The War in the Dark

by Nick Setchfield

  They exited on the third floor. A curve of corridor led them to the restaurant entrance. The maître d’ welcomed them with an expert blend of attentiveness and disdain.

  ‘You are Herr Unterbrink’s guests? Please, follow me.’

  He led them inside, through a towering set of doors decorated with embossed horses. The restaurant was vast, easily as big as the lobby, an ocean of white cloth and silver cutlery beneath a sprawling fresco of summer skies. Marble columns rose from floor to ceiling. It was surprisingly dim in the room, despite the chandeliers that hung like ornate anchors. The wattage of the lamps was low and thick velvet curtains obscured many of the windows, restricting the light from outside.

  A quartet was playing. Winter couldn’t place the piece – something by Handel? – but the strings sounded half-hearted, as if the players weren’t entirely enjoying themselves.

  The maître d’ walked them through the tables. There were only a handful of diners, either businessmen and their mistresses or old, awkward couples, resenting one another over silent spoonfuls of soup. Winter noticed that they had all taken the tables on the outermost orbit of the dining area.

  A smell hit his nostrils. At first he thought it must be food, some pungent mix of aromas drifting from the kitchen. But it was far from appetising. And it became more pronounced the deeper they walked into the dining area.

  A man sat at a far table, alone in the shadows. The ring of empty tables that surrounded him made him seem even more solitary, framing his isolation. As Winter approached his table he realised that this man was the source of the smell. It slunk from him like the stench of drains.

  He was an improbable presence in the gilded surroundings, dressed in a suit that wasn’t just shabby but dirty, stained with patches of grime and food spills of indeterminate age and origin. The jacket was ragged, its buttons chipped or missing entirely. The fabric trailed snags of wool and the fraying pockets hung from their seams. His shirt-cuffs were the colour of rust.

  He was wearing gloves despite the fact that he was indoors. They were a grubby pair of knitted mittens and his fingers protruded through them like worms poking out of soil. The man’s nails were dark with dirt and dried blood, a contrast to the immaculate cutlery he held in his hands.

  So this was Unterbrink. The richest man in Berlin, Karina had claimed. More like the richest vagrant, thought Winter. And to think that he had been fretting about the state of his shoes.

  The man must have been in his late fifties, possibly older. His hair was a tangle of greasy black fronds while his skin was the shade and very nearly the texture of curdled milk. It clearly wasn’t a face that had known daylight terribly well. It spoke of a lifetime of windowless rooms.

  The maître d’ bowed, sharply. ‘Herr Unterbrink. Your guests.’

  For a moment it seemed that Unterbrink hadn’t heard the words, or had chosen to ignore them. He continued to eat, taking another slice of goose liver from the terrine in front of him. And then he looked up, his eyes contracting, almost mole-like, as if wary of anybody that might bring in the outside world and disturb his carefully calibrated gloom.

  He nodded an acknowledgement with a minimal tilt of the head, determined to savour his food.

  Karina took a chair, dismissing the maître d’s attempt to seat her. She held on to her bag, placing it upon her lap. ‘Guten Tag,’ she said. Winter took the seat next to her, waving away the maître d’s offer of a menu. He had to force himself not to flinch at Unterbrink’s odour.

  ‘Fräulein Fabre,’ grunted the German, with no warmth to the greeting. ‘It has been some years.’

  Fabre? Another identity, no doubt. Just how many did this woman have?

  ‘I very much appreciate you meeting us like this,’ said Karina. There was a French inflection to her voice now, all trace of Eastern European accent erased, the very rhythm of her words subtly altered. She was good, thought Winter, grudgingly.

  ‘As you know I rarely engage in these matters directly,’ said Unterbrink. A portion of goose liver tumbled from his fork and made a fresh smear of grease on his suit. He casually snatched it from his lapel and lobbed it into his mouth. ‘Your proposal, however, was compelling.’

  ‘It’s really not one I made lightly,’ said Karina.

  ‘I should trust not. It’s a remarkable offer.’

