Читаем A good German полностью

“Right. Now it’s your turn,” Jake said to Emil. “Put these on and say something. Loud, but not too loud. Just a little spat. Lena, come here.” He nodded at Emil to start talking and took her by the shoulders. “Now listen to me.”

“Jake-”

“Ssh. You walk out of here with the uniform.” He jerked his head toward Emil, putting on Jake’s pants. “Like nothing happened. The guards don’t care about us, just him. We’re the visitors. Don’t say anything, just go. Casual, see. Then you go downstairs to Brian and get out fast. Tell him it’s an emergency, now, understand? But keep him with you. If Brian doesn’t have a car, take the jeep. It’s on the Linden, keys in the pants there, got that? Then go like hell. They’ll follow.

Don’t go through the Brandenburg, they’ve got a checkpoint. Okay? But fast. Pull Brian away if you have to. Go to the flat and stay there and keep him out of sight.“ He pointed his thumb to Emil, dressed now. ”Ready?“ he said to him, straightening the army tie. ”See, a real American.“

“What about you?” Lena said.

“Let’s get him out first. I told you I would, didn’t I? Now get going.”

“Jake,” she said, reaching for him.

“Later. Come on, say something,” he said to Emil. “And keep the hat down.”

“And if they stop us?” Emil said.

“They stop you.”

“You’ll get us all killed.”

“No, I’m saving your life.” Jake looked up at him. “Now we’re quits.”

“Quits,” Emil said.

“That’s right. For everything.” He reached up and took off Emil’s glasses.

“I can’t see,” Emil said feebly.

“Then take her arm. Move.” He reached for the door handle.

“If you do this, they’ll kill you,” Lena said quietly, a pleading.

“No, they won’t. I’m famous,” he said, trying for a smile but meeting her eyes instead. “Now, quick.” He turned the handle, careful not to make noise. “Don’t say goodbye. Just go.”

He stood behind the door, opening it for them, waving them out with a frantic shooing motion. A second of hesitation, more dangerous even than going; then she looked at him once more, biting her lip, and slipped her arm under Emil’s and led him out. Jake closed the door and started talking, so that his voice would reach the other room, reassuring everyone, even the guards, with the sound of conversation. Use your smart mouth. But how long would the Russians keep talking? In the hall by now, approaching the stairs. Just a few minutes, a little luck. Until Sikorsky came out and reached for his gun. Because of course Lena was right-they’d kill him. No more moves left.

He started buttoning Emil’s shirt, trying to think and talk at the same time. A holster belt on the couch. Why hadn’t he told them to pick up the gun downstairs, or would Brian be sober enough to grab it on his way out? Making his excuses at the table, following them across the field of rubble to the street, not running, stumbling in the dark. They’d need time. He looked around the room. Nothing. Not even a closet, a Wilhelmine armoire. The bathroom was next door, off the bedroom. Nothing but a door to the machine guns and a window to Goebbels’ garden. A soft landing, but not from two stories up. No, three, a hopeless drop. In prison movies they tied sheets together, a white braid, like Rapunzel’s hair. Fairy tales. He glanced again at the couch-one sheet, nothing to anchor it but the radiator under the windowsill, visible to the Russians through the open door. Even the simplest knot would take too long. They’d shoot before he made the first hitch.

He reached for the belt to Emil’s pants, wondering why he was bothering to dress at all. There had to be something, some way to talk himself past the guards. They all wanted watches, like the Russian behind the Alex. But he was Emil now, not a GI with something to trade. He looked toward the window again. An old radiator that probably hadn’t felt heat in a year, even with the control handle all the way open. Old-fashioned, shaped to match the door handle. From the next room there was a sudden burst of laughter. They’d be breaking up soon. How long had it been? Enough time for Brian to get them to the Linden? He talked again to the empty room, the scene Sikorsky had been sorry to miss.

He started threading the belt through the pants loops then stopped, looking up again at the window. Why not? At least it was something to minimize the drop. He picked up the holster belt. Thicker, not the same size. Still. He pushed the end into Emil’s buckle, squeezing it to fit, forcing the metal prong through the thick leather, then pulling it tight. If it held, the double length would give him-what? six feet? “Do you have any better ideas?” he said aloud, as if Emil were still there arguing with him. And the holster buckle was an open square, big enough to slip over the radiator handle, if he was lucky. I’m saving your life.