smile reemerged. “Well, it might have been something like that, too.” Mueller patted a few fingers on Hoffner’s shoulder and began to limp off toward the Arado. “Evening, Herr Radek.”
Radek was now making his way over. “She’s all gassed, Toby?”
Mueller nodded and ducked under the propeller. “All gassed.”
Hoffner turned again to Radek and said, “Very nice. Casino night?”
“Big party out at Göring’s.”
“And you’re bringing the girls?”
Radek drew up and held the satchel out to Hoffner. “Here.”
Hoffner hesitated before taking it. He pulled back the flap and saw two or three thick rolls of Spanish pesetas, the same in German marks and English pounds. There were perhaps ten packs of cigarettes. Tucked in at the bottom was a Luger pistol and several boxes of ammunition.
Radek said, “No idea if the peseta is still worth anything, but the marks and pounds should do you all right. I was thinking of throwing in some francs, but no one ever wants francs, do they?”
Hoffner closed the flap. “Didn’t know Toby was on the payroll.”
“He likes it that way.”
“So what’s he taking to Spain?”
“You.”
“And bringing back?”
Radek laughed quietly. “Toby thinks he deserves a holiday—gimping around Spain with a few bandages on his shit hand and leg. He thinks it’ll have all those girls eager to soothe his pain.”
From somewhere Mueller’s voice rose up. “I’ll be a regular war hero. ¡Viva la Revolución! ”
“It’s a civil war, idiot!” Radek shouted back. He looked at Hoffner. “He also heard you needed a lift.”
“And you couldn’t convince him otherwise?”
“I might not have tried all that hard.”
There was a chance Hoffner might give in to the sentiment. Instead, he said, “Then I’ll try not to get myself killed.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Hoffner felt his stomach lurch as the plane climbed over Berlin. He peered out at the lights and saw the brightest of them off in the west. They were circling the stadium in a ring of fire, Nazi spectacle at its best. He stared at the flames, as they wavered and pitched, and imagined them washing over the city whole. He then turned his eyes to the night and did what he could to forget them.
3
FINGERS SO RAW
It was like climbing through sifted dust. The heat smelled of the sea, but it was only a tease. Worse was the sand that kicked up from the path and clung to the skin like dying ants. Mueller seemed to be enjoying it.
“I’m not impressed,” Hoffner said, as Mueller continued to hum. “You’re baking in this the same way I am.”
Mueller placed his good hand on the rock face and ducked around a jutting stone. “How’s that valise holding up?”
Mueller had been kind enough to rig a few ropes around the thing, with the satchel tied on at the back. Hoffner was wearing them like a rucksack, although the valise was far too long for his back.
“Fine,” he said.
“I’m sure it is.”
They had left the plane fifteen minutes ago. Mueller had waited for first light before bringing them low into the coast. It was clear that this was the usual drill, a strip of beach south of the city, far enough removed to be of no practical use to anyone except the truly gifted. Hoffner had kept his eyes closed for the last two minutes of the flight, certain that the water or the rocks would be making quick work of them. Instead, Mueller had brought them down, with two short bumps and a quick turn. Even with his eyes opened, Hoffner had been unable to fathom the speed, drop, and length of the landing. He had been equally amazed to discover the sand-colored tarpaulin awaiting them in a nearby cave: five minutes to drape the Arado; another five to rig the valise. Now, from a vantage point high above the beach, Hoffner had no hope of finding the plane.
“It’s up here,” said Mueller, as they came to the top of the scarp. Something resembling a road lay a few meters off, with a thick
Radek was now making his way over. “She’s all gassed, Toby?”
Mueller nodded and ducked under the propeller. “All gassed.”
Hoffner turned again to Radek and said, “Very nice. Casino night?”
“Big party out at Göring’s.”
“And you’re bringing the girls?”
Radek drew up and held the satchel out to Hoffner. “Here.”
Hoffner hesitated before taking it. He pulled back the flap and saw two or three thick rolls of Spanish pesetas, the same in German marks and English pounds. There were perhaps ten packs of cigarettes. Tucked in at the bottom was a Luger pistol and several boxes of ammunition.
Radek said, “No idea if the peseta is still worth anything, but the marks and pounds should do you all right. I was thinking of throwing in some francs, but no one ever wants francs, do they?”
Hoffner closed the flap. “Didn’t know Toby was on the payroll.”
“He likes it that way.”
“So what’s he taking to Spain?”
“You.”
“And bringing back?”
Radek laughed quietly. “Toby thinks he deserves a holiday—gimping around Spain with a few bandages on his shit hand and leg. He thinks it’ll have all those girls eager to soothe his pain.”
From somewhere Mueller’s voice rose up. “I’ll be a regular war hero. ¡Viva la Revolución! ”
“It’s a civil war, idiot!” Radek shouted back. He looked at Hoffner. “He also heard you needed a lift.”
“And you couldn’t convince him otherwise?”
“I might not have tried all that hard.”
There was a chance Hoffner might give in to the sentiment. Instead, he said, “Then I’ll try not to get myself killed.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Hoffner felt his stomach lurch as the plane climbed over Berlin. He peered out at the lights and saw the brightest of them off in the west. They were circling the stadium in a ring of fire, Nazi spectacle at its best. He stared at the flames, as they wavered and pitched, and imagined them washing over the city whole. He then turned his eyes to the night and did what he could to forget them.
3
FINGERS SO RAW
It was like climbing through sifted dust. The heat smelled of the sea, but it was only a tease. Worse was the sand that kicked up from the path and clung to the skin like dying ants. Mueller seemed to be enjoying it.
“I’m not impressed,” Hoffner said, as Mueller continued to hum. “You’re baking in this the same way I am.”
Mueller placed his good hand on the rock face and ducked around a jutting stone. “How’s that valise holding up?”
Mueller had been kind enough to rig a few ropes around the thing, with the satchel tied on at the back. Hoffner was wearing them like a rucksack, although the valise was far too long for his back.
“Fine,” he said.
“I’m sure it is.”
They had left the plane fifteen minutes ago. Mueller had waited for first light before bringing them low into the coast. It was clear that this was the usual drill, a strip of beach south of the city, far enough removed to be of no practical use to anyone except the truly gifted. Hoffner had kept his eyes closed for the last two minutes of the flight, certain that the water or the rocks would be making quick work of them. Instead, Mueller had brought them down, with two short bumps and a quick turn. Even with his eyes opened, Hoffner had been unable to fathom the speed, drop, and length of the landing. He had been equally amazed to discover the sand-colored tarpaulin awaiting them in a nearby cave: five minutes to drape the Arado; another five to rig the valise. Now, from a vantage point high above the beach, Hoffner had no hope of finding the plane.
“It’s up here,” said Mueller, as they came to the top of the scarp. Something resembling a road lay a few meters off, with a thick
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