The Second Son: A Novel (20 page)

The man’s tone was equally tight when he spoke. “What do you want?”

“Don’t worry—it’s not about the drugs.” It might have been. Gardenyes’s note had mentioned the writer Bernhardt and his predilection, but Hoffner knew that could wait. Georg’s wire had been very clear: Han Shen was connected to Vollman. Better to keep things simple and start there.

“Germans,” said Hoffner. “You’ve had a few of them playing in here the last few weeks.”

“Have I? We don’t check papers at the door.”

“Not good for business.”

“No.”

“Bit of a drop-off since the fighting started?”

“What fighting?” The man spoke with a goading insincerity. “I haven’t heard any shots today, have you?”

Hoffner regretted not having slapped him. “So, business as usual?”

The man set his hands on the table. “Something like that.” He started to get up, and Hoffner quietly gripped the shoulder and arm and held them in place. The man sat back down.

Hoffner said, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say you’re too clever to be in deep with what’s going on downstairs. You turn a blind eye and they make it worth your while. No crime in that.”

The man said coldly, “There is no crime in Barcelona these days—haven’t you heard?” Hoffner tightened his grip and the man said, “It’s as a courtesy to Piera I’m talking with you.”

“The same courtesy that’s keeping your arm from snapping in two. We understand each other?”

The man winced, then nodded.

Hoffner said, “There’s a man named Vollman. From the Olimpiada. I need to find him.”

The answer was too long in coming. “I don’t know him.”

“Yes, you do. He would have been in here a few days before the games.” Hoffner turned the elbow and watched as the man’s eyes tried to fight back the pain.

The man said, “I wouldn’t know where he is.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

The man chanced a look at his friend, who was still smoking in the corner. Almost at once, the bearded man tossed the cigarette to the ground and bolted for the door. He was surprisingly agile and might have made it had Piera not whacked his cane across the man’s kneecap. There was the expected yowling, the looks of pain and panic—all the trappings of men caught up in something well beyond their means.

Hoffner said, “That was remarkably stupid. Where is he?”

The sight of his friend sprawled on the floor brought a final tensing of defiance from the man in the chair. Just as quickly his shoulders dropped. He stared down at the board and said, “You’re scum to help these people, Piera.”

Piera looked particularly daunting standing over the bearded one. “This from a man who helps the Chinks run their poison up from the south.”

The man said bitterly, “So it’s not just your son, Piera, is it?”

Hoffner was having trouble following the sudden turn in the conversation. He was, however, quick enough to keep Piera’s cane from landing on the man’s skull.

Hoffner said, “Enough. We all take a step back.”

Hoffner waited and then released. It was another few seconds before Piera slowly brought the cane down.

“What people?” Hoffner asked.

The man snorted to himself, then mumbled something in a Catalan only vaguely familiar. Finally he said, in Spanish, “No, I’m sure you have no idea.”

Hoffner noticed the four sets of eyes peering over from the other tables. Piera was staring at him as well. Oddly enough it was Piera’s expression that was most unsettling. Hoffner did his best to ignore it. He turned to the man and repeated, “What people?”

From behind him Piera said, “You haven’t made a fool of me or my daughter, have you?” There was a quiet accusation in the voice.

Hoffner turned to him. “What?”

“It’s a simple question,” said Piera.

The silence only deepened Hoffner’s confusion. “No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

“Then why does he think you’re hunting down this Vollman for the fascists?”

The thought was absurd. Hoffner continued to stare, and Piera said, “He believes we are also fascists.”

Hoffner was doing what he could to make sense of the last half minute. He turned to the man, the eyes now fixed on the far wall. Hoffner saw their contempt and instantly understood why.

“Who else has been in here asking about Vollman?” said Hoffner. When the man refused to look up, Hoffner again grabbed him by the arm. “Who else?”

The man took his time. “Germans,” he said. “Germans—like you.”

“Not like me. Who?”

“Yes, like you.” The man continued to stare straight ahead. “Twisting arms, beating faces, breaking knees. Exactly like you.”

The hatred in the eyes was now unassailable. It was no match, though, for the sudden revulsion Hoffner felt for himself. He slowly released the man and said, “That’s not who I am. I thought you were—” Hoffner shook his head. “You know what I thought you were.”

The man turned to him. “Do I?”

Hoffner was having trouble matching the gaze. “The drugs. I assumed—”

“What? That Communists can’t peddle drugs? We run it as a collective, if that makes you feel any better. Are even the good Germans like this now?”

Hoffner found himself staring into the man’s eyes even as the words gutted him. “No,” he said quietly. “They’re not.”

“And you believe that?”

It was all Hoffner could do to answer. “I’m trying to find one of the good ones. My son. I assume your Vollman is another.”

The man studied him. There was a moment’s uncertainty. “Your son?”

“Yes. A filmmaker.”

Again the man waited. Hoffner saw another moment in the eyes before the man said, “The boy from Pathé Gazette?”

It was said so easily, and yet Hoffner felt it to his core. Georg had been here. Hoffner nodded.

The man thought something through and then turned to Piera. “Your son, Piera,” he said. There was regret in the voice. “I was sorry to hear about that.”

“So was I,” said Piera. “You know where this Vollman is?” The man nodded and Piera said, “Then you’re lucky. I would have broken the arm.”

*   *   *

The man knew every twist and bend of the Raval’s back alleys. Piera had stayed behind. The morning’s events had taken it out of him. Still, he was in better shape than the one with the beard. The knee was already the size of a melon. Piera offered no apologies.

They drew up to a building and the man pulled out a set of keys. The alley was empty. Even so, he peered off in both directions. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and ushered Hoffner in.

