Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  65

  'I'm not impressed.' Gruppenführer Heinrich Müller let the file containing Kessler's report drop onto his desk, and looked up from his chair to where the inspector stood at semi-attention, the other side of its littered surface. The only other person in the room was Müller's duty clerk, the same studious-looking young SS-Obersturmführer Kessler had seen on his previous visit to the Prinz-Albrecht-Straße.

  The clock on the wall said 10.00am. Kessler had just spent the longest fifteen minutes of his life in the room.

  'It's the only possible conclusion we can draw, sir. The way we found the car, what it contained, everything –'

  Müller stood up himself. 'Come on. You know him better than that. Double-bluff? Remember? Shit, it's only the day before yesterday that we discussed it!'

  'That was before I visited the site. He probably wanted to keep us tied up for as long as possible, even though he'd intended to kill himself all along. So that we couldn't relocate our resources immediately. All the circumstances point to suicide, sir.'

  'Then where's your fucking body?'

  'We're dragging the lake.'

  'Another bloody waste of time!' Müller brooded, pacing his cavernous office, picking up one paper or dossier after another before returning it to its clumsy pile. He paused, 'As for your request to stay in Berlin...'

  'Sir?'

  'It's denied.' Müller sat down and picked up Kessler's report once more. 'Try harder on this. I don't want to see you again until you bring me a body; and if you find him alive, bring him back in one piece.' Müller waved to his clerk as an indication that the interview was at an end. 'You can keep Kleinschmidt with you,' he added as Kessler prepared to depart. 'And get this done fast: it's priority. I'm getting two calls a day from the Führer's office. It won't be my head on the block if we don't get a result soon - and you, Kessler, are eminently expendable; it's no secret how friendly you were with the traitor Hoffmann.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Not that you suspected anything?'

  'No, sir.'

  'One more thing.'

  'Yes?'

  Müller shook the sheaf of paper in his hand. 'There are one or two things we need to verify in here. Double-check, you know.' He made no attempt to hide the threat in his voice. 'We'll be in touch when we have. Won't take more than a day. In the meantime, report to your office. And don't go further from it than your flat. We'll know if you do. That's all.'

  'I thought you said this investigation was urgent.'

  Müller looked up. 'We won't hold it up, believe me. Now get out.'

  'What about the call from Althof?' Müller's clerk asked him after Kessler had saluted, and left. 'Shouldn't he know about that?'

  'Of course,' said Müller. 'And he'll be told this time tomorrow. But for now we need him where we can see him.'

  The SS-lieutenant nodded.

  'What's next?' said Müller.

  'Sturmbannführer Schiffer is here already, sir.'

  'Good. Get him.'

  The clerk left through a side door, and reappeared moments later with Müller's next visitor.

  'Did you hear any of that?' asked Müller, gesturing to a chair.

  'Enough.'

  'And what do you think?'

  'Hoffmann's clearly alive,' said Schiffer.

  'What makes you think so?' Müller had made sure that Schiffer hadn't been told anything about the call from Althof.

  'He's not the type to kill himself. And my guess is, he's got unfinished business to settle. After that, he'll make for the frontier.'

  'Which?'

  'I can't tell you that.' Schiffer shifted in his chair, showing slight impatience, which Müller didn't mind at all. 'In the meantime - '

  'Yes, yes. What have you found out?'

  'We know where his daughter is. We checked all the possible places on file. Just a question of looking at them all and whittling them down.'

  'You took your time.'

  'Hoffmann had scrambled his files and address cards, destroyed a lot - but we had several duplicates he couldn't have gained access to even if he'd known about them, and he didn't have time to do a thorough job.'

  'Where is she?'

  'At Inspector Kessler's parents' old house. It belongs to him now.'

  Müller didn't look at all surprised.

  'I suppose they thought it wouldn't be in our notes any more. Kessler's father's case is a very old one,' Schiffer added. 'And there's no evidence that Kessler uses it much, if at all. It was all shut up until recently. Still looks that way.'

