Four worn wood stairways later they stood in front of a single door, and it was through here that they discovered the sleeping Karl Vollman.

The room was a nice molting of chipped plaster and paint, with a tiny sink and spigot wedged into one corner. Water stains-browns and yellows-provided what color there was, while an angled window looked out on endless lines of clothes drying in the heat. Everything smelled of rust. Had there been an easel and a few stacks of drying canvas, Hoffner might have hummed the first bars of “Che gelida manina,” but the place was too hot for frozen little hands, and there didn’t seem to be much hope in it, even if Vollman was sleeping soundly.

Vollman was in undershirt and trousers, with his shoes neatly at the foot of the bed. Even sleeping, there was a power to the body, the arms pale and muscular. Most distinctive, though, was the shock of white hair on a man no more than fifty.

Hoffner’s guide stepped toward the cot and placed a hand on Vollman’s shoulder. Vollman remained absolutely still until he took in a long breath and suddenly bolted upright. The sinew in the chest tightened and then released.

The man said, “Karl.” He spoke in German.

Vollman stared straight ahead. He rubbed his face briskly and began to nod. It was only then that he noticed Hoffner.

“Monsieur,” said Vollman. “Je suis soulage que vous soyez ici. Etes-vous pret a partir?”

Hoffner needed a moment. “What?”

The man from the club said, “He’s saying-”

“I know what he’s saying,” said Hoffner. “He thinks I’m taking him to Paris.”

Vollman spoke in German. “Yes.”

Hoffner said, “You think it’s not safe for you here.”

“No.”

“And why is that?” Hoffner always felt a moment’s regret watching a man’s eyes give in to the truth.

Vollman said, “Who is this?”

Hoffner pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to Vollman. “My name is Hoffner.” He took one for himself. “I believe you know my son.”

Paris faded.

Hoffner thought he would see a few moments of calculation in the eyes-how else were chess men meant to react? — but Vollman showed nothing. He just sat there, remarkably well-shaven, although his shirt and trousers did show several days of sleep and sweat.

Hoffner said, “You’re here because of my son.”

Vollman focused. He looked over, reached for the cigarette, and placed it in his mouth.

Hoffner said, “I’m sorry for that.”

“Is he dead?”

Hoffner lit Vollman’s cigarette, then his own. “No.”

“You know that for certain?”

Hoffner let the smoke stream from his nose. He said nothing.

Vollman stood and headed for the sink. “I ran out of German cigarettes about a week ago,” he said. “Don’t much like the Spanish ones.” He placed the cigarette on the edge of the sink and pulled a hand towel from some unseen hook. He began to wet it. “Leos here doesn’t smoke, so he doesn’t care.”

The man from the club said, “I’ve different things to care about.”

Vollman ran the cloth along his neck and forehead. “That’s always a good excuse, isn’t it?” Vollman rinsed his mouth, placed the towel back on the hook, and retrieved his cigarette. “He has no idea why he’s protecting me. That makes him a good friend, so I forgive him the cigarettes. You’ve come all the way from Berlin, so you must have a great deal that needs forgiving.”

Hoffner felt oddly at home with a man like this.

Vollman said, “You should go, Leos.”

The man from the club waited and then looked at Hoffner. He said, “I’ll take Piera to the Ritz. Two hours. If you don’t show, I’ll kill him. Fair enough?”

Hoffner liked when things were made this clear. He nodded.

“And you give my friend here your cigarettes,” the man said. “So I don’t have to hear him whine about it anymore.”

Hoffner tossed the pack onto the cot as the door pulled open and shut behind him.

Vollman was not a Jew. It was the least surprising thing about him, even if he did come from a long line of true believers-years spent organizing in the working-class districts of Berlin, with a few scars on his right arm to show for it. He had been at school in Switzerland with all the best revolutionaries and had even spent time with Lenin before the mad dash to Moscow. That Lenin had gotten it completely wrong, and paved the way for Stalin and his thugs, hardly had Vollman giving up on the Soviet experiment just yet. Stalin would have his chance to make things right here in Spain; all would be forgiven if the tanks and planes and men began pouring in.

That said, it wasn’t all that unusual a story until Vollman decided to explain why he was in Spain. He had come as a special envoy of the Unified State Political Administration, working with its foreign department, what he referred to as INO through OGPU. Hoffner stared blankly, and Vollman simplified: he was, for lack of a better term, an agent of Soviet Intelligence. And while that might have been staggering on its own, it seemed even more implausible that Vollman should feel the need to share the information with Hoffner. Yet even that seemed reasonable enough.

“What else would I be?” Vollman said easily, as he lit his third cigarette. He was sitting on the cot. “Why else would Georg and I have been in touch with each other? Birds of a feather.”

Hoffner took a long pull and nodded as if this made any real sense to him.

Vollman said, “I’m not saying anything you don’t know.”

Hoffner realized it was in his best interest to agree. “It’s a recent piece of information, but yes. I knew why Georg was here.”

Vollman reached for his shoes. “You haven’t made some horrible mistake, have you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Vollman began to lace up. “It’s rather funny if you think about it. Three Germans in Spain-a civil war-one working for British Intelligence, one for Soviet Intelligence, and one”-he finished lacing and looked over-“one looking for the other two.”

Hoffner felt the slightest threat of violence slip into the room. “I’m looking for just one,” he said.

“And yet you’ve found the other.”

There was nothing to be gained in retreat. Hoffner dropped his cigarette to the floor and began to crush it under his shoe. “You could get to Paris any time you like, couldn’t you?”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Your friend Leos seems to be going to great lengths to get you there.”

“He does, doesn’t he? Did you take a few cracks at him yourself? He’s been very good at letting people thrash him on my behalf.”

“It’s very kind of you to let him.”

Vollman’s gaze turned to a smile. It was an odd reaction, odder still to see genuine warmth in it. “It’s a sweet little line-the kindness of my cruelty. I imagine it once had a place.”

There was nothing mocking in Vollman’s tone, more nostalgia than derision. Hoffner was moving well beyond his depth.

Vollman said, “It’s only cruel if that sort of cruelty still exists-the one where a man uses another, wittingly or not, in the name of some larger cause. ‘I will sacrifice you, Leos…’ ” Vollman watched as the words floated out the window. “It’s such a dangerous thing to rely on-sacrifice. Even more ridiculous to ask it of someone. Are we such fools as to think there’s nobility in any of this?”

Hoffner imagined Georg standing in his place, sifting through a conversation built on unspoken truths and unadorned lies, and only then did he realize that he had no idea what his son might be capable of.

Hoffner said, “So, a German socialist working for Soviet communism-and there’s no great cause? I find that highly unlikely.”

“My cause was Germany. Same as yours. That’s long gone. It’s now just making sure the world keeps things balanced.”

“Comrade Stalin never struck me as such a pragmatist.”

“Who said anything about Stalin?” Vollman flicked a bit of ash to the floor. “A grotty little attic-never been the place for ideologies and five-year plans, has it?”