The Second Son: A Novel (10 page)

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,
Protestspiele.
Barcelona for the people. Barcelona for the Games of Protest. Ludicrous.

“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 Pathé 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 way. He’s too useful to us to care one way or the other.”

Hoffner watched the self-satisfied indifference across the desk.

Georg—an agent of British Intelligence. Hoffner was torn between a feeling of pride and terror.

“How long?” he said.

“How long what?”

“How long has Georg been with you?”

Wilson looked up. “What is it you want, Herr Inspe—” He caught himself. “Herr Hoffner?”

“He wouldn’t have told me. You know that.”

Wilson continued to stare. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have.” He waited, then reached down to the bottom drawer. He returned with a bottle and two glasses and placed them on the desk: it seemed every office in Berlin was fitted with a set. “You really had no idea, did you?” Hoffner said nothing and Wilson poured. “Amazing how he fell into our laps. But then, everything got tossed around in ’thirty-three, didn’t it?” Wilson recorked the bottle, took his glass, and sat back.

“I’m sure it’s easy to see it that way, from a distance.”

“No, no, I know,” Wilson said blandly. “I’m sure Georg was devastated. Angry. Six years with Ufa and they throw him out.” Hoffner’s eyes remained empty. “Ufa-Tonwoche has always been a second-rate newsreel studio,” Wilson said. “Georg was too good a cameraman and director to be stuck there. He was lucky to move on.”

“So you made him your offer before they found his work too degenerate?” Hoffner took his glass. “Or was that later when you recognized his talents and his anger?” He drank.

Wilson took another cigarette from the box and lit it. “I think I’m going to continue calling you inspector, Inspector. It’ll make me feel so much better about all this.”

“Is that in some manual someplace?”

Wilson smiled as he exhaled. It was his first honest expression in the last ten minutes. “I’m sure it is.” He took another pull. “You’re expecting me to say that my father was some old beat cop, tough, hard-drinking, and this is my way of making him proud.”

“No,” Hoffner said. He finished his own cigarette and began to crush it out. “Your father was a banker—Harrow, Eton—the same places you went. The only moment of real disappointment came when you chose Oxford over Cambridge—or Cambridge over Oxford—whichever let him know you were your own man.” Hoffner let go of the cigarette. “He finds the whole newsreel business silly, but if he only knew what it was you were really doing … Closer?”

To his credit, Wilson had kept his smile. “It was Winchester, then Cambridge.”

“My mistake.” Hoffner brushed the ash from his hands. “Old beat cops don’t produce men like you, Herr Wilson. They produce the boys who go and die for your principles.”

Wilson’s eyes showed a moment of genuine regard. Both men knew it had no place here.

Hoffner said, “I’ve been thinking of taking a trip to Spain.”

“Have you? Bit dodgy there right now.”

“I’m going after him.”

“No, I don’t think you are.”

“And why is that?” Hoffner watched as Wilson took a drink. “Where was he filming, Herr Wilson?”

“The retired Kripoman decides to go and—”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “I know. Get himself killed. I’ve been warned.”

“Oh, I don’t care if you get killed.” There was nothing malicious in the voice, not even a hint of that very brave English self-sacrifice. Wilson was simply trying to move them beyond the obvious. “I’m sure that would be tragic in some meaningless way—and isn’t that always the worst sort of tragedy—but I just don’t think you’d be much good. Do you even have Spanish or Catalan?” Hoffner said nothing, and Wilson continued. “Nothing better than seeing a nice little German in his climbing boots and short pants, sweating his way from one café to the next, asking about his boy gone missing: ‘Excuse me, señor, do you speak German?’ ”

“And I imagine Georg was fluent?”

Wilson gave nothing away. “Now if the boy happened to be some sad-sack Communist or socialist out to fight back the new fascists, I doubt anyone pays much attention. More troubling when the boy works for a British newsreel company—and a Jew to boot—and his daddy starts asking around. You see where I’m going with this?”

Hoffner looked at the bald pate across from him; even the shine seemed more credible now. “You really think the SS doesn’t know exactly what you are?”

“What the SS does or doesn’t know isn’t my concern. I just don’t like helping them along. And if they’re interested in Georg, so much the easier to let his sixty-year-old father lead them right to him.”

“I’m glad I inspire so much confidence.” Hoffner set his glass on the desk. “And why would the SS be so concerned with Georg?”

“The Spanish fascists haven’t a chance if they don’t get help from the outside; we both know that. And we both know where that help will be coming from. The trouble is, we’re all promising not to get involved in Spain—England, Russia, Italy, France. Even the Germans are willing to make that promise. Imagine if someone starts nosing around and finds out that the Nazis won’t be keeping their word. Especially when they’re the ones throwing the big international party out at their new stadium. Not so good for the image. Not so good for Georg.” He took a last pull and crushed out the cigarette in the ashtray.

“So what did you send Georg off to find?”

Wilson flicked something from his finger and sat back casually. “I didn’t send him off to find anything.”

Men like this were always so effortless with a lie, thought Hoffner. “I see—because of that promise you’ll all be making not to get involved.”

“We
won’t
be getting involved.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

Wilson was no less glib. “We do happen to be running a news organization, Inspector. On occasion that means having to film the news. Barcelona and its Olimpiada—that was news. So Georg went.”

“And he just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Whatever the reason he went, there’s nothing I can do to stop you from going after him now. I’m just hoping you understand what’s at stake.”

“Georg’s life, I think.”

“Oh, is that what you think this is about—a single life?” Wilson set his glass on the desk. “If you’re that naïve you won’t make it out of the Friedrichstrasse Banhof.”

“I’m not much on trains.”

“Then he’ll be dead by the time your boat docks.”

“I’ve always found flying much more efficient.”

For the first time Wilson hesitated. It was the silence that held him.

“You have a plane,” he finally said. “That’s good. That’s very good.” He took another cigarette and lit up. “Don’t tell me how or where. Unregistered planes are a rare thing to get hold of these days.”

Wilson stared at Hoffner for another few moments and then was on his feet. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and stepped over to the floor safe. Kneeling down, he used two of the keys to open it. He retrieved a single sheet of paper and shut the door. He set the page in front of Hoffner. There were five words written on it: