The Divided City

by Luke McCallin

  “And Bochmann?”

  “Vanished. No one’s seen him since last night.”

  “Bloody hell,” Reinhardt murmured. Collingridge’s mouth firmed.

  “That’s putting it mildly. At least they aren’t trying to pin this one on you, Reinhardt, like they had a mind to for Stresemann’s death.”

  “You are joking.”

  “He’s not, Reinhardt,” said Markworth. “Whelan’s hopping mad, and your own men are looking for someone to blame now. This one’s gone as high as Margraff himself.”

  The three of them leaned back as the waitress served the drinks. They lifted their glasses in a formulaic salute, and drank. The beer was wet and cold, and that was the best that could be said for it.

  “By rights, I should be unhappy with you, Reinhardt,” Collingridge said. He glanced at Markworth, and seemed to make up his mind to speak it. “All the good stuff, you seem to be giving to your Russki. Well, it’s time you remembered your American friends, because I reckon we’re the only ones you’ve got left. What did Gareis tell you?”

  Reinhardt sighed. “A lot and not a lot. He confirmed a fight during the war with a soldier called Leyser. Gareis’s squadron destroyed Leyser’s unit in a friendly fire incident. Leyser survived, and several of the pilots tried to kill him in hospital to cover up their mistake.”

  “Go on,” Collingridge said.

  “They didn’t kill him. He all but killed them. Leyser was a Brandenburger. Unconventional forces.”

  “Like British Commandos or American Rangers,” Markworth said in response to Collingridge’s frown.

  Reinhardt nodded his thanks. “Leyser was left behind in Tobruk when the Afrika Korps evacuated, and the last anyone knew of him, he was taken prisoner by the British.”

  “Huh,” grunted Collingridge, raising an eyebrow at Markworth. “Hence the British connection to this case?”

  “Possibly.” Reinhardt glanced over, but Markworth said nothing, only motioned for him to continue. “Leyser survived the war, and he’s out for revenge. He’s killed every member of the squadron that shot up his unit. But . . . there’s more. Not all of Leyser’s victims have been pilots. Some of them have been researchers. Some of the pilots went on to an experimental unit during the war.”

  “Leyser’s killing both?” Markworth frowned.

  “He’s selectively killing both.” Reinhardt stared out across the bar, his eyes caught a moment by the shift and blur of the drummer’s sticks. “I think . . . I think Leyser must have discovered the link between the squadron and the test unit. Maybe it makes him think of justice. Of some kind of justice.”

  “So Leyser’s getting a two-for-the-price-of-one deal?” Collingridge muttered.

  “I don’t know what to think, David. It’s barely coming together. It makes sense. There’s some evidence to fit it, but it’s just a theory.”

  Collingridge twisted round in his seat. “What about that experimental unit, then? Tell me more.”

  “That’s what Skokov’s interested in. He’s been looking into it for quite some time. He hadn’t made the link between the pilots and the researchers until . . . well, until I came along. He’s quite taken up with the British connection,” Reinhardt said, looking at Markworth. “He’s convinced you are going out of your way to deny him what he wants.”

  “Typical Russki. Suspicious of everything,” said Collingridge, his face cast into sudden angled shadow as he lit a cigarette. “What’s he think this research unit’ll give him?”

  “It did experimental research on the effects of high-altitude flight. Tested equipment. Tested theories. Flew experimental models. Skokov mentioned the B29.”

  Collingridge was silent, until a hissed Fuck squeezed between his lips. “The Russkies are after German research on high-altitude flight?”

  “Skokov is. Gareis was one of the test pilots. Skokov has him now.”

  “Ahhh, Jesus! And you led him right to him!”

  “I couldn’t know!” Reinhardt protested.

  The only response was the tip of Collingridge’s cigarette that flared furiously to orange light. “What now?” the American eventually asked.

  “Give me a night to think about it, all right? I’m out of ideas, and I’m tired.”

