“I lost it.”
Markworth said nothing. No one said anything, only the translator’s voice fluttering gently, then fading away.
“When did you lose it?” Ganz asked.
“Two days ago.”
“Two days ago?”
Reinhardt clenched his teeth, holding his lips tight against them. “When I went into the Soviet sector the other day, I was attacked by Fischer. I lost it then.”
“I see,” said Ganz, as if he saw anything but. “And were there any witnesses?” Reinhardt shook his head. “Did you report the baton lost?” Reinhardt only shook his head, again.
“A trip into the Soviet sector. An alleged attack. A contact from a known member of Soviet state security.” Markworth’s voice was low and level, but each word struck home as if aimed.
“Given current relations, and given what we told you of Carlsen’s work on the Control Council, we find this very concerning,” said Whelan.
“Given Soviet infiltration of the police and the overwhelming Communist sympathies of its officers, we find it more concerning still,” said Markworth bluntly. Reinhardt watched Whelan as he said it. It was clear that the old Englishman had a rather different sense of how to deliver unpleasant news, but he made no effort to cushion Markworth’s words. If they were not playing “good cop, bad cop,” Reinhardt did not know what their game was.
“Gentlemen, please,” said Neumann, a worried slant to his words and a glance at Bliemeister. “All this talk of influence and infiltration is unnecessary.”
“I think not” was Markworth’s candid response, almost an interruption. “Police command is in Mitte, in the Soviet sector. The chief is a Soviet creature to his fingernails, or do I wrong him? Police officers in the Soviet sector cannot travel to the Western ones and must report any contact with their colleagues here or with Allied officers. Police officers have done little to protect the meetings or premises of non-Communist political parties across the city, especially in East Berlin. Police officers have, conversely, provided protection to Socialist Unity Party meetings,” Markworth continued, referring to the new party the Soviets had created from a merger between the Communists and Social Democrats. “Police officers are overwhelmingly represented in the Party-dominated trade union. Soldiers of the Western Allied nations have at times been harassed by Berlin police officers. Please, correct me if I am wrong? No? Then perhaps you will understand our concern that a Soviet state security officer has taken it upon himself to show an interest into a murder investigation involving a British agent.”
None of what Markworth said was wrong, Reinhardt knew, but it was more the way he said it. His words had an awful weight to them, like a stone rolling downhill, and for a second he shivered as he remembered his dream, that nightmare of a figure of stones broaching the eldritch waters of a blackened lake . . .
“Moreover,” Whelan continued, “you will understand our concern that, having asked for efficiency and a measure of discretion, what we get is expediency and a shambles of an investigation in which the main suspect is dead and the main witness is missing.”
“What did this Soviet officer want, Reinhardt?” asked Tanneberger.
“He wanted to know about my investigation into the murder of Noell.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“What I told you and the councilor. Just the facts.”
“This Russian asked about Noell?” asked Whelan. The big Englishman leaned forward, but Markworth stayed quite still. “He was more interested in Noell?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you?”
“Reinhardt!” snapped Tanneberger, as Neumann’s face tightened up.
“He told me Carlsen was half-German.” The Germans in the room stirred and stilled. “That he was a particular kind of agent.” The translator’s voice hesitated, and she looked to the Englishmen as if for guidance, but if guidance she sought, there was none forthcoming.
“Anything else you would like to tell us?” Markworth’s eyes were stone.
“He told me our relationship is a one-way affair.”
“You will appreciate that this puts you in a difficult position, Reinhardt,” Whelan said, his words labored, as if he regretted being the bearer of bad news, or bad news so plainly spoken. The English, Reinhardt thought. They so loved their equivocations . . .
“No. I don’t see that,” Reinhardt said, his words short and sharp. “What evidence connects me, the baton I lost, and that body?”
“The wounds on Stresemann’s body are particular,” said Markworth. “Not just strike wounds from a baton-type object. There are characteristics to the wounds. Characteristics that would indicate he was struck by an extendable baton. Like yours.”
