The room was plunged into absolute blackness. Reinhardt flung himself back against the wall, back where he had come from, scooping up the baton where it had lain against his thigh, flicking it up into the air, feeling it extend and snap into place. He felt Padelin go past him, felt the heat and weight of the man, like a swimmer might feel a leviathan pass beneath him in dark waters. Reinhardt swung his knee up, heard the detective give an astonished wheeze even as his arms scrabbled apelike across Reinhardt’s tunic and under his chin, his thick fingers searching for a grip, twisting up and over his face and grasping at his eyes. Reinhardt jerked his head back and away and hacked down with all his strength. He felt the baton thump across Padelin’s back, heard the man’s gasp of breath as it bent around and across his ribs, the weighted ball at its tip digging deep. Reinhardt jerked his knee up again, connecting with Padelin’s chest, and smashed down with the baton once more, and again, across the shoulders.
He felt the ball bite into something soft, and he kicked and thrashed with his knees and feet. This was trench fighting, the kind that left you no room except what you could hack out with your arms and legs. Hack, stab, thrust, swing, and never stop until your man is down, or you are, and the fear was gone, only emptiness where it had been. He felt a sickening familiarity of movement, a vestigial memory of stumbling and brawling through earthen trenches with Russians in brown tunics and Frenchmen in blue uniforms and British in their round tin hats.
Padelin collapsed to the floor, but even as he did, he punched Reinhardt in the side, just below the ribs. His breath sawing in his throat over the blare of pain from where he had been hit, Reinhardt fell on Padelin’s back with both his knees digging down, and beat him over the back of the thighs with the baton. He did not want to kill him, although he knew Padelin had had his death in his eyes. With his free hand he gripped Padelin’s hair and struck his head against the floor once, twice. He stopped, breathing raggedly, and felt Padelin through his legs, listened to his breathing. Padelin twitched, his torso moving. Taking the haft of the baton in his fist, he placed it on the back of Padelin’s neck and drew it back. Judging as best he could in the dark, he struck Padelin across the back of the neck and felt him go stiff, then limp under him.
He remained kneeling on Padelin’s back for a few moments, but the detective was still. Light was bleeding into the room. The shutters were limned in a faint brush of silver from outside, a rectangle of white around the door. Drenched in a cold sweat, Reinhardt leaned over, close to Padelin’s face, and heard the thread of his breathing. He ran his hands over Padelin’s jacket, finding his pistol, and taking the detective’s as well. Standing, his hand searching blindly, he found the wall, and he leaned against it a moment. Remembering where the table was, he picked up his cap and, wiping his sweaty face on his sleeves, screwed it onto his head. Feeling calmer, he cracked the door open, listening, before opening it wider and looking out into the corridor.
There was no one. He collapsed the baton, pocketed it, and slipped out, turning for the door at the end, opening it as quietly as he could. There was a thud, a mutter of a man’s voice, and then another man’s, swearing. Two men began arguing. Footsteps, and Bunda came into sight. A tap ran, and he walked back with a jug. Water spilled across the floor. Using the noise as cover, Reinhardt peered around the door frame, seeing Bunda and Putković standing over Jelić’s body.
He stepped quickly into the room, moving over towards the two policemen, who looked at him in bovine astonishment. He aimed his pistol at Putković’s head. ‘Enough,’ he said, quietly. ‘Both of you drop your weapons. Tell Bunda to pick Jelić up and bring him downstairs.’
Putković’s eyes drilled past Reinhardt, to the door he had come out of. ‘Where is Padelin?’
‘Alive,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘Get Jelić picked up. Now.’ Bunda clenched his fists, breathing heavily through his nostrils. Reinhardt shifted his aim to him. The man did not even flinch, staring past the muzzle at Reinhardt. ‘Move or I’ll shoot your pet gorilla and make you carry Jelić.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ grated Putković.
‘Get away with what?’ said Reinhardt. He kept his pistol on Bunda, looking back at him unflinchingly. Bunda was the danger man. Reinhardt could not let him anywhere near him. ‘You detained a German officer. Struck him. Disarmed him. Who is in more trouble here?’ Putković glared at him, then grunted an order at Bunda. Their pistols clattered to the floor, and then the bull of a policeman knelt, slid his arms under Jelić, and hauled him up and over his shoulder. He stood, shifting the body slightly, and turned back to look at Reinhardt. ‘Downstairs. Him first,’ he said, pointing his pistol at Bunda.