  'I imagine so.' Müller paused briefly. 'So, what are you doing, still sitting here?'

  'I need you to sign the order. The house is being watched. She can't possibly get away.'

  'Rainer?' But the SS-clerk was already approaching with a sheaf of papers. Müller put on his glasses, skimmed them hastily, and signed where he had to, before handing the top two copies to Schiffer.

  'Tell your men to handle her with kid gloves.'

  'They'll do their best,' Schiffer said.

  'She mustn't be alarmed. You must be discreet. Do you think Kessler's involved in this?'

  'She would have known about the house. Kessler and Hoffmann were close - I don't need to tell you that. She has keys.'

  'How do you know?'

  Schiffer made a little gesture with his hands. 'We've been watching the place; and so, of course, have the locals.'

  'Weren't she and Kessler friendly, at least at one point? They probably had assignations there, after his parents ... moved away.'

  Schiffer shrugged. 'If you say so.'

  Müller leant forward. 'Careful, Major. Everyone's edgy at the moment and a word out of place can be very risky. Kessler's working for me now, but he has direct orders from the Führer. No-one can countermand them but the Führer himself.'

  Schiffer spread his hands. 'Do you want her brought here first?'

  'I don't think so. Get her on a train to Munich as soon as possible. Two men should accompany her - first class seats for all three. They should take her directly to Dachau from the station - get them to phone ahead, the people down there should send a car. Are you remembering all this?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I fucking hope so. You're too cocky, Schiffer. If this goes wrong I'll personally see to it that your arse gets ripped inside out, understand?'

  'Sir.'

  'They'll put her in the Privileged Prisoners compound.' Müller looked reflective. 'Got a good chance of survival there, unless orders change. Got all that?'

  Schiffer stood.

  'Report back when it's done. You can telephone Rainer. Or send a man if there's an air-raid.' The Gruppenführer looked at his watch. 'She should be in her new lodgings by this time tomorrow.'

  'Sir.'

  Müller looked at him. 'Don't worry about Kessler,' he said. 'In any case, I may have a new assignment for you when you return. It'll involve a bit of travelling.' He looked at the wall-clock. 'Come back tomorrow at 10.00 hours. I shouldn't have to keep you long.' He stood up and saluted:

  'Heil Hitler.'

  'Heil Hitler.'

  66

  It was late afternoon when the telephone rang in Müller's office. The young Obersturmführer answered it, and spoke and listened briefly. He rang off and immediately dialled the Hotel Kaiserhof where Müller was attending a meeting of heads-of-department.

  Müller was on the line in moments. He listened while his clerk told him that Emma Hoffmann had been apprehended without fuss. She was found to have a small suitcase already packed, so they had evidently been in the nick of time; but it also meant they could leave the house without delay, which they had locked and sealed.

  Three of Schiffer's men had driven her directly to the station and two of them had boarded the 17.09 Munich direct express with her. It was expected to arrive at its destination at dawn the following day, and the men would report once they'd handed over their charge at Dachau Concentration Camp.

  Müller hung up, pleased with hi
s day's work, and returned to the smoking room where the meeting was in the process of winding up. Stewards were appearing with decanters, coffee, and cakes.

  The following morning he would send Kessler and Kleinschmidt to Althof - it was worth the short delay to ensure that Kessler was denied any opportunity of contacting Emma Hoffmann before he himself had been quite sure of arresting her. Of course he might have led them to her, but Müller had few men at his disposal for such a job and every confidence in Schiffer.

  In any case, Kessler was still the best man to sniff out Hoffmann, so he had to be kept clean, as it were. But the professorial little inspector had to have an eye kept on him, too. Pity there was nothing Müller could do about the Hitler-Order Kessler carried, but there it was.

  He thought about the call from Althof. Some woman who ran a hotel down there. Someone who'd known Hoffmann in Berlin in the old days and who had a score to settle. Hoffmann had run the Vice Squad too successfully not to have made a few enemies. Müller didn't know the details. Rainer had taken the call. But it sounded like a positive identification.

