by David Young
Müller parked in the large parking lot on the opposite side of the dual carriageway street, which looked a little like Halle-Neustadt’s Magistrale. As she searched for a parking space, she kept an eye out for the Citroën CX, with its distinctive French number plates, and sleek shape.
There it is!
She paused the Lada in neutral for a moment, and checked her notebook. The likelihood of there being two French cars, two Citroën CXs in the same parking lot in Magdeburg was virtually non-existent.
She glanced at the registration plate, and the corresponding one in her notes.
153 AAX 17.
It matched.
There was a spare space right next to it, but Müller felt that would be too obvious. She needed some distance.
Instead she found a space almost directly opposite, with a clear view of the car. The problem now, however, was what to do? Should she wait here in the car park until Verbier decided to make a move? Or should she check out the hotel? Try to track him in the building in case wherever he was planning to go next wasn’t in his own car. She noticed that the bus station was opposite the car park, and saw a tram rumble past the hotel. There were several transport possibilities here. If Verbier was heading to Gardelegen, surely he would opt to use the car? It would give him more flexibility once he got there. But he wasn’t necessarily going to Gardelegen. He was a fire prevention expert. Perhaps he had some genuine business in Magdeburg? She would have to risk going into the hotel first. Hopefully her disguise would offer some protection against the prying eyes of the Stasi. As she approached the entrance, she noticed a flower vendor’s stall – an unusual sight in the Republic, but presumably targeting foreign clientele of the hotel, like Verbier. She got out her wallet and handed over a ten mark note for a bouquet.
*
She nervously approached the reception with the flowers.
‘Could you check if Herr Philippe Verbier is in his room, please? I have a delivery for him.’
The receptionist seemed to look down her nose at Müller for a few seconds, without doing anything. It was as though she was sizing Müller up. She probably thinks I’m a prostitute, with this wig and the sunglasses. Then she began to dial an extension number. Müller made sure she watched carefully, memorising the digits the woman dialled as they almost certainly formed the room number, 5106.
The receptionist passed the handset and receiver across. Müller placed the bouquet on the counter, and then took the offered phone.
‘Monsieur Verbier,’ she gushed. ‘I’ve brought some flowers as a gift for you. I’ll leave them at reception.’ Before she handed the phone back, she replaced the receiver – cutting the call before the Frenchman could reply. Müller left the flowers with the receptionist, and then swiftly crossed the lobby, choosing a seat that was partially hidden by an overgrown pot plant.
Without being too obvious, she kept a watch on the reception for a few moments, hiding behind both the plant and a magazine she’d picked up from a nearby coffee table.
About five minutes later, she saw the flowers handed over to a man who she assumed must be Verbier. He picked them up, a confused expression on his face as he failed to find any message attached. Müller could see words exchanged with the receptionist, shrugs of shoulders on both sides of the counter, and then Verbier retreated to wait for the lift back up to his room.
As the lift doors opened, and the man she assumed was Verbier entered, Müller walked quickly from her hiding place and got into the lift behind him. Sure enough, he pressed the button for floor five, and then looked inquiringly at Müller.
‘The same,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘Are you here on business?’
‘Yes,’ said the man. But the key thing for Müller was that it was a surly ‘yes’ tinged with an unmistakeable French accent. This was her man.
‘And are those from your wife?’
The man frowned, nonplussed by this stranger who appeared to be chatting him up in a lift.
‘No.’ He looked a little confused, as he stood back to allow Müller to exit first at the fifth floor. As she scanned the numbers on the room direction sign, working out where room 5106 was, Verbier tapped her lightly on the arm.
He proffered the flowers. ‘Would you like them? I think they were sent to me by mistake. They’ll just be going in the bin.’
‘How kind,’ gushed Müller. ‘They’re lovely.’
Verbier shrugged and started to walk off towards his room.
Müller didn’t know why she did what she did next. It was on impulse. The sort of thing you do, and say, in an instant – and then regret for years afterwards. But the words came out of her mouth nonetheless.
‘If you’re looking for some company, I might be available.’ She wasn’t even sure of the correct form of words a prostitute would use. It was just a ploy to get into his room – to find out if there was any incriminating evidence clearly on show – before she would have made her excuses and left.
Verbier looked at her with an air of faint disgust at first, but his eyes still travelled over her body. He was thinking about it.
‘No. I . . . um . . . I’m very busy at the moment.’
‘No problem,’ smiled Müller as he opened his room door. She tried to look over his shoulder without being obvious about it. But there was little to see other than a partially unpacked suitcase on the bed. ‘If you change your mind, you might find me in the bar later. Bar Juanita. You could buy me a drink . . . to go with the flowers.’
‘Yes . . . erm . . . I don’t think I’ll have time. But thank you. Good day.’ With that he closed the door.
Müller felt she’d put on a good performance and acted the part. But it had been nerve-wracking. Her legs were shaking, her heart pounding. It was the first time she’d ever been face-to-face with a man who she assumed was a murderer, whose work was not yet done, and yet she was powerless to intervene and stop him.
