Free The Second Son: A Novel by Jonathan Rabb Page A

fault, self-consciously classical, larger than any other space he had ever seen, and breathtaking.
    The curve of the stands pressed up and outward like the perfect ripple of a stone dropped into a still lake. The color was somewhere between the cream white of porcelain and the rough green-gray of sanded limestone. Empty, the seats looked like flawlessly laid tracks—twenty, thirty, sixty of them, circling the field in a series of infinitely rising loops. Everything was bright from the overhead lights, and yet there was no glare. Most remarkable, though, was the field itself, broad and masculine, its grass tufted and thick, glistening from the rain as if its own exertions had produced this rugged sheen. The smell, full and green, lingered, with just a taste of polished stone in the mouth. Hoffner stood in silent wonder.
    “It’s even better on the grass,” said Radek, as he started down the steps. Hoffner had no choice but to follow.
    Reaching the bottom of the stairs, both men stepped up onto the low wall and then jumped down to the field. Hoffner felt a slight twinge in his knee. He did what he could to ignore it as they made their way across the six lanes of cinder track and out to the infield. At the far end, the top of the bell tower loomed through the wide and solitary opening in the stadium wall. Even the sky seemed more immense here.
    “That’s where he’ll be coming through tomorrow,” Radek said. “Arm up, strutting, Heil Hitler! ” He flipped his hand in a mock salute. “We might even see a smile.”
    “I thought you liked Berlin just now?”
    “What’s not to like?”
    They made it to the center of the field and Radek stopped. The silence and size of the place came together in a single rush; odd to feel dizzy without moving.
    Radek set the bag down. “And despite what you’ve heard, he asks for girls.” He knelt down and opened the bag. “Young ones. You never want to know what he does with them. The girls never say a word after. It’s unpleasant, but he pays well.”
    Hoffner was still finding his bearings. “I didn’t know you’d taken to pimping,” he said. “Or are the economic trends good there, too?”
    Radek pulled a bottle of champagne and two glasses from the bag. “It’s one client, Nikolai. I don’t think that makes me a pimp.” He stood and handed a glass to Hoffner. “A marked man, yes, but not a pimp.”
    “So he’ll kill you one day.”
    Radek snorted a laugh. “He’s going to kill a great many people one day, Nikolai. At least I’m getting paid.”
    Radek stepped back and let go with the cork. The echo brought a stream of guards running out onto the first-tier balcony—small, shadowy figures from this far off—and Radek shouted, “Champagne, gentlemen! No worries!”
    His voice continued to echo as the men disappeared as quickly as they had come.
    “Like trained dogs,” said Hoffner.
    “They’re terrified,” said Radek, as he filled Hoffner’s glass. “Sabotage. They think some Russian or Jew is going to infiltrate the place, set off a bomb, ruin their fun. Truth is, there’s nothing they could do to stop it, but the SS likes to show an effort.” Radek poured his own. “No uniforms. You saw that?”
    “I did.”
    Radek smiled and raised his glass. “It’s all so damned ridiculous.”
    Hoffner raised his as well. “And this is for…?”
    Radek shook his head easily. “An end. A beginning. Whatever you’d like it to be.” He drank.
    “The poet pimp,” said Hoffner. He drank as well.
    “We’re going to nip that one in the bud, Nikolai. No more pimp, all right?” Radek finished off his drink and, staring into the glass, said, “You could come work for me. Now that you’re done at the Alex.”
    Hoffner nearly choked as the fizz ran up into his nose. He coughed before answering. “I appreciate the joke.”
    Radek poured himself a second. “It’s no joke.”
    The two men stared at each other until Hoffner finally said, “Yes. Yes, it