Outside, on the pavement, Reinhardt kept his back to the wall. ‘Tell him to put Jelić in the car. In the back.’ Bunda bent over and unceremoniously dumped Jelić across the rear seat. The man moaned through the ruin of his mouth as he slumped into the kübelwagen. ‘Back, both of you. On your knees. In front of the car.’ The two of them knelt slowly, reluctantly. Reinhardt could feel the anger seething off them like heat as he got into the car, managed to turn the ignition, and then the lights. The two kneeling policemen blinked and squinted into the sudden glare as Reinhardt reversed the kübelwagen. He slowed as he passed Putković’s car and fired a shot into the back tyre, and then he flipped the pistol onto the seat next to him. Bunda hauled himself to his feet and began running after him. Reinhardt floored the accelerator, the engine howling metallically. As he came to the end of the road, he saw Bunda lumbering into the street after him in the juddering image of the rearview mirror, then fading away into the night, like some wild creature of the forest.
32
Reinhardt drove without thinking until he reached King Aleksander Street. He paused there, the engine idling, and it was there his fear caught up with him and came clamouring up against the calmness in his mind that had carried him this far. He took a long, ragged breath and put his head on the steering wheel until his breathing steadied and his hands were firmer. He glanced into the back. Jelić seemed unconscious. At least, he said nothing when Reinhardt called his name. After the frenzy of the past few minutes, Reinhardt was at a sudden loss for what to do. A slow wheezing groan from Jelić sparked him into action, however, and he began making his way through the streets to Bentbaša. Passing only one or two military vehicles, he parked against a wooden garage door and hauled Jelić out of the back of the car, wrapping one of the boy’s arms around his neck and putting his other arm tight around his waist.
‘Jelić. Can you walk? You have to try to walk. To help me. Please, walk a little.’
Jelić slumped heavily against him, but it seemed he tried to carry a little of his weight. Reinhardt took the pair of them down a darkened alley, his feet turning unexpectedly on the cobbles as he staggered from step to step, his knee twitching painfully. He reached a house and paused, looking up and down the street. Seeing no one, he hauled Jelić’s weight to one side, and with his free hand he pushed on the door handle. The door opened soundlessly, and he swallowed a sob of relief in his throat. He had only hoped it would be unlocked.
Moving as quickly as he could, he slipped inside, pushing the door shut with his foot. He staggered into the living room and laid Jelić down on a low divan in front of a set of windows. He straightened, breathing heavily, rubbing his knee. In the kitchen he found bottles of brandy and slivovitz and wet some towels, which he applied to Jelić’s face. It felt hopeless, just a gesture. He poured some brandy and tried to lift Jelić’s head, putting a glass to his lips. Jelić winced and turned his head away, a murmur of protest slipping from his swollen mouth.
Reinhardt sighed and sat back. He fingered his glass, then emptied it hard against the back of his throat, gasping harshly as he wiped his hand across his mouth. He poured another glass as he looked at Jelić, his mind spinning. What had he done? What was he going to do? Was it the reference to Stalingrad? That Jelić had been so close to Friedrich? Did this boy remi
nd him of his son? They looked and acted nothing alike. Was he perhaps a substitute for those two boys at Kragujevac? The two he had not saved? He blinked hard through the sting of tears, the sudden bite of smoke harsh in his nostrils, and downed the brandy. He made to pour another and as the bottle rattled on the rim of the glass he stopped and put glass and bottle down.
Maybe it was just the right thing to do.
He scrawled a message to Jelić on a page of his notebook to stay put until a doctor came, tore it out, and left it on the table where he hoped he would see it. He wrote another note, tore it out and folded it into his hand, wrote two names on it, and left the house. At the end of the alley he stopped, looking across the road to the shop where Simo had said he had ‘bought’ his souvenir. He slipped the note under the door, then drove back to the barracks.
Almost forgetting to take the file out from under the spare tyre, he went upstairs to his room, lodged the chair under his door again, and collapsed onto his bed, letting his pistol clatter onto the bedside table. He threw an arm across his face and began to calm down. Checking his watch, he saw that it was coming up to nearly eleven o’clock. He had an early start with Thallberg tomorrow and he had not done anything to prepare for it, and he could not seem to find the energy to do anything about it now. What had Putković said about Becker? He was sure he had mentioned Becker’s name.
He shot up in bed as someone knocked at the door. The room was dark but there was an expectation of light outside the window. His mouth felt thick and gummed, and he knew he had been asleep. The knocking came again. He swayed to his feet and picked up his pistol.
‘Who is there?’ he called, standing to the side of the door.
‘Freilinger.’
