Rosa

came out was therefore far more startling.

According to Eckart, the stories of nobility and strength were not meant to be followed in the abstract: they were meant to be fully realized in the “rituals of rebirth and order.” With a few more well-chosen-though equally impenetrable-phrases, Eckart began to show himself for what he was: no ideologue, he was a self-proclaimed mystic. His gift was an understanding of the “core animus” of the German people, a spirit that separated them from all others and thus granted them a greater sense of nobility. He called it the “Thulian Ideal”-a gift from the lost island civilization of Thule-all of it in the pamphlets if one knew how to read between the lines. Hoffner nodded with each subsequent glass that Eckart tossed back. There were other Thulians, he was told, with access to other discrete bits of knowledge, all of whom recognized that the war and the revolution had ripped the soul from the German people, and who now saw it as their duty to rekindle that spirit and order.

Hoffner might have dismissed it all as the harmless, if slightly loonier, cousin of those societies he had so eagerly avoided at university-the image of a naked Eckart running through the Black Forest was disturbing to be sure-were it not for the fact that he had not simply happened upon Eckart and his devotees. The line that had led him from Rosa to Wouters to Oster, and now to this, was too firmly drawn: six women brutally-and perhaps ritualistically-murdered; the dying Urlicher willing to take his own life at Sint-Walburga; Hoffner himself still having trouble breathing from his beating; and the Cavalry Guard thugs Pabst and Vogel hardly the messengers of some imagined Teutonic mythos. There was a reality to this that had led him to a Munich wine cellar. What was more frightening was that it clearly led beyond it.

Hoffner now needed a better sense of that reality. “And to achieve that order, mein Herr?”

Eckart nodded as if he had been anticipating the question. “Remove the cancer from the body,” he said. “Purge it of the disease.” The politician had returned.

Hoffner stated the obvious. “The socialists,” he said.

Eckart looked momentarily confused. “The Jews, mein Herr. The elimination of the Jews, of course.”

Hoffner stifled his reaction. It had been said with such certainty. With no other choice, Hoffner nodded. “Of course.”

They begged off at just after midnight. By then, Eckart had been slurring his words and had long since drifted from talk of nobility and strength to his favorite topics of racial superiority and purity-“Every great conflict has been a war between the races, mein Herr; that’s the truth that the barking swine Jew doesn’t want you to know”-a fitting capper to the evening. He had even explained to Lina why her husband’s death had been at the behest of the Jews: “A war for the profiteers to destroy a generation of German youth; your Helmut’s blood is on their hands, Frulein.”

Lina and Hoffner were both stone-cold sober when they stepped out into the night. They walked in silence as Hoffner wondered how much of this had been new to her. He, of course, had heard his fair share of Jew-bating over the years, especially in the south, but this was something different even for him, something more fully conceived, and without so much as a trace of restraint. A good anti-Semite usually had the sense to show a little subtlety in his jabs. Eckart’s demonization was completely unabashed.

Lina was the first to speak: “So, any more charming drinking partners tonight, or are we through playing?”

Hoffner was glad for her cynicism. She was still so young, and men like Eckart relied on that vulnerability. At least here, Lina was showing none. “Not what I was expecting,” he said, matching her tone. “Two cafes tomorrow, then, to make up for it.”

The streets were deserted as they walked, Munich after midnight no better than a provincial town, taller buildings, wider streets, but everyone safely tucked away in their fine Bavarian beds. No wonder Eckart felt so at home here. At the hotel, Hoffner had to ring twice before the concierge came to open the door. The man looked slightly put out. His guests were usually in their rooms by eleven.

Upstairs, she was undressed and in bed before Hoffner had managed his way out of his pants. Not that she was in any great hurry for him; a bed this size was simply new to her: Lina wanted to take as much time in it as she could. She made an effort to reach over and help, but Hoffner seemed to work through his pain better alone.

When they were finally lying naked side by side, she propped herself up on an elbow and said, “You know, you’re really quite good at what you do.”

He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and smiled at her apparent surprise. “Thank you.” He had a sudden taste for a cigarette, but the pack was in his jacket across the room: too much of an effort to get up for it now.

“You know what I mean,” she said. She took hold of his hand and began to thumb across his open palm. “It was good fun to watch.” He stared down at her as she used her nail to pick at a bit of dead skin that was on one of his fingers. “I don’t imagine Hans is nearly that clever.”

Hoffner had not been expecting Fichte to make an appearance tonight, but here he was, casually tossed onto the bed with them. She seemed easy enough with it; Hoffner was happy to follow suit. “He might surprise you,” he said. He could only guess at what the boys on the fourth floor had in mind for young Fichte.

She was busy with his finger as she shook her head. “Not Hans.” She brushed away a few flakes of skin and looked up at him. “You think it’s strange that I’m talking about him.” It was a statement, not a question.

Hoffner did his best with a shrug. “Something we have in common.”

Lina drove a nail into the thick part of his hand and said with a rough smile, “Ass. Yes, lying naked in a bed, and that’s what we have in common.”

Hoffner tried to pull his hand away, but she was too quick. She brought it up to her mouth and kissed the bruised skin and he felt her tongue dabbing at his palm. “You were the one to bring him into the room with us,” he said.

“He’ll be all right in a few days. Boys like Hans always are.” For some reason she had needed to tell him this. “So. . what’s this pact I’ve heard so much about?”

The question caught Hoffner completely off guard. “The what?” he said.

“The pact,” she repeated. “Hans told me. He said he heard about it when he was in Belgium.” She stopped, her expression momentarily less animated. She had reminded herself of Fichte’s recent cruelties. Evidently her own recovery would take a bit longer than the one she had imagined for him.

“Oh, the pact,” Hoffner cut in quickly. Not that he was all that keen to bring it up, but better that than to allow Fichte’s stupidity any greater sway over her. With a careless shrug he said, “Not really that interesting.”

He watched as she gazed up at him; without warning, she was on her knees, leaning over his face, her thumbnail hovering menacingly above his cheek. “Really?” she said with an impish grin. “Not that interesting?”

Hoffner lay there calmly. “Not really.”

Lina’s eyes flashed and, in one fluid movement, she was on him, pressing her hands down onto his shoulders and tightening her thighs around his chest.

All of this would have been quite wonderful, and the prelude to some really exquisite bed time, had Hoffner’s ribs not forced him to shout out in intense pain. Lina at once realized what she had done and frantically pulled herself off him. Her knee grazed his abdomen and Hoffner let go with a second, stifled groan.

She was lying perfectly still at his side when he finally managed to say, “We’ll try it this way. You promise not to move and I’ll tell you about the pact. Fair enough?”

Lina began to nod; she stopped herself and, barely opening her mouth, said, “Fine.”

Hoffner kept his eyes on the ceiling as the throbbing in his chest receded to a dull ache.

It had been a long time since he had sought out these memories, three blind-drunk Germans sprawled out under a half-moon on the most perfect Tyrolean hillside he had ever known. He let himself recall the grass under his neck, the taste of the olive trees on his tongue, the sound of Knig’s laughter as it had echoed into the vast nothingness of the valley below. Mueller had been whole then, dancing in the darkness on two good legs, a bottle in each flawless hand, spilling more booze than he could drink. It was life as Hoffner had never known it-before or since-full and vibrant and unbearably real.

“We were in the Tyrol,” he said as he continued to gaze up. “A palazzo in the hills. Knig, Mueller, me. I forget the name. August of ’15. I don’t remember how we worked it. They flew in, picked me up. Something like that. Anyway, they were on leave, and we found ourselves on this hillside, two, three in the morning. . ” He turned to her. “You’re sure you’re interested in this?”