Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And try and clean yourself up, would you?’

Reinhardt felt alone, all of a sudden, flicking his finished cigarette into the bushes. His hand stole into his pocket, fingers running over the Williamson and its inscription. He calmed down a little, becoming aware of movement and activity around him. He saw Tiel heading up into the woods with his men spread out in a line on either side of him. Officers were clustered around Gartner’s half-track, and then the colonel stepped down out of the vehicle, talking to an officer with his back to Reinhardt. He had a bald patch on the back of his head, rather like a tonsure. Gartner spotted Reinhardt over the other officer’s shoulder and said something. The other officer turned.

It was Ascher. He looked at Reinhardt, and his eyes went wide, then flat. He turned back to Gartner, the line of his shoulders stark with his anger. Gartner’s face creased in incomprehension as he listened, and then he straightened, looking accusingly at Reinhardt, then back at Ascher. He shook his head, backing away. ‘No, no,’ Reinhardt heard him say. ‘He’s your problem now, Clemens. You deal with him.’

Ascher walked over to Reinhardt, his jaw clenched, and then looked around, as if searching for someone. ‘You?’ Reinhardt had the presence of mind to come to attention. Not that he was surprised to see Ascher. It was the man’s tone, the way his eyes kept searching behind Reinhardt, then focused on his injuries. He was aware of danger, as if a chasm had opened up right before him. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His eyes strayed away again, as if he could not help himself.

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I’m here to speak with General Verhein.’

‘About what ?’

Reinhardt paused. He had no idea of this man. No idea what made him tick. He only knew he had been one of the officers who had complained to Freilinger about Reinhardt’s behaviour that afternoon in the mess. ‘I’m sure you must know, sir. It’s about the investigation.’

‘What?’

He took a risk. ‘About that woman.’

Ascher’s nose wrinkled. ‘Woman?’

He was buying time, Reinhardt could feel it. ‘Vukic.’

‘ Her?! You were supposed to have dropped this, Captain. As I recall, your superior was given specific instructions.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Reinhardt said, retreating behind a facade of dumb shy;obedience.

‘And… ?’

‘Rescinded, sir,’ lied Reinhardt. ‘I was ordered to proceed.’

‘You cannot be serious, Captain. You wish to persist with this here? Now? ’

‘If I must, sir,’ replied Reinhardt.

‘This is ridiculous , do you hear? We’re about to go into action and this is the moment you choose to come asking your questions about that woman?’

‘I would not say it’s a moment I choose…’

‘Don’t be impertinent , man!’ snarled Ascher.

‘Impertinence?’ came a deep voice behind him. ‘You know what I always say about impertinence, Clemens.’ Reinhardt turned and snapped to attention. Standing there, tall and broad-chested, shock of white hair like a biblical patriarch’s, was General Paul Verhein. He had glittering brown eyes, round and open under bushy white brows, framed and creased in a fine web of wrinkles like laugh lines. He wore a simple uniform, sleeves rolled up over his thick forearms, only his red collar flashes and epaulettes showing his rank. He appraised shy;Reinhardt openly, his eyes flickering over his Iron Cross, his hand, back up to his face. Verhein’s Knight’s Cross hung at his neck, and the Winter Campaign ribbon cut across the front of his tunic next to the black-and-silver badge of the Pour le Merite. A gold close-combat clasp was fixed to his left breast. Somewhat incongruously, hanging at his side, he carried a Russian PPSh submachine gun, its wooden stock burnished to a rich shine.

‘Yes, General,’ replied Ascher, a slight air of suffering in his voice. ‘I know what you say about impertinence.’

‘Is he scolding you, Captain?’ grinned Verhein, still looking at Reinhardt. ‘He’s like a mother hen, always pecking around.’ Ascher’s mouth tightened in a strained smile, as if this were a long-running joke. ‘Would you know, Captain, about impertinence?’

‘I might hazard a guess, sir.’

‘But you would feel impertinent doing so… ?’ Verhein laughed. ‘I believe an impertinent officer will always look beyond the obvious, and more often than not will arrive at a pertinent answer. Impertinence is a quality I value highly, Captain… ?

‘Reinhardt, sir.’

‘Are you an impertinent officer, Reinhardt?’

‘I believe I have been called that, or something similar, at times.’

Verhein laughed again, an open, honest laugh, and Reinhardt found himself smiling back. ‘Of course you are, Captain, else you wouldn’t be here, would you? I know who you are, and I know why you’re here, Reinhardt.’ Verhein’s words wiped the smile from his face. The general’s eyes flicked to Ascher. ‘I had a fairly good idea you’d be turning up. Didn’t I, Clemens?’ The colonel said nothing, his face blank. ‘I’ve a feel for men like you, Reinhardt. Ex-copper, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Coppers can be stubborn sons of bitches. Never give up if they feel they’re in the right. Right?’

‘General, if I may, there is not time for this,’ said Ascher.

‘I think there may well be, Clemens,’ replied Verhein, not taking his eyes off Reinhardt. ‘I think there may have to be…’ He trailed off. ‘I will talk to you, Reinhardt, but not right now. I’ve got to get my boys into action. My car’s up there. You can wait for me. Will you wait for me?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Reinhardt, somewhat taken aback by this man, by his presence, his style. He had met him only a few minutes ago, and he already liked him.

‘Good man,’ exclaimed Verhein, clapping him on the shoulder, then striding off. Officers and men gathered around him as he walked over to the tree line. Faces turned to him, wreathed in smiles, his arms reaching out, bursts of laughter.

‘You’ve got some nerve, Reinhardt.’ Ascher was pale with his anger, the fury coming off him in waves, like something shy;palpable.

‘The general said to wait for him by his car, sir. With your permission?’ He saluted and about-faced, walking past the half-tracks towards an open-sided Horch, feeling Ascher’s eyes on him the whole way. Reinhardt stepped onto the road, looking back down the line of vehicles, and gave a surreptitious wave to Claussen, the sergeant acknowledging him with a raise of his hand off the steering wheel.

The Horch’s hood was up, someone working on the engine. Reinhardt froze, suddenly. That smell, that acrid stink. A soldier stepped out from the front of the car, head down, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He looked up, and Reinhardt clenched his jaw to keep the surprise and, if he was honest, the fear off his face. The soldier had dark, slanted Mongol eyes resting on top of his heavy cheeks, and a cap of thick, black hair. His limbs were short and stocky, his torso thick and round. There was a cigarette like a rolled piece of cardboard in the corner of his mouth, thick as a thumb. Reinhardt felt he might have hidden his recognition, but it was clear the soldier knew who he was as he too froze in place.

‘Didn’t they teach you to salute when you joined up?’ Reinhardt snapped, saying the first thing that came into his head, trying to break the silence before things became too obvious. The soldier came to attention, saluting. Reinhardt returned it, then turned his back on him, ignoring him, feeling as he did it that it was one of the hardest things he had ever done, like exposing his throat for an enemy’s knife. He looked back up the line of vehicles and saw Ascher talking to a pair of soldiers, one small, one large, then begin walking towards him. There was something familiar about them, but he could not place it, could not think, not with that Mongol behind him, and the reek of his papirosa, remembering Frau Hofler and her little dog from what seemed like a lifetime ago.