Читаем A good German полностью

“Well, that’s what they do best. Don’t let him fool you. Just because he speaks English doesn’t mean he’s a friend.”

“Who is he exactly?”

“Vassily? General Sikorsky. He’s at the council. Does a little bit of everything, like all the comrades, but our counterintelligence boys know him, so I always thought he had a finger in that pie. Maybe even a kidnapping or two. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“So I should watch my back.”

“You?” Muller smiled, amused. “Don’t worry. Even the Russians wouldn’t want a reporter.”

Jake moved past the front parlor, where a group had begun singing, and down the hall toward the French doors in the back, open to let the smoke drift out. It was still light, the late light of a northern summer, and he looked at the muddy garden where grass and canvas chairs must have been, now trampled over and uprooted, like everything else in Berlin. There had been mud at Nordhausen too, so much that the trucks had slid in it, spattering the work party as they roared away with Aladdin’s treasures. No nacht und nebel, just gum-chewing T units, loading their convoys of steel prizes for the trip west. Where now? Somewhere over the Rhine, maybe even already in America, getting ready for the next war. If he asked now, he’d be told it had never happened. A disappearing trick. And he’d let that story go without a qualm, happy to oblige, because there was always another, until suddenly they were gone, all the big war stories, leaving nothing but rubble.

“Hey, Jackson,” Liz said, standing hesitantly in the doorway, as if she were afraid to interrupt. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just arguing with myself.”

“Who won?” she said, coming over.

Jake smiled. “My better instincts.”

“That must have been close.” She lit a cigarette, offering him one. “Catch any flak about today?”

“Not much. Nobody seems to think it’s anything special. They wonder why I care.”

“Why do you?”

Jake shrugged. “It’s an old superstition. If a story falls in your lap, it’s bad luck to waste it.”

“Old superstition.”

“Sorry about the camera.”

“No, I got it back. A nice Russian brought it to the press camp. Seemed to think I might go out with him, me being so grateful.”

“They didn’t use to ask, I hear.” He looked over at her. “I wish I’d used it. In case I need to prove he was shot.”

“They’re denying it?”

“No, but they’re not shouting about it either. I don’t know why not. A soldier shot in the Russian zone-you’d think they’d be jumping up and down. They spend half the time here squawking at each other.” He jerked a thumb toward the party. “So why not this time?”

Liz shook her head. “Nobody wants to raise a stink while the conference is on.”

“No, I know the army. Something’s-off. Nobody just gets shot. What was he doing here? You met him. He say anything to you on the plane?”

“No,” she said. “He was too busy trying to keep his stomach in one place.”

“I was thinking about that too. Why fly if you hate it so much? what was important enough to get him on a plane?”

“Oh, Jake, lots of people fly. Maybe he was ordered. He’s in the army, you know.”

“Was. Then why didn’t somebody meet him, if he was ordered? Remember that, at the airport?”

“Frankly, no.”

“Where was he? Everybody else had a ride.” He took a breath. There’s something.“

Liz sighed. “Okay, have it your way, Sherlock. You going to need some pictures? A little strong for Collier’s.”

Jake smiled. “Maybe. I have something else in mind too.” Liz raised her eyebrows. “Track down the old office staff, see what happened to them. Berlin stories. They’d use those pictures, if you’re interested.”

“You’re on. Old friends,” she said. “Not just one?”

“No,” he said, ignoring it. “Everybody I can find. I want to know what happened here, not just in the bunker. This other thing-I don’t know, maybe you’re right, maybe there’s nothing.” He paused, thinking. “Except the money. There’s always a story in money.”

Liz dropped her cigarette and rubbed it out. “Well, you keep arguing with yourself. Let me know how it comes out. Looks like I’m off,” she said, glancing through the door.

“Again?”

“Can I help it if I’m popular?” Before she could move away, a tall soldier, vaguely familiar, came to the door. “I’ll be with you in a sec,” she said to him, clearly not wanting him to come out. He lifted his beer bottle and turned back in to the house.

“The lucky guy?”

“Not yet. But he says he knows a good jazz club.”

“I’ll bet.” Jake looked through the door. “Ah,” he said, remembering. “The congressman’s driver. Liz.”

“Don’t be a snob,” she said, slightly flustered. “Anyway, he’s not a driver. He’s an officer.”

“And a gentleman.”

“Are any of you? At least this one doesn’t talk with his mouth full.”

Jake laughed. “That sounds like the real thing.”

“No,” she said, looking straight at him. “That’s when somebody comes back for you. Four years later. But he’ll do.”