Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

He turned back to face him. ‘I will look into recent transfers of senior army officers. You think of general’s rank? This year?’ Freilinger scribbled a note, then fastened his gaze on Reinhardt. ‘You know this is the beginning of the deep water? If you’re not already in it, you soon will be if you keep this up.’ Reinhardt nodded as Freilinger straightened up. ‘I can protect you so far and no further. Very well, then. Dismissed.’

Reinhardt managed to control himself on the walk back downstairs to his office, but once there he shut the door and then let his frustration boil out. He flung the Feldgendarmerie files at the wall and slammed his fists up against his map, keeping his teeth clenched hard against the scream raging in the pit of his belly. Putting his head on the wall, he rolled his forehead from side to side, pressing it hard, breathing deep and ragged.

When his head began to hurt more than he could bear, he turned and slumped against the wall, sitting with his legs splayed out in front of him. He looked at his desk, wanting that bottle in the drawer, but put his head back, staring at the wiring and the light fitting in the ceiling. He scrubbed his hand through his hair, then jerked it down as his fingers stole treacherously to his temple and the memory of the bruise left by his pistol. He flinched from the sudden acrid tang of smoke, knowing he was only imagining it, but it was enough to pull him back.

He thought of Freilinger’s last words, about protecting him so far and no further. Was there another meaning there that he had not caught? Something Freilinger had wanted to say but could not? He let his hands drop to the floor, and they brushed up against the Feld shy;gendarmerie files. He looked down where the paper had spilled out, and he sniffed and hauled himself up and onto his haunches and began picking everything up. He tossed the files onto his desk and looked at them. If what Reinhardt suspected about Becker was true, if there was anything that would have been of use to him in those rec shy;ords, then he would probably have had it removed.

But still. Standing in front of his desk, he leafed through the pages. There were only a couple of sheets per file, one file for Saturday and the second for Sunday, and it was, as far as he could tell, fairly anodyne. Going through them, he found no trace of Hendel. No report of a motorcycle going either way. He took the Sarajevo police traffic rec shy;ords for the same period, intending to compare them, but he realised his heart was not in it and put it to one side. Trying to do this now, in the state he was in, he would miss something. Overlook something. What he wanted to do, and where he needed to be, was over in police headquarters.

Once he realised that, he straightened and went down outside. He walked past his car, past the sentry, and into the narrow street that led to Kvaternik. He needed to walk. Needed the time to think, or he would arrive and do something stupid, or ridiculous. He walked fast, feeling his knee twinge, down the street as it curved gently, following the channel of the Miljacka to his left. It was early evening. A curfew had been announced that morning, and it would be coming into effect in an hour or so. People were strolling quite briskly along the street: couples, families, mostly walking away from Bascarsija behind him, back to their homes. He felt their eyes, their whispers, feeling it run off him, for once, leaving him uncaring. Perhaps because of the uniform, perhaps because of the expression that might have been on his face, perhaps both, they parted in front of him. Or rather, he thought, as he strode through the orange light, with the sun low in the sky in front of him, it was he who stayed still and life that parted around him, like a branch poking up above the water in a river. A branch, twisted and ragged, the ends split and splayed like fingers, he thought, with that sense of macabre self-consciousness that had saved him in the past, usually from himself.

He arrived with his head no clearer than when he had set out, and the frustration that simmered in his gut had spread all through him. At police headquarters, he ignored the guards who made a half step towards him and he stopped inside, looking left and right. There was a big set of double doors in front of him, two doors to his left, and a flight of stairs leading upward on his right. There was a receptionist’s booth under the angle of the staircase, with a policeman behind the counter, looking back at him.

‘I want to see Inspector Padelin.’ The policeman gestured with his arms, a shrug as if to say he did not understand. ‘Padelin,’ repeated Reinhardt, slowly. ‘ Padelin. Your new hero.’

The policeman’s face lit up with a smile. ‘Da, da, Inspektor Padelin.’ His smile became something of a grimace. ‘Zao mi je, nece biti moguce da ga vidi.’ He shook his head. ‘Nije dostupno.’

‘I don’t understand a bloody word you’re saying,’ grated Reinhardt. ‘I want to speak to Inspector Padelin. Now! ’ He raised his voice on the last word, and the policeman took a step back, those arms coming up again to placate, or to ward off. He said something again, slowly, painfully, as one does to a foreigner. Reinhardt’s face twisted. He felt it go out of his control for a moment. Horrified at himself, he lurched back from the counter, into the middle of the foyer. He smelled smoke, again, that damned memory of smoke.

‘Padelin!’ he shouted. ‘ Padelin! Get down here and talk to me!’ The policeman was calling something, coming out from behind the counter. ‘ Padelin ,’ he shouted again.

He went over to one of the doors on the left and pulled the handle. It was locked. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Unthinking, he reached up, squeezing the fingers and pushing them up and back. He heard a yelp, saw one of the policemen from outside. He shoved him back, seeing the man’s face go red with anger. Reinhardt ignored him, pulling on the handle of the second door, but it was locked as well. He heard voices behind him, the clatter of feet on the steps.

‘ PADELIN! ’ he bellowed.

‘Captain Reinhardt.’

He turned at the quiet voice, his last shout echoing up into silence. Dr Begovic stood there, looking very small and rumpled, a brimmed hat in one hand and a bag in the other. His eyes were large behind his thick glasses. Two policemen stood behind him. He took one step towards Reinhardt. ‘Captain. Please. This is not helping anyone.’

Reinhardt found he was breathing heavily. ‘No?’ he managed. ‘What the hell would you know?’

Begovic took another small step. ‘I might know a great deal, shy;Captain, of what goes on in this building, and who it goes on to.’ He shifted his arm, ever so slightly, the one carrying the doctor’s bag. Reinhardt’s eyes were drawn to the movement, then back up to Begovic’s face. It was carefully blank, calm, and Reinhardt felt abruptly and completely a fool, but no less angry. The anger just felt more shy;focused.

‘You should come away, Captain. You can do no good here.’

‘I want to see Padelin,’ said Reinhardt. He felt foolish saying it in front of the doctor but could not see any way around it.

‘He isn’t here,’ said Begovic, simply. ‘No one here can help you.’

‘Padelin,’ Reinhardt repeated. ‘I need to see him. He has the wrong man, you see.’

Begovic stared back at him. ‘The wrong man?’

‘The wrong man for the Vukic killing. Whoever he has, he couldn’t have done it.’

Begovic’s mouth moved, as if he wanted to say something. The two of them stared at each other for what seemed like a long moment, and then Reinhardt felt the rage begin to drain away. The anger stayed, and he held it tight, hoping it would keep him focused, but he nodded to Begovic and stepped away from the door. The doctor turned, ushering him towards the exit. The two policemen followed him out into the dusk, looking at him warily. Reinhardt walked down the steps slowly, feeling drained, empty.