“Try to get him moved,” Shaeffer said, ignoring him. “But either way, give me a day or two. I still have to lay my hands on some Russian uniforms.”
“What for?”
“Well, we can’t go in with American uniforms, can we? Might look a little conspicuous in the Russian zone.“
Cowboy stuff. Improbable. “I don’t like this. Any of it.”
“Let’s just get it done, okay?” Shaeffer said. “You can grouse later.
Right now you just sweet-talk the Russian and get the door open.
We’ll do the rest.“ He grinned at Jake. ”I told you we’d make a good team. Takes all kinds, doesn’t it?“
Guards had been posted at the driveway entrance to the Conrol Council building, but Muller’s name got him through. He swung around to the gravel forecourt facing the park, then had to find a place in the crowd of jeeps and official cars. The work party had done its job-the park had been cleaned up, everything neat and polished, like the white-scarved sentries. Officers with briefcases rushed through the heavy doors, late or just self-important, a blur of motion. Jake followed one group into the chandeliered hall without drawing a glance. The meeting room, off-limits to press, would be another matter, but Muller’s name had worked once and might work again, so he headed down the corridor to his office. His secretary, nails still bright red, was just on her way to lunch.
“He won’t be out for hours. The Russians don’t start till late, then they go on all afternoon. Want to leave a name? I remember you-the reporter, right? How did you get in here?”
“Could you take a message in?”
“Not if I want to keep my job. No press on meeting days. He’d kill me.”
“Not him. One of the Russians. Sikorsky. He’s-”
“I know who he is. You want to see him? Why not ask the Russians?”
“I’d like to see him today,” he said, smiling. “You know what they’re like. If you could take in a note? It’s official business.”
“Whose official business?” she said dryly.
“One note?”
She sighed and handed him a piece of paper. “Make it quick. On my lunch hour, yet.” As if she were on her way to Schrafft’s.
“I appreciate it,” he said, writing. “Jeanie, right?”
“Corporal,” she said, but smiled back, pleased.
“By the way, you ever find that dispatcher?”
She put her hand on her hip. “Is that a line, or is it supposed to mean something?”
“Airport dispatcher in Frankfurt. Muller was going to find him for me. Ring a bell?”
He looked up at her face, still puzzled, then saw it clear.
“Oh, the transfer. Right,” she said. “We just got the paperwork. Was I supposed to let you know?”
“He was transferred? What name?”
“Who remembers? You know how much comes through here?” she said, cocking her head toward the filing cabinets. “Just another one going home. I only noticed because of Oakland.”
“Oakland?”
“Where he was from. Me too. I thought, well, at least one of us is going home. Who is he?”
“Friend of a friend. I said I’d look him up and then I forgot his name.”
“Well, he’s on his way now, so what’s the diff? Wait a minute, maybe it’s still in pending.” She opened a file drawer, a quick riffle through. “No, it’s filed,” she said, closing it, another dead end. “Oh well. Does it matter?”
“Not anymore.” A transport ship somewhere in the Atlantic. “I’ll ask Muller-maybe he remembers.”
“Him? Half the time he doesn’t know what comes in. It’s just paper to him. The army. And they said it would be a great way to meet people.”
“Did you?” Jake said, smiling.
“Hundreds. You writing a book there or what? It is my lunch hour.”
She led him down the corridor to the old court chamber, breezing past the guards by holding up the note. Through the open door Jake could see the four meeting tables pushed together to form a square, smoke rising from the ashtrays like steam escaping from vents. Muller was sitting next to General Clay, sharp-featured and grim, whose face had the tight forbearance of someone listening to a sermon. The Russian speaking seemed to be hectoring everyone, even those at his own table, who sat stonily, heads down, as if they too were waiting for the translation. Jake watched Jeanie walk over to the Russian side of the room, surprising Muller, then followed the pantomime of gestures as she leaned over to hand Sikorsky the note-a quick glance up, a finger pointing to the corridor, a nod, a careful sliding back of his chair as the Russian delegate droned on.
“Mr. Geismar,” he said in the hall, his eyebrows raised, intrigued.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“No matter. Coal deliveries.” He nodded his head toward the closed door, then looked at Jake expectantly. “You wanted something?”
“A meeting.”
“A meeting. This is not perhaps the best time-”
“You pick. We need to talk. I have something for you.”
“And what is that?”
“Emil Brandt’s wife.”
Sikorsky said nothing, his hard eyes moving over Jake’s face.
“You surprise me,” he said finally.
“I don’t see why. You made a deal for Emil. Now you can make one for her.”
“You’re mistaken,” he said evenly. “Emil Brandt is in the west.”
