The Informer by Craig Nova Page B

suitcase away, smelling the gun oil on his hand. This was like the scent of fate. Or the scent of fate prettied up, since not only was it machinelike, but it also had a slight, sweet perfume. From time to time, when he wasn’t worrying about the pistol, he thought of the man he was going to see in Berlin.
    Gerhard Schmidt didn’t eat much. In the pocket of his coat he had acouple of rolls and a piece of sausage, wrapped in paper stained with grease, and every three hundred miles he took out his pocketknife, cut a piece of the sausage, and tore off a piece of bread, chewing slowly, watching the countryside go by. He ate with a steady, repetitive motion, more like a man making something in a factory than actually eating. He had his orders, and he supposed he wouldn’t have too much trouble. People in Berlin had to understand that changes were being made in Moscow, and that the factionalism in Russia needed to be settled, and if the other parties in other countries like Germany didn’t give their support, then they would have to be informed of the dangers. No factionalism. What was good for the Soviets was good for everyone. That was his job. He had his methods.
    About halfway to Berlin, a young woman sat down next to Herr Schmidt. Her hair was very dark, and her skin was so pale that he thought she was Ukrainian. He hoped that she didn’t have any relatives there, since he knew what was going to happen soon, not to mention things that had already been done. No nationalism, of any group, no desire for independence was going to be tolerated. When she tried to strike up a conversation, he just looked at her. Yes, he thought, she was probably Ukrainian. Then he went back to keeping an eye on his bag or looking out the window.
    He slept sitting straight up, hands in his lap. He closed his eyes, pushed his head back a little, and as he slept he could still feel the movement of the train. He dreamed of the Moscow River in the evening when the wind had died down and the surface was as smooth as a ground lens. He knew that the secret to doing what he had to do was to believe very few things. The names of people he had to see. The details of his job. If he cluttered up his head with too much theory and policy, then he would just have to forget it later when it changed. It was better to try to remember that power existed with its own beauty and clarity, like the surface of the river, and that it was his job to act on its behalf. That was all there was to it. It was difficult to see power when it wasn’t being used, and so he thought of it as a shiny and beguiling surface of a river, although one that could wash over anyone who got in its way.
    In Germany he looked out the window with that same green-eyed indifference, as though the landscape here were not pretty or ugly or anything at all except as a stage, a location, a site where something was going to happen.
    Everything else was secondary. Just when he came into Berlin, he took the piece of paper out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and looked at the last piece of sausage and the last piece of bread. He had made it come out perfectly, and so he ate the last part of it, watching as the train went through the outskirts of the city, which he saw as a smear of smoke above the buildings that manufactured stopwatches. Bicycle tires. Gears. Cable. Sheets of metal.
    He stood up and took his suitcases from the rack and then walked along the aisle between the seats. He went down the steps to the platform, where he emerged again from the steam as though he had not taken the train but had been transported by some new process from Moscow. Then he started walking toward the station, where he smelled the sweet strudel, the cinnamon, the beer from the café, and when he came up to the door, he looked in. But that was it. He stood there, resisting it, feeling good that he could control himself even after the days he had been on the train. Instead, he put his bags down and brought his fingers up to