The Second Son

Stepping farther in, he recognized a few antiques among the four or five untouched planes: a Sopwith Snipe in nice condition; better still was the single-seater Albatros fighter, 180-hp of liquid-cooled speed. Hoffner remembered how Georg had been able to recite the specifications from memory: little wooden models dragged off to a park or set in rows along a windowsill. Hoffner even recalled helping the boy with one of them. Or two. Or not.

“You’ve lost weight.”

The voice echoed, and Hoffner tried to locate its source. He set his valise down and said, “Hello, Toby.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped drinking?”

Toby Mueller appeared from behind the tail of one of the pilfered planes. Mueller was of average build, but the limp in his right leg made him seem shorter. He had lost part of the foot, along with several fingers, during the war. Neither had stopped him from flying.

Hoffner said, “You’ve quite a collection.”

“Yah,” said Mueller, as he rubbed a bit of grease off his good hand: the fingers on the other held the rag like two pincers. “Didn’t think I’d actually be seeing you.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

They had known each other for over twenty years, Mueller the gimp World War I ace and Hoffner the cop who made sure he never got caught for smuggling. They had met on a hillside in the Tyrol, toasting Victor Konig, Hoffner’s onetime partner and Mueller’s squadron leader. Two months later they had buried Konig. It was a bond impossible to break.

“No, it’s good for me,” said Mueller. “Eight-ten hours. Bit long on my own.”

“So you were going anyway?”

Mueller’s smirk held just the right mix of disbelief and mockery. “No, Nikolai, I’m doing all this for you. Here, let me get your bag.” Mueller remained where he was and nodded over to a single-propeller biplane. “We’re taking the Arado. You can put it in the bomb hold.”

Hoffner picked up the valise and made his way over. The plane was two seats in tandem set behind the twin wings, the whole thing maybe eight meters in length, two and a half meters in height. Hoffner had expected them to be taking the beauty next to it, a red single-wing affair, with room for at least four, and who knows what else in the undercarriage. If Mueller was pla

Mueller saw where Hoffner was looking. “She’s nice, isn’t she?”

Hoffner found the latch on the Arado and shoved his valise inside.

Mueller said, “They’ve clocked her at nearly three hundred kph. And that’s not even in a dive. It’s like riding cut glass.”

Hoffner had no idea what Mueller meant but nodded anyway as he started over.

Mueller said, “She’d have us there in six hours, maybe less.”

“But she’s not yours, is she?”

“Oh, she’s mine. Had her down in Marseilles last week for some very nice fishing.”

“I’m sure the catch was good.”

“The catch is always good, Nikolai.”

Whatever Mueller was smuggling, Hoffner knew not to get involved in the details. “She’s just not for us,” he said.

Mueller’s smirk reappeared. “It’s a night flight, Nikolai. The Lockheed might be quick, but she’s not so good after dark. Trust me. The little Arado is a much better bet.”

Hoffner was rarely impressed by Mueller’s acquisitions, but this was something even for him. “How the hell did you get your hands on an American plane?”

Mueller’s smirk became a broad smile. “Well, there might have been a girl or two, and some French Air Corps mechanics involved, but I can’t really say.”

“Or,” said Zenlo Radek, who was now standing at the hangar’s entrance, “he might just have walked in here one day and found the plane waiting for him.”

Both Hoffner and Mueller looked over to see Radek in a di

Hoffner turned back to Mueller, and Mueller’s 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 Goring’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 Revolucion!”

“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

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.