“Handouts. We can’t even get near the place. Stalin’s afraid somebody’s going to take a potshot at him. That it, Ron?”

“I’d say he’s more afraid of being quoted out of context.”

“Now, who’d do a thing like that? Would you do that, Jake?”

“Never.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” the congressman said, smiling. “I’ve had a little experience in that department myself.” His manner was looser now, a campaign geniality, and Jake wondered for a second if the stiffness on the plane had been nothing more than fear of flying, better hidden than the young soldier’s. His wide tie, a dizzying paisley, was like a flash of neon at the uniformed table.

“You’re Alan Breimer, aren’t you?” Tommy said.

“That’s right,” he said, nodding, pleased to be recognized.

“War Production Board,” Tommy said, a memory display. “We met when I covered the trust hearings in ‘thirty-eight.”

“Oh yes,” said Breimer, who clearly didn’t remember.

“What brings you to Berlin?” Tommy said, so smoothly that Jake saw he was working, the line to Ron only a way of reeling Breimer in.

“Just a little fact-finding for my committee.”

“In Berlin?”

“The congressman’s been looking at conditions all over the zone,” Ron said, stepping in. “Technically, that includes us too.”

“Why not Berlin?” Breimer said to Tommy, curious.

“Well, industrial capacity’s your field. Not much of that left here.”

“Not much of that anywhere in our zone,” Breimer said, trying for a backroom heartiness. “You know what they say-the Russians got the food, the British got the factories, and we got the scenery. I suppose we have Yalta to thank for that too.” He looked at Tommy, expecting a response, then switched gears. “Anyway, I’m not here to see factories, just our MG officials. We’ve got General Clay tomorrow, right, lieutenant?”