Wilson flicked something from his finger and sat back casually. “I didn’t send him off to find anything.”

Men like this were always so effortless with a lie, thought Hoffner. “I see-because of that promise you’ll all be making not to get involved.”

“We won’t be getting involved.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

Wilson was no less glib. “We do happen to be running a news organization, Inspector. On occasion that means having to film the news. Barcelona and its Olimpiada-that was news. So Georg went.”

“And he just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Whatever the reason he went, there’s nothing I can do to stop you from going after him now. I’m just hoping you understand what’s at stake.”

“Georg’s life, I think.”

“Oh, is that what you think this is about-a single life?” Wilson set his glass on the desk. “If you’re that naive you won’t make it out of the Friedrichstrasse Banhof.”

“I’m not much on trains.”

“Then he’ll be dead by the time your boat docks.”

“I’ve always found flying much more efficient.”

For the first time Wilson hesitated. It was the silence that held him.

“You have a plane,” he finally said. “That’s good. That’s very good.” He took another cigarette and lit up. “Don’t tell me how or where. Unregistered planes are a rare thing to get hold of these days.”

Wilson stared at Hoffner for another few moments and then was on his feet. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and stepped over to the floor safe. Kneeling down, he used two of the keys to open it. He retrieved a single sheet of paper and shut the door. He set the page in front of Hoffner. There were five words written on it:

HISMA: BERNHARDT, LANGENHEIM; HANSHEN: VOLLMAN

“His last wire,” said Wilson. “Five days ago from somewhere in Barcelona. It’s impossible to say where.”

Hoffner continued to stare at the sheet. “And you’ve decided I should have this now?”

Wilson sat. “We don’t have enough people in there to send someone looking for him. You know that. Not that sending someone in would be much good. But since you’re taking that trip…”

“These are German names. I’m a German.”

Wilson was now leaning back, his eyes fixed on Hoffner. “I’ll keep that in mind. We think these are the names of contacts he made or locations. The trouble is, we need to keep a low profile. As I said, not the time for us to be digging around. Hisma and Hanshen might be names. More likely they’re not. That’s where I’d start.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Yes-it is. Of course, you don’t have to go if you don’t want.”

It was Wilson’s strongest card: giving Hoffner a way out and knowing he would never take it.

Hoffner picked up the sheet. “From the look of it, Bernhardt and Langenheim are connected to Hisma. Vollman to Hanshen.”

“I agree. So that should make it easier.”

Hoffner had no idea why Wilson thought that. Nonetheless, he folded the paper and placed it in his coat pocket.

“And when I find him?”

“You’ll bring him back.”

Hoffner saw a drop of whiskey in his glass. He picked it up and tossed it down. He stood.

He was at the door when he turned and put on his hat. “By the way, I don’t own a pair of climbing boots.”

The amiable smile returned. “How very nice for you.”

His valise was already packed and waiting by the foyer door when Hoffner got home. There was no point in checking through it; Lotte would have thought of everything. He followed the sound of her piano-playing into the sitting room.

She was working through a rough passage of something. He dropped his hat onto a chair as she continued to play.

“Long meeting,” she said.

He moved a cushion on the sofa and sat. “Yes.”

“And he was helpful?”

“Enough.”

She was making a complete mess of the left hand. She tried a few more times and then stopped. She looked over. “You told him you were going?”

Hoffner nodded. He thought she might launch into something else, but she just sat there, staring at him. Finally she said, “Good.” She stood and stepped out from behind the piano. “Do you have time for an early dinner?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Mendy wouldn’t nap.” She was crossing toward the hallway. “You might want to go up.”

As she passed, Hoffner said, “Wilson seemed very confident.”

She was inside the archway when she stopped. She turned. Her eyes told him nothing. “You don’t mind leftover chicken, do you?”

Hoffner shook his head.

“Good. We’ll have that then.” She tried a smile before moving off down the hall.

Upstairs, Mendy was at his writing table, deep into a drawing.

“I hear we lost the nap again,” Hoffner said.

Mendy continued to draw.

“Maybe you’re getting too old for that.” Hoffner stepped over and cocked his head to see what the boy was drawing: blob and badge were front and center. “Not such a bad thing to be too old for a nap.”

The pencil continued to move, and Mendy said, “Does that mean I can go?”

“Go where?”

“With you and Papi?”

Hoffner pulled over another small chair. His knees were almost to his chin as he sat. “I don’t think so, Mendy.” He expected the little face to turn, but the boy was showing some resolve. Hoffner said, “Papi always brings you something nice. I can bring you something, too.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“How do you know when you don’t know what it is?”

Mendy finished his drawing, handed it to Hoffner, took another piece of paper, and started in again.

Hoffner watched as the little hand moved, the other pressed down on the page to keep it in place. He couldn’t see the face, not that it would have helped. It was nearly half a minute before Hoffner decided to look again at the drawing he was holding. He then stood.

When he reached the door he said, “Thank you for the picture.” Mendy kept to his drawing, and Hoffner said, “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Mendy never made it to dinner. In fact, he stayed in his room even after the cab arrived. The worst of it came during the walk down the front path. There was still enough sun in the sky to catch a little face and eyes in the window, but Hoffner refused to turn.

Even so, the thought of them stayed with him for the forty-minute ride. It would have been longer had the cabbie not been clever and taken them south from the start. Anything else and they would have hit traffic heading west to the games. Luckily Johannisthal was far enough south, and far enough east, to keep it immune. Tempelhof, where all the big aeroplanes had been landing, was a zoo now. Mueller had been smart to keep himself out here.

“My tires blow on this,” said the cabbie, “and you’ll be the one paying for the spares. Understood?”

The man had been grumbling for the past ten minutes. Most of the roads around Johannisthal were little more than stomped-down grass and ruts. The modern touches-tarmac and lighting-were reserved for the airstrips: this time of night, the cab’s headlights were no match for the sudden dips and turns.

When the cabbie finally reached his limit, he pulled up about fifty meters from the old air show bandstands and reached back to open the door. They were sitting in the middle of a deserted field, the beams from the headlights spilling out like two narrow pancakes. “You’re close enough,” he said.

The big hangars were beyond another field, but Hoffner was happy enough to let the man go. He stood and watched the taillights bounce along the grass-the engine’s grind a thinning echo-before he picked up the valise and headed across the mud. The smell of sewage and sulfur seemed to follow him. By the time Hoffner stepped into the last of the hangars, his shirt was damp through to the waist.

The place reeked of gasoline, even with the doors wide open. The cement floor was a trail of brown and black puddles, with tire marks crisscrossing the entire landscape. Twelve or so aeroplanes were parked along the walls-German, French, English-most of them stripped of parts in aid of the others. Elsewhere, pieces of engine were neatly laid out on sheets, while wheels and the like rested against walls and toolboxes. As far as Hoffner could tell, there were no signs of life.