Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

‘No. So we understand. He’s at work?’

‘I’m not sure where he works,’ said König.

‘No, you wouldn’t be,’ said Hans thoughtfully. ‘But it doesn’t

matter. Klaus isn’t due to return shortly?’

‘How should I know? I’m not his mother. But no. I don’t think so.’

‘It’s not important. It was you we wanted to speak to anyway.’

Hans took out a notebook. ‘Can we just begin with one or two

questions about yourself ? You work as a waiter?’

‘That’s right. Zum Goldenen Bären in Karl- Liebknecht Strasse.’

‘And you have a clean criminal record?’

‘You should know that.’

‘We do. But, please.’

‘Yes, a clean criminal record.’

‘No involvement with National Socialism? No work for the Party?

No official work for the National Socialist regime?’

‘Absolutely not. Those scum –’

‘Indeed,’ said Hans sharply. ‘It seems no one ever supported

them. It’s a wonder they ever came to power.’

There was a pause.

‘Coffee, gentlemen?’ said König. ‘I’m afraid all I can get hold of is ersatz.’

Hans softened slightly. ‘I may be able to help.’ He took from his

pocket a small paper packet of real coffee and proffered it to König, who lifted it to his nose and inhaled the aroma with evident

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pleasure. ‘I may be able to find some more in my pockets. Depend-

ing on how things go.’

Roy nodded at him, prompting.

‘And while you’re making the coffee maybe we could have a look

in Herr Müller’s room.’

‘Certainly. This way.’

They were led into a darkened fusty room. Roy clicked the light

switch. There was no power. He drew back the heavy curtains and

sunlight poured through filthy panes. Motes of dust hung in the air like pauses in time. The bed was unmade, the crumpled sheets filthy grey. A small suitcase lay open at its foot.

‘Well then,’ said Hans, and the little man went to the kitchen

with his small bag of coffee.

It was hot in the room. Roy and Hans took off their greatcoats,

piling them on a chair, and surveyed the task ahead. There was little to look at here. The wardrobes had been looted. A quick glance

through the suitcase, under the mattress and under the bed itself.

The sound of a pan clattering came from the kitchen.

‘Keep our friend company,’ said Roy, ‘and carry on pumping

him. This won’t take long. We’ll come back tomorrow with our

pals.’

Hans left the room and Roy began his desultory search. No weap-

ons, as they had assumed. There would be nothing material here.

No clues. There was, after all, no mystery. Grab your man and go

back to base. Back to Hannover in a couple of days, once Müller

was processed. A depressing thought. Where had Taub got to with

that man König?

He heard a plate smash and stood up, stiff and alert. Moving

swiftly and as noiselessly as possible, he pulled the service Webley from his coat pocket as he left the room. He edged down the corridor and could see the light in the kitchen shining through the open door. Drawing closer, he looked through the door jamb. He was

met by a pair of eyes gazing directly at him, wild and afraid.

‘Come in, English,’ said the little man. ‘Careful. Always careful.’

Roy could see Taub kneeling in front of the man, facing the door.

The man was sitting on a chair and had grasped Taub around the

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neck, the edge of a kitchen knife pressing against the skin of his

throat.

‘Careful,’ said the man. He then spoke in German, which Hans

translated breathlessly.

‘He says you must come into the room immediately or he’ll slit

my throat.’

Slowly, Roy worked his way around the door and into the kit-

chen. He held the revolver before him pointing in the direction of

the chair. There was no possibility of a shot. He might well kill

Taub or miss altogether.

‘Ah,’ said Roy as casually as he could. ‘I see. Herr Müller, I

presume.’

The little man did not reply. He whispered and Hans continued

to translate. ‘He says to put the gun down on the floor.’

‘All right. I’m going to do this very slowly. We don’t want any

little accidents, do we now?’

He bent at the knees and placed the weapon carefully on the rut-

ted kitchen floor.

‘The safety catch is on,’ he said, and Taub translated.

Müller spoke again in his feverish whisper. His eyes, wide and

darting, betrayed near panic. This is tricky, thought Roy.

‘He says to slide it over here. And then leave the room.’

‘ Righty- ho.’

He stared into Taub’s eyes. Taub returned the look and his mes-

sage of acknowledgement was clear.

‘All right, then. I’m going to slide the weapon with the bottom of

my foot. Gently does it.’

Taub translated and Roy placed his large boot on the top of the

Webley, pushing it forward with an amount of force he estimated

not quite sufficient to carry it to Müller. The three men watched

intently as the hunk of destructive metal skittered its progress

across the floor. It came to rest about halfway between Roy and the other two men.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘not worked out too well. Would you like me to shift it a bit closer?’ he addressed his question to Müller, and observed him as Taub translated.

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‘No,’ was the angry reply. ‘Just go.’

Roy turned and walked out, peering back through the door jamb.

Müller was evidently working out his next options, none of which

was without risk. To reach down for the gun while keeping Taub

under control with the knife at his neck could prove difficult. To try to leave the apartment without the gun appeared to present even

greater dangers. To attempt to kill Taub with the knife before reaching for the gun would have uncertain consequences.

The universe narrowed to this next sequence of events. Their three

lives hinged on these moments. To Roy, it seemed as if time had slowed and all activity had focused on an inviolable centre: here and now.

Müller had made his choice. Roy watched as he prepared himself

for his next move, taking a deep breath. He was, it seemed, a careful man. This was the cue for Roy to tense his own muscles.

Müller shoved Hans forwards and made a leap for the gun. Roy

judged this a bad move, and rounded the door swiftly, diving towards the same small area of floor. Hans, recovering, attempted to trip

and barge Müller. He stumbled and they found themselves, the

three of them, on a trajectory to the prize. Müller flailed blindly with the knife as he moved, to keep the other men away. But each

would be prepared to take a few slashes to the body to survive this.

They came together, each wild and panicking as he scrabbled

almost comically for his existence. Roy felt he would undoubtedly

win this battle, with his training and his experience, but the little bureaucrat was nimbler and stronger than he had counted on. Hans

became the likely loser, but perhaps Roy could save them both. The

absurd thought occurred to him that whatever happened there

would be the most almighty administrative and political difficulty

afterwards.

They wrestled desperately. Blood spattered as the knife con-

nected with flesh. A loud bang brought a sudden split second of

silence and stillness. Then the revolver boomed again. A longer