“A friend like you? A jailer? My god, all this for Lena? She’s free to do as she likes.”
“So were you. Keep walking.”
“No, not free.” He stopped, making Jake turn. “To survive. You go along to survive. You think it’s different for you? What would you do to survive?”
“Right now, I’m getting us out of here. Come on, you can make your excuses in the jeep.”
“The war’s over,” Emil said, almost shrill, a pleading.
Jake looked at him. “Not all of it.”
Behind Emil, something moved on the landscape, a blur faster than the marchers and the idling crowd, coming closer through the park. Not on a road, where it should be, out of place, bumping over the torn-up ground.
“Christ,” Jake said. Coming toward them.
“What is it?”
A black Horch, the car at Potsdam. No, two, the second obscured in the dust churned up by the first.
“Get to the jeep. Now. Run.”
He pushed Emil, who staggered, then caught his arm, both of them dashing for the jeep. Of course he wouldn’t have come alone. The jeep wasn’t far, parked behind the crowd with a few others, but the Horch was close enough to hear now, the noise of the motor like a hand on his back. He pulled out his gun as he ran. To do what? But if it came to it, a shot in the air would draw attention, give them at least the protection of the crowd.
They were almost at the jeep when the Horch pulled ahead, blocking them with a squeal of brakes. A Russian in uniform jumped out and stood by the door with the motor still running.
“Herr Brandt,” he said to Emil.
“Get out of the way or I’ll shoot,” Jake said, pointing the gun upward.
The Russian glanced at him, almost a smirk, then nodded at the other car pulling up behind. Two men, civilian clothes. “By that time you will be dead. Put the gun down.” Sure of himself, not even waiting for Jake to lower his hand. “Herr Brandt, come with us, please.” He opened the back door.
“He’s not going anywhere.”
“Not with travel permits, no,” the Russian said blandly. “No need, you see. A different arrangement. Please.” He nodded to Emil.
“You’re in the British zone now,” Jake said.
“Make a protest,” the Russian said. He looked at the other car. “Shall I ask my men to assist?”
Emil turned to Jake. “Now see what you’ve made for us.”
The Russian blinked, confused by this dissension in the ranks, then opened his hand toward the back seat. “Please.”
“I said I’d shoot and I will,” Jake said.
The Russian waited, but the only movement was the opening of the passenger door. Gunther got out and walked toward them, gun drawn.
“Get in the car, Herr Brandt.”
For a moment, as Jake stared at the man with the pointed gun, his lungs seemed to deflate, his whole body going limp with disappointment. I want you to betray me. Emil shuffled reluctantly to the car. The Russian closed the rear door. Snap.
“A good German cop,” Jake said quietly, looking at Gunther.
“Now you,” Gunther said to Jake, waving his gun toward the car. “In the front.”
The Russian looked up, surprised. “No. Brandt only. Leave him.”
“Get in,” Gunther said.
Jake crossed over to the passenger side and stood by the open door. There was a high-pitched whistle. He looked over the roof of the car. Down the road, Shaeffer had stopped running, two fingers in his mouth, then lunged forward again. A soldier detached himself from the crowd, running behind him. The rest of the trap, closing up the rear.
“What are you doing?” the Russian said to Gunther.
“I will drive.”
“What do you mean?” he said, alarmed now.
Gunther swung his gun toward the Russian. “Over with the others.”
“Fascist swine,” the Russian shouted. He jerked his gun out, his hand stopping midway as Gunther’s bullet hit him, an explosion so sudden it seemed for a second he hadn’t fired at all. There was a rush of movement around them, like the startled flight of birds in a field. Spectators nearby ducked without looking, a reflex. On the reviewing stand a delayed reaction, aides shoving the generals down. Yells. The men in the other car jumped out and raced over to the fallen Russian, dazed. Jake saw Shaeffer stop, just a beat, then start running in a crouch. Everything at once, so that Gunther was already in the car before Jake realized it had started moving. He leaped in, holding on to the open door as he pulled his other leg inside. They spun left, back onto the broken ground of the park, bouncing violently, heading west toward the Victory Column, racing ahead of the parade at their side. Gunther swerved away from a shallow bomb crater and hit a deep rut instead, jolting the car, smashing Jake’s sore shoulder against the door.
“Are you crazy?” Emil shouted from the back, his hand on the top of his head where it had bumped the roof.
“Stay down,” Gunther said calmly, twisting the wheel to avoid a stump.
