Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Does he trust you?’ Meissner still had not taken his hand out of his jacket.

Reinhardt thought of that childish interest that Thallberg had taken in his past as a detective. ‘Maybe.’ He thought of the way Thallberg’s mood could change, the way something hard seemed to slide into position behind his face. ‘I don’t know.’ He looked at Freilinger. ‘What was it about? Out there?’

The major hesitated. ‘The police are going to arrest Jelic for Vukic’s murder,’ he said, finally.

‘When?’

‘Now.’

Reinhardt rose to his feet. ‘Sir…’ he began to say to Meissner, but the colonel cut him off.

‘Stay out of it, Reinhardt.’

‘I can’t let that happen.’ He looked at Meissner’s hand under his jacket, at Freilinger’s unbuttoned holster. ‘That boy, Jelic, he has nothing to do with this. And don’t tell me he has to be another sacrifice.’

‘Reinhardt,’ said Meissner, taking his hand out from under his jacket and putting it on his knee.

‘No. Don’t say anything.’ He stood by Freilinger’s desk, but the major still stood between him and the door. He hefted the film case in his hand, then put it carefully on the table. The file, he kept. ‘You have done a lot for me over the years. I can never repay that. But I’ve done a lot for you too. I’ve led men to their deaths for you. I’ve fought for you until I had nothing left to give.’ Freilinger looked at Meissner, who nodded. Freilinger stepped aside. ‘There was a time when I don’t think I would have had to explain something like this to you.’ Meissner’s mouth tightened, as if Reinhardt’s words had struck home with the force of blows. He weakened, as he knew he would. He could not hurt this man to whom he owed so much. ‘I will think about… what you have said, sir. I will be in touch with you.’

Meissner came across the room, slowly, moving like the old man Reinhardt realised he was. Old, worn down. He sighed, then raised his arms and put his hands on Reinhardt’s shoulders. He patted his hands on Reinhardt’s epaulettes and smoothed down the material. ‘I have something for you,’ he said, giving Reinhardt a small package of soft leather. He began to unwrap it, but Meissner put his hand over his. ‘Look at it later.’ He gave a small smile, then pulled Reinhardt to him. ‘You were the best of them,’ he whispered. He pushed Reinhardt away, gently. ‘Do what you have to do.’

Driving through the city’s darkened streets, past blank windows and shadowed doorways, he lost himself once or twice as he tried to find the way back to Jelic’s building. He finally found it, recognising it only because of its new construction, its five floors sticking up and out of the rest of the neighbourhood. He drove past the apartment’s entrance, feeling suddenly wary, and parked a little way down the street in front of a rusty truck that sat atop four flattened tyres, the rubber parched and cracked. He switched off the lights and let the engine clatter into silence. He shifted in his seat, looking back down the street and up at Jelic’s apartment. Slits of light were visible through poorly drawn curtains, but no cars. If the police had been and gone, they’d left the lights on.

He lit a cigarette and waited, his fingers tapping the file where it lay on the seat next to him. The curfew was in its second night and it was quiet. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness and his ears to the silence, the shape of the street seemed to emerge from the night, cautiously, as if wary of men’s notice. It felt empty, but it was not. As form coalesced out of the dark, sounds followed. A clink of china. A snatch of conversation. Someone laughed. He knew he was taking a risk. Despite the curfew, he could not stay here long.

He drew deeply on his cigarette, feeling himself calm a little. He thought back to the revelations of the day. Begovic a Partisan. Verhein a Jew. Meissner and Freilinger in the resistance, himself a pawn in a bigger game, and finding something that reminded him of what and who he once was. Something that felt right but on the cusp of being taken away. For the first time in years, he felt some lifting in the fog that had held him tight. Some clarity of purpose, something to aim at, a direction in which to go. He watched the reflected ember of his cigarette flare in the windshield as he drew on it, behind it the planes of his face welling out of the darkness, then back again. His thoughts faded in and out like the light. Was he too lost to himself, and to others? Too wrapped up in this selfish feeling of rediscovering himself, unable to see the big picture anymore? Not able to take this chance to strike a greater blow than he could ever hope to strike alone?

He stiffened as he heard a car. It came up behind him, its lights folding the lines and angles of the street from the dark. It parked in front of Jelic’s building and three men climbed out. There was a hum of conversation; someone drummed his fingers on the roof of the car. There was a squeal of hinges, a dull smack as a door swung closed, then silence.

Reinhardt hesitated with the file, then slipped it under the spare tyre. If the street had felt quiet before, it was nothing compared to what it was like now. He could practically feel the silence, touch it, hear the thoughts of the people in the street as they hoped and prayed the car was not coming for them. His heart pounding, Reinhardt followed them inside, pulling open the door slowly, softly, so the hinges did not squeal. He paused, listening, then walked quickly up the stairs to the second floor. There were lights under only one of the other apartments besides Jelic’s. He listened at the door, hearing the strong sound of voices, the tone forceful, accusatory. Reinhardt’s heart lurched, and not giving himself any time to think about it, he knocked once on the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

Jelic stood against the big desk, his face white and drawn where it was not already swollen and battered. Facing him was Putkovic, his meaty fist bunched in the other man’s shirt. Padelin stood off to one side, hands on hips. Both the policemen looked at him, Putkovic’s face red and florid, Padelin’s flat and expressionless. Two of them but three had got out of the car…

The door was yanked from his hand and slammed shut, and two huge hands like metal bands came down on his elbows and pinned his arms to his sides. He looked up over his shoulder at Bunda. The man was enormous. Up close, the ursine stink of him was almost over shy;powering.

‘What you doing here, Captain?’ asked Putkovic.

Reinhardt swallowed, then turned away from Bunda and his beady little eyes that shone out from under his cavernous brow. ‘I might ask you the same thing.’

‘I’m asking questions.’

‘Very well. I heard you were coming, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t make any mistakes. Again.’

‘You heard?’ repeated Putkovic. He exchanged a look with Padelin, who gave the smallest shrug of his shoulders. Putkovic looked disgusted and muttered something in Serbo-Croat. Reinhardt frowned as he made out several of the words.

‘Becker! You just said Becker,’ said Reinhardt, moving forward against Bunda’s grip. It was like trying to shift a boulder. Putkovic scowled. ‘What has Becker to do with this?’

‘That’s not important.’

‘No,’ agreed Reinhardt, changing tack, watching Putkovic struggle to reassess. The man was dense. Padelin, on the other hand, just watched. ‘No, what’s important is one of your men has his hands on a German officer.’

Putkovic grunted. ‘Yes. Well, badder things have happened. Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you. You are our ally, yes?’ he finished, with clumsy sarcasm.

‘What do you want with him, then?’ Reinhardt asked, looking at Jelic.