IT WAS nearly one in the afternoon when he drove slowly down Lückhoffstraße, a tree-lined, cobblestoned street in a neighborhood called Nikolassee. He passed ivy-plagued houses that looked old enough to have survived Allied bombs. There was a chill in the air because he was near Wannsee, a large lake to the west of Berlin, off the road to Potsdam. Clean Mercedes-Benzes sat in the driveways of overgrown yards.
Because the weather was so mild, he parked at a corner and walked the rest of the way, but soon felt conspicuous—a black American walking through the white German suburbs was something to remember. The feeling only intensified when he knocked on the door of number 54, a flat-faced stuccoed monstrosity, and faced a very pregnant woman whose face was full of undisguised surprise. “Elli Uhrig?” he asked.
“Ja.”
“Sorry, I don’t know German. Do you mind—”
“What do you want?” she asked in a clotted accent.
Unlike in her years-old photograph, her cheeks were full and healthy looking, and her once-dreaded hair had been parted down the middle and tied tightly back. He took out his FBI ID and said, “Do you mind if I ask a few questions about Martin Bishop?”
He saw it in her face, how with the mention of that name she closed down, doors slamming shut. But the physical door between them remained open.
“Please,” he said. “There are questions we need answers to.”
“Does any of this have to do with David Parker?” she asked.
He wasn’t sure what to say. How did she know David? Yes, he was semifamous these days, making hay of his connection, via Ingrid, to the Massive Brigade—but why would Elli Uhrig start with him? He said, “David’s a friend of mine, in fact. He and his wife, Ingrid.” She tilted her head, seeming to soften, so he added, “Actually, they’re the ones I’m trying to help. That’s why I need to ask about Bishop and the Kommando Rosa Luxemburg.”
Her smile went away, as if she didn’t know quite what to think of all this. Then: “Do you know what my life became after my sister blew herself up? The police, the Verfassungsschutz, the press?” She shook her head. “Why do you think I ran away to … to here?”
Following her gaze, he looked up the street and saw an old man walking a dog. The man gave a “Hallo” to Elli before noticing Kevin and falling suspiciously quiet.
“Just come in, okay?” she said.
In the entryway he was surprised to find a painting of Jesus Christ on the wall, an amateur work, maybe by Elli herself.
“Take off your shoes.”
He did so, then followed her across a jigsaw of rugs to a claustrophobic sitting room with large glass doors looking onto a tree-filled backyard.
She said, “I’m not going to offer you anything to drink.”
“That’s okay.”
“Because you’re not staying long.”
“I have no plans to,” he assured her as he sat on the old striped couch. She took an upholstered chair on the opposite side of the coffee table and put her hands between her knees. She was waiting, so he said, “Your sister, Anika. She was a member of the KRL, correct?”
“For a year, maybe two. Then she fell in love with this American boy—that was Martin Bishop.”
“And you? Were you … involved with the KRL?”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t educated enough for them. I knew things, but if you didn’t speak the right language they couldn’t hear you. At first I’d visit them with Anika, but it wasn’t my scene. I had my music. I met Martin, of course. He was nicer than most of them.”
“Why did you mention David Parker?”
A curious smile broke her features. “We were friendly for a while.”
She didn’t seem to want to say more, or maybe she was trying to provoke him into more questions. But that wasn’t why he’d come. He said, “After the explosion, Martin came to you. Is that right?”
“I lived on the same street. He said he wanted to make sure I was okay, but he was in shock. He didn’t know what to do. Me, too,” she said, picking at the hem of her shirt. “But we both knew that the bomb hadn’t been theirs.”
“You were sure of that.”
“I was. Now…” She hesitated, then pushed a tear out of her eye and smiled pitifully. “Now I’m not sure. You know how many articles have been written about that night? I’ve read them all. They all agree that the KRL did it to themselves. How can so many journalists get it wrong?”
“Did Martin have a theory?”
“Not at first. First, we both cried and watched the cops and fire trucks from my window. We were so confused. He slept on my floor and woke early. He was … agitated? Yes. He told me they’d gotten a new television. He said that must have been it. A bomb in the television.” As she spoke, her fingers found loose threads in her shirtsleeve and unwound them. She kept licking her lips.
“Who did he blame?”
She let go of her sleeve. “He blamed the FBI. He blamed you.”
Kevin tried not to react to the accusation. “And what happened afterward?”
“Well, the story came out the next day, that they had been planning a terror attack on the Hauptbahnhof. Martin knew he had to leave. He called this Spanish guy Anika had introduced him to. Part of some radical group in Bilbao. This man had seen the news already, of course, and he was excited that he’d been asked to help.”
“Can I get his name?” Kevin asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
“You won’t,” he assured her. “If I can talk to him, he might be able to help me … and David.”
“What is it,” she asked, “that you want to do?”
He thought about that a moment. “I want to bring the facts to light.”
She furrowed her brow. “Does this have to do with that report on the Massive Brigade?”
He nodded.
“I thought that was cleared up.”
“I wish,” he said.