by Anton Gill
She looked at him. 'Whom can I trust?'
'You can trust me.' He squeezed her shoulder, but he still felt inadequate.
The bus slowed and stopped at a corner by a thicket near which an old highway crucifix stood. The cross was rusty and bent, and the wooden figure of Christ so weatherworn that the doleful features of his face weren't recognisable anymore; but someone had placed flowers there which, to judge by their freshness, were not more than a day or two old. Kessler and Emma were the only ones to alight. The bus rumbled away.
Kessler picked up Emma's case and led her down a lane which ran behind an untidy copse towards the village where the house was. God knows it was an obscure enough place, but it was still close to Berlin, and vulnerable. As a staging-post, this was fine, but for no more than a week or so. He would have to move fast.
'Where do you think my father is now?' asked Emma.
Kessler hesitated. 'He meant to head south.'
She looked at him again. 'Do you think he's still alive?'
'He isn't the type to give up. You know that.'
'They might have already got him.'
'If they had, I'd know. He'll be in deep cover by now.' Kessler tried to sound confident, but he wasn't at all sure. That Hoffmann had an agenda to fulfil was certain; that he wouldn't leave the country until he'd done his work would be typical of him. Kessler also had a good idea of what was occupying his ex-boss's mind at this moment.
He looked at Emma as she walked. How much had Hoffmann told her?
The less she knew the better. Everywhere, the Gestapo was on the tracks of conspirators' relatives. Emma, and her aunt, and her aunt's family, would be targeted. At least her aunt, back in Nikolassee, was resourceful and had some powerful contacts herself.
They reached the house and he hugged her tight. She responded less warmly, unsure of herself now, at the moment of parting.
'You're hurting me.'
He looked at her. 'I may never see you again. Do you realise that?'
She smiled again. 'Don't be silly. In a year this will all be over. We'll have the rest of our lives together then.'
He held her hands. 'If I'm not back within a week, leave. Go wherever you can. Don't stay here long.'
'Where shall I go?'
'Just get on the road.' He hadn't meant to sound so brutal. 'There are people moving west and south already.' He took what money he had on him and gave it to her. 'Take this. I'll bring more. But, believe me, the road will be better than arrest. If you get the slightest hint that they're looking for you, go.'
He had never told her he loved her. Now, he felt he had to, in case there was never another chance; but he could not bring himself to, because he might be saying goodbye forever. Why say such a thing at such a time?
If they were going to part, they had better get it over with. He took her into the house, lit the lamps, and showed her the rooms. It was a small place, not much to it. He wanted to stay with her. He left. Small shy kiss, not enough to express anything. He waited half-an-hour by the crucifix for the bus.
It started to rain. That penetrating drizzle which got through everything. He hadn't brought a raincoat. He kept wiping his glasses. He'd be drenched before he was home.
37
It was dark by the time he got back to his flat, wet through and cold after sitting on the bus in soaking clothes, to find a middle-aged man in the usual trenchcoat and trilby leaning wearily against the door-jamb. He pushed himself upright as Kessler approached and tilted his hat back. Kessler recognised him as one of Heinrich Müller's minions from the Prinz-Albrecht-Straße.
'Where the hell have you been?' said the man.
'Working.'
'You weren't in your office.'
Kessler just looked at him.
'Come on,' the man said, with all the authority he could muster.
'Where to?'
'Where do you think? The Gruppenführer wants you.'
'Lucky me.' Kessler let himself into his flat.
'Where do you think you're going?' But Kessler outranked the Gestapo errand-boy. 'I've been waiting an hour,' said the man, plaintively, as Kessler closed the door in his face, saying, 'Then you can wait a couple of minutes longer while I take a leak and get changed - you're not the only one who's had a hard day.'
Once alone, inside, he went and dashed cold water on his face. Something big had happened. No point in asking the stooge; he wouldn't know.
At least he had got Emma out - perhaps only just in time - the problem now would be letting her know what was going on, and telling her how she should react to it. He prayed she'd take his advice.
