Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  There was no-one about. There were no cars parked, only an old van and a couple of carts near the inn. He decided to pull over and stop, at least for a drink and a bite to eat. He'd spend the night somewhere on the road - he could hide in the woods, refill the car's tank, get to Leipzig by this time tomorrow.

  He also needed to see a paper, or to catch the news on the radio. The chances were there'd be a radio in the Wirtshaus. Leaving his greatcoat and hat in the car, and locking it, taking only a small bag, which had been stashed in the VW beforehand, and now contained his documents and money, he went in.

  There were four or five plain tables in the room, with benches on either side of each. The bar ran along the right wall. Two large kerosene lamps at either end lit it, and three of the tables had similar, smaller lamps at their centre. Four men sat together at one of these, nursing mugs of beer and playing Skat. A large, bearded man of about sixty, in a red-and-blue check shirt and dungarees stood behind the bar, or rather, leaned on his belly, which was resting against the counter. The men at the table raised their heads as Hoffmann entered, but no-one was particularly interested in him, and his greeting was barely returned. Only the landlord looked at him with anything approaching warmth.

  On a shelf behind the bar, keeping company with an assortment of bottles of schnapps, a radio played dance music.

  The landlord was filling a Stein from one of three huge barrels. When he turned, Hoffmann saw that the space between the counter and the barrels was just wide enough to accommodate his paunch.

  'Travelling late,' he said, plonking the beer down. 'Try this. Our best. Refreshing and light. Need a bed?'

  'No - I'm pushing on.'

  The landlord looked at him for a moment, then said, 'No cops here, you know. Just the priest and me - I'm the mayor. Heinz Gebler.'

  Hoffmann shook his hand. 'Friedmann, Kurt,' he said.

  'Don't mind them,' said Gebler, nodding at the card players. 'No livestock left, and nothing to plant. So - how about that bed?'

  'No,' said Hoffmann. 'I need to put away a few more kilometres tonight.'

  'You won't get far before the blackout,' said Gebler, 'But suit yourself.'

  'You wouldn't have a newspaper? I've been on the road for a few days and I haven't heard anything.'

  'What, about our glorious tactical retreats?' Hoffmann was alarmed at the booming laugh that followed this remark. Gebler had no idea who he was. Talk like that could get him killed. 'No, no newspaper. Haven't seen one of those sorry-looking things in weeks myself. Do they still print them?'

  'Anything to eat?'

  'Bread and sausage. And some hot soup. Sit down and I'll bring it.'

  The food was good, and the soup, turnip and smoked ham, tasted like ambrosia. He ate quickly; there were too few people here and, maybe it was just his Berlin paranoia, but this Gebler was too candid.

  The dance music ceased, gave way to the Anthem. The conversation of the other men died. A voice, interrupted by static, ran through a brief summary of war news, which it delivered in a tone brittle with optimism. One of the items, however, was what he'd been hoping to hear: 'Police pursuing the traitors responsible for the recent cowardly and misconceived attempt on the Führer's life report the suicide by a lake near Storkow of one of the circle's most notorious leaders, disgraced police chief Hoffmann ... ' There was more, but nothing of any significance, before the voice moved on to cultural news, telling the room about Georg Jacoby's latest film, Woman Of My Dreams. Then the Anthem again, before the dance music resumed.

  Hoffmann paid his bill and prepared to leave.

  'Sure about the bed? We're not exactly full up at the moment and there's nowhere else for an hour at least.'

  'I'll take my chances.'

  Gebler looked at him shrewdly, and Hoffmann could feel the eyes of the other men fixed on him too.

  'You must be quite a bigwig,' said Gebler.

  'What makes you say that?'

  'All that petrol you must have.'

  'Ministry of Aviation.'

  Gebler smiled. 'There's a blind bend about two hundred metres down the road. Be careful of it - there's more traffic round here than you'd think.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Good luck.'

  52

  Hoffmann drove away. With luck, he'd be in Leipzig tomorrow. He'd lose the car and go to ground. But not for long. There wasn't time. He took the blind bend carefully.

