Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Did he see Thallberg’s body?’

Freilinger nodded. ‘And he couldn’t tell if the car crash killed him or not. A bottle of slivovitz was found in his vehicle. And there was quite a bit of booze down the front of his jacket. And the corporal’s. Seemed like they’d been having quite the party.’

‘Thallberg drove a motorbike. And he preferred beer to whisky.’

‘Quite. Well, the issue is not so much who killed him – we can probably guess that – but what he might have said before he died. What were you planning?’

‘We were planning on going down to the front. To question Verhein and Stolic.’

‘Then you need to get going. Quickly. If they’ve killed Thallberg, there is every chance they’ll come after you.’

Reinhardt stared back at him. ‘ Now? How can I?’

‘Just do what you planned to do.’

‘Just like that? I mean, I don’t even know where they are.’

‘The 121st is operating south of Foca.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘This is an investigation that needs to end. And I suppose I am taking a chance you might choose to end it in a way advantageous to us.’

‘To the resistance.’ The way Reinhardt said it, it felt furtive, and that was wrong. He remembered the pistol and holstered it. ‘Who told you last night about the police going to arrest Jelic? Was it Becker?’ Freilinger nodded. ‘Why?’

Freilinger shrugged with his mouth as he tapped a mint into his palm. ‘At a guess? He wanted you out of the way while he dealt with Thallberg. I don’t suppose he thought you’d end up assaulting three Sarajevo policemen. Who is Dr Begovic?’

If Reinhardt had not already been wary of what he said around Freilinger, perhaps the question might have thrown him. As it was, he simply shook his head. ‘He is a doctor who sometimes works with the police. Putkovic seems to think he’s also a Partisan. And that I’m helping him in some way or another.’

‘Are you?’

‘Not so far as I can ascertain, no,’ lied Reinhardt, his mind focused on something else.

‘Is he helping you?’

‘Yes,’ Reinhardt said after a moment. ‘He gave me the film. You have not been completely honest with me, sir. You told me of the police going to arrest Jelic. You didn’t have to do that. What did you stand to gain by having me out of the way last night?’

Freilinger gave a small, tight smile. ‘One can be too devious, shy;Reinhardt. I should not have told you, but… I did. Just say,’ he swallowed, ‘that the discussion you had with Meissner moved me. And at the risk of sounding pretentious, you were perhaps due a little action. You have been doing an awful lot of thinking these past couple of days.’

‘So you think I should leave?’

‘Now. Otherwise I am not sure what Becker might do. I don’t think you can do much against him and the police together.’

Reinhardt sat on his bed. He looked around the room. ‘I’ve not had the time to arrange anything.’

‘No need. Claussen is downstairs with your vehicle and supplies.’

‘Claussen?’

‘I asked him if he would go with you. He said yes.’ Reinhardt gave a little laugh, feeling like flotsam, that the current of events was leaving him no choice, even if… even if this was what had been planned. ‘Reinhardt, you need to decide now. You were told to stop this investigation, and you didn’t. You are accused by the Sarajevo police of aiding and abetting the Partisans. Becker will come for you if you stay, and you have, if I may put it bluntly, no friends strong enough to cover for you. You are going to be in real trouble here, and I can’t deny you’re likely to get yourself in trouble if you leave. But if you get going, I can cover your tracks for a while, and you may be able to outrun any word he sends and’ – he paused – ‘who knows how things might end up turning out.’

It was more the way Freilinger spoke – that hoarse rasp – as he outlined the odds stacked against Reinhardt than the odds themselves that decided him. Reinhardt nodded and rose to his feet. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you downstairs. And, sir?’ Freilinger paused at the door. ‘Thank you.’

Reinhardt took a moment to wash his face, make his ablutions, and thought back to the way this had all started, just like this, just three days ago. A knock at the door in the early morning. News that turned your life on its head. He was not the same man now. He felt calmer, more centreed, more at peace with himself than he had felt in a long while. For all he seemed to have dug himself a hole, he felt he could now see further than he could for a long time, and for all that the days had seemed to draw themselves out interminably, he felt events now accelerating past the point where he could control them, even if he had wanted to.

He packed a few things in a rucksack – a change of clothes, his toiletry bag, then the file. He slipped Carolin’s picture from its frame and folded it into his tunic pocket, noting the wear and tear on his uniform, the whisper of threads at the end of the embroidered eagle. Looking around the room, he saw nothing else to take, and, if he was honest, his chances of coming back were slim.

Downstairs, Freilinger was waiting next to a kubelwagen that had been kitted out for a mission. A spare tyre with a rope coiled around it was fixed to the front deck, shovels and cans of water were strapped to the sides, and a pair of MP 40s were racked behind the front seats. Claussen stood arranging supplies on the rear bench. Reinhardt walked up to him, then offered his hand. Claussen took it.

‘Sergeant,’ Reinhardt said. ‘I am… happy that you are coming.’ Claussen just nodded, handed over a helmet with a set of goggles attached, and put his rucksack into the car.

Freilinger handed over a sheaf of fuel coupons. ‘Which way will you go?’

‘The eastern road, through Rogatica. It’s a bit less travelled than the southern route. It’ll be quicker.’

Freilinger nodded. ‘I’ll try to put it about subtly that you took the road south through Trnovo, then.’ He seemed to hesitate, then extended his hand. ‘Good luck, Reinhardt.’ He thought a moment, his lips tight. ‘I am sorry we didn’t trust you sooner with what we knew and suspected.’

Reinhardt took his hand, remembering the conversation with Meissner. ‘Sir. When did it begin for you?’

‘Resistance?’ Reinhardt nodded. Freilinger held his eyes. ‘Kragujevac,’ he said, simply, and nothing more was needed. Freilinger gripped Reinhardt’s hand hard, and then he was gone.

As they drove out of the barracks, the sky was still dark and dotted with stars, but the tops of the hills on either side of the valley were silky with the coming dawn. Turning right at Vijecnica, they drove up past the old stone span of the Goat Bridge – for centuries the point that marked the beginning of the long, long road to Constantinople – climbing up and around the rocky flanks of the mountains that channelled the river into the city, into the rising sun, until up ahead they saw a sandbagged checkpoint at the crossing where the road forked. Straight on and up, to Bare and Stambulcic, or left, deeper into the mountains, towards Rogatica in its valley, towards Gorazde and Foca on the banks of the Drina, towards the far-flung slopes of Mount Sutjeska, where Operation Schwarz was now under way.

Various signs were posted at the checkpoint, including the by now standard one for Berlin (1,030 kilometres, apparently) and one for vehicles to stop and check in. A Feldgendarme corporal put down his cup of coffee next to the barrel of the heavy machine gun covering the road and saluted Reinhardt, casting a bleary eye over the vehicle.

‘Corporal. How are things ahead?’ asked Reinhardt, lifting the goggles.