It was nearly half past one before Hoffner made it to the middle of town. The crowds were already out at the stadium, the athletes due to arrive within the hour, Hitler by four. To keep them all entertained, the Olympic Committee had enlisted the services of the Berlin Philharmonic, the National Orchestra, and-how could they go on without them? — the Bayreuth Wagner Festival choir, all three en masse with soaring renditions of the
Hoffner stepped down from the tram, crossed Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, and pushed through the door at number 17.
The Berlin office of the British Pathe Gazette Company was three rooms at the top of a rather sweet if old five-floor walk-up: one secretary, four filmmakers, and all of them with the singular task of covering Germans in the news. Hoffner had stopped in twice before: the first time three years ago, to see Georg’s new digs; the second last month, when Mendy had been rushed to the hospital after falling down the stairs. The telephones at Georg’s had somehow gone out. Luckily, Hoffner had been at the Alex, only a fifteen-minute walk-or ten-minute run-depending on the traffic. Papi and Opa had arrived at the hospital to find Mendy unbroken and utterly delighted to be sporting a very long bandage on his leg. He had limped for two days after-each day a different leg-until Lotte had told him to knock it off.
Anthony Wilson was leaning out an open window behind his desk, peering off into the distance, when Hoffner stepped into the office. Hoffner shut the door, and Wilson ducked his head under his arm to see who it was.
“Hallo there, Inspector.”
Wilson was a young thirty-two, with too much enthusiasm for a man his age. He continued to peer back in this odd position before saying, “Join me?” Wilson returned to his viewing, and Hoffner had no choice but to step over, remove his hat, and inch his head out. The damp was oddly thick up here.
Wilson said, “A fellow across the way on four says that when the street’s clear, you can actually hear the music.” He was straining his ear westward. “Out at the stadium, I mean.”
Even his German sounded like public school English. Hoffner imagined all those years Wilson had spent working on the “Bosch” while his friends had been struggling through Horace and Sappho. Not much newsreel work, though, in ancient Rome and Athens.
The wind picked up, and Hoffner said, “You know that’s not really possible, Herr Wilson.”
“Oh, I know,” he said. “But they get a nice kick out of seeing the Englishman stick his head out the window. They’re placing bets on it. How long I can go. They don’t think I know about it. They’ll be wondering who you are in a minute or two.”
“So we’ll be out here that long?”
Wilson looked over, then smiled. “Fair enough.” He ducked under, and Hoffner followed. Immediately, Wilson began to smooth back what little hair he had. He was tall like Georg, but with an inordinately narrow head. “Someone on the fourth floor’s just won a bit of money.” He smiled again, motioned Hoffner to a chair, and took his own behind the desk.
Hoffner stepped over and sat. He was trying to convince himself that Wilson’s airy mood was a good sign. Then again, the man might just have been an idiot.
“Any word?” asked Hoffner.
Wilson’s face did its best with a look of seriousness: the mouth remained closed even as the jaw dropped a bit. Was it possible for the face to grow longer?
“ ‘Any word,’ ” Wilson repeated pensively. He looked across at Hoffner. “No. No word, Inspector. But I shouldn’t be too concerned.”
The English were always so good with an empty phrase. Hoffner waited and then said, “The trouble is, Herr Wilson, I am.”
There was some quick nodding from Wilson as he retreated. “Yes, yes, of course you are. I am as well. Naturally. I just mean it’s still early days. Everyone involved with POG was moved to a safe-”
“Pog?” Hoffner interrupted.
Wilson seemed surprised by the question. “POG-People’s Olympic Games?” When Hoffner said nothing, Wilson added, “Why Georg went?”
Another favorite of the English: the meaningless acronym.
Georg’s reason for going to Spain was, of course, not news to Hoffner. In fact, it had been impossible to be in Berlin over the past few months and not hear all the updates on the highly controversial, if equally pointless,
“No,” Hoffner said. “I know why Georg went, Herr Wilson. I just didn’t know the games were called”-he hesitated-“POG.”
Wilson flipped open a cigarette box on his desk and offered one to Hoffner. “Well, technically, it’s just a few of us here at Pathe Gazette, Inspector. Makes it so much easier in wires and the like. POG this. POG that. You understand.” He lit Hoffner’s cigarette and took one for himself. “No point in using it now, though, is there? Still, as I said, everyone was moved to a safe spot once the trouble began.” He lit up.
“And where exactly do you find a safe spot in Spain these days, Herr Wilson?”
Wilson let out a stream of smoke. For an instant Hoffner thought he saw something behind the eyes: it was strangely familiar and then just as quickly gone. Wilson said, “That’s probably a very good question, Inspector.”
“And yet I shouldn’t be concerned.”
“Georg wanted to go on filming. Do you blame him? We both know he’s gotten himself out of deeper holes than this.”
“Has he?” Hoffner saw it again in the eyes. He let it pass. “And how does one lose track of a man eager to go on filming?”
“It’s a war, Inspector.” The tone was mildly sharper. “It takes time for things to settle in.”
It was a callous answer, and not in keeping with the Wilson of only moments ago. Hoffner took a long pull and said, “By the way, it’s no longer inspector. Just Herr Hoffner. My papers went through yesterday.”
“Really?” Wilson said. He leaned in and, focusing on the glass, began to curl his cigarette into the ashtray. “Good for you.”
And there it was: the eyes and the voice coming together. Hoffner was struck by how obvious it seemed.
It was the way Wilson had said it-“Good for you”-that went beyond mere congratulations. There was a relief in the voice, as if making it to the end of a career unscathed deserved a nod of admiration. As if, one day, Wilson hoped he might make it there himself.
Hoffner continued to watch as Wilson played with the ash. “Yes-it is,” he said. “I imagine you’d like to get there one day yourself.”
Wilson stayed with the cigarette. “Pardon?”
“The job. It can be rather dangerous. Nice when you survive and get the pat on the back at the end.” Hoffner watched Wilson spend too much time with the ash. Finally Hoffner said, “Which branch?”
Wilson took a moment too long before looking up. “Which branch…? I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The amiable smile was really quite a feat.
“War Office or Admiralty? Or is the British Secret Intelligence Service all under the same roof these days?” When Wilson said nothing, Hoffner added, “Thirty years, Herr Wilson. I think I know when I hear a cop.”
A car horn from the street broke through, but Wilson continued to stare. His smile became more masklike as the eyes began to sharpen: rare to see intelligence growing on a man’s face.
“Just like that,” he said. There was now a quiet certainty in the voice.
“Like what?” said Hoffner.
“Georg said you were uncanny at what you did. Hard to believe that good.” There was nothing accusatory in it. “When did he tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Wilson crushed out his cigarette and then nodded to himself. “Fair enough.” He sat back. “We can play it that
