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

is.”
    Radek needed another few moments before tossing back his drink. He then nodded. “I’m glad I waited, then. Wouldn’t have looked so good if you’d said no at Rücker’s.” He crouched down and set the bottle and glass on the grass. “Pimm said he was waiting until you were done with the Kripo to give you this stuff.” He reached into the bag. “I’m sure he had something pithy he wanted to say before handing it over. I don’t.”
    Radek pulled out half a dozen canisters of film. Each had a small strip of adhesive attached to it, with a name and an initial written in fading ink. He set them on the grass.
    “Jesus,” Hoffner said in a whisper. He was stunned at what he was seeing.
    “Yah,” said Radek. “Turns out they never knew he had them. There’s some nice stuff of Hess and Streicher. Apparently old Julius shares the Führer’s tastes.”
    The films had been made in 1927 by members of the then fledgling National Socialist German Workers Party, long before they had decided to trim the party name. At the time, the films were innovative, some of the first to take a crack at synchronization of sound. They were also remarkable for having broken new ground with an unimagined kind of depravity—violent and sexual. Hoffner had spent months trying to forget them. His boy Sascha had been in one.
    “I thought Pimm burned these,” said Hoffner.
    “And give up this kind of leverage? He wasn’t stupid.”
    “A lot of good they did him.”
    Radek said nothing as he continued to stare into the bag. Finally, standing, he said, “Yah.” He looked at Hoffner. “You get in trouble, you can always ask Streicher if he wants to run an editorial in Der Stürmer on little girls, ropes, and needles. My guess is he’ll take a pass.”
    They stood like this for what seemed a very long time before Radek said, “You want to take a run around it?”
    Hoffner was still digesting the last few minutes. “Pardon?”
    “The track, Nikolai. A lap.”
    Radek was being serious; Hoffner half smiled and said, “So the films weren’t enough of a treat?”
    “Standing in the middle of my legacy is the treat, Nikolai. The films are what they are. The run—that’s if you’ve always had some pathetic dream of breaking the tape. Don’t worry, I’ll cheer you on at the end, if you want.”
    Hoffner laughed quietly. “And I deserve all this because…?”
    “Don’t go to Spain.”
    “You’ll miss me that much?”
    “You’ll die there.”
    Hoffner saw the concern in Radek’s eyes. It was genuine and therefore all the more unnerving. “You’re probably right,” Hoffner said.
    “It’s rifles and bullets, Nikolai. Maybe even some German rifles and bullets.”
    “Really?”
    Radek’s gaze sharpened. “Trust me, Nikolai. Two weeks ago we had a crack squad of Wehrmacht troops training out at the Olympic Village. No one knew it, and now they’re gone. Makes you wonder where they went with all their desert gear and machine guns. Not much need for desert gear in the Rhineland, is there?” Radek waited for the silence to settle. “This isn’t some dustup, Nikolai. You haven’t heard from Georg in ten days not because he’s up on some hilltop. It’s because he’s dead. You want to tell his pretty wife and little boy that you tried, fine. But unless you’re planning on spending your time sitting in a café in Barcelona drinking the health of the Republic, I don’t think you come home.” Even Radek’s caring had a cruelty to it. “I got off the needles. That’s on you. I’m telling you not to go to Spain. That’s on me.”
    Radek leaned over and picked up the bottle. He took a long swig as he walked off. “So is it a lap or not?” he said, gazing off into the stands.
    Hoffner stood staring after him, the wide expanse beyond them suddenly small. “Wrong shoes,” he said.
    Radek looked back. “Fine.” He started for the track. “Then pick up your films and let’s get out of this