  Which meant that friend Hoffmann hadn't shot himself in the woods after all.

  Müller wondered how Kessler would react. Of course he'd present the news to the policeman as if it had come in since their meeting. He knew the cop was back at his flat now, probably champing at the bit because he knew he was being watched and wouldn't dare rush out in search of his lady-love. All rather ironic, really.

  Müller ordered a large Martell and selected a black cigar from a box on the conference table. Quite convenient, too, that Schiffer and Kessler had been such rivals in the past.

  He snipped the end of his cigar, dipped it in the cognac, and placed it in his mouth. He was lighting it when a colleague from Department VI B appeared.

  'You're looking very pleased with yourself,' he said.

  'Yes,' said Müller. 'I have reason to be.'

  67

  The bike was heavy, but powerful. The panniers either side of the rear wheel were large enough to accommodate his bags and, counterweighted, a five-litre jerry can of petrol. That, with the full tank, would be enough to see him through.

  As a means of transport, the bike had worried Hoffmann at first. It was years since he'd driven a bike and he'd been uncertain if he still could, but after a day on the road, he had mastered it again. Its advantage was speed.

  He'd had to drop the Ministry of Aviation cover, but he'd hung on to his Swedish passport, and he was now the proud possessor of another set of travel documents and ID papers in the name of Dieter Weitz, a reporter for the Völkischer Beobachter.

  It was a riskier cover because it was more controversial, but while it might make things less easy when dealing with officials, it could smooth his path with ordinary people. He had money and ammunition enough to see him through. There was more with Tilli, if he could reach her.

  Before he slept, he checked and cleaned the service pistol and the Walther. He should have asked Adamov for another gun. God help him if both the ones he had jammed.

  He travelled west out of Leipzig, but as soon as he was able to get onto country roads, he headed southwards. He was beginning to smell his destination. Not long now.

  He spent the first night with a farmer and his wife who showed no curiosity about him whatsoever. They were only interested in relieving him of the exorbitant five marks they charged him for a straw bed made up in their lean-to. He'd refused the attic, as there he'd be trapped. There was no telephone or electricity, and the place was remote; but he knew he would still sleep lightly, with his PPK in his hand, and he'd brought the bike into the lean-to with him. In fact he found it hard to sleep at all after the heavy meal – pork and dumplings – which they'd given him; but he was grateful for apparent lack of interest in him.

  The lean-to smelled of cow-dung, and he rose before dawn, stripped naked and washed himself vigorously at the pump in the yard, where the chained dog eyed him with suspicion. He drove away before they had risen, satisfying himself with a breakfast of cold water and cigarettes – the last of the Murattis.

  He thought of his flat in Berlin. They'd have ransacked it. He had no home, no bank account, not even a sense of belonging, an identity. And how tedious this limbo was, of being on the run. In the course of his career, he had tried to place himself in the minds of the criminals he pursued, and it was a fundamental tactic he'd always taught his students; but he had never sympathised with his quarry until now.

  Who was pursuing him? He wished he'd been able to find out more about the Gestapo in Leipzig. Another question: at this stage of the game, where did his pursuers' loyalties lie? And if their loyalties were divided, how much influence would fear have on them?

  68

  He reached the little wine-growing town of Freyburg without difficulty and managed to find a restaurant in a small hotel overshadowed by the twin towers of the church. Although the state's influence was less evident in so rural a place, he had no intention of staying longer than he had to. A stranger would stand out like a sore thumb, and after his encounter with the Gestapo in Leipzig, he was under no illusions that Berlin would still believe him dead.

  His friendly host and hostess served him a late lunch and he hastened through it, as his main reason for stopping here was to use the telephone, which stood at the end of the bar, in a quiet corner. There were two other people eating, an elderly man in country clothes and his wife, who both nodded hello. The man recommended a local Müller-Thurgau, and by the look of him he was a man well experienced in wine-drinking.

  Hoffmann bought cigarettes and asked if he could make a call to his office. Would the phone, if it worked at all, be monitored? He doubted it, not here. In any case it was risk he'd have to take.

