The Second Son: A Novel by Jonathan Rabb Page B

syndicate—Radek was tapped into every conduit in Berlin. Even the Nazis came to him when they needed information. There was talk, of course, that Radek had been the one to give Pimm up to the SS—“Make it quick, painless, a single shot to the head”—but that was absurd. It might even have been insulting. Truth to tell, Radek had never wanted this. He was simply too smart, and too loyal, not to be the one to take it all on in the end.
    “Running the Immertreu,” he had once joked to Hoffner, drunk. “Tell me, if I’ve been spending all this time trying to kill myself, isn’t this a much better bet than the needle ever was?”
    As it turned out, Radek had proved too resilient even for heroin. It was years now since he had lost himself to the attic rooms on Fröbel and Moll Strassen. The rooms were long gone—who among the war-ravaged was still alive to fill them?—but Radek had given them a good try: veins streaked that deep pumping blue, boys at the ready for whatever was asked of them, and always the empty hope that he might somehow forget he was no longer a man—images of a single grenade rolling through the French mud, skin and trench wood flying everywhere, and his trousers drenched in blood.
    The medics had saved him. Of course they had saved him. Keeping death back had become such an easy thing, just as easy as teaching a man how to piss through a tube.
    For now, Radek was done with death, or at least his own. Instead, he read his papers, watched his men eat, and dictated every instance of corruption in his city. And who wouldn’t call that a life?
    Hoffner pulled over a chair and sat. He took a drink.
    Radek said, “He won’t find it noble, you going after him, Nikolai. Georgi knows you too well.”
    Hoffner set his glass on the table. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
    “Am I?”
    Hoffner pulled his cigarettes from his pocket. “So it’s the big ideas tonight—pity and nobility. And here I thought I’d come in just for a drink.” He bobbed a nod at the two large men who were working through their plates. “Gentlemen.”
    The larger of the two, Rolf, said, “Sausage’s not so good tonight. You can have ours if you want.”
    Hoffner waved over a passing waiter, ordered a plate of veal and noodles, and lit his cigarette. “You should come with me, Zenlo. Spain’s perfect for you these days. Black market and civil war. What could be better?” Across the room a woman started in at the piano.
    “And deal with all that chaos?” said Radek, as he leafed through the stack. He pulled out the “BZ” . “That’s nice for a man with a truck and a cousin down at the docks. Those of us with a little more at stake have to think differently.” He found the Grand Prix results and folded back the paper. “The desperate never buy for the future, Nikolai. No market stability. Order and fear—with maybe a little strong-arming thrown in—that’s what gives you a future.” He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Berlin suits me just fine right now.”
    Hoffner looked over at the smaller man. “So he’s off the Freud and Jung, is he?” The man continued to sift through his plate, and Hoffner said, “Tell me, Franz, what’s he reading now?”
    Franz brought a spoonful of potatoes up to his mouth. “Keynes,” he said, before shoveling it in.
    This required a moment. “Really?” Hoffner said. “That’s—ambitious.” Franz chewed, and Hoffner said, “He’s getting it wrong.”
    “Is he?” said Franz, swallowing. “We should all be getting it so wrong.”
    Radek continued to read as he spoke. “It’s the new psychology, Nikolai. Primal urges. Consumer desires. Totted up in columns and graphs. And this time it’s all scientific. Here.” He showed Hoffner the page he was marking. “Rosemeyer and Nuvolari. Auto Union and Alfa-Romeo. Clearly the two best drivers in the world. Barcelona last month—Nuvolari one, Rosemeyer five. Nürburgring two weeks later—Rosemeyer one,