He took as long as he dared, changing into a fresh shirt, before rejoining the Gestapo officer, who set off angrily down the corridor as soon as Kessler emerged.
***
'Where did they find the car, sir?' Kessler asked.
'In a clearing down by the Kantersee - it's a small lake near Storkow.' Heinrich Müller shunted papers around on his desk, didn't look up. His balding head looked grey in the lamplight. Kessler had not been asked to sit down. The atmosphere was, Kessler thought, par for the course these days: a mixture of self-importance and panic.
'Is he dead, sir?'
'Who knows? Certainly looks like it. Enough of the shitholes have bumped themselves off in the last few days. Why should he be an exception?' Müller belched lightly, and Kessler smelled schnapps and sausage. He himself hadn't eaten since breakfast, and his stomach rumbled - he hoped Müller wouldn't hear. A cup of ersatz coffee he'd drunk had left its usual unpleasant aftertaste of acorns. He felt mildly sick, which didn't stop him wondering if he dared light a cigarette; he decided not to.
'Clever though,' Müller continued. 'Local cops thought it was Göring or someone on a hunting expedition and didn't report it to us for forty-eight hours.' A new thought seemed to strike the Gruppenführer. 'But if he shot himself, why bother to try to buy time?'
'I don't know, sir,' said Kessler, after a pause to ensure that the question was not rhetorical, and to give himself a moment, since the same question had occurred to him. 'Double bluff?'
'That's what I want you to find out. You were trained by the bastard, you should know how he thinks.'
Kessler knew Müller couldn't possibly really want him on the case. Surely he'd rather have handled it with men from his own department. Unless Müller thought that in times like these, Kessler would want to cover his own back. No, Kessler thought, he couldn't count on being trusted by these people.
'You're giving the case to me, sir?'
Müller riffled through papers on his desk. Kessler continued to stand, more or less at attention, among the packing cases that littered the room. The clerk who was filling them caught his eye for a moment.
'Yes.' Müller looked up, his irritation clear. 'You should be honoured. It's a direct order from the Führer.'
Kessler was silent.
'You know your boss better than anyone. Don't think we haven't had an eye on you.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'What?'
'Who actually found the car, sir?'
'A farmer, probably out trying a bag a duck. Reported it to the foresters. They told the local cops.' Müller fidgeted with his pen. Then he picked up a folder and pushed it across his desk. 'It's all in the fucking report.' He added, 'This is a big sweep, Kessler, and this is a big chance for you. Bring him down and you're made.'
Kessler drew himself up, his mind racing.
'So don't drag your fucking feet,' Müller went on. 'This is a personal betrayal, not just treachery to the Reich. It's a bitter disappointment. Can you imagine what a blow this is to the Führer?' He relaxed slightly. 'Look, he wants Hoffmann alive, so he can talk to him, try to understand what made him do this. They were close. He's had a personal copy of that report sent to him. That's how important it is.'
'Sir.'
'You're one of the few people Hoffmann trusts. No-one's in a better position to reel him in in one piece. I'm sure you'll think of a way. And if yo
u do, you won't be the loser. Think about it.' Müller looked at him. 'All right. Go.'
Kessler was halfway across the mausoleum of an office before he recalled the new edict that everyone, even regular army and criminal police, now had to give the Hitler salute. Against his will, he turned and gave it now, as briskly as he could. It occurred to him that on entering the office he'd forgotten to do so, and Müller had not commented.
'I was wondering if you'd remember,' growled the Gruppenführer. 'Report every twenty-four hours.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'One moment. You'll need backup.'
'Sir?'
'Someone you can trust. '
'My sergeant?'
Müller looked at him. 'Why not? Kleinschmidt! Certainly. We know all about him. Dim but loyal. Been with you nearly two years, hasn't he? But remember, this is a highly confidential matter. Slightest sign of trouble, get rid of him.'
As he left, Kessler sensed rather than saw Müller reach for his telephone.