  They were more than happy to let him. Hoffmann noticed that they looked careworn. They'd probably had enough of the war, like everyone else. They were impressed, however, that he was a journalist, and even moved away to the other end of the bar. Unfortunately, they also dropped their voices in deference, as did the elderly couple, who had finished their meal, and were lingering over the rest of their wine.

  Hoffmann picked up the receiver and dialled Tilli's number.

  She answered immediately.

  'Were you sitting by the phone?' he asked.

  'Not exactly. Can you talk?'

  'Briefly. How is he?'

  'Fine. A bit bored. Doing a jigsaw puzzle, but his heart's not in it. Are you coming?'

  'Yes.'

  'When?'

  'I don't know. I'm not far. Two days.'

  'Have you got transport?'

  'Yes. I may not be able to call again though.'

  'Will I recognise you?'

  'I hope not. How is he?'

  'I've told you,' she said gently.

  'I won't know what to say to him.'

  'We'll cross that when you get here.'

  'Yes.'

  'Max.'

  'Yes?'

  'Are you all right?'

  'So far, so good.'

  'There's been quite a lot about you on the radio and in the papers. For a moment even I was taken in. Then I told myself that there was no question of your shooting yourself – when you still have things to do.'

  'What's the news?'

  'The latest – this morning – is that they've sent a team after you to Althof. People have been warned to look out for you. They gave a description, too.'

  'On the radio?'

  'Yes - it wasn't very good. But be careful.'

  'Nothing official from Leipzig?'

  'No - should there have been?'

  'It doesn't matter.' Hoffmann felt a small sense of relief. Perhaps Schmidt really hadn't tipped any of his colleagues off when he'd got the call from the hotel clerk. But what of the hotel clerk himself? What of Schmidt's assistant – if the man reading the newspaper was his assistant – he was certainly clumsy enough to be a Gestapo-man.

  'Are things still safe with you?'

  'Touch wood.'
>
  'No visits?'

  'None.'

  'Max.'

  'Yes?'

  'If you think the risk's too big, don't come. I can look after him.'

  He wondered for a moment how she could ask the question. 'I have to see him. How could I not?'

  'I only meant –' But Tilli didn't complete her sentence.

  Hoffmann sighed, glancing at the people at the other end of the bar. The elderly couple were leaving. He smiled, waved at them. 'I must go.'

  'Come quickly, then.'

  'As soon as I can.'

  He hung up. The Gestapo, luckily, relied so heavily on denunciation and betrayal that they'd never become good investigators; but they still needed watching, especially the careerists. As for the rank-and-file, he could skate around them. He rubbed his eyes. He'd better get going.

  'Got a lead?' asked the landlord, as he paid his bill.

  'What?' Hoffmann tried to be as friendly as possible. No point in antagonising anyone. But he was under so much strain that he could hardly bring himself to act a part.

  'No offence,' said the man. 'I know the form – you people don't reveal your sources. It's just that I heard on the radio, they got a description of this big-shot cop they're looking for. Got a sighting in Althof. Thought you might be on his track.'

  Hoffmann managed another smile. 'Maybe. But you know, you're right – I can't tell you anything.'

  'Of course, of course. Just wondered, you know. They said he might be making his way in this direction.'

  'I wonder what gave them that idea?'

  'Althof's more-or-less on the road south of Berlin. I suppose they think he's heading down to the Swiss frontier.'

  'He'd be lucky.'

  'Right! Big bloke in a black Volkswagen. Shouldn't be hard to catch.'

  'Yes.'

  'Bastard. Sits in Berlin on his fat arse for years and then it turns out he was working for the enemy all along!'

  'There's been a lot of fall-out since the assassination attempt,' Hoffmann said. At least he could catch up on news when he reached Tilli's. All his life he'd lived on information. A fortnight ago, there had been every hope. It did no good to brood on what might have been, but a fortnight ago, only a fortnight, everything was at his command. Now –