Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

They stood by the cathedral, almost in ruins, its cupola a mere

skeleton, and looked over the Spree, in which debris floated and a

filthy grey scum scudded to the banks. They walked down Unter

den Linden, past mounds of rubble that were being diligently

cleared by German workers wearing close to rags. Russian troops

stood chatting and smoking. Huge hammer and sickle flags flew

triumphantly from the ruins of the imposing buildings that lined

the once great avenue. There was no sign of the linden trees.

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Taub looked distraught. ‘This was my city,’ he said. ‘Look what

these people have done to it. You could stroll down this street before all this. Mind you, as long as I can remember it’s always been in

some kind of crisis. Socialists and fascists. Marches and speeches.

Street fights and sabotage. Prosperity and collapse. Poverty and

wealth. Always clashes. Perhaps it was just my family.’

‘Your father involved you in his politics?’

‘Not really. They were both politically engaged.’ The last word

was spoken with bitter emphasis. ‘But my father took me every-

where with him. Politics. This is what you get.’

‘Perhaps it’ll be a more peaceful place in the future.’

‘You don’t believe that. The Russians and your Western powers

will fight over this city and my country forever.’

Such vehemence was not the norm for Hans Taub.

‘We have a job to do,’ Roy reminded him.

‘Yes,’ said Taub, brightening, ‘and I’ve got plans for this evening.

We might go back to that club . . .’

It was all one could do in the circumstances. Block out the horror

with frantic enjoyment and little regard for the consequences.

They had almost reached the Brandenburg Gate, where a huge

portrait of Uncle Joe Stalin, covering most of the pillared structure, smiled down on them. They turned into Wilhelmstrasse and made

their way to Voss Strasse, just to look at the small conical tower and modest doorway that marked where the final days of that horror

had played out. It was here that the bodies, allegedly, had been

burned. The area was guarded by twitchy Russian soldiers, who

approached them brusquely and began shoving Hans. Roy quickly

produced papers from his pocket and the situation calmed some-

what. They walked quickly back to Alexanderplatz for their

rendezvous with their escort and discussed their tactics.

‘Unless we’re very lucky the troops they give us will be hopeless,’

said Roy. ‘More danger to us than help. We’ll try to ditch them as

soon as possible. Or at least get them into the background. Can you work on them?’

‘Assuming one of them speaks a bit of German or English,’ said

Hans.

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‘Good. Now we know that this Müller character is out during the

daytime.’

‘So his wife said. She receives letters from him each week and

that’s what he says. The Russians know nothing about him?’

‘The Russians have no record of him, or of his landlord. The Rus-

sians have no records at all. Or so they say. Let’s just scout round the property and take it from there.’

4

As Roy had predicted, the Russian soldiers allocated to them were

surly and taciturn. Hans managed, barely, to communicate with the

corporal and together the five men, a shambolic crew, trudged

towards the address.

Hans fished in his coat for cigarettes and gave the privates one

pack each and the corporal two, before leaving them at the corner

of Blumenstrasse to joke and curse the English.

The small apartment building looked no more shabby than the

others in the street. This was not saying very much.

Klaus Müller had prevailed on an old school friend, Franz König,

to lend him a room. König was a waiter and worked mainly during

the evenings. Müller had found a job under an assumed name at the

Buildings Department of the Russian authorities. They knew all

this from Müller’s wife, who had proved very cooperative when

faced with the prospect of being prosecuted for assisting the flight of a criminal.

They walked past the building, but this told them nothing. The

front door hung off its hinges and they decided to go inside. The

apartment they were looking for was on the first floor. There was a stench of rotting food, or worse, as they climbed the stairs. Before the war this might have been quite a grand address. The stairs were wide and ornately balustraded. Now, however, it was shabby and

showed the signs of looting when the Russians, less than a year

before, had swept through the area like a plague. Apartment doors

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were smashed in and unrepaired. Every step kicked up clouds of

dust.

Eventually they found a door with a piece of paper roughly

pinned to it. Scrawled capital letters declared curtly that this was the apartment of König.

Roy looked at Hans, who raised his eyebrows.

‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ whispered Roy.

They knew the drill. Initially Hans would do all the talking, to

convey the impression that they were the German police. This

would generally gain them access and put the subject at a kind of

ease. They had obtained Berlin police papers that would pass mus-

ter. Then at an appropriate point they would announce themselves

more fully.

At Roy’s nod, Hans knocked loudly. There was silence, then a

scrabbling inside. Shortly the head of a middle- aged man with a

receding hairline appeared around the door, edged open cautiously.

‘Herr König?’ asked Hans politely.

The man stared at him for a moment, wide- eyed. ‘Yes,’ he said

eventually, slowly, having picked the question over. ‘How may I

help?’

‘Simply a routine inquiry,’ said Hans with a smile, flashing his

police documentation. ‘We’re sorry to bother you.’

The man looked at Roy, who raised his hat slightly by way of

greeting. He regretted it the moment he had done so. He and Hans

had been through this before. I can’t explain, Hans had said, but a German would never do it like that. You’re declaring you’re English as clearly as if you said: how do you do? Just nod briefly, if you have to do anything. But reflex had kicked in again. König didn’t seem to register it.

‘May we come in, please, Herr König?’ asked Hans.

‘Of course,’ said the little man hurriedly. ‘Sorry. What was I

thinking?’ He opened the door and they entered a shabby dwelling.

The wide hallway gave on to what had once been a grand drawing

room but which had been ransacked. Plaster cornices hung peril-

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carpet or rugs. The furniture was gathered at one end of the room:

two sofas and a random collection of dining chairs. Everything was

coated in a thick layer of dust.

König was unshaven and collarless in his shirtsleeves. His eyes

carried the bleariness of a night’s drinking. From the smell of stale sweat, he had evidently not bathed for some time. He looked at

them beseechingly, as if lost.

‘It’s about a guest of yours,’ said Hans.

‘A guest?’ asked König.

‘That’s correct. Klaus Müller?’

‘Ah. Klaus. An old school friend. He’s just staying here a couple of nights or so. I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.’