Rosa

Barens had no intention of explaining. “If you do know something, and you’re not telling me, I’ll be very disappointed.” He paused. “And you’ll have been very foolish. What do you have, Nikolai?”

Barens had always been known as “the old man,” even as a nineteen-year-old at university. It had made him both insufferable and endearing. Hoffner said, “Her name is Lina. And she’s the last.”

Hoffner could see the frustration in his friend’s eyes: favors usually implied a little more give and take. Barens, however, was too good at what he did to let it linger. “I doubt that,” he said.

Hoffner gri

Barens took hold of Hoffner’s arm and, like an older brother, said, “Know what you’re getting yourself into, Nikolai.”

Hoffner nodded. He waited for Barens to release his arm and then headed off.

Lina had settled on a large cup of chocolate for lunch; it was all she had wanted. Hoffner had taken advantage of the beef again, this time with a plate of onions and a few potatoes. More daring, he and Lina were throwing provincial caution to the wind and talking to each other-light fare, nothing from last night-when they heard the first sirens. The klaxons grew louder and curiosity gave way to concern as the sound of shouting began to come from the street. Everyone in the place stopped eating as the waiter stepped over to the door and peered out through the glass. His expression turned to confusion. “There are soldiers in the street,” he said to the matre d’.

The man stepped over to verify; his reaction was no more promising: the taste of revolution was still fresh in everyone’s throat. At the sound of more sirens, Hoffner got up. He told Lina to wait, then made his way to the door. Against all protestations from the matre d’, Hoffner stepped out into the street.

It was almost completely empty. The soldiers were positioned in front of a large domed building at the far end of the street, rifles across their chests, waiting. The few pedestrians who remained on the street were doing all they could to find shelter inside. Hoffner managed to flag one down. “Madame,” he said as he tried to keep up with her. “Excuse me, but which is that building up there?”

The woman continued to move quickly as she looked at him: she spoke as if to a halfwit. “That building, mein Herr? That’s the Landtag.” She shook her head in disbelief and hurried off. Hoffner stopped: they’re cordoning off Parliament, he thought. Why? He quickly made his way back to the restaurant and over to the matre d’. The man was relieved to see him back.

Hoffner said, “I need to use your telephone, mein Herr.” Hoffner pulled out his badge: it might have said Berlin, but the word “Kriminalpolizei” was enough to stir the man to action. Hoffner nodded calmly over to Lina as he waited for the operator to co

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “Chief Inspector Barens, please.” Hoffner gave his credentials. “I’m aware of that, Frulein. This is of vital importance. Just co

Hoffner could hear the mayhem in the background. “Hold on,” said Barens. There was a round of shouting before Barens came back to the line. “Nikolai, what are you doing near the Landtag?”

It was a meaningless question. Hoffner asked again, “Why are soldiers surrounding the building, Peter?”

There was a pause on the line before Barens said, “Someone’s shot Eisner. Half an hour ago. Eisner’s dead.”

Hoffner tried to stem his reaction. “Who?” he said.

“We don’t know yet. A student. That’s all we have.”

Hoffner asked the more dangerous question: “More than bad beer and pamphlets?”

There was another pause before Barens answered, “I don’t know, but I need you to tell me that you knew nothing about this, not even the possibility of this.”

“Of course,” said Hoffner with more conviction than perhaps was warranted. “What about Ebert?”

“So far, nothing. We’re waiting for a wire to confirm. It might already be here. I don’t know. Look, Nikolai, get yourself back to Berlin. We’ll probably be shutting down the main station in the next hour or so, and if you stay here, you won’t be of any use. Trust me. Safe trip.”

The line went dead and Hoffner handed the receiver back to the matre d’. Twenty minutes later, Hoffner and Lina were getting their bags from the hotel; forty minutes after that, they were on the last train heading north: Hoffner’s badge had seen to that, as well. It would mean that they would have to get out and wait somewhere along the way for the train out of Frankfurt, but at least they would be back in Berlin by tonight. Hoffner now had seven hours to acquaint himself with the men of the Thule Society and Joachim Manstein.

Notes on meetings, December 4, 1918, through January 18, 1919, Thule Society, as recorded by Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Stefan Meier:December 4: Our first meeting outside the beer hall. We meet at the house of Anton Drexler, a locksmith in the employ of the railroad shops. Drexler is a small, sickly man who talks for over an hour about the “mongrelization” of the German people and the corruption of the socialist regime. He refers to members of the government as “the Jew Eisner and the Jew Scheidema