Shaeffer’s body swayed with the initial jolt, then fell limply against Jake’s side, leaning on him as they drove out of Potsdam. When they sped past the sector crossing, Jake could see the guards’ alarmed expressions and realized his face was still bloody. He wiped it with his sleeve, sweat streaked with dark red. Now that they were on the road, racing, he found himself gulping in air, his chest heaving, as if he’d been holding his breath underwater. A dream, except for the body in the back and the heavy soldier lying against him, head bobbing. I don’t even know what happened. But he did. When he played the dream again in his mind, it stopped after the soldier ran to the obelisk, when he saw the guns pointing beyond the soldier, at Liz. A diversionary run, the guns always intended for someone else. But who would want to kill Liz? A mistake. He looked over to Shaeffer. Someone else. A man who’d rather risk his life than be taken away by Russians. Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Liz’s body was shipped home by military transport and Shaeffer’s lay in a hospital bed, mending, without visitors. MG filed an official complaint with the Russians, who promptly sent one back, and the incident floated between In trays, waiting for the Kommandatura to meet and quarrel. Jake retreated to the flat and tried to write a piece about Liz, then gave it up. In Stars and Stripes she had already become a kind of soldier on the front lines; why say anything else? It was the newsreel all over again, more real than real. If you watched it on the screen, what would you actually see? An accident in crossfire, not a girl stepping into someone else’s bullet. Only Jake had looked over her shoulder at the pointing gun.

When he went to Gelferstrasse, he was unnerved to hear footsteps next door, but it was only Ron, folding her clothes onto a pile near an open satchel.

“Give me a hand, will you?” he said, holding up some underwear. “It feels funny, going through this stuff.”

“Never seen panties before?”

“It feels funny, that’s all,” Ron said, strangely subdued, and Jake knew what he meant. As each piece of silk dropped into the satchel, he felt finally that Liz was really gone, now just a bundle of neatly folded effects.

“Why don’t you get the woman downstairs to do it?”

“A German? There wouldn’t be much left. You know what they’re like.”

Jake held up a pair of shoes, the ones Lena had danced in, and stood for a second looking at them.

“Take them if you want,” Ron said. Why not? A whole suitcase of things Lena could use, impossible to buy. He’d become a Berliner, scavenging the dead. He dropped the shoes in the satchel.

“They might mean something to somebody. Is there family?”

Ron shrugged. “What about these?” he said, pointing to a small collection of cosmetics. “Christ, women.”

A half tube of lipstick, some powder, a jar of cream-all ordinary, not worth sending back.

“Let downstairs have them.”

“The old lady?”

“She can trade them.”

“I’ll bet she’s got her eye on the cameras. They’re already making noises about the storage room in the basement-you know, where she set up a darkroom. They say they need the space.”

“I’ll clear it out,” Jake said, picking up a camera from the bed. The one she’d used in Potsdam, still flecked with blood. He twisted the knob to the end, then popped out the last roll. “You’d better clean this before you pack it,” he said, holding the camera out to Ron, who looked at it squeamishly. “Where’s it all going, anyway?”

“Home.”

“Not CID?”

“Why CID?” Ron said, surprised.

“Well, she was killed, wasn’t she?”

“She might have been hit by a bus, too. We don’t send them the bus. What are you talking about?”

Well, what? Jake looked at the lipstick, a folded blouse, none of it evidence, only what had flashed in his eyes, as unreliable as a newsreel. He walked over to the desk, stacked with photographs.

“Hell of a way to go, though,” Ron was saying, finishing the packing. “All through the war without a scratch, and then bam.”

Jake started flipping through the pictures. Churchill at the Chancellery. Ron at the airport in a blur of uniforms. Another of Joe.

“What about Shaeffer?”

“He lost some blood, but they stitched him up all right.”

“They said no visitors.”

“It was a lot of blood,” Ron said, looking at him. “Since when were you two so friendly? ”

“Just asking. What happens to these?” Jake said, holding up the pictures.

“Damned if I know. The news service, I guess, technically. Think there’s anything the family would want?”

“I doubt it. She’s not in any of them.” The other side of the camera, so that you left without a trace.

“Well, have a look. Just get them out of here-we’re going to need the room.” He snapped the satchel shut. “That’s that. Not a lot, is it?”

“She liked to travel light.”

“Yeah, except for her goddamn equipment,” he said, nodding at the packed case by the door. “Some girl, though.”

“Yes.”

Ron looked over at him. “You two ever-”

“Ever what?”

“You know. I always thought she had a soft spot for you.”