“We’re meeting somebody,” Jake said, glancing at his watch. “It won’t be long.”
“Who?”
“The man who got you out of Kransberg.”
“Tully? You said he was dead.”
“His partner.”
“So it’s another trick. No Americans.”
“I told you, I need you as bait. Then we’ll go see your pals.”
“And the files?”
“It’s a package deal. They get you both.”
“You won’t do that.” You re sure.
“You can’t. Think what it will mean for Lena, a trial.”
“Wonderful how you’re always thinking of her. Listen, you’re getting out with your life. That’s more than you can say for the workers at Camp Dora.”
Emil’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Then go to hell,” he said, turning to go.
Jake grabbed his arm. “Try it and I’ll shoot you in the foot. I’d enjoy it, but you wouldn’t.” They looked at each other for a moment, stalemated, then Jake dropped his hand. “Now watch the parade.”
Jake scanned the crowd. Not a single familiar face. But why would it be someone he knew? On the stand Zhukov had leaned farther against the railing, ready to take the salute from his lancer unit. More stage uniforms, a pounding thud of jackboots, swords actually drawn and raised, flashing in the light, but no longer comic, Goebbels’ old warning, the scourge from the east. A small huddle of DPs turned and started away from the crowd, looking back at the swords, and Jake saw in the cowed hunch of their shoulders that it was really a Russian show, all of it, the rest of the Allies harmless extras. The message wasn’t victory but the crushing boots. No one can stop us. It was a parade out of the next war. Smiles faded on the stand. What happens when it’s over, he’d wondered. Another.
It was then, watching the Russians, that he felt the poke in the small of his back.
“Quite a show.”
He whirled around, hand on his holster.
“Steady,” Brian said, surprised by the abrupt movement. “Hello again,” he said to Emil. “No uniform this time, eh?”
“What are you doing here?” Jake said. Brian? But he’d already had Emil once.
“What do you mean? Everybody’s here. Nothing like a parade. Just look at old Zhukov. Bloody Gilbert and Sullivan. Coming to the press stand?”
“Not now, Brian. Scram.”
But Brian’s eyes were fixed over Jake’s shoulder at the lancers. “Be in Hamburg before Christmas by the looks of them.”
“I mean it. I’ll see you later.” He glanced to either side of him, expecting Gunther to arrive, everything happening too soon.
“You might let me wait out the swords. You don’t want to get in the way of that.” He turned, peering at Jake. “What is it? What are you doing now? ”
“Nothing. Just scram,” Jake said, still looking nervously to the side.
Brian stared at him, then Emil. “Three’s a crowd? Right. I’m off. Save you a place?”
“Yeah, save me a place.”
“If young Ron lets the rope down. I’ve known headwaiters with better manners. Christ, here come the pipers.” He looked again at Jake. “Watch yourself.”
He pushed his way through to the front, hesitating as the last of the Russians passed, then sprinted across the sudden gap to the viewing stands. Jake lost him as he picked his way through the crowd to the back stairs of the press stand, then saw him reappear on top, talking to Ron. Why not Ron? Who’d left the dinner table at Gelferstrasse that night to play poker but could have gone to the Grunewald. Who now had the perfect vantage point to spot Jake in the crowd, waiting for the right moment, a nod of the head to close the trap. But neither he nor Brian was looking in Jake’s direction, busy with themselves. Jake checked his watch. Where was Gunther? Only a few minutes to the agreed time-he had to be in place somewhere nearby. Then why hadn’t he come forward when Brian approached them? What if it had been him, smoothly leading them away without even a snap of the spring?
He almost jumped when the bagpipes started wailing, cutting right to the nerves. On the stand, the British now stepped forward, rearranging the line so that the visiting dignitaries with the generals came into view. Breimer, just behind Clay, in a double-breasted suit, who stayed and stayed, with unfinished business in Berlin. Jake imagined how it might happen-the sighting from the stand, the quick excuse to the others, the unsuspected walk across to Emil, a waiting car. Jake looked behind. No car. And Breimer would never risk anything himself. He was where he belonged, on a speakers’ platform, out of combat. Even Ron was more likely. He glanced back at the press stand. Huddled now with a cameraman, lining up shots of the parade. No one, in fact, was looking toward Jake. But someone must be.
