Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Ascher seemed to erupt in front of him, his eyes flat. ‘So just what are you planning on doing, Captain?’

‘I’m hopeful General Verhein will be able to help me with my inquiries into the death of Marija Vukic.’

Ascher shook his head slightly. ‘That’s what you want, not what you’re planning. What you’re planning is proving the general had anything to do with that woman. You’re going to try to blame him for her death.’ Reinhardt shook his head, tried to speak, but it was clear Ascher was not listening. ‘And what you’ll end up doing is not only sullying the name of a fine soldier, you will impair the operational effectiveness of this unit. I cannot allow that.’

‘The general seemed willing enough.’

‘The general is always willing. That, if you will permit the remark, is part of his problem. It is my job to ensure that his willingness does not do him more harm than good.’ There was a thud behind him. Reinhardt risked a glance back and saw that the Mongol had shut the Horch’s hood and was staring at him. Turning back, he saw that the two soldiers Ascher had been talking to had appeared. Reinhardt suddenly remembered where he had seen them. At the Feldgendarmerie station in Ilidza. And driving past the cafe where he had sat reading Verhein’s file. The big one had his hand on the strap of his rifle where it hung from his shoulder. His hand was bandaged, Reinhardt noticed. Looking down, he saw the smaller one’s hands were too.

He was surrounded, he realised, by killers. Or those who had participated in its cover-up. He looked at each of them, taking a small step back as he did so. ‘Don’t move, Reinhardt. And keep your hands away from that gun,’ said Ascher. A wash of sour air was all the warning Reinhardt had as the Mongol stepped in close behind him and stripped the MP 40 away, and Reinhardt had not even heard or felt him move.

‘Ah, there you all are! Good! Good!’ Verhein came bustling around the corner of the half-track, and the effect was like a bighearted child charging into a flock of pigeons. Reinhardt felt the Mongol jerk back and away. The two soldiers, Little and Large, flowed to the side, and the colonel started like a little boy caught in the act. If Verhein noticed any of it, he gave no sign. ‘Car fixed, Mamagedov?’

‘Is all fixed, sir. Good all like new,’ the Mongol replied, his German thick with a Russian accent.

Verhein tossed his PPSh into the Horch and looked at Ascher. ‘Demmler’s and Tiel’s boys are moving. I need to get around to Ubben’s. Come on. Everyone in. Ascher. Reinhardt. No, I’ll drive, Ma shy;magedov. I said I’ll drive, stop fussing .’ He crunched his weight into the driver’s seat. ‘He’s a real fusspot. Absolute devil in battle, but an old woman out of it. Aren’t you, Mamagedov? Worse than Ascher.’ The Asian grinned like a child. ‘He’s a Kalmyk, from the Caucasus. Just turned up one day and wouldn’t go home. Reinhardt, sit in the front with me.’ The other two climbed in the back. Little and Large had vanished.

Verhein gunned the Horch’s engine, and the car took off with a spray of earth and dirt. Reinhardt lurched against the car’s movement and shifted in his seat. Glancing backwards, he saw Ascher and Ma shy;magedov staring at him like cats at a mouse hole.

‘You’ve been in the wars a bit, Reinhardt, have you?’

‘General?’

Verhein pointed at his mouth. ‘Someone’s had a go at you? Unless you tripped in the bath?’

‘It’s nothing, sir. Trouble with some Feldgendarmerie on the way down.’ Reinhardt felt the back of his neck tensing, as if feeling the burn of Ascher’s gaze. ‘You should see the other chap.’

Verhein guffawed as he sounded the horn. A file of soldiers stopped and waved as they went past, and the general slowed, leaned out, and slapped a couple of them on the helmet. ‘Good luck, boys. Though with a face like Schaar’s there, you’ll have the Reds running for their mothers’ cracks ’n’ wishing they’d never been born !’ Laughter followed them as the general accelerated again. Glancing back at the soldiers as they passed, Reinhardt saw them smile, saw them lighten, just a little, and he saw the sour, pinched expression on Ascher’s face as he stared at the back of Verhein’s head.

‘So tell me, Reinhardt, what do you know about Schwarz?’

‘Only what they tell us, sir.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you a bit more. Hey , Martinek, how’s that leg?’

‘Fine, sir,’ came the reply from a soldier as they sped by.

‘Schwarz, Reinhardt, will destroy the Partisans. There’s over 117,000 of our lads in this, and we don’t reckon there’s more’n about 20,000 of the Reds. Now’s the time to finish ’em if ever there was.’ He hauled the Horch around a corner, stones and gravel spinning off to the left and down the slope to the river. A file of soldiers leaped to one side as they sped by, the general waving to them. ‘You know why we’re in a bit of a rush, do you?’

‘I’ve an idea, sir.’

‘Course you do, Reinhardt, you’re Abwehr. It’s not a secret the Italians are in a bit of trouble. The Allies look like they’ll be landing there any time and any Italian worth his salt will want to be home for that, not here.’ He braked the car as they squeezed past a pair of trucks unloading soldiers. ‘ Ihgen! Bloody hell, man, why the long face? It’s not my funeral , you know!’

Laughter followed them as Verhein drove on. ‘So we’ve got to try to put an end to the Partisans while we’ve still got the Italians here with us. But it’s not just them. We’ve got to figure that sooner or later, the Allies are going to come through here themselves. So we need this place secure.’ Driving past more soldiers, all of them waving, and calling out ‘Good luck’ as they drove by. Verhein waved back. ‘You don’t need luck , lads. It’s the Partisans need the luck !’ He put both hands back on the wheel, smiling ahead. ‘They’re good lads, all of ’em. The best. And it’s the best job, leading them like this in the field. Wouldn’t you say, Reinhardt?’

‘Haven’t really had the experience you’ve had, sir.’

‘Nonsense, man! That’s a 1914 Cross you’re wearing there. You must’ve led men.’

‘I did, sir.’

‘And?’ Verhein turned the car off the road and up a narrow, rutted track that hauled and bumped its way up the side of the hill.

‘Well, it was more something that needed to be done, rather than anything I enjoyed doing, sir.’

Verhein laughed. ‘I guess that’s where we differ, you and I, Reinhardt. I love it out here. In charge of men. Leading them. There’s no feeling like it. Nothing.’ He cast a glance at Reinhardt as he drove. ‘Why would I want to give that up?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’

‘No?’ Verhein smiled at him, and there was something conspiratorial in it, Reinhardt thought. ‘Short answer is I don’t want to give it up. I don’t want to be anywhere else than here. And speaking of here… Mamagedov, get the bottle ready.’

Verhein braked the car in a burst of dust, took a bottle of champagne from Mamagedov, and jumped out of the car towards a group of soldiers gathered around a half-track in a clearing in the forest. Reinhardt watched as they gathered around him, and he handed the bottle to a soldier who went bright red as Verhein enfolded him in a bear hug. The banter flew, jokes were cracked, hands shaken and shoulders slapped, and over it all that shock of white hair. Despite himself, shy;Reinhardt was drawn to him, to that kind of camaraderie, although God knew he did not want to be, and he could not afford to be. He had known men like Verhein in the first war. Charismatic. Energetic. Liable to leave a slew of bodies in their wake. The last thing he needed was to get distracted by how he felt, or how he thought he ought to feel.