“That’s supposition. And I didn’t have the only extendable baton in Berlin.”
“They’re rare enough. And you were in Neukölln on Monday, weren’t you?” Markworth asked. The room went chill again. Reinhardt said nothing. “And let’s not forget the Russian,” Markworth said, behind a slow blink of those marble eyes.
“Any member of the occupying forces may contact a member of the police, Mr. Markworth,” Neumann said, primly. “Like now. Should that contact become an occasion to pass on instructions, or become coercive, that would, of course, change the nature of the contact and become a cause for concern.” Markworth swiveled his dead eyes on Neumann, and the chief seemed to clam up.
“Has Professor Endres done an autopsy of Stresemann, sir?” Reinhardt asked Ganz, strangely impelled to take the pressure off Neumann. “Has Berthold seen the body?”
“No,” Ganz answered. “Nothing connects you definitively, Reinhardt. For now. But you will appreciate if we pay a little closer attention to what you are doing. Starting with a daily report, to me.”
“It means your wings are being clipped, Reinhardt.” Markworth’s smile was tight, and there was a tinge to it. A rueful quality, perhaps . . . ? Reinhardt could not be sure he had seen it at all.
“Especially as we’ve received a complaint against you.” This from Whelan. The Englishman’s face was taut. “It seems you have been making unsubstantiated accusations against certain individuals.”
“Can you tell us who made such a complaint?” Bliemeister asked, suddenly and solicitously.
“I’m afraid I cannot,” Whelan replied ponderously, shaking his head enough to set his heavy jowls waggling. “Confidentiality. You know how it is.”
Markworth held Reinhardt’s eyes, and he fancied something glittered in them. A challenge perhaps. A call to provocation.
“Mr. von Vollmer, from whom I believe this complaint has come, is exaggerating certain things,” Reinhardt said. “Nevertheless, I maintain that he and his business have come up several times in my investigation, and will remain part of it for as long as I am permitted to carry it out,” finished Reinhardt, looking first to Bliemeister, then to Neumann, and, finally, back to Markworth. Challenge accepted, he thought.
“Von Vollmer’s in trouble with the Soviets,” said Markworth, the slightest of mocking twists to his lips, but whether the gesture was meant for Reinhardt or Whelan was not clear. “One of his shipments was stopped in the Soviet Zone on its way west. It’s been ‘lost.’ He’s upset. He thinks he’s being hassled because of you.”
“I would like the inspector removed from the Carlsen case,” said Whelan.
“He’s not on the Carlsen case,” said Ganz. Whelan blinked furiously, like a bull brought to bay by some unforeseen obstacle. “Are you saying the two cases are connected?” Ganz tilted his head to one side, and for the first time since he had known him, Reinhardt felt a surge of gratitude for the detective.
“I believe my colleague misspoke,” said Markworth.
“That’s quite a misstatement to make, Mr. Markworth.” Neumann frowned at Ganz, as if surprised to hear such a challenging note.
“I still would l
ike him off the case. Of all the cases that touch upon our affairs,” said Whelan. He sounded stuck, as if mired in something. Neumann looked at Ganz, as if for help, but if help he found, it was not quite what he was looking for. Ganz gave nothing away, sitting heavily in his chair.
“What about you, Assistant Chief?” Markworth asked, looking at Bliemeister. Reinhardt wondered if they were playing a game with Bliemeister, if they had brought him along to add weight to their demands. He was, after all, an appointee of the Allies. He was “theirs,” as Skokov would have said.
“I understand your concerns, gentlemen,” Bliemeister said, finally. “However, as you know, my position does not allow me to interfere in operational matters. Concerning the inquiries into the murders of Noell and Zuleger, and matters pertaining thereto, I cannot in good conscience advise Chief Neumann to withdraw one of his officers from an investigation, given the resources at his disposal.” Reinhardt listened with a grudging measure of respect as Bliemeister droned on. Prevaricating. Tying things up with process and qualifications.