  “Sure. You want me to drive you home?”

  “No. I need to think. But thanks.”

  “Get some rest then,” said Collingridge as he flicked his cigarette into an ashtray. “You’re going to need it. Markworth, you want a ride? Five minutes, then. I gotta take a leak, and I’m guessing you two need a moment alone. I’m counting on that Allied cooperation for you to tell me what you’ve been talking about, Markworth,” he finished sourly. “No secrets between Allies, right?”

  Markworth unfolded a piece of paper from his coat when Collingridge had gone. “Investigation by the British military police into the deaths of Prellberg and Lütjens in Bad Oeynhausen last year. They were found beaten to death behind some kind of barracks for German employees or specialists.”

  “Suspects?”

  “None.”

  “Motive?”

  “The MPs thought it might have been a personal disagreement or settling of accounts.”

  “What made them think that?”

  “It’s what required the least thought.” Markworth had the grace to look sheepish. “That is, if they thought at all. The two of them looked to have fought together.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “No one and nothing. No noise. Nothing untoward. But no sand, or water. What does that mean?”

  Reinhardt glanced over the report. “So far as I can tell, they were the first murders. Maybe . . . whatever significance sand and water has for Leyser, he had no opportunity to use it then. Maybe the significance came later. I don’t know. Markworth, you realize it’s almost a certainty Leyser is or was working for the British. There has to be some trace of him.”

  “I’ll find it. I’ll be back in Bad Oeynhausen in a day or two.”

  “Two Germans of interest to the British authorities die in suspicious circumstances inside an area controlled by the British. No suspect is found. The MPs probably knew it was someone inside, and they either didn’t want to look, or were told not to.”

  “I said, I’ll find it.”

  “Skokov told me about BOALT,” Reinhardt whispered. Markworth was hard to see against the light from the stage. “You said you knew nothing about it, but that’s not true, is it? Leyser’s working for BOALT.”

  “Reinhardt . . .” Markworth began, quietly. “There are some things I can tell you and others I can’t. I can’t tell you of BOALT. It’s secret. Or, it was supposed to be,” he said, his voice taking a rueful tinge.

  “What does it do?”

  “It doesn’t go around murdering people.” Markworth paused, his mouth moving, then he began talking, his German slow and precise. “All right. You maybe don’t know, but the Americans commissioned some reports last year about how they are viewed by the German population. They were horrified by what the reports found. GIs are considered louts, drunks, and ignoramuses. Americans are only interested in their comfort and getting rich on the black market. Americans are weak. American servicemen and policies abuse the civilian population. ‘An American is a Russian with his trousers pressed.’ According to the reports, three times more money is going back to the US than the Americans are putting into Berlin. Hardly surprising when a GI can buy a pack of cigarettes in the PX for fifty cents and sell it on the black market for a hundred dollars, or bring in a case of Mickey Mouse watches and sell them for a fortune apiece to a Russian soldier. The British saw the reports and determined that they would not want for information on the Occupation and German perceptions of it and where they stood. So BOALT was created. That is all I can tell you, and that is already too much.”

  “Who controls it?”

 
“It works directly for the British governor in Bad Oeynhausen.”

  “That’s where you’ll find Leyser. You said Carlsen was a German who fought for the British. Leyser was a German captured by the British, and I think he ended up fighting for them. A man like him, a Brandenburger, he’d be too good to waste.”

  “Why would he do that? Change sides?”

  “Change of heart? I don’t know, Markworth. I’ve heard they happen. But both Carlsen and Leyser ended up here, and both of them were working for the British. There has to be a connection somewhere. Look. Please.”

  “I will,” Markworth said. “Look, Reinhardt. I said it before, but I’ll say it again. I’ve been impressed by the way you’ve handled this investigation. To the extent I can, I’ll make sure the British don’t come down too hard on you over von Vollmer.” He paused. “I wonder, though, if we ever find Leyser, will I want to shake his hand instead of clap him in irons?”

