The Second Son

Doval might not have found the sweating German-with his half stories and vague papers-compelling, but Hoffner had brought something else with him: the aura of Nazi infallibility. It was enough to cut through any lingering concern.

“It was the nephew,” said Doval. “The boy from Barcelona. No doubt you’ve met him.”

Nephew, thought Hoffner. The drug addict was a nephew. Which meant there was a second, older Bernhardt. Hoffner had spent a career being told things he was meant to know. It made revelations like this quickly digestible.

Hoffner said, “I don’t trust anyone involved with that. Opium is a mind without control, too easily persuaded. When was he here?”

Doval flicked a bit of ash into the ashtray. “Six days ago. He said he was having trouble establishing contacts.”

“The Chinese were being less than accommodating?” Hoffner let this settle for only a moment. “As I said, I don’t trust any of it. I haven’t from the start.” Hoffner finally saw what he had been hoping for: an instant of mutual understanding. They would find common ground in their distaste for the drug lines. Hoffner said, “Bernhardt thinks he’s helping the nephew. I’m here to make sure he understands that’s no longer in his best interests. Where was the nephew heading?”

“South.”

“And the elder Bernhardt knew this?”

“I assume so.”

Hoffner decided to take a chance. “You assume so? You have wires to this effect?”

It was not a good choice as Doval looked momentarily puzzled. “I don’t think I follow.”

The throbbing became a dull ache. Hoffner retreated to frustration. “The elder Bernhardt. Did he communicate this to you?”

Doval was no less forthright. “He made it clear we were no longer to continue in this direction.”

“With the Chinese and the drugs?”

“Yes.”

“And the nephew knew this?”

“Yes.”

“He knew the guns were still coming from the south?”

Doval’s hesitation returned. The SS never asked; they gave orders. This was too many questions. Regardless, Hoffner had swum well beyond his limits; there was no point in worrying about getting back to shore now.

“The elder Bernhardt,” Hoffner pressed. “He made it clear that the drug lines were no longer a possibility, that the new routes were to go through Teruel.”

Doval showed a moment’s pause. This had struck a nerve.

Hoffner said, “I’ve said something that confuses you, Captain?”

Doval kept his eyes fixed on Hoffner. “No, Hauptsturmfuhrer, you haven’t.”

The answer was too weak, and with nothing behind it. “You’re aware of Teruel, Captain?”

“Yes,” said Doval. “Of course.”

“You’re not filling me with tremendous confidence. I need to see these wires.”

“You continue to refer to routes, Hauptsturmfuhrer.” Doval spoke with an unexpected resolve. “What routes would those be?”

The gaze across the desk showed none of the weakness of only moments ago. Mila had been right. These were not men to be underestimated. Hoffner wondered if this was where Doval had been leading him all along.

Hoffner waited. He took another pull on his cigarette. He let the smoke spear through his nostrils. And then he did what any good Nazi would do. He smiled.

“You don’t speak German,” said Hoffner. His voice carried a newfound respect. “Now I see why.” He leaned forward and slowly crushed out his cigarette. “Ambition is a far more vital quality.”

Doval showed nothing, and Hoffner knew it was only a matter of time before there would be a second telephone call to Berlin.

Hoffner continued. “Bernhardt chose not to tell you about the routes, Captain. I have to accept that. My mistake was assuming you knew, Teruel notwithstanding. If that means you take me outside and shoot me, so be it.”

Doval sat remarkably still. Hoffner returned the gaze and understood the reason Gabriel and his kind had taken no time for celebrations: if this was Spain’s future, there would be no Spain worth remembering.

Doval said, “I wouldn’t bother taking you outside, Hauptsturmfuhrer. The walls in my office are sturdy enough.”

Hoffner gave in to another smile, and Doval opened the top drawer of his desk. He reached in and pulled out a thin file of papers. He handed them across and sat back while Hoffner read.

The air outside was remarkably fresh. Or perhaps it was just that Hoffner felt himself breathing again for the first time in the last hour. The young lieutenant assigned to escort him to the cafe walked with no such appreciation for the air.

Hoffner said, “Your German was excellent on the telephone.”

The young lieutenant nodded once. He spoke again in German. “Thank you, Hauptsturmfuhrer.”

“In the coming weeks, Captain Doval will need you more than he knows.”

“Yes, Hauptsturmfuhrer.”

Hoffner found himself lighting a cigarette as he walked.

He suspected Doval might be telephoning to Berlin at this moment, perhaps even to Langenheim. That said, there was very little in the wires to concern Doval-at least in showing them to someone who had mentioned routes and guns and Teruel.

As far as Hoffner could tell, the wires served as confirmation: the nephew had been in Barcelona; he had come to Zaragoza; he had gone on to Teruel. After that, he was due to head west, stopping along the way in places now, or soon to be (God willing), in fascist control: Cuenca, Tarancon, Toledo, Coria, and finally Badajoz on the Portuguese border; a straight line across the heart of Spain.

More than that, there were contact names in each of the towns and cities, along with addresses for each man. Hoffner had written them all down.

The travel itinerary was the elder Bernhardt’s way of assuring Captain Doval and his fellow liaisons across the country that mechanisms were being set in place to guarantee the steady flow of guns and ammunition from Germany into Spain. How they hoped to accomplish that-and how these contact names played a role-remained the mystery.

Hoffner was guessing Georg might be trying to piece that together himself.

“Here we are,” the young lieutenant said.

Hoffner tossed his cigarette to the ground and followed the boy to the cafe door.

The Gran Cafe was wall-front windows and wooden pillars throughout, with the smell of fresh coffee and garlic hanging in the air. Mila was at a table at the back, beyond the bar. A man in the uniform of a requete sat with her. He was reading through a letter.

Only two of the other tables were occupied: a trio of officers sat knee to knee as they sipped silently through bowls of something brown; closer to the door an old priest was reading a newspaper and drinking from a glass of yellow liquid. He looked up with a gentle smile as Hoffner stepped inside. Mila’s own escort stood by the bar with a cup of chocolate and a plate of churros. The strips of dough were powdered and had left white specks under his nose. They made the man’s sharp nod to Hoffner’s lieutenant somewhat less imposing.

Hoffner drew up to Mila’s table. The lieutenant was now with his friend at the bar, delicately trying to inform him of the powder. There was a flurry of nose activity over Hoffner’s shoulder, and Mila said, “Everything all right?”

Hoffner nodded. The brother looked up with the same features as his father, although here they were hidden behind a neatly cropped beard and mustache. It was unclear whether he had been crying, but the eyes showed a heaviness. He stood. He was tall like his sister.

Hoffner said, “Sergeant Piera.”

“Senor Hoffman.”

Mila corrected. “Hoffner.”

Piera looked at his sister. His mind was clearly elsewhere. He looked again at Hoffner. “Yes, of course. Senor Hoffner. My apologies.”

Hoffner motioned to the chairs, and the two men sat. Mila said nothing, and Piera went back to his letter. Hoffner noticed a loose stack of perhaps twenty on the chair beside him, a brown piece of twine at the side. Three of the letters had already been opened and read.