All she could do was watch and wait.
She was about to toss the cellophane-wrapped flowers into the nearest bin, when it suddenly dawned on her what a gift she’d been given when he’d handed her the bouquet. It hadn’t been her plan. The flowers were meant merely as a ruse.
Verbier hadn’t been wearing gloves. His fingerprints had literally been handed to her – by the man himself. Yes, there would be other prints on there. Hers, the flower seller’s, the receptionist’s. But back in the lab, Schmidt would be able to cross-check against prints found in Karl-Marx-Stadt and Leinefelde. Eisenach was more difficult, as only the Stasi knew where the original murder had taken place. And what about Schneider’s murder in the woods near Estedt? She was convinced that was nothing to do with Verbier anyway.
The prints would provide her with enough evidence for an arrest. She took out the spare evidence bag she always carried in her pocket, and – using her handkerchief – carefully sealed the bouquet wrapper inside.
Then she flung the flowers themselves in the bin. They had served their purpose.
*
Müller found a stool at the bar which had a good view of reception. She ordered a coffee, and then prepared for a long wait. She’d picked up the magazine from the coffee table again, although she wouldn’t have a chance to read it. The fashion periodical served two purposes: as something to hide behind to observe the lobby, and as something to discourage would-be suitors or over friendly barflies.
When Verbier finally emerged back on the ground floor, she saw him wander over to reception – presumably so they could guard his key until he returned. She waited a second or two until she followed, allowing time for any Stasi tail – if Verbier had been assigned one – to show themselves. Then she was after him. But when she got out of the front door, she initially couldn’t see him. She thought he might have turned left or right, heading for the bus or train station. But then she spotted him, darting between the traffic, heading for the car park. She quickly followed, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was following her.
On
e thing she hadn’t thought about was whether the Lada was fast enough to keep up with the Citroën. If Verbier’s route lay on the motorway network, Müller doubted it would be, although compared to cars manufactured in the Republic, the Lada was no slouch.
Driving north through Magdeburg, she initially assumed that was where he was heading. But instead of aiming for the motorway junction, he chose a national road signposted to Haldensleben instead.
It was then that Müller knew. He was heading back to the Altmark.
To Gardelegen.
To the scene of the horrific massacre all those years ago.
*
When they reached Gardelegen, Müller tried to hang back in the car a little more. In a built-up area, there was more chance of him regularly checking his rear-view mirror. She might have been spotted already. She’d nearly lost him between Haldensleben and Gardelegen, and in accelerating to catch up had moved in a little too close. She was further back now, but she had a good idea, from the route he was taking, where he was planning to visit. It was the same place he’d made the phone calls to. Apartment 18, Stendaler Strasse 73, the former home of the late Lothar Schneider, and still the home of his widow.
She watched him park the car, approach the apartment block, and ring the entry phone. Someone had let him in. She had no idea whether Frau Schneider was at home and had let him in, or whether it was someone else.
Now she had to make a choice. She could wait here, and make sure she was able to follow the Citroën to Verbier’s next destination, wherever that was. Or she could enter the apartments herself, and try to overhear what was going on – but that was fraught with danger in case he recognised the ‘prostitute’ from Magdeburg, as he surely would, given their close-up conversation outside his hotel room.
Or she could wait until he’d left, and question Frau Schneider or whoever else he’d gone to talk to.
None of the options were satisfactory. She had no real idea what to do.
*
She discounted the idea of going into the apartment block after him – there was too much risk of being spotted.
After about fifteen minutes, her options were narrowed again. Verbier came out, and got back into the Citroën. He started up the car, and began pulling out of the parking spot. Müller fired up the Lada’s engine, but – as she had done in the Hotel International – she waited a couple of seconds before moving off, to check she wasn’t the only interested party following the Frenchman.
This time she wasn’t. She noticed a dark Volvo saloon take off after him. The car was sinister enough. She knew the higher echelons of the Stasi often drove them. But what really sent a flush of adrenalin pulsing through her body was the identity of the driver and passenger she briefly spotted from the corner of her eye.
The driver was Oberst Klaus Jäger; his passenger, her own Hauptmann, Werner Tilsner.
*
Müller followed Jäger’s Volvo, that was in turn following Verbier’s Citroën. It was a procession of murder suspect, secret police, and detectives.
She realised they were taking a secondary road towards the north-west, out of the town limits, along Bismarkerstrasse.
As she drove, she took one hand off the wheel to check her camera was where she normally kept it in the glove compartment. Then she felt under her jacket to make sure the Makarov was in its shoulder holster, even though she knew it was. If Jäger and Tilsner were planning to do Verbier harm – to kill him even, to stop him exposing them – then she would have two choices: to use force to try to stop them and protect her suspected murderer, or use the camera to record what was going on as evidence. She couldn’t do both at once.
They turned right, down a narrow lane, before hanging back slightly. If she turned now, it would be obvious she was following. If she didn’t, she might lose them. Jäger and Tilsner seemed to have no such fears. Perhaps they didn’t care if Verbier realised they were tailing him.
