Rosa

and said, “You give excellent directions, Peter.” He sat.

“It’s good to see you, too, Nikolai.”

They had known each other since university, two young law students with an eye to criminology. Barens had made chief inspector almost eight years ago; there was talk of a directorship in his future. Barens said, “I was sorry to hear about Knig.” Hoffner stared out at the park and nodded. “And now a chief inspector,” Barens continued. “I imagine even you can’t cock up that promotion.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Barens pulled a thin file from his case. “So why the interest in this?” He handed it to Hoffner.

Hoffner opened the file and found ten to twelve pages on the Thule Society, very complete, very organized: Barens really was an excellent detective. “Best not to say,” said Hoffner.

“Naturally.” He let Hoffner flip through to the next page before saying, “Odd how I get a telephone call asking me if I have anything on a man named Eckart, or anything having to do with-what did you call it? — the ‘Thulian Ideal,’ when we’ve been keeping an eye on these people for the past few months.” Hoffner nodded distractedly as he continued to scan the pages. “There’s a lot of money there, Nikolai. Your friend Eckart has more than he knows what to do with, as do most of the names on that list.”

Hoffner continued to read. “And what are they using it for?”

“Besides pamphlets and bad beer. . They’ve started two organizations. The Workers Political Circle and the German Workers Party. They also recently bought a rag called The Observer. Interesting blend of German folklore and race-baiting. They’re going after the workers and the nationalists. Not usually Kripo business to monitor the political fringes, but these fellows throw around too much weight not to.”

“And they still consider themselves a secret society?”

“In theory. I’m sure that’s what they’d like to think. Tough to maintain the image, though, when you go around recruiting as aggressively as they do.”

Hoffner came to what he had been looking for: the name Joachim Manstein appeared halfway down the third page. There was a small paragraph on him, but Hoffner knew he would need more time with it. He closed the file and said, “What about ties to the Freikorps?”

“You really have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”

“I always did.”

For the first time, Barens smiled. “They both hate the communists, but the Thulians save their real venom for the Jews. We’ve had a few minor incidents, street vandalism, a few punch-ups. Eisner’s presence hasn’t made it any easier, but it’s all pretty local stuff, which makes me wonder why a Berlin Oberkommissar, recent hero of the Republic, has come all the way down to Munich to ask about a group of crackpots he should never have heard of.”

Hoffner placed the file inside his coat and said, “You’re a good friend, Peter.”

Barens became more serious. “I’m a good bull, Nikolai. If there’s something I should know, you need to tell me. Are they moving beyond pamphlets and bad beer?”

Hoffner waited and then stood. “I should go,” he said. “Give my best to Clara and the girls.”

Barens remained seated. There was clearly more he wanted to hear. Nonetheless he said, “I’ll pass that along.” Hoffner turned to go, when Barens added, “And mine to the little chippy by the coffee cart.” Barens waited for Hoffner to turn around before saying, “Some things never change, do they, Nikolai?”

Barens had always been impressive, and always in the right way. It was why Hoffner had known to trust him. “I suppose they don’t,” he said.

Barens stood. “These men aren’t far from doing more than simply tossing a store or beating up a few students. I lost a man on this, Nikolai. Why do you think I could get my hands on the material so quickly?”

It was now clear why Barens had agreed to meet, and why he had brought the file: he was as eager for information as Hoffner was. “Lost a man? How?”

Barens had no intention of explaining. “If you do know something, and you’re not telling me, I’ll be very disappointed.” He paused. “And you’ll have been very foolish. What do you have, Nikolai?”

Barens had always been known as “the old man,” even as a nineteen-year-old at university. It had made him both insufferable and endearing. Hoffner said, “Her name is Lina. And she’s the last.”

Hoffner could see the frustration in his friend’s eyes: favors usually implied a little more give and take. Barens, however, was too good at what he did to let it linger. “I doubt that,” he said.

Hoffner grinned. “There’s always a chance, isn’t there?” He bobbed his head in thanks and said, “Take care of yourself, Peter.”

Barens took hold of Hoffner’s arm and, like an older brother, said, “Know what you’re getting yourself into, Nikolai.”

Hoffner nodded. He waited for Barens to release his arm and then headed off.

Lina had settled on a large cup of chocolate for lunch; it was all she had wanted. Hoffner had taken advantage of the beef again, this time with a plate of onions and a few potatoes. More daring, he and Lina were throwing provincial caution to the wind and talking to each other-light fare, nothing from last night-when they heard the first sirens. The klaxons grew louder and curiosity gave way to concern as the sound of shouting began to come from the street. Everyone in the place stopped eating as the waiter stepped over to the door and peered out through the glass. His expression turned to confusion. “There are soldiers in the street,” he said to the matre d’.

The man stepped over to verify; his reaction was no more promising: the taste of revolution was still fresh in everyone’s throat. At the sound of more sirens, Hoffner got up. He told Lina to wait, then made his way to the door. Against all protestations from the matre d’, Hoffner stepped out into the street.

It was almost completely empty. The soldiers were positioned in front of a large domed building at the far end of the street, rifles across their chests, waiting. The few pedestrians who remained on the street were doing all they could to find shelter inside. Hoffner managed to flag one down. “Madame,” he said as he tried to keep up with her. “Excuse me, but which is that building up there?”

The woman continued to move quickly as she looked at him: she spoke as if to a halfwit. “That building, mein Herr? That’s the Landtag.” She shook her head in disbelief and hurried off. Hoffner stopped: they’re cordoning off Parliament, he thought. Why? He quickly made his way back to the restaurant and over to the matre d’. The man was relieved to see him back.

Hoffner said, “I need to use your telephone, mein Herr.” Hoffner pulled out his badge: it might have said Berlin, but the word “Kriminalpolizei” was enough to stir the man to action. Hoffner nodded calmly over to Lina as he waited for the operator to connect the call.

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “Chief Inspector Barens, please.” Hoffner gave his credentials. “I’m aware of that, Frulein. This is of vital importance. Just connect me with the Chief Inspector.” Hoffner waited through the static until Barens finally came on the line. Hoffner said, “I’m standing a hundred meters from the Landtag building, Peter. What just happened?”

Hoffner could hear the mayhem in the background. “Hold on,” said Barens. There was a round of shouting before Barens came back to the line. “Nikolai, what are you doing near the Landtag?”

It was a meaningless question. Hoffner asked again, “Why are soldiers surrounding the building, Peter?”

There was a pause on the line before Barens said, “Someone’s shot Eisner. Half an hour ago. Eisner’s dead.”

Hoffner tried to stem his reaction. “Who?” he said.

“We don’t know yet. A student. That’s all we have.”

Hoffner asked the more dangerous question: “More than bad beer and pamphlets?”

There was another pause before Barens answered, “I don’t know, but I need you to tell me that you knew nothing about this, not even the possibility of this.”

“Of course,” said Hoffner with more conviction than perhaps was warranted. “What about Ebert?”

“So far, nothing. We’re waiting for a wire to confirm. It might already be here. I don’t know. Look, Nikolai, get yourself back to Berlin. We’ll probably be shutting down the main station in the next hour or so, and if you stay here, you won’t be of any use. Trust me. Safe trip.”

The line went dead and Hoffner handed the receiver back to the matre d’. Twenty minutes later, Hoffner and Lina were getting their bags from the hotel; forty minutes after that, they were on the last train heading north: Hoffner’s badge had seen to that, as well. It would mean that they would have to get out and wait somewhere