  Unterbrink finished eating and tossed his cutlery onto the plate. It landed in a haphazard clutter, defying restaurant etiquette with the assurance of the very rich. He pushed the plate away from him, drained a glass of brandy and then reached inside his threadbare suit. He pulled out a slim rectangular box of gleaming brown and gold. It was a tortoiseshell cigarette case, a bird of prey chiselled upon its surface. He held it in a way that told them he wanted the object to be admired, not touched.

  ‘1862. The work of Ernest Keep. The shell is hawksbill sea turtle and the eyes are mother of pearl. Commissioned to commemorate Von Bismarck’s appointment as Minister President of Prussia. Five cases were made. Two survive. Naturally I also have the other. Would you care for a smoke?’

  He flipped the case open, revealing a neat parade of cigarettes, each one decorated with a tiny ribbon of red silk.

  Winter smiled, dryly. ‘I take it your cigarettes aren’t a century old too?’

  Unterbrink blinked and turned to Karina. ‘Who exactly is this man?’

  ‘As I told Herr Beltz, he’s my associate. You can trust him.’

  ‘I would prefer not to be placed in that position.’

  Karina leaned forward in her stiff-backed chair. She spoke softly. ‘He’s with me. Or our deal is off.’

  Unterbrink snapped the case shut and returned it to his pocket. Disdain crawled on his face.

  ‘Please, Fräulein. Our desires are well matched. You want what I possess and I want what you possess. We are in no position to bargain or threaten one another. But you can understand that I’m curious. I have always known you to work alone. Is he also with the Order of Leaves? I thought you were the last of them.’

  Karina kept her face expressionless. ‘He’s with me, Herr Unterbrink.’

  ‘We’re partners,’ said Winter, with a pointed look at Karina. ‘A team.’

  Karina buried a murderous glint. ‘We are associates.’

  ‘Associates. Very well. You have the item with you?’ There was a tremor of anticipation in Unterbrink’s voice, something very nearly lustful.

  ‘I do.’

  Karina unbuckled her bag. These past few days Winter had begun to imagine it was welded to her body. He watched her reach inside it and remove something wrapped in smoke-grey tissue. Slowly, carefully, she lifted the object out of the bag’s grasp. It had the unmistakable shape of a bottle. The tissue fell away to the table.

  ‘My god,’ said Unterbrink, with a sharp, astonished breath. ‘Unglaublich!’

  It was indeed a bottle. A bottle of wine, and clearly one that was exceptionally old. There were no markings upon it, no trace of manufacturer’s labels. The bottle’s curves were imperfect, slightly uneven, obviously crafted by hand. There was a weathered, crumbling cork jammed into the top of it. The glass itself was olive-dark but it shone in the gloom of the restaurant, as if it had the power to find and magnify any available light.

  At first Winter assumed the bottle was empty. But then, as it turned in Karina’s hands, he saw a tiny ripple of liquid run the length of the glass, like a raindrop on a window.

  ‘May I hold it?’ said Unterbrink. There was reverence in his voice.

  Karina handed it across the table. He held it almost hesitantly, as if afraid it might shatter in his grasp at any second. ‘The provenance is assured?’ he asked, unable to take his gaze from the object.

  ‘Of course,’ said Karina. ‘Taken from the Church of Saint John, the Hermit of Pskov, when the Bolsheviks seized the land. It’s been in safekeeping since 1917.’

  ‘I had heard the speculation, of course. Every collector has. I never dreamed it could be so real. So utterly precious.’ />
  Unterbrink let the bead of liquid tip its way back to the bottom of the bottle. And then he spoke, very quietly.

  ‘And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there,’ he intoned, almost to himself. ‘And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, they have no wine.’

  The bottle turned and shimmered.

  ‘The ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine and knew not whence it was. But the servants which drew the water knew.’

  Winter glanced at Karina, incredulous. She met his gaze with a look that told him to simply accept this moment and say nothing. He looked back at Unterbrink.

  The German had brought the bottle close to his face. His tiny, crumpled eyes were watering as he peered into its depths, through the shadows in the glass.

  ‘By God,’ he whispered, as the bottle glinted and gleamed. ‘The most desired vintage in history.’

