Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

A cat jumped into the alley and froze as it saw him. It flattened itself against the wall, then streaked away, back the way he had come. He watched it go, then saw an open door just ahead. He looked up and down the alley, but again saw no one. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly in, taking his time, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was a bare room, only a wooden bench running around it. Another door directly in front opened onto a corridor that led farther into the house.

There was strong daylight at the end. Someone stepped into the doorway ahead. With the light behind him, it was hard to see who it was, and in any case his attention was drawn to the man he had followed this far. He stood to the left, in the shadow of the open door, and he held a pistol in his hand. Another man stood in the other corner, dark skinned and with hair as black as coal, an MP 40 pointed at shy;Reinhardt.

‘Captain,’ said the man from the cafe. ‘Your pistol, please.’

‘You said I would not be harmed.’

‘You will not be. If you do not give me your pistol, you walk back out of here. Your choice.’ His face was as flat as his voice.

Whoever it was ahead of him turned slightly. An inviting gesture. ‘Please. Come in, Captain.’

Reinhardt felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders at the voice. He pushed the door to the street shut. Raising his right hand, he drew his pistol slowly with his left, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and handed it over to the man. Then he walked through into a sitting room, furnished in the Ottoman style, with low divans and tables, dark carpets on the floor, and dark wood on the walls and around the windows. The beamed ceiling was quite low, but the room was full of light that shone in from the house’s courtyard, breaking around the man who stood there.

‘Dr Begovic,’ Reinhardt said. The two of them shook hands. ‘A pleasure to see you.’

‘Likewise, Captain,’ replied the doctor. His eyes were wide and bright behind his thick glasses. ‘Will you take a seat? Perhaps some coffee?’ A brass pot and some little cups stood on a carved wooden table. Three cups, Reinhardt saw, as he sat on one of the divans with his back to the window, facing the door. Begovic sat next to him. There was a silence, but not an unpleasant one.

‘I would like to say I’m surprised, Doctor,’ said Reinhardt, at last. ‘But somehow, I’m not.’

‘No?’ asked Begovic as he poured. ‘A shame. I do so like surprises.’ There was a hint of a smile in his voice as he handed him a cup. He took one for himself and leaned back in the divan. He watched Reinhardt as he took a sip, then another. ‘I find myself in something of a bind, Captain. I have something that I think may be of use and interest to you, but I am not, as you may be starting to understand, commonly in the business of making the lives of you and your colleagues easy.’ Reinhardt watched him, letting him talk. ‘Those with whom I work are also of the same opinion. They don’t like my talking with you.’ He looked at the man who had led Reinhardt here as he walked slowly across the room and through a door that he shut behind him. The other man stood quietly by the door, his machine pistol slanted across his chest.

‘So why are you?’ asked Reinhardt, fastening onto the opening the doctor left.

‘Why indeed?’ murmured Begovic as he sipped from his cup. He wrinkled his nose, pushed his glasses a bit farther up, and looked out at the garden. ‘Why do we always do things that don’t seem to make perfect sense, Captain? There’s never any rhyme or reason to it. Maybe it feels right at the time? We hear a small voice – our conscience, perhaps – telling us it’s the right thing to do? Let’s just say you were kind and considerate, Captain, not least of all to me. You were kind when that is the last thing someone like you needs to be. You were considerate when you didn’t have to be. You tried to do your best in this investigation. It was no fault of yours things turned out the way they did. And word reaches us. Of Captain Reinhardt, of the Abwehr. A tricky interrogator. A tough man, but a fair one. I think – and I am not a poor judge of character, Captain – that you are a good man. A good man, in the wrong place. Am I right, do you think?’

Begovic looked away, letting his eyes rest elsewhere. Perhaps he had seen the sudden rush of blood to Reinhardt’s face, the wet sting in his eyes. Reinhardt felt ridiculous, reacting the way he did, but it had been a long time since anyone, least of all a Partisan, had called him a good man. ‘Why am I here, Doctor?’

‘I think you need help, Captain,’ Begovic replied. ‘And I am ready to give it to you.’

‘Doctor, not that I’m ungrateful, but someone like you doesn’t help someone like me without hoping to gain from it.’

Begovic gave a small smile. ‘Of course, you are not wrong, shy;Captain. You will hear what my motivations are. In the meantime, though…’ He rose to his feet. ‘Simo!’ he called. A door opened, and the man whom Reinhardt had followed from Bascarsija stepped into the room. He looked at Begovic, then at Reinhardt before stepping aside to allow another man in. The man was heavy, balding. He took a hesitant step, then another, walking slowly up to Reinhardt, moving with a pronounced limp. He looked uncertainly between him and Begovic, fixed Reinhardt with his eyes, and spoke in hesitant, accented German.

‘I am Branko Tomic.’

Reinhardt felt his breath go tight inside him. Begovic invited them all to sit. ‘Branko’s German is not very good, so I will translate for you,’ he said. He said a few words to Tomic, who only nodded, looking back at Reinhardt. He had smooth, shiny skin, which showed a sheen of sweat. He carried a bag, which he placed at his feet as he sat.

Reinhardt looked at this man, whom he knew only from what Jelic had said. One of Vukic’s oldest collaborators, supposedly in Zagreb. The two of them were looking at him, and he did not quite know what to say. He picked up his coffee and sipped. ‘Were you at the house of Marija Vukic on Saturday night?’ He watched Tomic carefully as Begovic repeated his words. The man knew some German, as he gave a small nod before Reinhardt had finished speaking.

‘ Da ,’ said Tomic. ‘Ja sam bio tamo.’ His voice was light for a man of his size.

‘Yes,’ translated Begovic. ‘I was there.’

‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Tomic nodded, looking down, twisting his hands one against the other. He had big hands, meaty, heavy. He looked up finally, his eyes flicking between the two of them. ‘She asked me to come,’ he said, finally. ‘To set up a camera for her. I -’ He stopped as Reinhardt held up his hand.

‘I know about the camera. I found it.’ Tomic looked surprised, taken aback, as if a script he had been planning had been rewritten without his knowing. He looked at Begovic, who looked back expressionlessly. ‘Just tell me what happened that night, please.’

Tomic nodded. ‘If you found the camera, then you know that Marija… she liked to watch herself with her men.’ He looked distant as he talked, as though he spoke of something of which he disapproved, or that embarrassed him. He glanced at Begovic, who had his head down as he translated, his eyes on the floor. ‘That Saturday, I set things up for her. She was very excited. I had seen her that way many times. It worried me. She told me she would make someone pay for the way they had treated her.’

‘You knew who this was?’ asked Reinhardt.

‘Yes. A German officer. General Verhein.’

Reinhardt felt a wave of relief pass through him. ‘How did she know him?’

‘They were lovers in Russia, but he ended it.’

‘Do you know why she would do what she planned that night?’