Rosa

Hoffner nodded. “Point well taken, Herr Direktor.”

Again, the room grew quiet. Einstein said, “I imagine this only complicates your case, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Yes, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner. “It does.”

Einstein nodded coyly. “That’s not always such a bad thing.”

“I know, Herr Direktor. But right now it doesn’t make things any easier.”

The air outside was pleasantly dry as Hoffner lit a cigarette and stepped onto the plaza. It made the cold all the more piercing and gave the smoke a certain crispness as it raced down into his lungs.

Kroll had been nice enough to run through the remaining files with him, but there had really been nothing more to see. The names of the officers on the General Staff had been omitted, as had any firms that had been used to transport or produce the compound in any large quantities. It was all just science, and that, as Kroll had pointed out, was probably of little use to the Kripo.

“Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner turned around. To his complete surprise, he saw Hans Fichte heading toward him. Hoffner tried to remember if he had left a note for Fichte back at the Alex. He knew he hadn’t, which made Fichte’s appearance all the more puzzling.

Fichte was eating something out of a brown bag. He tossed both it and the bag into a dustbin, and quickly made his way over. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he repeated.

“Hans. What are you doing here?”

“They told me you were with the Direktor. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Or interrupt your lunch.”

“That, too.”

Hoffner stared at Fichte. “So. . Are you going to explain how you found me here, or do I have to guess?”

Fichte’s face brightened. “A wire came in for you back at the Alex. It was marked ‘urgent.’ On the off chance, I checked the switchboard logs to see if you had made any telephone calls today. There was the one to Herr Doktor Kroll late this morning, so. .” Fichte left it at that.

Hoffner reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and offered one to Fichte. “Nicely done, Hans.” Fichte took the cigarette; Hoffner used his own to light it, and they began to walk. “So what’s so urgent?”

Fichte coughed several times, unaccustomed to the quality of the tobacco. “Two things. First, a wire came in from Bruges. They’re putting through a call to you at one o’clock this afternoon. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

The Belgians were also full of surprises, thought Hoffner: he had been hoping to hear from them by next Monday at the earliest. “So, nothing at Missing Persons?” The two continued across the plaza.

“Pleasant little spot,” said Fichte. “They actually laughed when I mentioned Brussels. They’re dealing with close to twelve hundred Berliners who’ve gone missing since November. I had no idea.”

“Then let’s hope our girl isn’t from Berlin.” Fichte nodded and Hoffner continued, “You said two things.”

There was a hesitation as Fichte reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. “I trust you haven’t seen this.” He handed the paper to Hoffner. “This afternoon’s edition.”

It was a copy of the BZ. Hoffner took it and scanned the front page.

“Page four, at the bottom,” said Fichte.

Hoffner flipped it open. It took him no time to find it. When he did, he stopped and stared in disbelief. Fichte could see the anger rising in his eyes. “That son of a bitch,” was all Hoffner could get out.

It took them forty minutes to get back to the Alex, enough time for Hoffner to cool off. Even so, he headed straight for the KD’s office as Fichte trailed behind.

Without knocking, Hoffner pushed open the door. Luckily, Prager was alone: he looked up calmly as Hoffner bore down on him. “Something I can do for you, Nikolai?”

Hoffner planted the article in front of him. “Have you seen this, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

Prager continued to look up at Hoffner; he then slowly picked up the paper and began to read. The telltale chewing of the inner cheek told Hoffner that he had not.

After nearly a minute, Prager said, “I love how they say ‘sources in the Kripo.’ That always gives it such a nice ring of truth.”

“And we have no idea how this got out,” said Hoffner.

Prager shook his head as he reread several of the passages. “It’s obviously from someone who knows something about the case,” he said, still scanning. “At least two victims. A vague reference to something on the back, though no mention of a knife.” He looked up at Hoffner. “This reads more like a teaser. I’m guessing they’ve got more information than they’re letting on.”

“Agreed,” said Hoffner. “You know we had a nice little chat with Weigland last week.”

“Yes,” said Prager, with just a hint of reproach. “Kriminal-Oberkommissar Braun stopped in to ask me to make sure you understood the parameters of the case.” With mock sincerity, Prager said, “You do understand the parameters of the case, don’t you, Nikolai?”

“It’s just Oberkommissar now,” said Hoffner. “That’s the way they like it upstairs.”

“Well, we’re not upstairs, are we?” Prager handed the paper back to Hoffner. “The Polpo likes its turf, Nikolai, but there’s no reason they would do this. Just consider yourself lucky there wasn’t any mention of Luxemburg.”

“Yes, I’m feeling very lucky.” Hoffner knew Prager was right: the Polpo had nothing to gain by it. No one wanted the hysteria this might produce. Still, Hoffner had his doubts. “They’ve got Luxemburg,” he said. “Of course she wouldn’t be mentioned.”

Prager disagreed. “This isn’t the way they’d go about it. Also, there are too many other possibilities-a family member of one of the victims, someone downstairs. Any one of them could have let this out. It’s the BZ, Nikolai. This story didn’t come cheap.” Prager turned to Fichte. “So, Herr Kriminal-Assistent, what do you think? Is this the Polpo?”

Fichte stood motionless. The KD had never asked his opinion on anything. “Well,” Fichte said with as much certainty as he could find, “any leak might lead back to Luxemburg, Herr Kriminaldirektor. I don’t think they’d want that.”

Prager smiled and turned to Hoffner. “That’s a very good point, Herr Kriminal- Assistent. Don’t you think, Nikolai?”

Hoffner said, “You know I’m going to look into this personally, Edmund. And I’m going to want a note sent out to every Kripo office. A general reminder on discretion.”

Prager knew there would be no fighting Hoffner on this one. “Fine. Just don’t let it get in the way.”

“It won’t.”

Fichte cut in. “The telephone call, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. We should get back to the office.”

Hoffner turned to Fichte. He tried not to sound too cavalier. “Have you been paying attention, Hans? We’re not going back to the office.”

The switchboard operator stared defiantly at Hoffner, who stood hovering above her. This, he knew, was the surest way to keep the lines of communication as restricted as possible. Fichte agreed: Thursday’s late-night encounter had opened him up to an entirely new world at the Alex. And while Fichte had been strangely intrigued by it at the outset, Hoffner had quickly set him straight: these were uncharted men, the source of speculation and derision from a distance, but far more treacherous up close. Whatever arguments there were to the contrary, Hoffner made it clear that the Polpo never merited the benefit of the doubt. Fichte now understood that.

Electricity had come back to the Alex sometime on Monday. The lights from perhaps ten unattended calls flashed in frantic patterns across the board; Hoffner continued to keep the woman from answering them: she was doing little to hide her disapproval. Fichte stood by the door.

“This is highly unusual, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” she said as the board begged for attention. “I really need to take care of these. I can easily forward the call to your office when it comes in.”

Hoffner nodded. “Yes, I know, Frulein. I just feel more comfortable receiving it here.”

“The international line is no difficulty, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Well, I don’t want to tie up any more of your wires than are necessary, Frulein.”