Zhukov was the gaudiest, both sides of his chest lined with medals that ran all the way to his hips. Next to him, Patton’s plain battle jacket and few ribbons had a kind of defiant simplicity. But the drama was in the positioning. Zhukov, front and center, would take a step forward only to find Patton moving up with him, so that by the time he reached the railing, finally upstaged, they had become a bobbing vaudeville turn of generals. The press responded, snapping pictures from their own viewing stand, and Jake saw that even General Clay, usually somber, was trying to suppress a smile, almost winking at Muller, who answered with a tolerant roll of his eyes, silver-haired Judge Hardy still, suffering fools. For a second Jake wished he were just covering it all for Collier’s — the noisy air, the absurd jockeying, the backdrop curtain of the burned-out Reichstag in the distance. An interview with Patton maybe, who would remember him and was always good copy. Instead, anxious, he was searching the crowd for a face. What he thought, as more troops marched by, was that he had never seen so many guns in his life and that Gunther had been wrong, he didn’t feel protected at all. Any one of them, milling around, waiting to make a move.
“We’re going to watch the parade?” Emil said, puzzled.
“We’re meeting somebody,” Jake said, glancing at his watch. “It won’t be long.”
“Who?”
“The man who got you out of Kransberg.”
“Tully? You said he was dead.”
“His partner.”
“So it’s another trick. No Americans.”
“I told you, I need you as bait. Then we’ll go see your pals.”
“And the files?”
“It’s a package deal. They get you both.”
“You won’t do that.” You re sure.
“You can’t. Think what it will mean for Lena, a trial.”
“Wonderful how you’re always thinking of her. Listen, you’re getting out with your life. That’s more than you can say for the workers at Camp Dora.”
Emil’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Then go to hell,” he said, turning to go.
Jake grabbed his arm. “Try it and I’ll shoot you in the foot. I’d enjoy it, but you wouldn’t.” They looked at each other for a moment, stalemated, then Jake dropped his hand. “Now watch the parade.”
Jake scanned the crowd. Not a single familiar face. But why would it be someone he knew? On the stand Zhukov had leaned farther against the railing, ready to take the salute from his lancer unit. More stage uniforms, a pounding thud of jackboots, swords actually drawn and raised, flashing in the light, but no longer comic, Goebbels’ old warning, the scourge from the east. A small huddle of DPs turned and started away from the crowd, looking back at the swords, and Jake saw in the cowed hunch of their shoulders that it was really a Russian show, all of it, the rest of the Allies harmless extras. The message wasn’t victory but the crushing boots. No one can stop us. It was a parade out of the next war. Smiles faded on the stand. What happens when it’s over, he’d wondered. Another.
It was then, watching the Russians, that he felt the poke in the small of his back.
“Quite a show.”
He whirled around, hand on his holster.
“Steady,” Brian said, surprised by the abrupt movement. “Hello again,” he said to Emil. “No uniform this time, eh?”
“What are you doing here?” Jake said. Brian? But he’d already had Emil once.
“What do you mean? Everybody’s here. Nothing like a parade. Just look at old Zhukov. Bloody Gilbert and Sullivan. Coming to the press stand?”
“Not now, Brian. Scram.”
But Brian’s eyes were fixed over Jake’s shoulder at the lancers. “Be in Hamburg before Christmas by the looks of them.”
“I mean it. I’ll see you later.” He glanced to either side of him, expecting Gunther to arrive, everything happening too soon.
“You might let me wait out the swords. You don’t want to get in the way of that.” He turned, peering at Jake. “What is it? What are you doing now? ”
“Nothing. Just scram,” Jake said, still looking nervously to the side.
Brian stared at him, then Emil. “Three’s a crowd? Right. I’m off. Save you a place?”
“Yeah, save me a place.”
“If young Ron lets the rope down. I’ve known headwaiters with better manners. Christ, here come the pipers.” He looked again at Jake. “Watch yourself.”
He pushed his way through to the front, hesitating as the last of the Russians passed, then sprinted across the sudden gap to the viewing stands. Jake lost him as he picked his way through the crowd to the back stairs of the press stand, then saw him reappear on top, talking to Ron. Why not Ron? Who’d left the dinner table at Gelferstrasse that night to play poker but could have gone to the Grunewald. Who now had the perfect vantage point to spot Jake in the crowd, waiting for the right moment, a nod of the head to close the trap. But neither he nor Brian was looking in Jake’s direction, busy with themselves. Jake checked his watch. Where was Gunther? Only a few minutes to the agreed time-he had to be in place somewhere nearby. Then why hadn’t he come forward when Brian approached them? What if it had been him, smoothly leading them away without even a snap of the spring?
He almost jumped when the bagpipes started wailing, cutting right to the nerves. On the stand, the British now stepped forward, rearranging the line so that the visiting dignitaries with the generals came into view. Breimer, just behind Clay, in a double-breasted suit, who stayed and stayed, with unfinished business in Berlin. Jake imagined how it might happen-the sighting from the stand, the quick excuse to the others, the unsuspected walk across to Emil, a waiting car. Jake looked behind. No car. And Breimer would never risk anything himself. He was where he belonged, on a speakers’ platform, out of combat. Even Ron was more likely. He glanced back at the press stand. Huddled now with a cameraman, lining up shots of the parade. No one, in fact, was looking toward Jake. But someone must be.
Unexpectedly, the pipers stopped for a demonstration, a blast of jangling air, forcing the unit behind them to mark time. Jake moved his head slowly from left to right, as if he were looking through binoculars, tracking across a field. What combat always came down to: a hunt for prey, every sense on edge, watching for a sudden movement. But everything here seemed to be in motion. People came and went along the parade line, the generals shuffled in the stand, even the stationary pipers were working their bags. Heads bobbed in the crowd, straining to see or falling back for a smoke. A field full of deer, moving at will, none of them stopping long enough to stay in a rifle sight. He turned in a complete circle, away from the parade, taking in the Tiergarten. Already past time and still no Gunther. I can take care of myself. But could he? As he turned back to the parade, sweeping the stands again for a face, it occurred to him that he had got it backward-he was one of the deer, alert but not knowing what to look for. The hunter, lying still, would be watching him.
He was following the pipers as they started up again when he caught it, a flicker near the corner of his eye, the only thing in the swirl before him that was not moving. Absolutely still. A row of pipers passed. If it turned away, he’d be wrong, but another row of heads went by and the dark glasses were still fixed on him. Maybe just watching the parade. Then Shaeffer raised his hand, as if he were going to salute, and took off the glasses, folding them with one hand and slipping them into his pocket without even blinking, his eyes steady on Jake, hard as steel. Not even a nod, just the eyes. Only the mouth moved, more a grim tic than a smile. Snap. Shaeffer. Another row and now they were locked on each other, that split second in a hunt when no one else was in the field. Not surprised to see him, knowing he’d be there, waiting for the crosshairs to clear. Jake held his breath, caught by the eyes. We won’t know who, Gunther had said, but now he did, there was no mistaking the look. Not surprised. The man who’d come for him.
The bagpipes were almost gone and Shaeffer took a step forward, but the waiting unit behind moved up into place, blocking him with a new row of heads. How long before he could cross? Near the Brandenburg Gate there was a clunking roar, like thunder, and involuntarily Jake darted his eyes toward the line of march. Soviet tanks, heavy and massive, crunching the already torn pavement and coming fast, refusing to be idled. Shaeffer hadn’t even bothered to look, his eyes still frozen where they had been, on Jake. Sikorsky’s face in Liz’s picture, ignoring the