  “Do both. But the man’s a murderer. Whoever he is, why he’s doing what he does, let’s not lose sight of that.”

  “Be honest, weren’t there times during the war you wanted to mete out a little justice?”

  For a moment, Reinhardt was tempted to disagree, more for argument’s sake than anything else, but he stopped, remembering his own actions during the war and the justice he meted out to the Ustaše. “I did want that, Markworth,” he whispered. “And I did do it. And it felt right then. But it wouldn’t feel right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there has to be something to come back to. There has to be a moment when we say ‘enough.’ Justice . . . justice has to mean something to the one being punished. Otherwise . . .”

  Markworth shook his head. “You sound like Carlsen. Otherwise what . . . ?”

  “Otherwise, I don’t know. I’m no expert, Markworth. I’m just a man who’s survived two wars. Survived them even when I had no right to. Survived them despite myself, or because of others.”

  “You say those pilots don’t remember what they did. But what they did changed Leyser’s life. In an instant. How . . . how does that make someone feel who bears the consequences of an act long after . . . long after the one who did it has gone or forgotten it.” Markworth’s eyes firmed up. “Think of your son, Reinhardt. Think of all those sons on the Eastern Front. Think of all those instances, all those consequences. Think of all they’ve left behind.”

  “I do think. Christ, don’t you think I don’t?” Reinhardt hissed. Friedrich’s face flashed in front of him, his plague-ship eyes, and then Reinhardt’s colossus, his golem of stones, lurching as it steadied its awful weight, as it searched for him. And it was as if the searchlight pressure of its eyes began to squeeze words out of him, words that began to tumble out, faster almost than he could form them. “They haven’t left it behind. None of us have. I never did. Not in the first war, not in this one. Both you and I have our ‘instants’ and behind us, you and I, are a long stream of ‘consequences.’ Consequences we know about. Even more we don’t. We’re no different, you and I. We’re surrounded by consequences. Every bloody man in this city who wore a uniform left a stream of consequences behind him. Every woman since its fall bears the consequences. I look east, and there’s a million Poles and God knows how many million Russians, and they all bear consequences. I look west, and there’s a million Frenchmen. I look south, and there’s a million Yugoslavs and a million Czechs. I look around and I see no Jews. Consequences, Markworth. Every fucking place you look.”

  Markworth leaned back, as if he cringed away from Reinhardt’s ferocity, and a clinical part of Reinhardt’s mind noted it was the first real reaction he had ever elicited from the man. But then Markworth leaned back in, pushing his way into the storm of Reinhardt’s words.

  “So, Reinhardt? What does it all mean?”

  “I don’t know, Markworth. I don’t know. I’m a man with a lot of impressions, but precious few answers. I never was much good at those. And I never was much good at boiling the complicated down to the simple. I left that to the idiots in brown and black and the morons who stuck their hands in the air with all the others, and haven’t I paid the price of that particular consequence since?” he asked, a whip within his own words. “But the simple says ‘who sows the wind, reaps the whirlwind.’ Right? Something like that? But in that case, where and when does it ever end? Something happened to Leyser. But something happened to nearly everyone around us. Something happened to people everywhere we went. Imagine . . . imagine what would happen if everyone sought to act on that.”

  “You mean it has to end?”

  “It has to end. And I don’t mean we have to draw a line under the past. Walk away and forget. Hang a few high, and let the rest hunker down low. I don’t mean that at all. But the world fell into chaos for six years. What happened during those times . . .” Reinhardt shook his head, the words beginning to dry up. “When I was in Sarajevo, at the end of the war, when I took apart that ratline, someone asked me what good it was. What good was it to act when it was only a small part of the whole you were acting against?”

  “And?” Reinhardt did not realize he had stopped talking until Markworth prompted him.

  “And I said that you could only act against what you saw. Well, now I see someone killing. For whatever reason. Maybe they’re good ones. Maybe Leyser thinks he will never get justice if he does not serve it himself. But he needs to be stopped. Otherwise . . .”