  He failed to find a barn or a shed to spend the night in. He passed some ruined farm-buildings which looked deserted, but decided not to risk using them. Just as dusk was settling, he noticed an old track leading into a wood, and took it. It led to a clearing where he turned the car round so that it was facing back to the road, and doused the lights. It was now almost pitch dark; after he'd killed the engine the sounds of the countryside rose around him, rustlings and the occasional cry of a bird or animal punctuating the silence which he, as a city-dweller, found uncanny and unsettling. He hadn't slept in the open for over twenty years, and then it had been wartime, in the trenches, with other men around him. The noises then had been made by the wounded, or by those who moaned in their dreams. The darkness then was not absolute; the infernal glow of the guttering fires in No-Man's-Land had pierced it; but he had not felt as vulnerable then as he did now.

  On the following day he would begin to look unkempt and shabby. He would have to find a brook or a lake where he could get water and shave. Shaving was essential. It was hard enough to disguise his looks, but the minute his moustache became apparent, his risks would increase tenfold. But if he couldn't, if he could reach Leipzig, it wouldn't matter so much. The enemy was giving the city such a hammering that half the men in it would look like him.

  It was a bad night. He hardly slept, cramped in the car, his gun in his lap. Every time he did fall asleep, he awoke with a start, the slightest sound triggering panic. Once, he found himself wide awake, aware that something else, something large, had wandered into the clearing, and was moving about. But the moon had risen by then, and as he peered out of the window, slipping the safety catch off his gun, he saw that a family of wild boar was rooting around the trees near where he was parked. They sensed his presence, and shuffled off into the darkness of the woods soon afterwards, but without haste, and he found himself thinking he would have liked them to stay longer. Towards dawn, about four in the morning, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which he awoke two hours later, cramped, but more rested than he'd hoped to be. He got out of the car and stretched, walking up and down and smoking a cigarette.

  He heard the sound of running water nearby, and made his way through the trees, finding a stream not ten metres away. He splashed water on his face and drank a little too - the first time he had ever drunk from a stream: it was fresh and clear; but he decided not to shave, it would be too hard to do so using the car's rear-view mirror to guide him, and he didn't want to nick himself and bleed. Despite the good meal of the night before he was hungry, and still cold in the dawn, though already he could sense that it would be a hot day. Only his third day on the road. An eternity had passed since he had closed the door on his flat.

  He walked up some way up the track, cautiously. There was no hint that anyone was near. He returned to the car and prepared to leave. He'd take it easy. The slower he went the less petrol he would use, and he didn't want to get to Leipzig until evening. The people he needed were night-owls, and daytime isn't good, even in a city, for a fugitive.

  He'd reached the road when he heard, above the engine of the VW, the roar of lorries approaching. He backed into the shadow of the trees and waited. A convoy of three large army trucks, two full of soldiers, the last piled with equipment, thundered past. He stayed where he was until the noise of their engines had died, before moving on.

  In half-an-hour, he'd reach the main road south. Soon afterwards, he'd cross the Elbe and then he'd be within striking distance of his goal. How efficient would the checkpoints around Leipzig be?

  At least on t
he main road there was a chance of more traffic. He'd checked his reflection in the car mirror, and he didn't look as dishevelled as he'd feared. And perhaps an official, on the road, on urgent business, at this stage in the war, might be forgiven for looking less spick-and-span than the Führer would have wished. Just as long as he could reach Leipzig.

  The road ahead presented him with another blind bend, curving between high banks. He passed it, and saw, not one hundred metres ahead, another military convoy.

  This one was smaller. One light truck, an armoured car and, preceding them, an open staff car. There was no getting off the road now, and it was so narrow that they'd all have to slow to a crawl to pass each other safely. It was inconceivable that they wouldn't stop him. Indeed, he could see that already their pace had slowed, and the Mercedes flashed its headlights at him. He slowed and stopped, climbed out of the car, and waited.

