She shook her head grimly. “I’m a servant, Bernie,” she said. “Like nearly everyone left alive in Berlin. I’m the housekeeper for a family of American diplomats in Zehlendorf. Hey, perhaps I can find you a job, too. They need a gardener. I can go into the labor office at McNair on my way back from work tomorrow.”

“McNair?”

“McNair Barracks. Just about everything to do with the U.S. Army in Berlin takes place at McNair.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not have a proper job at this moment. I’ve spent the last eighteen months working harder than a donkey with three masters. If I never see another pick and shovel again, it will be too soon.”

“Rough, huh?”

“Only by the standards of a Russian serf. Now that I’ve lived and almost died in the Soviet Union, it’s easy to see where they learn their manners. And where they find their sunny outlook on life. There’s not an Ivan I met who could ever be mistaken for an optimist.” I shrugged. “Still, our mutual friend seems to be well in with them.” I nodded at the envelope she was still holding. “Erich.”

“You have no idea how much I need this money.”

“Presumably he did, though. I wonder why he didn’t give it to you himself.”

“He has his reasons, I suppose. Erich doesn’t forget his friends.”

“I couldn’t argue with that, Elisabeth.”

“Did he really try to have you killed?”

“Only a bit.”

She shook her head. “He was a hothead when he was younger, it’s true. But he never struck me as a cold-blooded killer. Those two cops. I never believed he did that, you know. And I can’t believe he ordered someone to murder you.”

“The two Germans I was traveling with aren’t here to tell you you’re wrong, Elisabeth. They weren’t as lucky as me.”

“You mean they’re dead.”

“Right now that’s my working definition of unlucky.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably it always was.”

30

GERMANY, 1954