38
It would be impossible to leave before dawn, when the blackout was over, so Kessler went to his office before going home, rang to order a car, called the duty office to tell them to alert Sergeant Kleinschmidt that he'd need him ready at six, and then sat at his desk for an hour reading the file, which told him little more than Müller already had. Hoffmann's betrayer, he read, had been a certain Major Reichmann, an adjutant to one of the conspirators, who'd been easy to pump since he had a wife, children and parents, all within easy reach in the capital. Nevertheless they'd had to break three of his fingers and give him an hour on the rack before they broke him. (The report noted that Reichmann had died of a heart attack while in custody. His family had been arrested.) As far as the abandoned car was concerned, Police Sergeant Otto Strauss had stated that Hoffmann picked up the Mercedes and left alone from the Werderscher Markt depot. Scraps of what looked like official papers had been found on the lake shore and sent for analysis, but so far had yielded nothing. They hadn't found either the car keys or a body, but a frogman had recovered a service pistol believed to have belonged to the deceased (presumed), in the shallows. One shot had been discharged, but no bullet had been found.
Kessler went home, finding time for a beer and a fish-paste sandwich, increasing the stomach pains which had been plaguing him since the interview with Müller. He decided against making any calls, tried to sleep for a couple of hours, and at five returned to his office where he got through in three cases out of four. There was no way of contacting Emma. Maybe he'd be able to close this investigation fast and get her out by tomorrow evening. If not, and his heart ached at the thought, she'd be on her own.
Arno Kleinschmidt, 30 years old, unmarried, arrived at 05.45. He weighed 120 kilos, his suit stretched painfully over his back, and his hat was too small for his head. He might once have been good-looking, but his face had spread with the weight and he had the hamster pouches and red palms of a man too fond of his drink. He was the secretary of the Fat Fellows Club, a group which until recently had held regular and perilous boating trips on the Spree, which Arno used as an excuse to fraternise with certain of the other clubs that did the same; but those clubs had begun to dissolve, their members, once the doyens of Berlin's underworld, having started to leave to seek new burrows in cities likely to be taken by the Western Allies, preferably by the Ammis, who were rich, not played out, like the British.
Kleinschmidt was fresh and alert. He smelled of 4711 and freshly-smoked, real tobacco. His dark hair was brilliantined and his moustache neatly combed. His eyes were small, and seemed candid; but in fact you could read very little in them. His belly was what qualified him for membership of the Fat Fellows Club, whose criterion for membership was that you should not have seen your penis, except in a mirror, for at least five years.
'What's up, sir?'
'Hope you've had breakfast.'
'Well... '
'We're going to Storkow,' Kessler was pulling on his jacket as he made for the door.
'Is it far?' Kleinschmidt was a local man, and panicked at the thought of being separated from food, drink, and the city for more than two hours at a stretch. Berliners always had a Stulle in their briefcases, the joke went - sometimes a sandwich was the only thing in them.
'You can always pick up a Hackepeter somewhere, man; now get on.' Kessler was still hungry himself, and frankly he could have done with a schnapps after that interview.
'I should be so fucking lucky,' muttered Kleinschmidt.
39
The roads were jammed with military traffic, and they made bad time reaching the Kantersee. A wretched cop stood at the edge of the road by the track which led down through the trees. Rain dripped from his leather helmet.
The rain was fine, and irritating. Their mackintoshes were a poor defence against it and Kessler resigned himself to getting wet through for the second time in twenty-four hours. Soon they felt it reach and chill the bone despite the season. It fell with a soft, relentless patter on the boughs that sheltered the path. The rain was likely, despite the protection of the trees, to have wiped out most clues.
They took care to walk along the edge of the track, but there was no trace of anything that might have been of interest. A few low-growing shrubs had been clearly swept aside by the car as it had driven past them, and the fact that they had not yet recovered showed that the car's passage had been recent; but that merely confirmed what they already knew. As they approached the Mercedes, looming ahead like some large dead animal, Kessler hoped, fairly vainly, he knew, that any clues around it hadn't been ploughed under the boots of foresters and police since they'd known about it. Forensic detective work was newish; Hoffmann had been a pioneer. Ordinary rankers would still have no idea that they should tread on eggs around a crime scene.
