Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘One interesting thing, sir,’ said Claussen. He leaned over the desk and pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘Krause is Volksdeutsche. His mother was Slovenian. He speaks the language.’

Reinhardt nodded. ‘So if he’s gone to ground, he’ll get by a lot easier than we would.’ He trailed off, twisting around to look at the map again, imagining where someone like Krause might run to from Ilidza. Not only where, but to whom. He glanced back at the files on his desk. What would Hendel, an Abwehr officer on post here less than five months, be doing with a lieutenant of transportation troops? What was the link between them? There had to be one, beyond the fact that the pair of them seemed to like to drink and chase skirts together.

‘Captain Reinhardt?’ A corporal stood in the door at attention. ‘Major Freilinger’s compliments, sir, and you are requested to report to him immediately.’

‘Inform the major I will be there directly.’ Reinhardt stood, tugging his uniform into place, and breathed out heavily through pursed lips as he stubbed his cigarette out. He exchanged a glance with Claussen, who looked back at him expressionlessly. ‘Wish me luck,’ Reinhardt muttered, walking out.

Freilinger’s offices were one floor up, in the corner looking west along King Aleksander Street. The sun was low, barely over Mount Igman, and the light was short and bright. Freilinger was standing at his window again. He looked around, moved his mouth around as if there were something in it, then motioned Reinhardt to take the seat in front of the desk and turned to look back out.

‘There’s something about this city. In the evenings,’ Freilinger said, the rasp in his voice low and leathery. ‘Sometimes it seems like a labyrinth. No way out. And then, there’s times like this when it seems there’s openness and light.’ Reinhardt looked at Freilinger, hearing the echo of thoughts he had had himself, so often, since he first came here. Freilinger was looking out the window, into the light. His eyes, always so pale, were almost invisible, and with a lurch Reinhardt saw Freilinger’s face as he saw it in his nightmares, awash in the blaze from the fire, and he stiffened in his seat as he imagined the acrid stench of smoke. He looked down, breathing slow and deep to cover his fear, and when he looked up Freilinger was staring hard at him.

‘Reinhardt, was I not clear enough last night?’

‘Sir?’

Freilinger walked back to his desk, never shifting his gaze. ‘Do not “sir” me like some damned sergeant,’ he snapped. ‘Was I not clear enough last night?’

‘You were, sir,’ said Reinhardt.

‘Remind me, what was it I was clear about?’

‘That I was not to go pestering officers about this investigation.’

‘Correct,’ said Freilinger. ‘And so why ,’ he shouted, with a hoarse roar, slamming his hand on the desktop, ‘do I find myself dealing with a half dozen complaints about your inappropriate behaviour this afternoon in the officers’ mess? Accusations. Insinuations.’ He picked up a piece of paper by its corner. ‘ Alibis? For Christ’s sake.’

‘Sir, if I may explain?’

‘It was a rhetorical question, Reinhardt,’ replied Freilinger. ‘I’m not interested in explanations. I’m only interested in dealing with the consequences, which so far,’ he said, fingering through some of the pages on his desk, ‘have involved me talking to four colonels, an SS Standartenfuhrer, and a general. Put up to the task by his chief of staff, Colonel Forster. A civilised sort of dressing-down. Nevertheless, dressing-down and complaint it was. From a general.’

He stopped, screwing up his mouth and swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat. Reinhardt sat as still as he could, feeling the cold sweat in the small of his back and the flush he knew was colouring his cheeks.

‘Reinhardt, I gave you this investigation for several reasons. The first is that Hendel was one of ours. The second was that I am not blind to what you are going through here.’ Reinhardt locked eyes with the major. ‘You are not happy.’ He paused. ‘None of us is. We have all seen, and done, things that might make lesser men weep. I thought, perhaps wrongly, that work similar to what you did in the past, and did well, might be of some help. The third… well, Reinhardt, have you forgotten so quickly the consequences to the local population for the death of a German soldier? Have you?’

‘No, sir,’ he managed, finally.

‘Perhaps you will remind me of them,’ said Freilinger, quietly, sitting down. His eyes bored into Reinhardt. They both knew what the other was thinking. ‘Remind me of General Kuntze’s directive.’

‘Sir. When a German soldier is wounded, the lives of fifty prisoners or civilians are forfeit as a reprisal. When a German soldier is killed, the lives of one hundred prisoners or civilians are forfeit.’

‘Correct, Captain,’ said Freilinger, picking up a piece of paper. ‘Let me perhaps refresh your memory further. Directive of 19 March 1942, from the commander of 12th Army, Belgrade. I quote: “ No false sentimentalities! It is preferable that fifty suspects are liquidated than one German soldier lose his life. If it is not possible to produce the people who have participated in any way in the insurrection or to seize them, reprisal measures of a general kind may be deemed advisable, for instance, the shooting to death of all male inhabitants from the nearest villages, according to a definite ratio. ” ’ He put the paper down. ‘One wounded German, fifty dead Serbs. One dead German, one hundred dead Serbs.’

Freilinger sighed and looked down for a moment. ‘I wanted you on this case because I thought we could avoid something like this,’ he said, pointing at Kuntze’s directive, ‘coming to pass if you found me a suspect, or the one who pulled the trigger. Not that I thought such reprisals were that likely. Not here. There aren’t enough Serbs in any case, and it’s not as if Hendel was killed in an uprising. Still’ – he swallowed – ‘stranger things have happened. And now, thanks to this incident in the mess, I am being asked why the directive is not being applied. I know that at least one, if not two, of the colonels you offended this afternoon are making these points to the army staff in Banja Luka.’

He sighed again, his throat moving painfully as he fumbled open his tin and popped a mint into his mouth. ‘Why are we wasting manpower and resources on an investigation of this kind, at this time? Why are we not letting the Sarajevo police take care of it? These are the sorts of questions I am fielding. And so, with all that, what can you tell me of your investigation, Captain?’ He clasped his hands under his chin and waited.

Reinhardt licked his lips, thinking carefully. ‘Sir, I can almost certainly confirm one thing. The police only began investigating on Monday morning, when the maid reported it. But Hendel’s death was known to the Feldgendarmerie on Sunday already.’

Freilinger’s brow creased as his hands continued their slow movement. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘One of the last places Hendel visited was a nightclub, called the Ragusa, also frequented by Vukic. The Feldgendarmerie interrogated staff there on Sunday, and they interrogated two singers who were, apparently, intimate with Hendel. On Sunday, and again on Monday. But they weren’t looking for Hendel, or searching for evidence as to who killed him. They were looking for a Lieutenant Peter Krause, and for something that they thought he might have. Photographs, or film. Someone tipped off the Feldgendarmerie before even the Sarajevo police. I can only believe Major Becker’s stalling tactics from yesterday afternoon were not only bureaucratic, but also deliberate.’