Rosa

“Naturally. But, correct me if I’m wrong, Herr Oberkommissar, anything untoward would fall under military jurisdiction? That is right, isn’t it?”

Hoffner wondered if the phrase was printed in some training manual somewhere. He also saw how Pabst had chosen his words carefully: not “wrongdoing” or “criminal activity,” but “anything untoward.” Pabst was setting the tone. “These were very public figures, Herr Kapitn. It’s more about information. How the army deals with its own is not our concern.”

Hoffner was pleased with himself for this turn of phrase, not that he knew what it meant. Luckily, it seemed to be having the same effect on Pabst: mild confusion left him with no real response. “Naturally,” said Pabst, his smile less convincing.

Hoffner spoke directly: “Could you then describe the events of January fifteen?”

Pabst lingered with his cigarette. “Of course,” he said. He let out a long stream of smoke and began to recount a story that both of them already knew: the arrest in the Wilmersdorf flat, Liebknecht and Luxemburg brought to the hotel, interrogation, identification. Pabst finished by saying, “I then had them sent to the civilian prison at Moabit. We were directed to bring all the captured leaders of the revolt to Moabit.”

Hoffner had been writing in his notebook. He looked up and said, “There was some question as to the transport, Herr Kapitn.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, Herr Oberkommissar.”

“But they were your men?”

“Yes.”

“So you would have been given a full report on the unit’s activities. That is right, isn’t it?”

Hoffner was hoping for more of a crack in the expression, but Pabst was better at this than the men he commanded. “Liebknecht was shot while trying to escape, if that’s what you mean.”

“And Luxemburg?”

Pabst took his time crushing out his cigarette. “You seem to need it from the horse’s mouth, don’t you, Herr Oberkommissar?” And without waiting for Hoffner to respond, he lifted the receiver of the telephone. “Send in Leutnant Pflugk-Hartung. Thank you.” This was not a name Jogiches had mentioned. Pabst looked across the desk as he hung up. “The man who led the unit, Herr Oberkommissar.” Jogiches had assigned that role to a Lieutenant Vogel, although he had kept the information out of his article: only Pabst and Runge had made it to press. Before Hoffner could answer, Pabst was raising a hand to the door and ushering the man in. “Come in, Leutnant.” It was as if Pflugk-Hartung had been waiting in the wings.

The young lieutenant was the perfect specimen of Teutonic breeding: white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes stood at strict attention by the desk. He was a far cry from the slovenly mess Hoffner had left on the first floor. Looks, however, were deceiving. The moment Pflugk-Hartung opened his mouth, it was clear why he had been relegated to the Schtzen-Division. This was not a bright man.

“Liebknecht showed himself to be the dog that he was,” said Pflugk-Hartung. “It was a pleasure to shoot him when he ran like a coward.”

The fact that Pabst had brought him in as his trump card spoke volumes about the Herr Kapitn, as well.

“And Frau Luxemburg?” said Hoffner.

Hoffner could see the wheels spinning; he also noticed how Pabst was gazing up at the man, like a tutor waiting to hear the recitation they had just gone over. Evidently, Hoffner’s time on the first floor had not been all fun and games; it had given the second floor time to prepare.

Pflugk-Hartung said, “She was taken by a mob. I don’t know what happened after that.”

Hoffner said, “A mob was able to steal her away from a crack unit of the Cavalry Guards? That must have been quite a mob, Herr Leutnant.”

Pabst cut in before Pflugk-Hartung could answer. “It was the revolution, Herr Oberkommissar. The streets were madness. After all, there were only six of my men.”

And there it was, thought Hoffner. The first real detail. Pabst might have been far more self-controlled than his men, but he was no less arrogant, and that arrogance was about to be his undoing. “Six men for two prisoners?” said Hoffner. “That seems a bit sparse, Herr Kapitn.” He gave Pabst no time to respond; instead, he turned to Pflugk-Hartung and said, “Were you surprised that you were given only five men, Herr Leutnant, even for a dog like Liebknecht-and Luxemburg, to boot?” Pabst began to answer, but Hoffner put up a quick hand as he continued to gaze at Pflugk-Hartung. “The horse’s mouth, Herr Kapitn,” he said. Pabst was smart enough to know that any further objection would only make things worse. Pflugk-Hartung stared straight ahead; he was clearly at a loss. Hoffner said, “Was a Leutnant Vogel a member of your unit?”

Pflugk-Hartung looked momentarily surprised; his eyes danced as he struggled to find an answer.

“I ask again,” said Hoffner. “Was a Leutnant Vogel a member of your unit?”

Pflugk-Hartung answered quickly. “Yes.”

“Yes?” said Hoffner with feigned surprise. “Two officers in a unit of six men? Was there a reason for that?” Again Pabst tried to interrupt, and again Hoffner politely held him at bay. “Unless there were two units of six men led by two different lieutenants? Would that have made more sense?” Pflugk-Hartung was now well out of his depth; he continued to stare ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes, Herr Leutnant.” Hoffner turned to Pabst and spoke quickly. “You sent Liebknecht and Luxemburg to Moabit separately, didn’t you, Herr Kapitn? Two prisoners taken from the same flat at the same time, questioned at the same time, identified at the same time, yet transported to the civilian prison one by one. Who gave the orders to separate them?”

Pabst stared coldly across the desk. This was not the way things had been laid out. He was about to answer, when Pflugk-Hartung blurted out, “Herr Leutnant Vogel was delayed by the third prisoner.” The boy truly believed he was helping his Herr Kapitn. “It was therefore decided that my unit should leave at once.”

Hoffner gave Pabst no chance to answer. “A third prisoner?” said Hoffner.

This time, Pabst cut in quickly. “The Herr Leutnant is confusing the informant with a third prisoner. The man was brought in at the same time as Liebknecht and Luxemburg. There was no third prisoner.”

Hoffner watched the young lieutenant’s eyes. The boy had made a mistake, and he knew it. “I see,” said Hoffner. “And what was the delay?”

“What usually happens at those moments,” Pabst said coolly. “The informant was demanding more money. Herr Leutnant Vogel was resolving the situation.” Without looking up, Pabst said, “That will be all, Herr Leutnant.” Much relieved, Pflugk-Hartung clicked his heels and headed for the door. Pabst waited until he and Hoffner were alone before saying, “It was one more night in the revolution, Herr Oberkommissar.” The affable Pabst had returned. “Guns and mobs. What else do you expect with a Jew radical on the loose? I was lucky not to lose a man. Of course, I take full responsibility for any of the mishaps-the separation of the prisoners, the breakdown in discipline with the informant-but, as you said, that would be for a military tribunal to decide.”

Hoffner saw where this was going; there was no reason to press things further. “Of course,” he said.

Pabst stood. “Unfortunately, I have given you as much time as I can this afternoon. You’ll forgive me, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Hoffner stood. “You’ve been most kind, Herr Kapitn.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner was across from the Gardens and stepping up onto a tram. Jogiches had known about the separation of Liebknecht and Luxemburg; he had known about the third prisoner: Hoffner was certain of that. The question was, what was Jogiches protecting?

“What exactly were you doing at the Hotel Eden, interrogating a Captain Pabst?”

Kriminaldirektor Prager was standing by his window, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve just had a very nice telephone call from the Office of the General Staff, reminding me that Kripo jurisdiction doesn’t extend that far.” He stared across at Hoffner. “What are you doing, Nikolai?”

It was the most animated Hoffner had seen Prager in months. “Closing out a case, Herr