She overshot the turning, then did a U-turn across the road, first checking no other traffic was in her way. Then she turned into the lane. If Jäger and Tilsner saw her turn into the lane in the distance now, then at least they might think that she had come from the other direction – and that therefore she was an innocent member of the public.
The lane swung round to the right, and was fringed by apple trees, laden with fruit. An old woman was collecting some of the apples, using her long skirt as a makeshift basket. Up ahead, Müller could see both Jäger’s and Verbier’s cars parked by what looked like a huge wall made of brick and render, with an arch at its centre. Jäger and Tilsner were exiting the Volvo.
She couldn’t risk going any further. She parked near the apple-picker, making sure the Lada was shielded from view by the tree and a hedge. Then she retrieved the camera from the glove compartment, and started walking towards the walled structure, nodding at the woman on the way.
As she approached, she saw what looked to be Verbier in the centre of the arch. Tilsner seemed to have his neck in an arm-lock, Jäger seemed to be jabbing him with something. Was it a gun?
She had a split second to make a choice. Camera or Makarov?
She levelled the camera, and fired off as many shots as she could.
48
The early hours of 14 April 1945
Gardelegen, Nazi Germany
When I come round, it is night-time. At first, I believe I have died. There is a mass of bodies around and above me, and I’ve collapsed at the bottom against the barn wall. There is a very small gap under the wall. I put my nose up to it and breathe in the fresh air as silently as possible.
I want to go and find Marcellin. I hope against hope that he has survived like me, even though I know in my heart that when he let go of my hand, that was it. He was giving up. Still, I want to find his body, cradle it, mourn for the brother who has been stolen from me by these animals that think of themselves as the master race: a master race that behaves worse than pigs. The stain on their name will never be erased.
I will never rest until I avenge the death of my two brothers. Never.
That thought fires me with new purpose. I try to wriggle free from under the bodies. All of them, I realise, are lifeless. Perhaps the Germans have gone. Perhaps I can escape. Perhaps I can rescue Marcellin’s body, even if it’s too late to save his life.
I still hear the occasional groan and cry. Not everyone is dead. There are other survivors.
Then I freeze. Play dead.
The Nazis are back.
The doors are opened.
In the dim light, I can see smoke escaping from the doors. There’s some fresh air in the choking atmosphere at last.
One of the SS guards is calling out. ‘We have medicines and bandages here to help those who are injured. Please make yourselves known.’
Other guards are shouting the same message. I hear different voices calling out, asking for help. I almost shout out myself, only the confusion of not knowing whether I am injured prevents me. I do not know if the pain in my legs and body is just the weight of dead men on top of me, or if I have actually been wounded in one of the grenade explosions.
That moment of doubt saves my life, at least for now.
Because it’s a trap. Automatic fire breaks out again. I hear the cries of the wounded and dying. I realise they’re aiming at anyone who’s identified themselves as alive. I sense a hail of bullets in my direction, cracking into the masonry above my head, thudding into the bodies above me. They are protecting me.
A wall of human death is preserving my fragile life.
I keep still. Terribly still. Counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours. I know that at some stage, if I can cling on long enough, the Americans will come.
They will see this horror for themselves. They will let history be the judge.
With my limited knowledge of the German language, picked up mostly at Dora, I get the feeling that arguments are breaking out amongst our captors. But still they do their evil work. Now the doors are open, some of them are us
ing pitchforks to skewer the dead and drag their bodies out, treating them as worse than useless carcasses of bad, rotting meat. At one point, I think one of the bodies belongs to Marcellin. I want to cry out, I want to run to him, but I’m not sure. I have a view with just one eye, along the line of the rear wall of the barn to the door.
I couldn’t be sure.
And if it was him, he was dead.
The most pitiful sounds are the cries and appeals of the badly wounded. Some of them speak in languages I don’t understand. Some of the fractured German I don’t understand. But then I hear a voice I understand all too well.
A fellow Frenchman, crying in French.
‘Shoot me, please shoot me,’ he cries. ‘I cannot bear it.’ He screams in agony. I can only assume he is badly burnt. I cannot see him through the pile of bodies.
Then I hear the shot, and his screams are no more.
I find myself drifting in and out of consciousness.
When I wake, I hear more shooting and more cries, and something in me snaps.
I summon up all my remaining energy and finally work myself free.
I crawl towards the door.
I’m just about to try to make a run for it, when a Russian prisoner, naked and covered in soot and burns, walks straight out. I see him grabbed by one of the few remaining German soldiers, forced to kneel by a trench, and shot in the back of the neck.
I’m almost frozen in shock. A Hitler Youth member sees me. He raises his machine pistol. We lock eyes and I realises he is only a young boy. Barely past puberty. Fourteen-years-old, fifteen at most.
I am about to be slaughtered by a young boy.
A young boy whose mind has been perverted by his sadistic rulers of the so-called master race.
Transformed from a boy, into a killing machine.
49
August 1977
Gardelegen
Müller didn’t know what she was expecting to see from her hiding place behind the hedge. There had been some sort of altercation, but no shooting or arrest.