All such concerns, however, were quickly put to rest five hours later, when Mueller, Fichte, and two willing young ladies stepped into the attic loft that Mueller had found for them over one of the seedier bars in town. It was one room, but Fichte hardly seemed to mind. He had been sustaining a very nice drunk since his third beer, and immediately pulled down his pants the moment the four of them were alone. Mueller laughed at the sudden appearance of Fichte’s shortish but exceptionally thick erection. Mueller tossed his own girl onto the room’s one bed and dove in after her. He then turned to Fichte as the bedded girl began to pull off his clothes.

“What is it with you cops and instant nudity?” said Mueller, slapping at the girl’s hands as she tried to undress him. “Pants down. Service, please. Where’s the romance?” Mueller howled with laughter as the girl found what she had been searching for.

Fichte stood there, chortling quietly to himself as his girl took hold of her prize.

Mueller said, “Nikolai’s the same way, you know. No shame, no patience.”

Hoffner’s name seemed to slap some life into Fichte. He turned to Mueller as he pushed the girl’s face from his crotch. “The Kriminal-Kommissar?” said Fichte, tripping over the last few syllables. He immediately snapped his head back at the girl, who was trying to reacquire her target. “Hey there!” he said. “Hold on a bit.” She laughed and continued to probe. Fichte shrugged and looked back at Mueller. “Herr Hoffner?”

Mueller was having his own trouble concentrating on the conversation. “I could tell you stories,” he said in a throaty tone.

“Really?” said Fichte, teetering as he spoke. “Like what?”

The girl had mounted Mueller and was now riding him with vigor. When he spoke, his words issued in a tom-tom cadence. “Ask him about the pact.”

“About the what?” said Fichte. Fichte’s girl pushed him down onto a chair. She took his hands and strapped them onto her thighs. She, too, began to drive down onto him.

“The pact,” said Mueller, becoming winded. “Just ask.”

The girl on top of Fichte grabbed his face, focused it on her own, and said, “You want to talk, or you want to fuck?”

It took Fichte a moment to find her eyes. She was really quite pretty, he thought. And she had nice big tits. Bigger than Lina’s.

“Fuck, please,” he said.

She grabbed his head and thrust it into her chest. She then began to ride him with even greater abandon. Fichte was glad he had brought his inhaler. He would need a few good sucks before round two.

Hoffner had lain awake for most of the night. He was a periodic insomniac, and, except for the fact that he actually enjoyed the long hours of intense thought, he might have attributed it to some sort of cosmic payback for a waking life of chosen isolation. For some reason, though, dead-of-night focus on a case always left him feeling refreshed in the morning. It was dreaming that exhausted him.

He had come to the conclusion-sometime around 4:00 a.m.-that the note from K might be the only piece of recent information that could lead him forward. Everything else seemed to be generating lateral movement: the grease had introduced the possibility of a military connection; the gloves had raised a whole series of problems-the girl’s transport, the girl herself, and the fact that Wouters was in a different country. Hoffner had considered the “second carver” theory-the smooth versus the jagged and angular strokes-but that hardly explained who the first carver might be, what with Wouters safely locked away in Sint-Walburga. And, of course, there was Luxemburg, which had brought in the Polpo and which, to Hoffner’s way of thinking, was somehow linked to the leak.

That left him with the note from K, which, on the surface, seemed equally cloudy. The small hours, however, did more than just concentrate Hoffner’s mind; they allowed his instincts to come to the fore: by the time Martha had begun to show signs of life at five-thirty, Hoffner knew with absolute certainty that the note was unrelated to everything else. He just had no notion why.

Finding out, however, would have to wait. He slipped out of bed, dressed, and grabbed a quick breakfast-yesterday’s cold potatoes and coffee-and was out the door before the rest of the house knew he had been home. At this hour, cabs were easy pickings and Hoffner was at the Alex by half past six.

Little Franz was standing over a washbasin in one of the attic alcoves when Hoffner pulled up next to him. It was now a quarter to seven, and the light had just begun to creep through the porthole window directly above them. Hoffner had ducked his way under the beams and past the three beds-two of which were still occupied-all without drawing attention. He now waited for Franz to turn off the tap.

“Up nice and early,” said Hoffner when the splashing finally stopped.

The boy nearly jumped. He stood there as water dripped down his cheeks and onto the floor. He had that same concave, pale little chest that Georgi had, but his biceps were already beginning to show genuine muscle: this was a boy who had learned to survive. Hoffner knew that any comparison with his own son was strictly of his own making. Hoffner reached over for the paper-thin towel hanging from a hook, and held it out to him.

Franz took the towel. “Yes. Good morning, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He continued to stare at Hoffner.

“Don’t let yourself catch cold, Franz.” Immediately the boy went to work on his hair and face. “I’ve a favor to ask you.” Franz nodded from under the towel and continued with the fury that was a ten-year-old boy drying himself. “You might want to leave a little skin on your face,” said Hoffner.

Franz looked up. His hair was shooting off in all directions, but his face had that lovely pink-and-white hue. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner placed the towel on its hook as Franz began to do what he could with a hairbrush. “You remember Herr Kvatsch? At the BZ?” The boy had tailed Kvatsch during a case last year; he had proved himself exceptionally good at getting the names of the people Kvatsch saw during the day.

Franz nodded. “The one with the teeth,” he said. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Franz had managed something of a part; he placed the brush by the basin.

“Good. I’m going to need you to find out who he’s been talking to.” Hoffner knew Kvatsch was lazy: the man would eventually contact his source. Hoffner only hoped it would be quicker than the last time: then, Franz had spent the better part of a week in Kvatsch’s shadows. “It’s five pfennigs a name,” said Hoffner. The boy’s eyes lit up: it had been two, the last go-round. As then, Hoffner had no reason to worry that Franz might pad the list in order to make a few extra coins; the boy took too much pride in his work. It was why Hoffner had known Franz would be at his washbasin at a quarter to seven in the morning.

Franz reached over for his shirt. He slipped his arms through and began to button it. “Today, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?”

“Today.” Hoffner watched as Franz crammed his shirttail into his pants. Once again Hoffner had to remind himself that this was no ordinary ten-year-old, the boy’s gawkiness notwithstanding: no doubt Franz was already proficient with a blackjack, maybe even a knife. “One other thing,” said Hoffner. He nodded back over his shoulder to the two sleeping boys. “Which one of them do you trust?”

Franz peered past Hoffner and pointed toward the boy in the far bed. “Sascha. He’s all right.”

Hoffner turned to the sleeping boy. From this angle, he might have been his own Sascha, a few years removed. Again, it was best not to think about it. “I need him by the wire room, all day and all night, if necessary. Anything comes in for me, he’s to hold it and find me. Can he do that?” Franz nodded. “Good. Tell him I’ll telephone the switchboard at eleven to see if anything’s come in.” Hoffner waited for another nod; he then headed for the door. He was figuring that Fichte and Toby would be landing in Bruges sometime around ten if they could manage to get themselves out of bed in the next hour. Then again, Hoffner had spent his own weekend with Victor and Toby, that trip to the Tyrol, most of which he now recalled as a smoke-filled, boozy blur. Hoffner stopped and turned back to Franz. “Better make it noon.”