  “Otherwise, where does it end?” Markworth said quietly. Both of them spotted Collingridge making his way back through the crowd. “I’m sorry, Reinhardt,” Markworth said. “I didn’t mean . . . didn’t mean to get so personal. But sometimes I think I’d swap my suit and hat for a tank and just . . . ride over everything.”

  “Look, it’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. These things . . . God, we need another couple of molles to get anywhere near the truths we’re looking for.”

  “When this is over, I will take you up on that,” Reinhardt smiled.

  “Now’s the time, Markworth, my friend, if you want a lift,” Collingridge called out impatiently as he came back to the table, scooping up his matches and cigarettes. “And Reinhardt.” Collingridge switched suddenly back to English. “Take a page out of the Skokov playbook, why don’t you? It’s the page marked Keep Me Informed.”

  Reinhardt rode the U-bahn home in silence. He kept his head down but his eyes open, giving his watchers—any of them—a chance to come out and speak with him, but no one did. He lingered in the damp fug of the platform at Hallesches Tor, but no one approached him, and no one approached him on the ride south, nor at Paradestrasse but, he found as he opened the door to Meissner’s house, he need not have worried.

  There was already a welcome committee waiting for him.

  44

  Brauer was there, together with Friedrich and Mrs. Meissner. Heads rose as he came in. Friedrich smiled when he saw Reinhardt, and he allowed himself to be folded stiffly into his father’s embrace.

  “I was worried,” Friedrich said simply. Reinhardt said nothing and they stood by the kitchen table, his arm around his son’s shoulders. Mrs. Meissner put a cup of tea in front of him.

  “This is quite the gathering,” Reinhardt said, looking around the faces. “Is there an order to any news, or is it ladies first?” he asked, looking at Meissner.

  She placed an envelope on the table in front of him. “For you. It was delivered today by a Mrs. Dommes. Quite a formidable woman.”

  There was a single sheet of paper in the envelope, filled with writing in an elegant, cursive script. Reinhardt flipped the page over to read whom it was from, his eyes shooting up. “It’s from Bochmann!” He ran his gaze quickly over the letter, then put it aside. “Rudi. Tell me how you got on.”

  “Well, the first thing is, don’t plan any weekend getaways in Potsdam. The place is a mess. Blown to pieces, most of it. An
d the municipal records with it. Sorry, Gregor. There’s nothing left. But,” he said, with a flourish, “be not downhearted, my friend. For your good friend, Rudolph Brauer, perseveres in the face of adversity. I sniffed around a bit, and thought to myself, if Leyser’s from Potsdam where’s a young lad like that going to go to school? There’s only really the one. The Realgymnasium. The place where all the little royals went, right? So off I went, and managed to get directions to the former headmaster, who’s a real old fossil, I can tell you. Still, a pack of Luckies’ll go a long way, right? Right. We had a bit of a chat, and I ask him about the good old days and sure enough, I bring the conversation around to boys he knew, and did he remember little Marius Leyser.

  “And would you believe, he did! Little Marius was there from 1921 to 1923. A nice boy, the head remembered. He excelled at sports. And at English. Apparently.”

  “English?” Reinhardt repeated. Brauer nodded. “No indication what the family was doing there?”

  “Oh yes,” Brauer said. “Didn’t I say? The head told me the father was some sort of businessman. A very affluent one. Would’ve had to have been to have a place down there, even if the royals had fallen on hard times and Potsdam was no longer what it was. No, here’s the clincher. The dad was a businessman, but the mother was English.”

  “Leyser’s mother was English?” Brandenburgers, Reinhardt thought. Skilled in languages. And here was Leyser with an English mother . . .

  “Some kind of minor aristocrat or landed gentry. The headmaster couldn’t remember. They married before the First World War, and she stayed by his side throughout.”

  “Go on.”