  53

  These were regular army, not SS. The big Mercedes drew almost abreast of him before it came to a halt. The officer in the back climbed out and approached him. He wore field-grey, and his collar insignia were gold oakleaves on a bright red ground. At his throat, a Knight's Cross.

  Hoffmann knew him. He'd met him several times before the war, at gatherings organised by Tilli, once at the theatre, and on one occasion officially, when Hoffmann was investigating the murder of a civilian typist at a large barracks on the outskirts of Berlin. Klaus Richter had been a colonel then; but that was a long time ago. Their paths had only crossed briefly in the past four years, at conferences, and each time Hoffmann had been wearing his SS uniform. Another thing Hoffmann recalled: before the war, Richter had served with Hans Oster; they'd shared a love of horses and been great riding companions.

  How much did Richter know?

  Richter walked over to him, peeling off his gloves. Still early, it was already warm.

  'Good morning,' Richter said, with a faint smile.

  'Good morning, General.'

  'It's been a while, Commissioner.'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm surprised to see you.' Richter paused. 'I'd heard that you'd shot yourself.'

  'The Gestapo think so.' Hoffmann looked past him. The other two men in the staff car, the driver, and a lieutenant who was probably Richter's adjutant, returned his gaze incuriously. Beyond them, the driver of the armoured car and the driver of the lorry stared into space. One of them lit a cigarette.

  'You'd better show me you papers,' said Richter.

  'Shouldn't your adjutant be doing this?'

  'Do you think he cares?' Richter took the document and read it briefly before handing it back. 'Quite a career change,' he said drily.

  'Yes.'

  The general looked past him, towards the fields beyond them. 'I owe you an apology, Hoffmann. I always thought you were one of the worst of the shits. But now,' he paused. 'Now, your reputation goes before you.'

  'If you're not going to arrest me, I must keep going. Forgive me.'

  'Of course. I'm in a hurry myself. Ordered back to Berlin to help shore things up, I imagine. Make a change from prowling along the Swiss border.' He paused again. 'Any news of Oster?'

  'No.'

  'Have they got him?'

  'I hope not.'

  Richter looked thoughtful. He was a handsome man, about Hoffmann's age, but fitter, and, with his lightly-tanned skin and coppery-blond hair, was close to the Party ideal of the German soldier. All he lacked was a monocle, but that, these days, was a bit vieux-jeu. He even had a scar on his left cheek. He told admiring Nazi colleagues that he'd got it duelling, when a student at Heidelberg, with Mertz von Hammerstein; friends knew he'd cut his face badly when he'd fallen off his bicycle, aged eight.

  'I've fought hard,' he said, almost to himself, 'But since that bloody ridiculous oath of loyalty we had to take to Hitler in '34, I've fought for Germany, not for him, or his crew. Look where it's got us. We're shamed. I wish I knew where Oster was.'

  'Couldn't you have got over the border?'

  Richter smiled. 'I thought of it many times. Switzerland. Land of Milk and Honey. But there are some things you have to see to their conclusion.' He looked at his watch. 'Well, I mustn't keep you. I don't suppose we'll meet again, so good luck.' He saluted, turned on his heel, and returned to his car. His driver drove on as soon as he'd taken his seat. He didn't look at Hoffmann again.

  54

  Hoffmann hadn't rung Oster the morning after his drink in the bar on the Ku'damm. He'd been distracted by work, and then he found himself disinclined to make the call at all. He left it a week; he didn't mention it to anyone else. Not Kara, and not Brandau, whom he'd got to know better. Enough to know that the Gestapo lawyer had divided loyalties too.

  In the meantime, Hagen had fallen silent. He had made no more contact with Kara, and there were no more roses. Hoffmann wondered if he'd guessed who had been responsible for his posting, but could imagine no conceivable way in which he could know. Hagen's business interests were allied to those of the Party, but for the moment they were in the hands of a Swedish associate - Hoffmann hadn't found it hard to discover that. Hagen hadn't made a fuss over the Black Forest business because it was valuable to him to ingratiate himself with the politicians.

