She glanced up, a flicker of concern, then turned her face to the sun and pushed away from the boat.
“Lena—”
“I can’t hear you,” she said, swimming away in long strokes. He watched her head toward the club, just a speck in the distance, then turn over and float back toward the boat, lying suspended in the still water. Tully would have done the same, except it had been windy that night, enough to stir the waves, pushing the body along.
Getting back in the boat took longer than diving out, an awkward pull up, one leg flung over the side to prevent it from tipping. She shook herself, squeezing out her hair, then lay back again to dry in the sun.
After that they were content to drift in the gentle rocking motion, like Moses in his basket. The boat had turned again, facing down toward the Pfaueninsel, where Goebbels had given his Olympics party. No lights now, half the trees gone, the dreary look of a cemetery island. Bodies must have landed here with the other debris, bobbing sluggishly, like Tully’s at the Cecilienhof, floating in circles until he’d ended up where he wasn’t supposed to be found.
Jake felt a few drops on his face. Not rain, Lena sprinkling him awake.
“We’d better start back. There’s not much wind-it’ll take time. She was sitting up, having slipped on the dress while he was drifting.
“Let the current do it,” he said lazily, his eyes still closed. “It’ll take us right past the club.”
“No, it’s the wrong way.”
He waved his fingers. “Simple geography. North of the Alps, the rivers flow north. South, south. We don’t have to do a thing.”
“In Berlin you do. The Havel flows south, then it curves up. Look at any map.”
But the maps just showed a string of blue, off in the left-hand corner.
“Look where we are already,” Lena said, “if you don’t believe me.”
He raised his head and looked over the side of the boat. The club was off in the distance; still no wind.
“You see? If you don’t turn around, we’ll end up in Potsdam.”
He sat upright, almost knocking his head against the mast. “What did you say?”
“We’ll end up in Potsdam,” she repeated, puzzled. “That’s where the river goes.”
He looked around at the bright water, turning his head in a swivel, scanning the shore.
“But that’s it. He wasn’t put in there. He never went there.”
“What?”
“He just ended up there. He didn’t go there. The where was wrong.” Turning his head again, scanning, as if the rest of it would come now in a rush, one piece unlocking all the others. But there was only the long Grunewald shore. So where did he go?
“What are you talking about?”
“Tully. He never went to Potsdam. Somewhere else. Do you have a map?”
“Nobody has maps except the army,” she said, still puzzled, watching his face.
“Gunther has one. Come on, let’s go back,” he said, eager, pushing the tiller to make a circle. “The current. Why didn’t I think of it before? Moses. Christ, it was right there. Thank you.” He blew her a kiss.
A nod, but no smile, her face frowning, as if the day had turned cloudy.
“Who’s Gunther?”
“A policeman. Friend of mine. He didn’t think of it either, and he’s supposed to know Berlin.”
“Maybe not the water,” she said, looking down at it.
“But you did,” he said, smiling.
“So now we’re all policemen,” she said, then turned her face back up to the sun. “Well, not yet. Look how still it is. We can’t go back yet.”
But the idea seemed to produce its own momentum, refusing to wait, and in a few minutes brought a slight, steady breeze that blew them back to the club in no time.
Gunther was at home in Kreuzberg, sober and shaved. Even the room was tidied up.
“A new leaf?” Jake said, but Gunther ignored him, his eyes fixed on Lena.
“And this must be Lena,” he said, taking her hand. “Now I see why Herr Brandt was so anxious to come to Berlin.”
“But not to Potsdam. He never went there. Tully, I mean. Here, come look,” Jake said, walking over to the map.
“American manners,” Gunther said to Lena. “Some coffee, perhaps? It’s fresh-made.”
“Thank you,” she said, both of them walking through a formal ritual.
“He lives on coffee,” Jake said.
“I’m German. Sugar?” He poured out a cup and indicated his reading chair for her.
“The Havel flows south,” Jake said. “The body floated to Potsdam. We were on the water today. It flows this way.” He moved his hand down the map. “That’s how he got there.”
Gunther stood for a moment, taking this in, then walked over to the map, staring at the left-hand corner. “So, no Russian driver.”
“No Russian driver. It solves the where.”
Gunther raised an eyebrow. “And this makes you excited? Before, you had only Potsdam. Now you have all of Berlin.”
“No, somewhere here,” Jake said, making a circle around the lakes. “It has to be. You don’t drive a body across town. You’d have to be near enough to think of it. Where to get rid of it, fast.”
“Unless you planned it.”
“Then you’d be on the water,” Jake said, pointing to the shoreline. “To make it easy. I don’t think it was planned. They never even took the time to go through his pockets, get his tags. They just wanted to get rid of him. In a hurry. Somewhere nearby-where nobody would find him.“ He pointed to the center of the blue patch.
Gunther nodded. “An answer for everything,” he said, then turned to Lena. “An expert on crime, our Herr Geismar,” he said pleasantly. “The coffee’s all right?”
“Yes, an expert,” Lena said.
“I have been looking forward to this meeting,” he said, sitting down. “You don’t mind if I ask you a question?”
“Somewhere here,” Jake was saying at the map, his hand on the lake.
“Yes, but where?” Gunther said over his shoulder. “It’s miles around those lakes.”
“Not if you eliminate.” He blocked off the western shore with his hand. “Not Kladow, the Russian zone.” He moved his hand and covered the bottom. “Not Potsdam. Somewhere along here.” He traced his finger from Spandau down to Wannsee, the long swatch of the Grunewald. “Where would he go?”
“A man who spoke only English? I would say to the Americans. In my experience, they prefer it.”
Zehlendorf. Jake moved across the woods, the map alive in his hand. Kronprinzenallee, headquarters. The press camp. Gelferstrasse. The Kommandatura, across the street from the KWI, an Emil connection. But the KWI was closed, dark for months. The Grunewald itself?
“What question?” Lena said.
“Forgive me, I was distracted. Just a small point. I was curious about the time your husband came for you. That last week. You know, I was in Berlin then-the Volkssturm, even the police became soldiers at the end. A terrible time.” Yes.
“Such confusion. Looting, even,” he said, shaking his head, as if even now the behavior disturbed him. “How, I wondered, did you know he was here? You didn’t see him?”
“The telephone. It was still working, even through that.”
“I remember. No water, but still the telephone. So he called?”
“From his father’s. He wanted to come for me, but the streets—”
“Yes, dangerous. The Russians were there?”
“Not yet. But near. Between us, I think, but what’s the difference? It was impossible. The Germans were just as bad, shooting everybody. I was afraid to leave the hospital. I thought, at least I’ll be safe here. Not even the Russians—”
“A terrible thing for him. So close. And after coming so far. The Zoo tower was still secure, I think, but perhaps he didn’t know that. To get through that way.”
Lena looked up. “You mustn’t blame him. He’s not a coward.”
