“But that could take—”
“I figure your secretary might have some time on her hands. If she could call around for me, I’d appreciate it. They’d listen to you. Me, it might take weeks.”
“You haven’t had any problem so far,” Muller said, looking at him carefully.
“But this time I’d have some help from the top. For a change. You know how it is. And while she’s at it, one more thing? Check a flight listing for an Emil Brandt. Previous week and since.” He took in
Muller’s blank expression. “He’s a scientist Tully sprang from Kransberg. Dustbin. Heard of it?”
“Where are you going with this?” Muller said quietly.
“Just have her do it.”
“Dustbin’s a secret facility.”
Jake shrugged. “People talk. Hang around the press camp more. You’d be surprised what you pick up.”
“You can’t write about it. It’s classified.”
“I know. Don’t worry, I’m not interested in Dustbin. Just Meister Toll.”
“I’m not sure I understand the connection.”
“If I’m right, just wait a little and you can read all about it in the papers.”
“That’s one thing I have no intention of doing.”
Jake smiled. “Why don’t you wait and see how it comes out? You might change your mind.” He glanced up at him, serious now. “No black eyes.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“Would you take it? Why not just say you have my best intentions and leave it at that? But I’d appreciate the calls.”
Muller nodded slowly. “All right. But I want you to do something for me-work with the CID on this.”
“Carbons in triplicate? No thanks.”
“I won’t have you running around like a loose cannon. You work with them, understand?”
“Now I’m on the team? A minute ago you were sending me home.”
Muller’s shoulders sagged. “That’s before the Russians were involved,” he said glumly. “Now we need to know. Even if that means using you.” He paused, thinking. “You’re sure about the money? The serial numbers? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I thought it was all the same.”
“There’s a little dash. A friend in the black market tipped me off. It’s the sort of thing they notice. Turns out the Treasury Department isn’t as dumb as you thought.”
“That makes me feel a whole lot better.” Muller straightened up. “I wish you did. All right, let’s go back in before I change my mind,” he said, leading Jake to the door. They stopped on the threshold, hit by the blast of noise. A conga line was snaking through the room, legs flying out on the one-two-three-kick, nobody quite on the same beat. “The ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Muller said, shaking his head. “My god, I wish I was back in the army. Drink?”
“You have mine. I’m on my way home.”
“Where is that these days? I haven’t seen you at dinner lately. Keeping company somewhere?”
“Colonel. There are rules about that.”
“Mm. Strictly enforced,” he said wryly. “Like everything else.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Geismar? Don’t make me regret this. I can still kick your ass home.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jake said. “Just make the calls, please.”
He said goodbye to Tommy, now in a sloppy, bear-hugging mood. The conga line had broken up and with it the rest of the dancing, but the party showed no signs of slowing down. The drinking had reached the stage when jokes could turn into arguments without anyone noticing. Liz was taking some group shots, a line of reporters with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders and their faces fixed in bleary grins. A cheer went up when someone arrived with more ice. It was time to go. He was almost at the door when Liz caught up with him.
“Hey, Jackson. How’s your love life?” She was carrying her shoes in one hand and a camera case in the other, her eyes shiny with drink.
“Okay. How’s yours?”
“Away, since you ask.”
“No more tall Joe?”
“Keep your shirt on. He’s back tomorrow.” She made a face. “They always come back. How about a lift? I don’t think I can make it in these,” she said, holding up the shoes.
“Little unsteady on your feet?” Jake said, smiling.
“These? They gave out about an hour ago.”
“Come on.”
“Here,” she said, handing him the shoes. “Let me get my bag.”
He stood there, shoes dangling from his fingers, and watched her weave over to the table and struggle with a strap that kept missing her shoulder as she tried to fling it in place. Finally he went over and took the bag from her, sliding it onto his own shoulder.
“Well, aren’t vou nice? Stupid thing.”
“Come on, you could use some air. What have you got in here?”
She giggled. “Oh, I forgot. You. I’ve got you in there. Wait a minute,” she said, stopping him and fumbling with the zipper. “Fresh out of the darkroom. Well, fresh. I’ve been carrying these around for days.” She pulled out some glossies and shuffled to find the right one. “Here we are. Our man in Berlin. Not bad, considering.”
He looked at himself stepping into the right half of the picture, leaving the Document Center behind. Thinning over the temples, a surprised expression. “I’ve looked better,” he said. The same feeling he’d had seeing his reflection in KaDeWe’s window-someone else, no longer the young man in his passport photo.
“That’s what you think.”
Off to the left Joe stood posing, as tall and blond as a poster Aryan. One of the tech boys, according to Brian. Breimer’s friend. Jake dropped the picture on the pile, then stopped and pulled it back, looking again.
“Hey, Liz,” he said, staring at it, “what’s Joe’s last name again?”
“Shaeffer. Why?”
A German name.
He shook his head. “Nothing, maybe. Can I keep this?”
“Sure,” she said, pleased. “I’ve got a million more where that came from.”
Blond, like a German, Frau Dzuris had said. The right fit. But was it? In the picture, another camera trick, he and Jake were standing on the steps as if they’d been together all along. Nothing was what it seemed.
He glanced at his watch. Frau Dzuris would be getting ready for bed, disturbed by a knock on the door. But not asleep yet. He grabbed Liz’s arm and began tugging her across the floor.
“Where’s the fire?”
“Let’s go. I have to see somebody.”
“Oh,” she said, an exaggerated drawl. She reached over and took her shoes. “Not this time. Let her wear her own.”
Jake ignored her, hurrying them to the jeep.
“You know, it’s none of my business—” she began as she got in.
“Then don’t say it.”
“Touchy,” she said, but let it go, leaning back in her seat as they started down the road. “You know what you are? You’re a romantic.”
“Not the last time I looked.”
“You are, though,” she said, nodding her head, having a conversation with herself.
“What’s Joe doing in Berlin?” Jake said.
But the drink had taken her elsewhere. She laughed. “You’re right. He’s not. Anyway, what do you care?” She turned to him. “It’s not serious, you know. With him. He’s just-around.”
“Doing what?”
She waved her hand. “He’s just around.”
She put her head back against the seat, cushioning it, as if it were too much trouble to hold it upright on the bumpy road. For a second Jake wondered if she was going to pass out, but she said idly, “I’m glad you like the picture. It’s a fast shutter. Zeiss. No blurs.”
