Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

no end.

When he typed those regular- as- clockwork weekly letters he

found less and less to say. There was less and less of him to connect with them. He was not sure whether he could aspire to a life of

obscure rural service; or whether it could now match his visions.

2

The house they sought was in Marsiliusstrasse, near the Jannowitz-

brücke station and the River Spree. It lay just inside the Russian

sector. They had considered making a quick covert incursion to lift their man, but that would have meant also crossing the American

sector and the Americans had said they could not afford yet another rupture of already poor relations for such a small gain. They decided to chance their arm at the Allied Control Council in Schöneberg, in the south of the American sector, where the occupying forces

administered issues that crossed the physical boundaries between

them.

They had spent two days in the broad halls, powerless, smoking

and waiting while the bureaucrats discussed and mediated their

request. There was no solid precedent to fall back on: at first the Russians wanted Müller for themselves, then acknowledged that

since the crimes had all been committed in what was now the Brit-

ish zone and that the British held all the evidence, they might have to cede to them. The British, as politely as they could, indicated that they would not be prepared to serve up the results of their findings, or their witnesses, to a Russian judicial process. The Russians questioned whether a judicial process was strictly necessary. The British and the Americans reeled back theatrically. Then the Russians

decided after all that Herr Müller was small beer.

It had been that much simpler back in Vienna, though not

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without its arm- wrestles. At least if one was persistent enough there was the chance that reason might prevail in the end. And you could

tell the Soviets didn’t really have their hearts in it. But Berlin was important to them. While they might be prepared to let Vienna drift back to its complacent stolidity, the price, tacitly at least, was Berlin.

So every battle here was to the death, and rational thinking played little part.

Finally, a compromise was reached. The Russians would accede

to an arrest by the British but would not allow a British armed support team in their sector. Barnes, the major allotted to their case, had warned them of this likelihood and the associated dangers.

‘Language is the least of it. The Russkies’ll be sloppy. There’s no discipline in their ranks and they detest officers and foreigners. They won’t look after you or your interpreter.’

Roy shrugged. ‘I appreciate your concern, sir, but it’s a routine

lift. We’ve done it dozens of times.’

Nor was he concerned that the Russians would not permit them

to wear uniform or to carry arms. ‘There’s no reason to believe

Müller will be armed and I want this as low- key as possible. We’ll snaffle him before he knows anything. I don’t want a squad of

troops bursting into the place.’

‘On your own head be it, then,’ said Barnes sniffily, before signing the necessary papers and washing his hands of the operation.

So here they were, sitting in the gloomy office just off Alexander-

platz, waiting for Karovsky, the irritable Red Army captain, to

authorize their plan. Karovsky smoked a foul- smelling Russian papi-rosi cigarette, having curtly refused Roy’s offer of American. He leaned back in his seat and again scanned the order from the Control Council, as though he thought its contents might change on a

third reading.

‘British Military Intelligence,’ he read in a cracked accent, and

laughed. He signalled to his interpreter, who shambled over from

his desk. Through him, he said, smiling, ‘I like you people. The

strangest people, but I like you. We are your enemies. You once had an empire. You like to pretend you’re still important. We liberated 152

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Berlin and now you wish to come on to my streets to undertake one

of your trivial arrests.’

‘Hardly trivial,’ said Roy equably. ‘The man we’re trying to arrest was an administrator at Bergen- Belsen.’

After the time lapse imposed by the translation, Karovsky waved

Roy’s statement away. ‘Germany’s full of war criminals, minor

and major. Perhaps all Germans who are in denial about their

nation’s crimes are criminals. I don’t know. Why should I choose to help you?’ He spread his hands wide in a gesture of ignorant

supplication.

‘Because you have in front of you a direct order from the Control

Council, perhaps?’

Karovsky grinned. ‘You’ve recently been in Vienna?’ He had

clearly done his homework, despite his apparent casualness. ‘Yes,

I’ve heard things are marvellous there. Order is being restored

quickly so that the Austrians can get back to their blissful ignorance, their waltzes and their Sachertorte . Relations between the Powers are marvellous.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘But Berlin is a different

place. Vienna, we don’t really care any more. But don’t imagine you have a free rein in Berlin. As to the Control Council, it comes out daily with its absurd demands and decrees. I ignore them as I see fit.

With the full support of my senior officers. So whether you may

conduct your petty operation is up to me. Not this piece of paper.’

He pushed the order across the desk, waited for the translation,

then grinned. Roy looked at Hans briefly.

‘Well, if that’s your final word . . .’

‘I didn’t say no. But if you do proceed it will be on my terms.

None of your British uniforms. And I will wish to interview the

prisoner myself. Just to double- check that you English aren’t trying to deceive us. Again.’

‘All right,’ said Roy. ‘As long as I’m present. Perhaps if you’ll allow us simply to do a recce of the address today, we can discuss the op tomorrow. We don’t need your help. We’ll just have a look at the

address from the outside.’

‘You think you don’t need our help. But I insist. You can take

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three men with you. They’ll keep out of sight. You’re not carrying

weapons, I take it?’

‘No. Would you care to search us?’ said Roy lightly in response to

the other’s sceptical look. A calculated risk: a body search of an English officer would cause a hullabaloo at the Control Council, and

both men knew it.

‘Thank you. No.’

3

They were grateful for the unseasonable cool, which provided the pretext for their greatcoats with their capacious pockets containing

contraband for smoothing the path and an illicit weapon in case things did not go to plan. Their suits were ridiculous. They had been provided by the Russians, looted no doubt from some low- end tailor’s shop. Courtnay and Taub had travelled from Hannover by train in uniform, carrying only their coats, wash kits and a change of underwear.

The suits were several sizes too small, forcing a rolling gait on them so tight were they around the thighs, and the jacket buttons strained to hold. They looked like clowns. Roy had the sense that this was an

indignity forced on them by Karovsky for his own amusement. He,

with the seniority of rank, had at least been able to bag the blue serge.

Hans’s grey chalk- stripe was a good four inches too short in the leg, showing his boots to bad effect. He looked simply absurd, though in this devastated city the comic was largely absent or unnoticed. They were at least grateful that they had been able to find hats that fitted more or less. And they could now pose as civilian police.