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It was more likely, she thought, they hoped the girl would lead them back to the agent they had lost. “What is her name?”
“Her name is Anny.”
“Anny?” Pauline took a dainty bite of her Mohnkuchen. Her tongue crept across her lips to lick a poppy seed. She touched her mouth with her napkin and eyed him over the linen as if it were a veil.
The Polizeioberstleutnant steadied his breathing.
“What is Anny’s last name?” she asked.
“You are a devil in devil’s clothing, Fräulein Privatdetektive Grandzau. I’ve spoken too freely already. You know I cannot tell you her last name.”
“You can’t blame a devil for trying . . . If you can’t tell me her last name, you can surely tell me what is the color of her hair and eyes . . . or perhaps where she stays or works . . .”
• • •
WHEN MARAT ZOLNER returned to Manhattan from the Bronx, he found that Yuri Antipov had left an urgent message with Fern Hawley.
“He wants you to meet him downtown. He said you’ll know where.”
Zolner went to a blind pig on Vesey around the corner from the Washington Market. Antipov was taking a small sip of what passed for gin in the place.
“How is your empire?” he asked.
Zolner said, “You know, bootlegging wasn’t my idea originally. I got it in Finland. Do you recall the Comintern scheme to raise money for weapons by smuggling liquor past Finnish Customs? It was very innovative until the Comintern’s entire Finnish Section passed out drunk on the contraband.”
Antipov did not laugh.
“What do you want from me?” Zolner asked.
“I want you to rent a stable in Lower Manhattan.”
“What for?”
“Come.” Antipov led him around the corner to Barclay Street, where he had parked an old-fashioned coal wagon identical to the thousands that cluttered the narrow streets of Lower Manhattan and drove the truck drivers crazy. A strong horse stood in the traces, nosing an empty feed bag.
“Where did you get this?”
“I brought it over from New Jersey on the ferry. It is high time to do the job we were sent to do.”
“What’s in the wagon?”
“Dynamite.”
Zolner stared at him while he thought how to deal with what was clearly an ultimatum. Antipov gazed back calmly, a man whose mind was made up, determined, utterly sure, and implacable.
“Where did you get dynamite?”
“I memorized Moscow’s list of quarries where comrades work,” Antipov answered. “If you will not help me, I’ll do it myself.”
“I will help you, of course. There is no reason why we can’t build and attack at the same time.”
“I need a safe stable for the wagon.”
“You’ll be inside it in one hour.”
Antipov looked at him curiously. “You surprise me, Marat. I would have thought you would tell me to go to hell.”
“We
