Brandenburg Read Free Page B

financially. You see the same news I do.” She gestured toward the television set. “The Germans, the French, us. As long as the financial markets are in turmoil, they have the frights. And when nations get the frights—watch out—it’s each for itself.”
    “Did you hear Ferguson say if he’s heard any rumors?” he asked. Ferguson was head of the British section of DSE.
    Sally Thornton smiled. “I hardly talk to the man. He’s so darned stuffy.”
    He laughed. “What about Peters?” Peters was Ferguson’s number two.
    “All Peters tells me is that I have good legs.” She paused, saw Volkmann glance at her legs again. “And that you’re a terrific intelligence officer.” She looked at him. “Do we have to talk about work?”
    “Not at all.”
    She said, “Can I ask you a very personal question, Joe?”
    “How personal?”
    “Why didn’t you ever come on to me?”
    He let his eyes catch hers. “I like you, Sally. A lot. But I don’t like to rush things. And I don’t like to mix bed and work. Life gets messy enough.”
    “You’re a very sensitive man, Joe Volkmann. Did you know that?”
    His gaze remained on her, but he didn’t say anything.
    “Would you like me to stay?” Sally asked.
    When he smiled, she smiled back and put down her glass. “My plane leaves at three,” she said. “And yours?”
    “Two-thirty, to London.”
    •   •   •
    Sally was sleeping quietly beside him, nestled against him, but Volkmann was still awake, his back propped against a bunched-up pillow. The long-ago memory of his father came to him . . .
    They walked along the deserted Cornish beach together. It was November; the beach grasses were yellowed and dry. Waves swept up the sand, rattling the pebbles.
    He had come down from the weapons course in Scotland, soon after he joined SIS, the year before the Wall came down. The sun was shining—one of those perfect days in autumn when the air is crisp and clear and it feels good to breathe. His father looked frail as always, wrapped in the tattered tweed overcoat that looked a size too big for him. They sat on a driftwood log, and the old man regarded him with watery brown eyes.
    “Mama tells me they’re sending you to Berlin.”
    “It’s a good posting, Papa. And with luck, I’ll get home once a month, so it won’t be so bad.”
    “Is it dangerous?”
    He saw the dark look on his father’s face. Berlin brought back bad memories. “No, Papa. Not dangerous. It’s intelligence gathering mostly. Nothing for you to worry about. They’re not going to send me over the Wall with a gun, I can promise you that.”
    “And Anna?”
    “She’ll join me in a couple of months.”
    “What’s it like now?”
    “Berlin? Pretty exciting. Full of energy. A little like New York, but on a smaller scale. Not like the old days . . . not like the Berlin you once knew.”
    He saw the old man look away toward the waves, his face drawn as if troubled by some private thought. Joseph Volkmann recognized the look, recognized the pain. The old man stood, glanced at his watch, cut off the pain before it took hold. He had had plenty of practice doing that.
    “Your mama will have lunch ready. We better not keep her waiting.”
    “Papa.”
    His father looked down at him, and Joseph Volkmann was aware of the pink circle of rutted flesh on the frail man’s temple, the wound indelible and permanent. The ones inside were not visible, but they were no less permanent.
    He said quietly, staring at the scar, “It’s all in the past, Papa. A long time ago. But sometimes I want you to talk about it. Maybe it would help.”
    His father shook his head. “Believe me, Joseph, talking about it does not help. I tried to talk for many years and learned that it’s much better to forget.” The brown eyes looked down at him. “You’ll learn that as you grow older, Joseph. Bury ghosts if you can. Don’t let them live. Now come, let’s not keep Mama waiting.”
    The son watched as