§4

The Warschauer Straße U-Bahn station was just within the Soviet sector, a boundary defined at this point by the River Spree. It was the easternmost stop on a line that began out at Uhlandstraße and crossed the river on the upper deck of the Oberbaumbrücke, a Victorian monstrosity, not unlike Tower Bridge in London, that had taken a pasting at the very end of the war—not from the Allies, but from the Wehrmacht, who had blown the central spans to slow down the Russian entry into Berlin. The lower deck was for vehicles and pedestrians, and had been the scene of a couple of shootings in the last few weeks.

They crossed without incident. They were less than two hundred yards from the Egg Palace and most, if not all the guards would be on Yuri’s payroll.

There was no Café Orpheus.

They parked the jeep in front of the Café Unterwelt. A cultural slip of tongue or memory that made sense to Wilderness and Eddie but was wasted on Frank.

“I hope the kid doesn’t turn out to be total fuck-up. Orpheus … Unterthing … who knows?”

The café was aptly named. A pit of a place lacking only brimstone and sulphur, presided over by man wearing a grubby vest and several layers of grease. He said nothing, just jerked his thumb in the direction of the back room.

Kostya was not alone. He stood up as they entered, gestured to the woman seated next to him, and said, “This is Major—”

Frank cut him short.

“Are we dealing with you or with some major we never met? What is this? Does your army have more majors than grunts? Everyone’s a fucking major!”

“Со мной будете говорить.”

“What did she say?”

Wilderness said, “Calm down. She says to deal with her.”

The woman looked up. Dark-skinned, thick black hair falling in ringlets to her blue epaulettes, nut-brown eyes like Tosca, but sadder eyes, far, far sadder. She looked to be roughly the same age as Tosca but perhaps she had not worn so well. God alone knew what life she might have led—women like this had driven tanks from the Urals to Berlin only a couple of years ago. Women like this had taken Berlin and crushed the Nazis.

She had a jar of jam and a jar of Cousin Kitty in front of her, and was spreading what looked to be grape jelly and peanut butter onto a slice of black bread.

“Oh, God. That’s just disgusting,” Frank said.

“В один прекрасный день будет бозможно купить такую смесь в одной и той же банке.”

Kostya translated. “The major says one day you will be able to buy grape jelly and peanut butter in one jar. Progress.”

“Yeah, well it’s disgusting. Like eating ice cream and meatballs off of the same plate.”

Wilderness said, “Frank, shuttup and let them get to the point.”

“The major asks this of you. We are wish to buy one thousand jars.”

“Not possible,” Wilderness said.

He felt Frank touch his arm, watched the major bite into her gooey feast.

“No so fast, kid. Could be doable, could be.”

“Even if you can get hold of a thousand jars, we don’t have enough hiding places in the jeep for a thousand jars of anything.”

“Excuse us,” said Frank, with an uncharacteristic show of good manners, and hustled Wilderness to a corner by the door.

“It’s a cool five hundred, an easy five hundred. Are we going to turn down money like that? Who cares if we have to carry it out in the open? Our guys are lazy, the Reds don’t give a shit and if we’re caught, we throw ’em a few jars and carry on. It’s not as if it’s coffee. It’s not the brown gold. It’s sticky kids’ stuff in a fucking jar. You think anyone’s gonna start World War III over peanut butter?”

Wilderness said nothing for a few moments, looked back across the room, catching the major with a look of pure gastronomic delight on her face.

“OK. But that’s it. No more irregular runs after this.”

“Irregular?”

“We stick with coffee and butter. We stick with what we know pays and we deal only with Yuri.”

“OK, OK.”

Frank approached the table.

“One thousand it is. Fifty cents a jar. Five hundred dollars.”

The major wiped her mouth on the back of one hand.

“Двадцать центов за банку.”

Wilderness said, “She’s offering twenty.”

“No way. I might go to forty-five.”

“Скидка для навала.”

“She wants a discount for bulk.”

“Are you kidding? This is bullshit.”

The major got to her feet.

“Twenty-five,” she said, suddenly no longer in need of an interpreter.

“Forty.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Done,” said Frank.

She spoke rapidly to Kostya, so rapidly Wilderness could not follow, but Kostya said simply, “Noon, Friday?”

Then she bustled past them before either Frank or Wilderness had answered.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in dogshit.”

“That would be justice,” said Wilderness.

“Kid, your buddy drives a hard bargain.”

“Buddy? What is buddy?”

“You know. Pal, chum … mate … fukkit … tovarich.

“No, not my pal. Это моя мама.”

“What?”

“He said she’s not his buddy, she’s his mother.”

“I don’t fucking believe this.”

“Yes. Yes. My mother, Volga Vasilievna Zolotukhina.”

As Tosca had called her, “my oldest friend.”

“Volga?” Frank said.

“Da. Like the river.”

Frank rolled his eyes, a burlesque of incredulity.

“Would you believe I have an Aunt Mississippi?”

Kostya looked to Wilderness for help, baffled by Frank.

“Ignore him, Kostya. We’ll be here at noon on Friday.”