Up ahead, Jake could see the Big Three draped on the Brandenburg. After that the street widened out into Pariserplatz, a bulge of crowd where it would be easier to get lost. More Russian troops, rifles shouldered, the tall blond head keeping up with Jake across the rows of gray tunics. Beyond them, past the gate, a halt in the march, a gap big enough to use. Shaeffer would cross there. Jake went faster, trying to put more distance between them. He edged past the gate into the crowded square. A band was playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” He glanced behind. Shaeffer, just as he’d thought, was running across the open space before the band could fill it. On his side now. Jake looked up the Linden, the sidewalks lined with Russians. He’d have to melt into the crowd, backtrack toward the Reichstag. But the crowd was denser here, a cover but also an obstacle, slowing him down. Behind, over the marching band, he heard Shaeffer shout his name. Lose him now. He pitched forward as if he were wading through mud, his body ahead of his feet.
The Russians were less good-natured than the GIs, grumbling as he passed through them, and he knew, stuck in a wall of bodies, that he wasn’t going to make it. Did it matter? Shaeffer wouldn’t shoot in this crowd. But he wouldn’t have to. The Russian zone, where people disappeared. A formal inquiry, a shrug of shoulders over toasts. Why had he left the stand? Shaeffer couldn’t risk exposure in the west. But here Jake could be swallowed up without anyone ever knowing. Even if he made a scene, he’d lose. Russian MPs, a quick call to Sikorsky’s successor, and only Shaeffer would go back. Nothing would have happened. Missing, like Tully.
“ Amerikanski” the Russian said as Jake bumped into him.
“Sorry. Excuse me.”
But the Russian was looking ahead, not at him, where some American troops were following the band. He stepped back to let Jake pass, apparently thinking he was trying to join his unit. Don’t forget whose uniform you’ve got on. He looked at the parade. Not the showy 82nd; ordinary uniforms like his own, Gunther’s protection. He ducked his head, crouching down out of Shaeffer’s line of sight, and wormed his way through to the curb, keeping low as he darted into the march. A few Russians on the edge laughed-hungover, a familiar scrambling, sure to catch hell later. He sidestepped ahead of the moving ranks and near the middle of the row nudged a soldier aside to make a place, joining the line.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’ve got an MP after me.”
The soldier grinned. “Get in step then.”
Jake skipped, a fumbling dance move, until his left foot matched the others, then straightened his shoulders and began swinging his arms in time, invisible now just by being the same. Don’t look back. They were passing the point where Shaeffer would be, head swiveling, furious, plowing through the Russians, looking everywhere but at the parade itself.
“What did you do?” the soldier mumbled.
“It was a mistake.”
“Yeah.”
He waited to hear his name shouted again, but there was only Sousa, tinkling bells and drums. As they tramped through the gate into the west, he smiled to himself, marching in his own victory parade. Not the Japanese, a private war, left behind now in the east. They were approaching the stand, moving faster than anyone could through the crowd. Even if Shaeffer had given up and started heading back, it would be minutes before he’d reach the press stand, long enough to hustle Emil into the jeep and get away. He looked to the side, a quick check. Patton saluting. Enough time, but still only minutes. At least now he knew. Except what had happened to Gunther.
It was easier getting out of the parade than getting in. After the reviewing stand there was a brief halt, and while they marched in place Jake skipped over to the side and back through the curbside crowd to the press stand. Only minutes. What if Emil had bolted after all? But there they were, not even up in the stand, huddled by the stairs having a smoke.
“There, what did I tell you? He always does come back,” Brian said. “Catch your breath.”
“You’re down here? Did he try to run?”
“Naw, good as gold. But you know Ron. Curiosity killed the cat. So I thought-”
“Thanks, Brian,” Jake said in a rush. “I owe you another one.” He looked back over his shoulder. No one yet. Brian, watching him, motioned his head away from the stand.
“Better go if you’re going. Safe home.”
Jake nodded. “If I’m not-just in case-go see Bernie Teitel. Tell him who you’ve been babysitting and he’ll send up a flare.” He took Emil’s arm and began to lead him away.
“Try newspaper work next time,” Brian said. “Easier all around.”
“Only the way you do it,” Jake said, touching his shoulder, then moving off.
They crossed with a few GIs who’d had enough and were taking advantage of another break in the line to drift away through the park.
“Who’s Teitel?” Emil said. “An American?”
“One of your new friends,” Jake said, still slightly out of breath. Just a little farther to the jeep.
