Jogiches seemed surprised by the question. His answer came with a bit more bite. “She wrote about that?”

“In great detail,” said Hoffner. “I would have thought that you’d have been the first to read through the journals, cover to cover.”

“Evidently you have.”

“But not you?”

Jogiches tapped out his cigarette. “And slog through an endless tirade of revisionist history, Inspector? I’ll take a pass.”

Hoffner heard the self-rationalization in his tone. “So she never pulled the gun?”

“Of course she pulled it. Why not? She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t permit her to continue seeing that idiot Zetkin.”

Hoffner could feel Jogiches rising to the bait. “You wouldn’t permit her?” he said.

“Something like that.” Jogiches took a last pull, then crushed out his cigarette; he continued to play with the stub. “She thought she could make him into a novelist or a painter, or something equally ludicrous. You’ve read through it. I forget which. Waste of time.” He let go of the stub and brushed off his hands. “She couldn’t accept the man for what he was, and when she tried to make me into something that was her fantasy-” Jogiches caught himself. It was only a momentary hitch, but it was enough to sour his tone. “Zetkin. When she insisted Zetkin could be all of her marvelous romantic ideals-it was pathetic. A woman her age. I told her so. She became very dramatic. Rosa loved the drama. And so out came the little revolver.” He shrugged it off with too much indifference. “She said she never wanted to see me again, which made it even more ridiculous.”

Even now, Jogiches had no idea what the drama had been masking. Hoffner poured himself a second glass and said, “The journals said you promised to kill her if she stayed with Zetkin.”

Jogiches tried an unsuccessful laugh. “That again. The woman was obsessed.”

“She seemed to think it was the other way round.”

“Did she?” Jogiches was now fully engaged. “I’ll tell you something about obsession, Inspector. A nine-year sentence in Mokotw-and we both know what goes on inside those walls-and she thinks I’m having an affair with some woman halfway across the country? I don’t see daylight for five months, and I’m the one carrying on. Guilt is a remarkable thing, don’t you think? She should have shot me when she had the chance. Would have served her right.”

Crushing out his cigarette, Hoffner said blandly, “So who’s in Munich?”

For just an instant, Jogiches winced. It was hardly a movement, the recovery as immediate, but it was enough to tell Hoffner that he had hit a nerve. In that moment, Jogiches knew that he had been outmaneuvered. His eyes grew cold. Hoffner said nothing.

“I see,” said Jogiches icily. “You let me ramble on like a fool, and I give you Munich. Well done, Inspector.”

Hoffner had known to hook Jogiches by his pride-Rosa had told him as much in the journals-but he had never expected this level of self-reproach. “I’m not sure I’d have used the word ‘fool,’ mein Herr,” said Hoffner, “but I think we’re at the point where you can volunteer a little something.”

Jogiches answered cagily, “Am I so easily manipulated?”

“I don’t imagine anything of the kind.”

Jogiches was still cold: “And you think I’m eventually going to trust you, don’t you, Inspector?”

Hoffner pulled a second cigarette from his pack. “I wouldn’t want to set a precedent, mein Herr.”

“No,” said Jogiches, eyeing him more closely. “That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?”

A clarinet had joined the band. There was hardly space between the tables, yet someone had decided that that meant dancing. Luckily, all the bouncing was keeping itself to the other side of the room.

Jogiches said, “It’s when the smoke clears that the trouble begins, Inspector.” He was on his fourth glass of brandy, though as sober as when he had first sat down. “Berlin wants to dictate to the rest of Germany, but the rest of Germany isn’t all that keen to listen. Communists in Bremen, Social Democrats in Hamburg, royalists in Stuttgart, God knows what else in Berlin, and on and on and on. The revolution isn’t over. It’s simply waiting to see who has the will to see it through.”

“And Munich?” said Hoffner.

Jogiches spoke with absolute certainty. “Munich will make all the difference, even if Berlin doesn’t know that, just yet.”

“But you do.”

Jogiches had a habit of staring at the ember of his cigarette as he held it by his glass. “Did you ever ask yourself why they’re keeping Rosa’s body on a slab of ice in Alexanderplatz?”

“Every day.”

“Yes, but you’ve been asking for the wrong reasons.” He looked across at Hoffner. “You think it’s something to do with your little Belgian.”

“No, I think it extends far beyond that, but I have nothing to tell me why. Isn’t that the reason we’re having this little chat?”

Jogiches conceded the point. He took a pull on the cigarette. “There’s the obvious answer.”

“Which is?”

“She makes your murder case political.”

Hoffner disagreed. “That’s not enough. She’ll be forgotten the moment these idiots they’re rounding up get a slap on the wrist. You don’t actually think anyone’s going to pay for her death?”

Hoffner was expecting a bit of fire in the answer, but Jogiches was no longer biting. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?” said Jogiches, his eyes drifting for a moment. “Justice for a socialist.” He again stared across at Hoffner. “They’re keeping her so as to use her. This is about taking the reins, Inspector, and the when and the how are what matter. The why is far too obvious.”

It made Hoffner uneasy to see how much pleasure Jogiches took in the prospect of something so far-reaching. Men like him saw conspiracies and revolutions at every turn, but the more Hoffner sifted through the pieces he himself had brought together, the less implausible those possibilities seemed. “Munich,” he said, still unsure why.

Jogiches smiled elusively. “Precisely.”

There was nothing remotely satisfying in the answer. Whatever Jogiches thought he had been making clear was as impenetrable as that insufferable smile. “You know I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Hoffner.

“I imagine you have more than you realize, Inspector.”

Impatience was seeping into Hoffner’s tone: “Then tell me what makes Munich so important.”

For the first time, Jogiches hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said with frustration. “In the same way I don’t know why a Prussian business interest, or a discontinued military ointment, or a substitute madman who was willing to kill himself so as to protect your little Belgian, are involved. But I do know they all revolve around Rosa. The when and the how, Inspector. That’s what you need to find out.”

Hoffner was impressed; Jogiches had mentioned virtually everything except, of course, the design of the Rosenthaler station, but then how could he have known about that? Hoffner was the only one to have put it together. It made the link to Munich even more startling: Stankevich’s letter had come from the engineer; the engineer was the only link to the station. Now Jogiches was mentioning Munich without any knowledge of the engineer.

Hoffner measured out two more glasses. “You seem to be doing fine on your own.”

“That has its limitations,” said Jogiches. “A revolutionary crying foul doesn’t exactly provoke a response, especially when the powers that be already consider him dead.”

“Your article.”

“The final nail, as they say. And dead men don’t have much luck catching trains out of Berlin.”

Jogiches was right. There was nowhere he could turn: the Social Democrats would do nothing to protect him; the right-wing troops would stop at nothing to eliminate him; and the police. . well, not really their jurisdiction. His only option had been the truth, and that was something Jogiches had never managed terribly well on his own. “Your source is very thorough,” said Hoffner.