  Hoffmann had also found out, by bending Brandau's ear over lunch, the Swedish iron business now had official approval. The imports were running as smoothly as clockwork, freighters from Göteberg docking almost daily at Kiel.

  Hoffmann had stopped trying to persuade Kara to follow her mother to New York. He felt guilty about not insisting, but there was little he could do if she would not go. With Hagen out of the way, he could offer her protection; he arranged that elements in her file should be destroyed. It hadn't been easy, but delay would have been riskier.

  He had told her none of this. He hadn't seen her for ten days. Not unusual for them, but not this time because work got between them; because Hoffmann wanted to be doubly sure no-one was watching them. All the time he was unable to rid himself of the story Kara had told him. He could not get the picture of that boy, beaten to death, out of his mind.

  Early in the evening of the tenth day after he'd received the message, at last he picked up the phone and dialled the number.

  'Oster.' The voice was expressionless. Hoffmann was surprised. He'd expected a secretary or an adjutant.

  'Hoffmann,' he said.

  The voice relaxed, but not much. 'Took your time.'

  'Work.'

  'Of course.'

  'I also wondered what the Research Department could possibly want with me.'

  There was a pause. 'Where are you calling from?'

  'Werderscher Markt.'

  'It might be better if we met.'

  'By all means, but I think first I should have some idea of what it's about.'

  'It's perfectly informal. There's some information I'd like to share with you.'

  There was a trace of humour in Oster's voice, but there was no doubting the authority, either. Hoffmann's own rank was higher than the last one Oster had held, and Hoffmann hadn't been disgraced for seducing a fellow officer's wife. But he had no idea what sort of clout Oster had now, or if he held any rank in any organisation, military or otherwise, at all. Hoffmann was intrigued, but he didn't want to make waves. The Research Department was Göring's spy network. It wouldn't do to ruffle feathers there.

  'Where do you suggest? he said.

  'Dahlem,' came the answer, immediately and somewhat hurriedly. 'Fabeckstraße. By the Völker Museum. There's a beer garden, quite quiet, called the Apfelbaum, close to the corner of Humboldtstraße. Got that?'

  'Yes,' said Hoffmann, a littler angry. The man sounded as if he were giving orders.

  'When would be convenient for you?'

  Hoffmann looked at his own watch. 'This evening.'

  '20.00 hours?'

  'Right.'

  'One other thing.'

  'Yes?'

  'Don't come in uniform.'

  55

  The Apfelbaum wa
s certainly quiet, and took some finding too. Its entrance was unmarked and you had to walk down a narrow alley off the street to get to it, where a minute green wooden sign, no bigger than a sheet of paper, hung over a rose-entwined arch. Through it was a courtyard smothered in tall shrubs set in pots, so placed as to separate each of the handful of rustic tables which were dotted about. From somewhere came the sound of a fountain. It was a sunny evening, but here it was shaded. Hoffmann was the only customer. He chose a table with a view of the arch, ordered a Berliner Weize with lemon, lit a cigarette, opened the book he'd brought with him, and waited.

  He nursed his beer for half-an-hour, looking up from his book on the three occasions when other people entered the garden, all couples, no-one in uniform, then decided that that was long enough. Failing to signal a waiter, he tossed some money on the table, put on his hat, and left.

  He hadn't walked ten metres back towards the museum when two men in trenchcoats emerged from nowhere. He bent down fast and went for his gun, but they were pros too and ahead of him. They grabbed his elbows, and shoved him towards a Mercedes with curtained windows at the back, which drew up a few metres ahead of them. One opened the nearside rear door, and he was bundled in. As the door slammed behind him, the car drove off, picking up speed.

  'Good evening,' said the voice from the telephone. 'I'm Oster.'

  Hoffmann turned to him. Oster was slightly built, and dressed in a comfortable, expensive tweed suit. His expression was genial, and his intelligent dark eyes were humorous. But he was someone used to being in command.

  'Sorry about that, but everyone has to take precautions. And we had to wait too - we didn't know when you'd decide enough was enough. Half-an-hour. You are a pretty patient man.'