  ‘I imagined you would be pleased,’ said Karina. ‘I know how long the Reliquarists have been seeking this piece.’

  ‘All my life,’ said Unterbrink. ‘I only wish there was more of my life left in which I might savour it.’

  ‘You’re one of the only men alive who will savour it, Herr Unterbrink. Why do you need to count the days?’

  Unterbrink nodded. ‘Such a thought is always a comfort to me, Fräulein Fabre.’

  ‘So we have a deal, then?’

  ‘We do.’

  Unterbrink seemed reluctant to hand the bottle back to Karina. For a moment he clung to it, almost protectively. And then, because he had to, he passed it back across the table. His eyes stayed upon it, watching as it was wrapped in tissue once more and returned to the bag on Karina’s lap.

  ‘I’m curious,’ he said, as Karina buckled the bag. ‘The object I’m trading is an item of immense rarity, of course, and one that many others have sought over the years. I’m well aware of its market value and I’m willing to make an exchange. But you and I both know that it’s not… well, it is hardly the contents of that bottle, is it? Why would you even make such a trade?’

  Karina answered him levelly. ‘Because you have it. And I want it. It’s really that simple.’

  Unterbrink considered this. And then he gave a brittle little laugh. ‘Very good. Your philosophy echoes my own, Fräulein Fabre. I believe we can do business.’

  He took a battered leather wallet from his jacket pocket. He prised a card from its folds and handed it to Karina. It bore the words ‘Die Wendeltreppe’ and a small but elegantly executed illustration of a spiral staircase, black ink on gold. There was an address, too: 49 Falke Spur, off Potsdamer Platz. That was the furthest edge of West Berlin, Winter knew. Close to the Wall.

  ‘Be there this evening. Say six? Herr Beltz will be in attendance. We shall trade, you and I.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure,’ said Karina. She rose and Winter stood up too. The other diners in the room immediately focused on their meals.

  Unterbrink reached for the crisp white napkin placed on the table. It was rolled in a silver ring decorated with a bulbous fish. He used it to dab at his mouth, staining the cloth. ‘One last thing,’ he said, between dabs. ‘This city has eyes. Perhaps the keenest eyes in Europe. I am aware that your arrival in Berlin has not been unobserved. You would do well to ensure absolute discretion in these matters. I have no wish for the Stasi to involve themselves with my business.’

  Karina nodded. ‘You have my assurance, Herr Unterbrink. Absolute discretion. And should I need to kill them, I will be absolutely discreet, I promise.’

  Unterbrink stared at her, unsure if she was serious. And then, taking it as some kind of dark joke, he laughed again. ‘Drollig,’ he said. ‘Sehr drollig.’

  Winter and Karina walked through the half-lit dining room, aware of conversations stopping at tables as they passed, cutlery hovering in people’s hands. The maître d’ met them at the door. There was a small bottle of cologne in his hand. He fussed at them with a jasmine-scented mist.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Herr Unterbrink is a valued patron but like so many wealthy men he has his eccentricities. I trust you shall not judge the Fabelhaft unfavourably.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Winter, bristling at the liberal application of cologne. ‘In England we call them the stinking rich.’

  The maître d’ regarded him blankly.

  This time they took the stairs to the lobby. Karina walked ahead of Winter, her hand on the ivory banister.

  Winter kept his voice low, for all that they were alone in the stairwell. ‘So am I really supposed to accept that was the wine of Christ?’

  Karina shrugged. He didn’t have to see her expression; he could sense the dismissive chill.

  ‘Accept what you wish,’ she said. The Eastern European accent was back.

  ‘And the Reliquarists,’ he continued, turning on the stairs to follow her. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘You’ll meet them soon enough.’

  Winter found himself irritated all over again by her aversion to straight answers. ‘Unterbrink mentioned something else,’ he continued, as they came to the last stack of stairs. ‘The Order of Leaves. He said you were one of them. The last of them. What did he mean by that?’

  Karina fell into silence. She strode into the broad expanse of the lobby, Winter behind her, matching her pace.