“With all due respect for our working relations and the priority we accord your needs,” Bliemeister continued, somewhat torturously, “I feel that Inspector Reinhardt is qualified to remain in the lead on the inquiries into the deaths of Noell and Zuleger, under the close supervision of Chief Inspector Ganz. I take the breach in protocol that led to his not reporting a contact by a Soviet state security officer seriously, and should new elements come to light regarding his conduct in this case, I shall have no hesitation in suggesting to Chief Neumann, and to Police President Margraff, to review his status as an investigating officer, and indeed, as a member of this police force.” Bliemeister spoke hesitantly, as if testing the ground beneath each word, and he seemed relieved to have reached the end of what he wanted to say without being interrupted.
“Very well,” said Whelan. “However, rest assured that the British authorities will be paying close attention to this as well from now on. I must express our disappointment into the current state of affairs into the inquiries into Carlsen’s murder.”
“Your concern is noted, Mr. Whelan,” Bliemeister said smoothly, as if on firmer ground. He flicked a glance at Ganz, nodding, as if to hand the conversation back.
“I should like for our services to have a look at Stresemann’s body, so as to complete our inquiries,” said Ganz.
“Of course. See to it, James,” Whelan said, in an aside to Markworth, who gave little sign he had heard him.
The meeting broke up, the British taking their leave and Tanneberger escorting them out. Markworth’s eyes lingered on Reinhardt, their flat, marble sheen giving little away. Ganz indicated to Reinhardt he could leave as well, and he returned weak-kneed to his desk, unsure what had just happened. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn, drinking it in a patch of sunlight, before realizing he was not alone, and that a silence had fallen over the squad room.
“Deftly played, Reinhardt,” Markworth congratulated him. The British officer was standing by his desk. It took a moment for Reinhardt to realize Markworth had spoken to him in English, as if on purpose, as if he sought to widen the wedge that already existed between Reinhardt and the other officers. In a corner, Weber sat with Schmidt and Frohnau, watching closely. Reinhardt felt a twist of anger, a sudden uncoiling that came from within, and he knew that the darker side of him had turned over, like something shifting uneasily in its rest, deep inside.
“You seem to think I’m someone I’m not.”
“And what’s that?”
“A player of games. I’m nothing like that.”
“Everyone plays, Reinhardt.”
“Tell me about Carlsen. Tell me more about him than he was just your friend.”
“That’s not enough?”
“Tell me what he was doing in the WASt.”
Markworth blinked, shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“I found his name in the WASt’s records.”
“You were in the WASt?”
“Skokov arranged it.”
Markworth’s face suddenly cracked into a smile. It changed him, made him suddenly someone else. “Bravo, Reinhardt, bravo!” he said. “But I still don’t understand about Carlsen.”
“He was looking at the same things I was. He was making links with Noell and the other murders. Are you still insisting Carlsen’s death was not linked to the others?”
“I . . . I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Markworth seemed surprised, and Reinhardt found the man’s surprise perturbing. Markworth had seemed implacable, a solid presence. He reminded Reinhardt so much of some of the Feldjäegers he had served with. To see him rattled was somehow wrong.
“Was it true what the Russian told me? He was a German?”
Markworth nodded.
“Why would someone want him dead?”
The Englishman’s eyes went flat. But after a moment, life seemed to flow up from somewhere within them, their marble glaze taking on a sheen of warmth. “Just being someone’s friend can sometimes mean a great deal, Reinhardt. I’m guessing someone like you should know that. Let’s just say, he and I went through a lot together. But we differed on one thing. He had hope for Germany. He had hope for Germans. I did not. And I still don’t.”
32
Despite having spent the previous day in the WASt and despite having attended a third crime scene that morning, Reinhardt did not see either Tanneberger or Ganz for the rest of that day, for which he was glad. He felt he had come to a stop and was not sure which way to go, but he knew he would have fought any direction suggested or imposed on him by them.
