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Dietrich did not believe him. He’d understood at a relatively young age that the more in control his father seemed, the more likely he was to be lying through his teeth.
“I’ve got a life, Colonel. A position. A reputation. People who count on me.”
“People who don’t know who you really are.” His father snorted in derision, and then soured further. “In all honesty, Hans, I don’t care about your life, your position, your reputation, or your people.
“And in case I did not tell you this the last time I saw you, when I think of you—and that is admittedly a rare occurrence—I think of you as an utter disappointment. Your actions today have not changed my assessment.”
With that, the colonel turned and took up his brisk evening walk as if he’d never paused.
Dietrich’s throat flamed with anger.
But his stomach churned with fear.
CHAPTER 17
THE APARTMENT BUILDING where Mattie Engel lived on Schliemannstrasse south of Prenzlauer Allee was painted bright green and red and white. The building stood next to a preschool painted with images of kids on tricycles and others playing with dump trucks.
Tom Burkhart slowed to a stop on wet cobblestones in front of the school. Mattie had Socrates on her lap. They’d gone back to Chris’s apartment, found the cat, secured the place, and tried to call Dietrich with the news.
But the high commissar had not answered his cell phone, and Mattie had not left a message. He’d find out soon enough. She reached for the door handle.
“You going to be okay?” Burkhart asked.
“As long as I never get in a car with you again, I’ll be fine.”
“What?”
“We’re lucky we’re not in jail.”
“Nonsense,” Burkhart said. “I had total control. But do you?”
Mattie hesitated and said, “I’ve got to sleep. Chris could be out there somewhere alive and I’m going to sleep.”
Burkhart’s tone softened. “You’ll function better if you do. I’ll meet you at Dietrich’s office first thing in the morning.”
Mattie nodded, climbed from the BMW, and hurried to her front door with the cat in her arms. Burkhart waited until she was inside and then drove off. She took the elevator to the third floor and walked to her door. She paused, hearing a television blaring inside and smelling onions frying.
She looked at the cat. How am I going to do this? What do I say?
Socrates just stared at her, blinking. Then he meowed.
Mattie stuck her key in the lock and went in to an open area with a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. There was a counter at the back that looked into the kitchen where Mattie’s aunt Cäcilia, a stout woman in her seventies, bustled about cooking Sunday dinner.
Aunt Cäcilia had lived on and off with Mattie since the Berlin Wall fell. She had watched Mattie grow into womanhood, and she’d cared for Mattie’s mother as she died. Mattie did not know what she’d do without her.
From a room opposite the kitchen, the television got louder with the roar of a crowd and an announcer screaming, “Goal Cassiano! Goal Cassiano!”
A boy’s voice pitched in, screaming: “Goal Cassiano! Goal Berlin!”
Socrat
es leaped from Mattie’s arms and scampered toward the commotion. Mattie followed the cat, worming her arms from her rain jacket and calling, “Niklas? I’m home.”
“Hello, dear,” her aunt called from the kitchen. “I’ll have your dinner ready in a second.”
“Thanks,” Mattie said, and looked around the corner into the small room opposite the kitchen. Her nine-year-old son bounced on the couch, watching the replay and yelling, “Goal Cassiano!” when the striker drove the ball into the upper-right corner of the net.
The cat leaped into Niklas’s lap.