  ‘Tell me,’ he insisted. ‘I need to know.’

  She stopped and turned. ‘No,’ she told him. ‘You do not need to know. You want to know. You must realise there’s a difference.’

  Winter examined the defiant tilt of her face. When he spoke his voice was calm.

  ‘Karina,’ he said, ‘whatever it is you’re after, whatever you’re chasing, there will come a point when I’m going to do my job and take it from you. You realise that, right?’

  Her gaze was equally cool. ‘I will take your life before that, Christopher.’

  She pushed through the revolving doors and out into the wet street, raising a hand to hail a taxi from the rainy blur of traffic. With a choice curse Winter followed her.

  20

  The night gave ghosts to Potsdamer Platz.

  Once, Winter knew, this had been Europe’s busiest, liveliest plaza, a bright throng of shops and theatres, raucous beer palaces and stately dance halls. The Nazis had rallied here in torchlit swarms, hoisting swastikas, spellbound by Hitler. The Führer’s speeches had echoed among its streets, loud and mad and violent. Napoleon, too, had marched through the majestic boulevard of Unter den Linden, less than half a mile to the north, parading beneath the chariot of the goddess of victory, claiming it for his own.

  It was a place of weeds and wire now, barren in the moonlight.

  This was a no-man’s-land, a desolate expanse, blasted to the ground by war. The great churches of the Französischer Dom and Deutscher Dom still stood in the Gendarmenmarkt but they were shells, bombed-out husks. The Reichstag, once the seat of the German parliament, a baroque symbol of permanence and power, had been gutted by fire. The shattered building was ringed by wild grass and sickly trees, abandoned now, like a thing left to die.

  The Wall separated the ruins of the Reichstag from the Brandenburg Gate, halting the grand sweep of the road. The great slab of whitewashed concrete rose against the sky, crowned by guard towers and gun emplacements. It wasn’t quite as tall as Winter had always imagined – fifteen foot at most – but its unrelenting monotony was every bit as oppressive.

  The Wall wasn’t the only barrier to freedom, just the most obvious one. A quarrel of barbed wire marked the approach to the Todesstreifen – the death strip, they called it – while angular tusks of steel had been hammered into the ground, acting as tank traps. They looked like a graveyard of toppled crosses. Landmines waited beyond.

  This was the city’s greatest scar and it was still raw. It scored through the very heart of Berlin, marked by the red and white stripes of the checkpoints, the black and white stripes of the crossings. Winter could j
ust about read the propaganda posters on the other side. He couldn’t translate every word but they were clearly exhortations to the glory and the purity of communist rule. Die Einheit macht stark. Die Macht des Volkes.

  The eastern side of the divide was conspicuously emptier than the western half. Many of the buildings ravaged by war had recently been razed, allowing the sentries in the watchtowers a cleaner line of fire – handy when you were shooting potential escapees. The buildings that remained were husks, their windows vacant frames. They shared the Soviet half of the city with newly erected blocks of housing, drably functional in design. There were washing lines strung between the towers, the cords glinting as they caught the searchlights.

  The western side of Berlin had suffered just as much damage but it had chosen to preserve its survivors. A defiant corner of the Hotel Esplanade still stood on the wasteland. There were a handful of shops, too, incongruous among the rubble. But Winter knew there was no illusion of normal life in this place. It was a tripwire landscape, nervy and tense. This was the blade edge of the Cold War.

  A church tower bell tolled across the city, deep and heavy.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Karina. ‘Let’s go.’

  They had positioned themselves in the shadows beneath the rail line but the area was too exposed for them to imagine they hadn’t been seen. Winter had watched the border guards as they moved in the towers. He had seen them raise their binoculars, scrutinising the dusk as it turned into darkness. Simple routine? Or genuine suspicion? He couldn’t be sure but it was all too easy to imagine his face in the sights of their rifles. True, they were in the western sector and free to go where they wished but Winter remembered the Stasi agents in the market. The KGB had to know that he and Karina were here in Berlin. It would be stupid to take chances. And besides, he had a professional affinity for the shadows.