He waited, the time turning into an hour, then more, and still neither of them came. What was he to do then? What was he to do in a city where the police served four masters, but one of them above the other three? What was he to do when all the signs he had pointed to there being one murderer on the loose? A murderer who knew the city, who could blend into a tenement or into the foyer of an upmarket hotel, who could come into the house where Reinhardt lived. What was he to do when he knew Carlsen had himself been investigating Noell, or at least whatever it was Noell did during that time when his service record had been redacted? What connection was there between a Luftwaffe pilot and a half-German British agent? And what linked them to a Soviet officer who had also gone looking in the same place for the same information?
He did not know how long he might have sat there if he had not received a call from Endres, asking him to come to the morgue. That was enough to trigger him into motion. Shrugging into his coat and flipping his hat on, he left the squad room through the usual gamut of inquisitive eyes, one or two derogatory calls, and the now habitual cawing of a crow.
Outside in the streets, the sun had begun its fall toward late afternoon. Despite the burnished timbre of the sun’s light that gave brightness and depth, it was cold, as if the sun could not warm through or beyond the surfaces of the city, be they concrete or flesh. The station at Bayerischeplatz was shut for maintenance, so he decided to walk up Potsdamerstrasse to Bulowstrasse station, making himself walk quickly through the burden of his knee, as if he could somehow outpace his difficulties. There were people everywhere—men, women, the elderly, children who flitted and flashed as they chased each other over the ruins, a worker in a flat cap who pushed a handcart loaded with bricks down the street behind him—but he felt very alone.
He passed a block of flats that had once formed a square, but the side that had overlooked the street was gone, blown out and away. At the ends of the two wings that would once have joined the missing one there was only a ground-to-rooftop crosshatch of the remains of apartments, their cavities spilling pipes and wallpaper that flapped in the wind and radiators that clung to the walls like limpets. As he passed, though, he saw into the square within the wings. Against a backdrop of fire-scarred masonry, of windows boarded up with cardb
oard and wood, of electrical wires that crazed the gap between the buildings, was a small playground. A group of toddlers tumbled in a sandpit, and two boys, all bone-white flesh and scraped knees, were putting the finishing touches to a fort made from bricks and rubble. Mothers rocked prams, a pair of elderly gentlemen played chess, a man with a cigarette in his mouth and a faraway expression on his face pushed a little girl in a swing.
As he approached Bulowstrasse, he began to come up on the outskirts of the market around Potsdamerplatz. Spivs and touts, and dozens of children—some of them in rags for shoes—wound through the crowds with practiced ease. Allied soldiers bartered among the jumbled collections of wares for oil paintings, porcelain tea sets, silver cutlery, carpets, military medals and decorations, cameras, gramophones, and the piles of books their owners had not yet burned for warmth. While the soldiers sought souvenirs, Germans sought the more prosaic things in life: cigarettes and tobacco, butter and fat, meat and milk, medicines and drugs, and fuel. Fuel above all, coal or wood to heat freezing homes and cook the meager rations most families lived on. Women sauntered through the crowds or stood by the entrances to buildings and watched the men, especially the soldiers, and sometimes him, with hungry eyes. Although it had calmed down in the last months from its peak as one of the fulcrums of the black market in Berlin, Potsdamerplatz—along with Alexanderplatz further to the northeast in the Soviet sector—was still thriving.
An organ grinder with one leg and one arm leaned heavily against his machine, cranking a well-known Berlin tune. It was an old tune, but the words most Berliners knew were those which dated from the time of King Friedrich Wilhelm III and the wars against the French, and Reinhardt hummed them to himself as he walked past the cripple, laying a couple of cigarettes atop the casing.
When my legs were shaved off me
In the war that has just passed
Then my king, as though for payment,
Slapped a medal on my breast.
And he uttered, “Dearest Fritz,
The Divided City Page 25