Four worn wood stairways later they stood in front of a single door, and it was through here that they discovered the sleeping Karl Vollman.

The room was a nice molting of chipped plaster and paint, with a tiny sink and spigot wedged into one corner. Water stains—browns and yellows—provided what color there was, while an angled window looked out on endless lines of clothes drying in the heat. Everything smelled of rust. Had there been an easel and a few stacks of drying canvas, Hoffner might have hummed the first bars of “Che gelida manina,” but the place was too hot for frozen little hands, and there didn’t seem to be much hope in it, even if Vollman was sleeping soundly.

Vollman was in undershirt and trousers, with his shoes neatly at the foot of the bed. Even sleeping, there was a power to the body, the arms pale and muscular. Most distinctive, though, was the shock of white hair on a man no more than fifty.

Hoffner’s guide stepped toward the cot and placed a hand on Vollman’s shoulder. Vollman remained absolutely still until he took in a long breath and suddenly bolted upright. The sinew in the chest tightened and then released.

The man said, “Karl.” He spoke in German.

Vollman stared straight ahead. He rubbed his face briskly and began to nod. It was only then that he noticed Hoffner.

“Monsieur,”
said Vollman.
“Je suis soulagé que vous soyez ici. Êtes-vous prêt à partir?”

Hoffner needed a moment. “What?”

The man from the club said, “He’s saying—”

“I know what he’s saying,” said Hoffner. “He thinks I’m taking him to Paris.”

Vollman spoke in German. “Yes.”

Hoffner said, “You think it’s not safe for you here.”

“No.”

“And why is that?” Hoffner always felt a moment’s regret watching a man’s eyes give in to the truth.

Vollman said, “Who is this?”

Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to Vollman. “My name is Hoffner.” He took one for himself. “I believe you know my son.”

Paris faded.

Hoffner thought he would see a few moments of calculation in the eyes—how else were chess men meant to react?—but Vollman showed nothing. He just sat there, remarkably well-shaven, although his shirt and trousers did show several days of sleep and sweat.

Hoffner said, “You’re here because of my son.”

Vollman focused. He looked over, reached for the cigarette, and placed it in his mouth.

Hoffner said, “I’m sorry for that.”

“Is he dead?”

Hoffner lit Vollman’s cigarette, then his own. “No.”

“You know that for certain?”

Hoffner let the smoke stream from his nose. He said nothing.

Vollman stood and headed for the sink. “I ran out of German cigarettes about a week ago,” he said. “Don’t much like the Spanish ones.” He placed the cigarette on the edge of the sink and pulled a hand towel from some unseen hook. He began to wet it. “Leos here doesn’t smoke, so he doesn’t care.”

The man from the club said, “I’ve different things to care about.”

Vollman ran the cloth along his neck and forehead. “That’s always a good excuse, isn’t it?” Vollman rinsed his mouth, placed the towel back on the hook, and retrieved his cigarette. “He has no idea why he’s protecting me. That makes him a good friend, so I forgive him the cigarettes. You’ve come all the way from Berlin, so you must have a great deal that needs forgiving.”

Hoffner felt oddly at home with a man like this.

Vollman said, “You should go, Leos.”

The man from the club waited and then looked at Hoffner. He said, “I’ll take Piera to the Ritz. Two hours. If you don’t show, I’ll kill him. Fair enough?”

Hoffner liked when things were made this clear. He nodded.

“And you give my friend here your cigarettes,” the man said. “So I don’t have to hear him whine about it anymore.”

Hoffner tossed the pack onto the cot as the door pulled open and shut behind him.

*   *   *

Vollman was not a Jew. It was the least surprising thing about him, even if he did come from a long line of true believers—years spent organizing in the working-class districts of Berlin, with a few scars on his right arm to show for it. He had been at school in Switzerland with all the best revolutionaries and had even spent time with Lenin before the mad dash to Moscow. That Lenin had gotten it completely wrong, and paved the way for Stalin and his thugs, hardly had Vollman giving up on the Soviet experiment just yet. Stalin would have his chance to make things right here in Spain; all would be forgiven if the tanks and planes and men began pouring in.

That said, it wasn’t all that unusual a story until Vollman decided to explain why he was in Spain. He had come as a special envoy of the Unified State Political Administration, working with its foreign department, what he referred to as INO through OGPU. Hoffner stared blankly, and Vollman simplified: he was, for lack of a better term, an agent of Soviet Intelligence. And while that might have been staggering on its own, it seemed even more implausible that Vollman should feel the need to share the information with Hoffner. Yet even that seemed reasonable enough.

“What else would I be?” Vollman said easily, as he lit his third cigarette. He was sitting on the cot. “Why else would Georg and I have been in touch with each other? Birds of a feather.”

Hoffner took a long pull and nodded as if this made any real sense to him.

Vollman said, “I’m not saying anything you don’t know.”

Hoffner realized it was in his best interest to agree. “It’s a recent piece of information, but yes. I knew why Georg was here.”

Vollman reached for his shoes. “You haven’t made some horrible mistake, have you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Vollman began to lace up. “It’s rather funny if you think about it. Three Germans in Spain—a civil war—one working for British Intelligence, one for Soviet Intelligence, and one”—he finished lacing and looked over—“one looking for the other two.”

Hoffner felt the slightest threat of violence slip into the room. “I’m looking for just one,” he said.

“And yet you’ve found the other.”

There was nothing to be gained in retreat. Hoffner dropped his cigarette to the floor and began to crush it under his shoe. “You could get to Paris any time you like, couldn’t you?”

“And why would I want to do that?”