“Of course, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” said Fichte. “When the Herr Kriminal-Kommissar receives a call. Absolutely. I’ll make a note of that.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Realizing that Fichte was going to be of no help, Groener again turned to Hoffner. “It’s my job to know when calls come in, and the like, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“And to listen at the doors of detective inspectors’ offices?” said Hoffner. “Do you find that equally exciting?”

For an instant Groener looked as if he had gotten a whiff of his own breath. Then, just as quickly, he resumed the taut stare of bureaucratic efficiency. “The telephone call from Belgium, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Have your man make a note of it in the log at the switchboard.” Groener turned and started to go.

Hoffner stopped him by saying, “Would you like me to give him a detailed account of what was said, Herr Groener? Or is the notation of information you already have sufficient?”

Groener kept his back to Hoffner. He turned his head slightly and said, “What was discussed is your business, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. It’s your case.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr,” Hoffner said coldly. “It is.”

Groener offered a clipped nod and then retreated down the hall.

Fichte waited until Groener had moved out of sight before turning back to Hoffner. “God, he makes the place stink.”

“Close the door, Hans.” With a plaintive look from Fichte, Hoffner said, “All right, wave it out a few times.” Fichte opened and closed the door with gusto, and then shut it before returning to his seat. Hoffner said, “So, who else knew about the wire?”

“It was on your desk when I got back from Missing Persons. I assume just one of the boys and the wire operator. That’s it.”

“Evidently not.” Hoffner sat, thinking to himself: Why would anyone else have been looking for it in the first place?

“Why the wrong question?” said Fichte, resuming their previous conversation.

It took Hoffner a moment to refocus; he looked over at Fichte. “Because right now it doesn’t matter who’s doing the killing, or why. What matters is how he got to Berlin.”

Fichte’s all-too-predictable “I don’t understand” was out before Hoffner could explain.

“Look at what we have.” Hoffner settled back in his chair as he spoke: “You’d think the piece out of place would be Wouters-everything in the Bruges case is the same, everything points to him, except he’s locked away in an asylum seven hundred kilometers from here, a fact that is both frightening and astounding-but it’s not. That’s not the piece that doesn’t fit. Imitator or not-it doesn’t matter which-the killings are taking place here by someone who knows the Bruges case. By someone who must have been in Bruges. But not because he can make a few markings on a woman’s back. No, the reason he must have been in Bruges is that, unless he was there, how else would he have been able to bring the girl from Bruges to Berlin? Given her mental state, she clearly couldn’t have made it on her own. So how did anyone get from Bruges to Berlin over two months ago? The only transports would have been military. No one else could have crossed the lines, even after the armistice. How? And how does he bring a girl with him?”

Fichte needed a moment to absorb the information. “So the fact that it’s not Wouters doesn’t trouble you.”

“Of course it troubles me, Hans.” Hoffner’s tone was thick with frustration. “It horrifies me. But right now, it’s not the most inconsistent piece of information we have.”

“It’s a shame Kroll didn’t have anything for us on the grease. That might have been helpful.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. He had decided to keep this recent discovery from Fichte: until he knew what it all meant-and now, with the information from Bruges, he had no idea when that might be-Hoffner needed to keep everything as focused as possible. As much as he wanted to trust Fichte with it, he knew that would be unwise: the appearance of the Polpo had made that abundantly clear, not to mention the leak. The less Fichte knew, the safer it would be for everyone involved. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “We’ll have to wait on that.”

Fichte tried another tack: “Was the Wouters case well reported in Belgium? I mean, during the war, would they have spent a lot of time with it in the newspapers? That could be of use.”

Hoffner had been thinking the same thing. “Excellent question, Hans. You’ll have to ask the Chief Inspector when you see him.”

Fichte’s confusion returned, and Hoffner explained: “We need to know what they have in Bruges, and we need it quickly. More than that, we need to hear what Mr. Wouters has to say, and whom he might have said it to.” Fichte remained silent. Hoffner tried to lead him. “There is another way to get from Bruges to Berlin, Hans, also controlled by the military, although a bit quicker than a train.” When Fichte continued to stare back at him, Hoffner said, “You’ve never been in an aeroplane, have you, Hans?” Hoffner watched as the blood drained from Fichte’s face. “Not so bad, really. Just remember to turn your head away from the wind.” Hoffner smiled at Fichte’s blank stare. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll know when.”

Victor Knig, Hoffner’s onetime partner, had spent the last hour of his life circling over a vast stretch of lake hidden beneath fog in the autumn of 1915. Knig had not realized it, but had he flown just another twenty kilometers east, he would have seen the lights of a village and been able to land his Fokker E-I in any number of open fields. At the time, the “Eindecker” had been a relatively new aeroplane, renowned for its synchronous Spandau machine gun-that clever little gear which allowed it to stop firing when the propeller blade was moving directly in front of it-but Knig had been flying in empty sky: what he had needed was light, not a miracle gun. With his fuel dangerously low, and the sun dipping out of the horizon, Knig had chanced a drop dive into the cloud cover. Thinking he was coasting just above the water, and only a few hundred meters from open land, he had hit the lake head-on at full speed. The impact had left nothing of the aeroplane to recover, let alone any traces of Captain Victor Knig of the German Second Aircraft Battalion.

It was an odd mistake for so experienced a flyer to have made. Knig had been flying since 1909, and had placed third in the Rundflug in both 1912 and 1913. It was why the Air Corps had overlooked his rather advanced age of thirty-eight on the application: a sky pilot with five years of flying under his belt was prime material. It was for those reasons that his squadron had assumed he had been hit somewhere over France. None of them had even considered the possibility of those final tormenting minutes that Knig had had to endure. Far from enemy fire, alone and blind, he had been done in by nothing more than the dark. It was probably better that no one had known. Victor had been a terribly proud man.

Next to Hoffner, Tobias Mueller had been struck hardest by Knig’s death. Mueller had been a brash twenty-four-year-old with a genius for flight, and Knig’s closest comrade in the squadron. Hoffner had met him once during one of their leaves: they had liked each other instantly.

Mueller had been something of a celebrity during the war. He had brought down eighteen French fighters in just over two years before being sent home in 1917: it had not been his decision. He had lost part of his right foot, along with a few fingers, in a crash landing, and now walked with a considerable limp. He had insisted he could still fight; the Air Corps, however, had seen it otherwise. Even so, Mueller had been too good with a stick to let go: he had been flying supplies in and out of Berlin for the past two years. True to form, it had taken Mueller no time to discover that a good deal of money could be made by a pilot willing to fly any number of other items in and out of Germany. He had been caught only once, luckily by the civilian police, and since the black market was Kripo jurisdiction, his case had landed on the third floor at the Alex. Hoffner had been the one to make it all go away, and Mueller had never forgotten him for that. The monthly supply of cigars and cigarettes was a particularly welcome treat.