Sam Eastland - Berlin Red

‘That’s right,’ said Hunyadi. ‘He was just about to transmit a message when I burst into the room.’

‘And you recovered this message?’

‘I did, but it was encrypted.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘I gave it to someone who offered to help me decode it without letting the authorities know. You see, this leak could be coming from anywhere, and I don’t know who to trust.’

‘But you trust this person?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Hunyadi, ‘but I had no one else to turn to.’

‘And has it been done?’

‘Not yet. Not as far as I know. The man said he would contact me as soon as he had anything, but I haven’t heard from him.’

‘And the Hungarian?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the morgue at the Kopenick police barracks,’ answered Hunyadi. ‘He killed himself before I had a chance to question him.’

‘And who is at the Hungarian’s place now?’

‘Nobody. It’s empty.’

‘Can you take us there?’

Hunyadi looked around the room. He seemed to be making an inventory in his head of all of his meagre possessions. Then he stepped over to the bedside table and picked up the cheap wooden frame which held the photograph of his wife. Grasping the flap which helped it stand upon the table, he tore away the cardboard backing of the frame. Then he removed the photo and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. At last, he turned to Kirov and Pekkala. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

When Fegelein returned to the apartment on Bleibtreustrasse, he found Elsa fast asleep and sprawled across the mattress, still wearing her transparent nightgown.

Rather than make room for himself on the bed, which would almost certainly have woken her again, Fegelein sat down to rest in the yellow chair by the phone stand.

He told himself he would not sleep, but he dozed off anyway, his chin sunk down on to his chest.

Four hours later, he woke to the sound of the caretaker, sweeping the pavement with his witch’s broom.

At first, Fegelein was startled to find himself in the chair and it took him a moment to recall why he was there. He glanced at his watch, gasping when he saw the time. It was 9.30. He should have been at Lilya’s half an hour ago.

Elsa was still asleep, which did not surprise Fegelein. She regularly stayed in bed until noon.

As quietly as he could, Fegelein got out of the chair and made his way to a bookshelf built into the wall on the other side of the room. Behind the collected works of Goethe, which he had never actually read, was a panel that operated on a spring-loaded latch, opening when it was pushed. With gritted teeth, he set his hand upon the panel and applied pressure until the panel clicked open. He looked back to see if Elsa had been woken by the noise.

She had not moved. Her breathing was slow and deep.

Behind the panel was a small briefcase, containing the jewellery and travel documents he and Lilya would need for their escape. The briefcase had been a present from his wife, who had ordered it to be embossed with his full initials and last name – H. G. O. H. Fegelein, and suggested that he use it for his daily meetings with the High Command. However, on the first day he brought it in, Hitler had remarked that the golden initials looked ‘flashy’. This meant, of course, that Fegelein could never use the briefcase for its intended purpose, but he had discovered that it was just the right size for stashing the jewellery and passports. After removing the briefcase from its hiding place, Fegelein was about to press the panel back in place when he paused. The first click had not woken Elsa, but the second one probably would. So he only pushed the panel part way closed and then carefully replaced the books. Standing back, he surveyed his work to see if it would pass inspection. It was barely noticeable, and Fegelein doubted whether Elsa even looked at the bookcase.

There was no time to pack a bag. He simply lifted his leather greatcoat from the hook in the entrance way, opened the door as quietly as he could and stepped out into the hall.

Before he closed the door behind him, Fegelein glanced back at Elsa. He had known long ago that this day would come. In fact, he had rehearsed it so many times in his head that he had managed to convince himself he would feel nothing when the moment finally arrived. But now that he was actually leaving, without a word of goodbye, he still felt sick about it.

He closed the door and made his way down the stairs, keeping to the outer edge of the steps so as not to make them creak. By the time he reached the street, Fegelein was no longer preoccupied with leaving Elsa behind. Instead, his thoughts turned to the future and the wonderful life he would have in the arms of Lilya Simonova.

Just as Lilya Simonova was reaching for the handle, the door seemed to open by itself.

The safe house on Heiligenbergerstrasse had not been difficult to find and she encountered no one as she climbed the stairs. Pausing to examine a newly replaced window on the second floor, she looked out into the street to make sure she hadn’t been followed.

Although Lilya had never actually met the agent with whom she was to rendezvous that day, she did know him by sight, since they had crossed each other’s path more than once in the Hasenheide park where messages were left in the hollowed-out leg of a bench. The first time had been just as she was leaving the park, having timed her exit perfectly to coincide with the arrival of a tram at the Garde-Pioneer station, on which she would begin her journey home.

The thickly moustached man was short and frail, with rumpled clothes that looked as if they needed cleaning. He looked lonely, sad and preoccupied. The man had caught her attention because of the way he glanced at her as she walked by. It was not the casual wolf-like stare she often received from men when she was out walking on her own. This glance was furtive and suspicious, like that of someone who knew more than he could say.

Afraid that he might have been sent to follow her, Lilya Simonova boarded the tram and then immediately exited through the door on the other side. She doubled back on her tracks, following the man across the park.

He sat down on the bench, fetched a newspaper from his coat pocket and began to read. It was only after several minutes that he reached down, retrieved the message Lilya had placed there and made his way out of the park.

This time, she did not follow him.

Whenever they crossed paths again, although she felt his stare upon her like the heat from a lamp held too close, Lilya never looked him in the eye.

Now she wondered what she would say to him.

But the man who stood before her in the doorway was not the same person she had encountered in the Hasenheide park.

It took her a moment to realise she knew who he was.

Her heart slammed into her chest so hard it was as if she had been thrown against a wall.

But his presence here was so unexpected, so impossible it seemed, that she forced herself to think she was mistaken.

He spoke her name, so quietly she barely heard him.

In the instant that she heard Pekkala’s voice, Lilya found herself back on the crowded railway platform of the Nikolaevsky station in Petrograd, just about to board the train, the last time she had held him in her arms.

Then all the years between that day and this receded into darkness, like a butterfly folding its wings.

Pekkala reached out to take her hand. ‘Come inside,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you everything.’

He led her into the flat, and gently closed the door.

Two other men were waiting, one of whom she recognised as the policeman who had questioned her two days before. This man looked as astonished to see her standing there, as she was surprised to see him.