Wet bushes snatching at his trouser-ends, Kessler took his time, ignoring Kleinschmidt's continuous grumbling behind him, picking his way until he reached the car. He'd seen nothing on the track, and it was no wonder. Rain dripped from every leaf, and nothing else around them moved except for a stag beetle which lumbered through the undergrowth and across the toe of his shoe as he paused to let it pass.
'See that big bugger?' said Kleinschmidt behind him, and Kessler without turning heard his sergeant trying to stamp on the insect; but the ground was too soft, and the beetle too heavily armoured. Kleinschmidt slipped and nearly fell, grasping a branch for support and cursing. 'Fucking countryside.'
Kessler reached the car knowing that the rain had dispelled any trace of earlier disruption or movement he might have been able to find.
The Mercedes itself was guarded by an even more miserable policeman than the first, who had shrunk into his cape and merged with the trees and stumps around him. He pulled himself sluggishly to attention as Kessler approached, and levelled his rifle at him. Kessler produced his ID, and the man lapsed into sodden indifference, rolling his shoulders to ease the pain in his back. They might as well have let the poor sod sit in the car, Kessler thought, but of course that would have been against all protocol. These days the usual method was to beat the truth - or at least something - out of any suspect; but in this case obviously the propriety of a formal investigation was going to be observed - more-or-less - to the letter. It was ironic, given the general atmosphere in which it was taking place.
He ordered Kleinschmidt, who was beginning to wonder aloud, though under his breath, why he had been brought along at all, to search the area surrounding the car to a distance of five metres, then changed his mind and made it seven. Where were the car keys? Had Hoffmann taken them with him? If so, why? Unlike him to forget them. Had he thrown them into the undergrowth to slow things up further - extra keys, if they existed, would have had to be fetched from Berlin? But you couldn't throw anything very far in this dense wood.
Kleinschmidt blundered off, pausing to put a cigarette in his mouth, swearing as it turned soggy and collapsed before he could even try to light it.
The car had sunk slightly i
nto the ground. Kessler could see around the door-handles greasy traces where the rain had not fallen uniformly. There might be fingerprints, possibly, though he doubted it. The local cops had forced the lock, and since then too many people would have meddled.
He opened the driver's door and looked inside. Everything seemed to accord with the report. Kessler found an empty packet of British cigarettes - Player's Navy Cut - and an empty bottle of Hennessy XO; a Hershey bar wrapper, and a crumpled, empty bird-shot box. Nothing else at all.
Kessler poked around the interior of the car for some time more, as much to keep out of the rain as anything, so he was a little shamefaced when Kleinschmidt returned, streaming, to say that he had found the sharp end of fuck-all and if he didn't get a hot grog inside him soon he'd be a dead man.
Kessler indicated the contents of the car. 'Put this stuff in your bag - keep your gloves on - and get it back to the car.'
'Is this all?'
'Yes.'
Kleinschmidt almost grinned. 'Didn't leave much did they?'
As he spoke the rain suddenly hesitated, then ceased as if a heavenly hand had turned a tap off; soon afterwards the sun started to beat down through the still-dripping leaves. It quickly became unpleasantly hot.
Kessler told the policeman, who was shaking himself like a dog, that he'd soon be relieved, and, with Kleinschmidt bringing up the rear, made his way back to the road. He walked slowly again, but for a different reason this time. Things didn't add up. Despite the obvious looting of the car, why leave all that expensive stuff in the first place? There could only be one answer, to delay pursuers, and it had worked. But, as Müller had suggested, why would a suicide do that? Or was it a kind of insurance? No body had been found. He tried to read Hoffmann's thoughts. It could still be a double bluff, but without a body, what had he to go on? And why play for time, unless to keep the Gestapo occupied and keep their attention away from Emma and - the other child? Barely anyone knew about the other child's existence, though, and Kessler knew he wasn't supposed to. One of the many things, he suspected, that Hoffmann had kept from him, or thought he had. But buying time for them made a kind of desperate sense.