisp bows of the head. “Meine Herren,” he said, with a lazy nod of his own.
“Herr Kommissar.” Trger spoke for all three.
Hoffner cut right to it. “I’m guessing this would be one of your sites, Herr Direktor?”
“Along with those in the Senefelder and Rosenthaler Platz, yes, Herr Kommissar. I believe you’re familiar with them?”
“The projected U-Bahn stations,” said Hoffner. “And dead women keep cropping up inside of them.”
Trger appreciated Hoffner’s bluntness. “Yes. They do.”
“You’re aware, mein Herr”-Hoffner spoke as if neither Polpo man was present-“that Herr Direktor Weigland and Herr Kommissar Hermannsohn are not with the Kripo?” He was enjoying seeing Weigland stand silently by.
“I am.”
“So you consider this a political case?”
Trger took a moment. He was gauging Hoffner, not the case. “The Herr Direktor and I are old friends, Kommissar. He has been kind enough to extend the services of his department.”
Hoffner had no reason to believe that fealty was the sole reason for the Polpo’s continuing interest in his case. Weigland might have convinced Trger and his fellow Directors of that, but Hoffner knew otherwise. “I see.”
“I’m not sure you do, Kommissar.” There was nothing combative in the tone: it was a simple statement of fact. Trger continued: “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this site. Are we clear on that?” Hoffner nodded. “Good, because where we are standing doesn’t actually exist.” Trger saw the surprise in Hoffner’s eyes. “Yes. We first moved ground here just over five years ago. December of 1913. This was going to be the grand terminus for a line leading all the way back into the heart of the city. By the end of the decade. That was the aim, Kommissar. That was what the Kaiser wanted.”