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town, Bora turned the key in the lock, opened the door and listened for noises from the interior of the apartment. The radio blared some inane little song that went, Nur du, nur du, nur du . Noise of rushing water in the bathroom meant the shower was on. The door to Retz’s bedroom was ajar, but the shutters in it were still folded.

    Without moving from the vestibule, Bora tried to sense if anyone else was in the apartment with Retz. His head had considerably cleared overnight, and other than that he was sore for having uncomfortably slept in the car, he felt rather well. He sniffed the air, as if he could tell the presence of a woman by it. Ewa Kowalska would have to have worn a pint of perfume for him to detect it through the smell of stale smoke. The rush of water stopped.
    Bora closed the door noisily, and at once Retz’s voice came from the bathroom. “Is it you, Bora? What kept you so long?”
    A surge of anger went through Bora, so that the pain in his temple awoke and startled him. “I’d like to take a bath when you’re done, Major.”
    The gurgle of the bathtub drain preceded Retz’s coming out of the bathroom. Stark naked, he was pink-bodied and thick around the waist, with much blondish hair on his chest and groin. He was vigorously rubbing his head with a towel.
    “You’ll have to wait a couple of hours, I’ve just finished the last of the hot water.”
    Cursing under his breath, Bora walked to the living room, where the ice bucket was filled with water and the bottle beside it sat empty among glasses on the coffee table. Cushions had been bunched on one side of the sofa; on the other, a wet bath towel lay twisted, and was darkening with moisture the fabric below. Retz’s boots, his breeches and shorts formed a trail on the floor between the table and the door. On the gramophone cabinet, a record was still on the turntable, but the radio was no longer blaring, Nur du .
    Bora waited until Retz poured himself a brandy and went to dress, before picking up the towel with two fingers. Stepping towards the window to open it, he knocked over
one more drinking glass with his foot, and heard it circle around itself on the floor. As morning light poured in through the wide-open panes, he stooped to pick up the glass, closely inspected it for breakage, leaned over and threw it in the street below.

30 October
    When Lieutenant Colonel Schenck came to see him privately after lunch, Hofer knew already that he had been replaced in his job. He harboured no resentment towards the wiry, youthful Schenck, and made it clear from the start.
    “So, you’re my successor,” he mildly addressed him. “It was a good choice, I heard of your record.”
    Schenck was polite. He wouldn’t sit down, wouldn’t discuss Hofer’s breakdown, but did say he’d come to talk over the death at the convent.
    “As you know, we successfully kept the local police from the case. You understand we needn’t add to the complications of military rule by allowing a religious hysteria to build up around this.” He said the words with eyes averted, not wanting to give Hofer the impression that he was speaking about him, though Hofer understood it anyway. “Frankly, my first impulse was to sandbag the entire incident, but I realize this is a hard-line Catholic country, and General Blaskowitz advises that we make an effort to show concern. It is out of the question to allow Polish authorities to delve into this, all the more since we do not know which direction the inquiry might take - who the culprit was.” Schenck extracted a personnel folder from his portfolio. “You have a young officer under your command, new to Intelligence but well-schooled, with a brilliant record in combat so far, and a little too gifted to be used just to lead
a company over a trench.” Schenck handed the file to Hofer, who nodded in acknowledgement of the contents. “Personally, I like the fact that he struck the Adelsprädikat from his name. We needn’t be