They slept for the three hours of the flight, and when Vollman brought the plane low they both woke and looked out to see Barcelona as they had left it. The stories of Badajoz had yet to reach this far east; news that the armies of the north and the south had joined hands would wait another few hours. For now, the city stretched out contentedly under the sun.
Mila and Hoffner stood in the short grass of the runway and watched from a distance as Vollman tipped canister after canister of gasoline into the fuel tank. A car would come for her. They had telephoned her father.
“The wife and the little boy,” she said. Her arms were across her chest as she stared out at the plane. “You have to go. To Berlin. You have to tell them, make arrangements. I understand.”
Hoffner nodded. He hadn’t asked her to come. He knew she wouldn’t. Anywhere else, he would have given himself over to this kind of will. He would have acquiesced or backed away or fallen silent in her presence. But that’s not what this was.
“And what is it you understand?” he said, as he turned to her. He forced her to look at him. “You think there’s something for me to find in Berlin? What Berlin? There is no Berlin, at least nothing in it I know. So I go for the wife and the boy. I go to destroy what life they have left. What is there to understand in that?”
“You go because you love them,” she said. “You go because nothing else matters. Why is it so hard for you to see that?”
Hoffner tried to answer, and she said, “You go for the same reason you’ll come back to Spain.”
Hoffner saw his own need in her eyes. He saw a way beyond a life lived in the shadow of those two graves, beyond the dampness of the earth still on his hands and in his nails.
She said quietly, “I’m not asking you to stay.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not asking you to come back. I’m telling you what’s here. What more is there?”
The buzz from the propeller cut through, and they both turned to see Vollman walking to the ladder. She waited for Hoffner to speak. Finally she said, “You have to go.”
Hoffner stared across at the plane. He watched as Vollman slipped on his goggles.
Hoffner turned to her. He took her in his arms and he kissed her, her body pressed against him. She pulled back and brought her lips to his ear. She whispered, “Then love them, Nikolai. Love them and know it’s enough.”
He held her. Her body shook, and he knew it would never be enough.
Hoffner let go and started toward the plane. He let the sound of the propeller draw him. He reached the ladder, climbed up, and stepped into the seat. The plane began to move, and he felt the air against his face. He waited for the speed, and the plane lifted.
Somewhere below, the sea crashed against the rocks and the sun played havoc on the surf, but Hoffner kept his eyes on the blue of the sky. To look back, even for a moment, would have made living beyond this an impossibility.
7
The city lay beneath clouds, and Vollman banked the plane low to cut his way through. The rain was colder here and fell across Hoffner’s face with the sour taste of wild turnips. It was familiar enough, and he breathed in and tried to remember Berlin in August.
The plane touched down easily. A gray dusk covered the fields and runways. Vollman cut the engine, and the two got out and walked toward the hangar.
“I have a car,” Vollman said. “I can take you into town.”
The drive passed in silence. Dusk slipped into evening, and the oncoming headlights flashed across the windscreen like the sudden flares of a match. Hoffner kept his window down and let the rain slap at his face. The chill and the quiet seemed foreign. Cars raced by, the streets grew brighter with lights and people, and Hoffner wondered if there was anything to recognize in these lives lived so carelessly.
Vollman pulled up in front of an old repair garage. There were two large rooms above, furniture, a telephone. The lights were on.
Vollman said, “This is it?”
Hoffner continued to stare up at the rooms. He nodded.
“You’ll be all right?”
It was a pointless question. Hoffner turned to Vollman. There was nothing more to this; still, he asked, “You’ll fly back to Spain now? Or Moscow?” Vollman said nothing. “We won’t be seeing each other again, I imagine.”
Hoffner waited. Vollman stared through the windscreen and Hoffner opened the door. He stepped out.
Upstairs, the last of the Berlin he knew trundled along as it always had. A table stood at the far end of the room, large Rolf behind it, with a line of men winding its way back to the door. Rolf was writing out slips of paper and handing them to Franz, who entered them in a ledger. The men were a ragtag bunch-pickpockets, swindlers, thieves-each with a little something to show for a day’s work. Most carried a battered cigar box, the tools of the trade smelling of old Dutch tobacco. Hoffner recognized the son of a man he had sent to the gallows fifteen years earlier. There had never been any hard feelings. The father had beaten the boy’s mother to death. The boy had been happy to see him hang.
Radek was in the second room, lounging on a long sofa and reading through one of his papers, when Hoffner stepped through the line.
“Pimm always did this at daybreak,” Hoffner said. “Kept them on their toes.”
Radek looked up. He tossed the paper to the side and nearly sprang up. He did nothing to hide his delight. “About time.” He pulled Hoffner in for a hug. Hoffner tried to return it. A few men looked over. The rest knew not to take notice.
Radek pulled back and smiled. “You found a plane.” He was already moving to a small cabinet where glasses and bottles stood in disarray. He uncorked one. “I had to bring Mueller back,” he said as he poured. “Couldn’t be helped, but I gather it all worked out.”
“Yes.”
“He said you met Gardenyes. Lunatic, even by my standards. You weren’t around when he got shot, were you?” He handed Hoffner a glass.
“No,” Hoffner said.
“Good.” He raised his glass. “Salud.”
Hoffner watched as Radek drank. He watched as the eyes peered across at him. And he watched as the glass slowly came down.
Radek stared for several moments. Finally he said, “Georg didn’t make it, did he?”
“No.”
“Christ. I’m sorry. How?”
Hoffner waited, shook his head. “The usual way. What you’d imagine.” He handed back the glass. It was untouched. He glanced into the other room. “Business seems good.”
Radek set the glasses down. “Have you told the wife?”
Hoffner watched the men. He followed the slow movement of the line, the great care Rolf was taking with his penmanship. Hoffner shook his head.
Radek said, “She has the mother and the father in Berlin. And the boy. That should make it easier.”
A man was sitting at the far end in a chair by himself. He had bruising around his eye and cheek. He had been crying. Hoffner had no idea why. He turned to Radek. “It’s all gone, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“This. The city.”
Radek knew to tread carefully. “You should have that drink.”
“She won’t be finding her way back, will she?”
Radek recorked the bottle. There was no point in fighting it. “And what would you have her go back to, Nikolai? Berlin wouldn’t know herself, even if she went looking.” Radek stared down at Hoffner’s glass of whiskey. He picked it up and tossed it back.
There was nothing real to this, thought Hoffner, nothing he could touch. “Sascha’s dead,” he said.
Radek brought the glass down. He waited before saying, “Is he?” He lapped at what was left and set the glass on the cabinet. “I’m sorry for that.” He refused to look at Hoffner. “We’ll go out. Rucker’s, the White Mouse. Last night of the games. Everyone wants to have a drink the last night of the games.”