“I don’t think so.”

“You would like him. He is brilliant. He spins colors out of words. Of all the books taken from me, his are the ones I miss the most.” Käthe glanced hungrily at the plate of strudel. She hadn’t eaten any. Paul held the plate out to her. She said, “No, no, thank you.”

“If you don’t eat one, then I’ll think that you ’re the National Socialist agent trying to poison me.”

She eyed the pastry and took one. She ate it quickly. When Paul looked down to reach for his coffee cup he noted from the corner of his eye that she touched up pastry flakes from the tabletop on her fingertips and lifted them to her mouth, staring at him to make sure he wasn’t looking.

When he turned back, she said, “Ah, but now, we have been careless, you and I, as often happens on first meetings. We must be more cautious. This reminds me.” She pointed toward the telephone. “Always keep it unplugged. You must be aware of listening devices. And if you do make a call, assume that you are sharing your conversation with a National Socialist lackey. That is true especially for any long-distance calls you make from the post office, though phone kiosks on the street are, I’m told, relatively private.”

“Thanks,” Paul said. “But if anybody listened to my conversations all they’d hear is pretty boring talk: What’s the population of Berlin, how many steaks will the athletes eat, how long did it take to build the stadium? Things like that.”

“Ach,” Käthe said softly, rising to leave, “what we have said this afternoon, you and I, would be considered boring by many but would easily merit a visit from the Gestapo. If not worse.”

Chapter Twelve

Willi Kohl’s battered Auto Union DKW managed the twenty kilometers to the Olympic Village west of the city without overheating, despite the relentless sunlight that forced both officers to shed their jackets – contrary both to their natures and to Kripo regulations.

The route had taken them through Charlottenburg and, had they continued southwest, would have led them toward Gatow, the two towns near which the Polish workers and the Jewish families had died. The terrible pictures of the murders continued to toss about in Kohl’s memory like bad fish in his gut.

They arrived at the main entrance of the village, which was bustling. Private cars, taxis and buses were dropping off athletes and other personnel; trucks were delivering crates, luggage and equipment. Jacketed once more, they walked to the gate, showed their ID cards to the guards – who were regular army – and were let inside the spacious, trimmed grounds. Around them men carted suitcases and trunks along the wide sidewalks. Others, in shorts and sleeveless shirts, exercised or ran.

“Look,” Janssen said enthusiastically, nodding toward a cluster of Japanese or Chinese men. Kohl was surprised to see them in white shirts and flannel trousers and not… well, he didn’t know what. Loincloths, perhaps, or embroidered silk robes. Nearby several dark, Middle Eastern men walked together, two of them laughing at what the third had said. Willi Kohl stared like a schoolboy. He would certainly enjoy watching the Games themselves when they began next week but he was also looking forward to seeing people from nearly every country on earth, the only major nations not represented being Spain and Russia.

The policemen located the American dormitories. In the main building was a reception area. They approached the German army liaison officer. “Lieutenant,” Kohl said, noting the rank on the man’s uniform. He stood immediately and then grew even more attentive when Kohl identified himself and his assistant. “Hail Hitler. You are here on business, sir?”

“That’s right.” He described the suspect and asked if the officer had seen such a man.

“No, sir, but there are many hundreds of people in the American dormitories alone. As you can see, the facility is quite large.”

Kohl nodded. “I need to speak to someone who is with the American team. Some official.”

“Yes, sir. I will arrange it.”

Five minutes later he returned with a lanky man in his forties, who identified himself in English as one of the head coaches. He wore white slacks and, although the day was very hot, a white chain-knit sweater vest over his white shirt. Kohl realized that while the reception area had been nearly empty a short time before, now a dozen athletes and others had eased into the room, pretending to have some business there. As he remembered from the army, nothing spread faster than news among men housed together.

The German officer was willing to interpret but Kohl preferred to speak directly to those he was interviewing and said in halting English, “Sir, I am being a police inspector with the German criminal police.” He displayed his ID.

“Is there some problem?”

“We are not certain yet. But, uhm, we try to find a man we would like to speak to. Perhaps you are knowing him.”

“It’s quite a serious matter,” Janssen offered with perfect English pronunciation. Kohl had not known he spoke the language so well.

“Yes, yes,” the inspector continued. “He had seemingly this book he lost.” He held up the guidebook, unfurled the handkerchief around it. “It is given to persons with the Olympic Games, is it?”

“That’s right. Not just athletes, though, everybody. We’ve given out maybe a thousand or so. And a lot of the other countries give out the English version too, you know.”

“Yes, but we have located too his hat and it was purchased in New York, New York. So, mostly likely, he is Americaner.”

“Really?” the coach asked cautiously. “His hat?”

Kohl continued. “He is being a large man, we are believing, with red, black brown hair.”

“Black brown?”

Frustrated at his own lack of foreign vocabulary, Kohl glanced at Janssen, who said, “His hair is dark brown, straight. A reddish tint.”

“He wears a light gray suit and this hat and tie.” Kohl nodded toward Janssen, who produced the evidence from his case.

The coach looked at them noncommittally and shrugged. “Maybe it would help if you told us what this was about.”

Kohl thought again how different life was in America. No German would dare ask why a policeman wished to know something.

“It is a matter of state security.”

“State security. Uh-huh. Well, I’d like to help. I sure would. But unless you’ve got something more specific…”

Kohl looked around. “Perhaps some person here might be knowing this man.”

The coach called, “Any of you boys know who these belong to?”

They shook their heads or muttered “No” or “Nope.”

“Perhaps then I am in hopes you are having a… yes, yes, a list of peoples who came with you here. And addresses. To see who would be living in New York.”

“We do but only the members of the team and the coaches. And you’re not suggesting-”

“No, no.” Kohl believed that the killer was not on the team. The athletes were in the spotlight; it would be unlikely for one of them to slip away from the village unseen on his first full day in Berlin, murder a man, visit several different places in the city on a mission of some sort, then return without arousing suspicion. “I am doubting this man is an athlete.”

“So. I can’t be much help, I’m afraid.” The coach crossed his arms. “You know, Officer, I’ll bet your immigration department has information on visitors’ addresses. They keep track of everybody entering and leaving the country, don’t they? I heard you fellows in Germany are real good at that.”

“Yes, yes, I was considered that. But, unfortunate, the information does not present a person’s address in his home. Only his nationality.”

“Oh, tough break.”

Kohl persisted. “What I am also been hoping: perhaps a manifest of the ship, the Manhattan passenger list? Often it is giving addresses.”