Reinhardt pulled the chair away from the door, opened it, and stood back, the pistol held at his waist. Freilinger stepped into the room, his eyes squinting against the gloom. He shut the door, cutting off what little light there was from the hallway. ‘The light?’
Reinhardt reached past him and flipped the switch, squinting and standing back as he did. Freilinger’s eyes paused on the pistol, but he said nothing. ‘What do you want?’ His watch read four o’clock in the morning. He cursed under his breath, never having meant to sleep so long. Never having meant to sleep at all.
‘Thallberg is dead.’
Reinhardt’s breath stopped. ‘What? How?’
‘Car crash. It seems.’
‘When?’
‘He was found about two hours ago. His car looks to have gone off the road into the Miljačka. There was a corporal in the car with him.’
‘Corporal Beike,’ said Reinhardt, quietly. ‘Who told you?’
‘I heard about it over the radio and sent Weninger down to look. He said Becker was there, as well as Putković. He got quite an earful from them. He told me they said you’ve had an interesting evening.’
‘Did he see Thallberg’s body?’
Freilinger nodded. ‘And he couldn’t tell if the car crash killed him or not. A bottle of slivovitz was found in his vehicle. And there was quite a bit of booze down the front of his jacket. And the corporal’s. Seemed like they’d been having quite the party.’
‘Thallberg drove a motorbike. And he preferred beer to whisky.’
‘Quite. Well, the issue is not so much who killed him – we can probably guess that – but what he might have said before he died. What were you planning?’
‘We were planning on going down to the front. To question Verhein and Stolić.’
‘Then you need to get going. Quickly. If they’ve killed Thallberg, there is every chance they’ll come after you.’
Reinhardt stared back at him. ‘Now? How can I?’
‘Just do what you planned to do.’
‘Just like that? I mean, I don’t even know where they are.’
‘The 121st is operating south of Foča.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘This is an investigation that needs to end. And I suppose I am taking a chance you might choose to end it in a way advantageous to us.’
‘To the resistance.’ The way Reinhardt said it, it felt furtive, and that was wrong. He remembered the pistol and holstered it. ‘Who told you last night about the police going to arrest Jelić? Was it Becker?’ Freilinger nodded. ‘Why?’
Freilinger shrugged with his mouth as he tapped a mint into his palm. ‘At a guess? He wanted you out of the way while he dealt with Thallberg. I don’t suppose he thought you’d end up assaulting three Sarajevo policemen. Who is Dr Begović?’
If Reinhardt had not already been wary of what he said around Freilinger, perhaps the question might have thrown him. As it was, he simply shook his head. ‘He is a doctor who sometimes works with the police. Putković seems to think he’s also a Partisan. And that I’m helping him in some way or another.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not so far as I can ascertain, no,’ lied Reinhardt, his mind focused on something else.
‘Is he helping you?’
‘Yes,’ Reinhardt said after a moment. ‘He gave me the film. You have not been completely honest with me, sir. You told me of the police going to arrest Jelić. You didn’t have to do that. What did you stand to gain by having me out of the way last night?’
Freilinger gave a small, tight smile. ‘One can be too devious, Reinhardt. I should not have told you, but… I did. Just say,’ he swallowed, ‘that the discussion you had with Meissner moved me. And at the risk of sounding pretentious, you were perhaps due a little action. You have been doing an awful lot of thinking these past couple of days.’
‘So you think I should leave?’
‘Now. Otherwise I am not sure what Becker might do. I don’t think you can do much against him and the police together.’
Reinhardt sat on his bed. He looked around the room. ‘I’ve not had the time to arrange anything.’
‘No need. Claussen is downstairs with your vehicle and supplies.’
‘Claussen?’
‘I asked him if he would go with you. He said yes.’ Reinhardt gave a little laugh, feeling like flotsam, that the current of events was leaving him no choice, even if… even if this was what had been planned. ‘Reinhardt, you need to decide now. You were told to stop this investigation, and you didn’t. You are accused by the Sarajevo police of aiding and abetting the Partisans. Becker will come for you if you stay, and you have, if I may put it bluntly, no friends strong enough to cover for you. You are going to be in real trouble here, and I can’t deny you’re likely to get yourself in trouble if you leave. But if you get going, I can cover your tracks for a while, and you may be able to outrun any word he sends and’ – he paused – ‘who knows how things might end up turning out.’
It was more the way Freilinger spoke – that hoarse rasp – as he outlined the odds stacked against Reinhardt than the odds themselves that decided him. Reinhardt nodded and rose to his feet. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you downstairs. And, sir?’ Freilinger paused at the door. ‘Thank you.’
Reinhardt took a moment to wash his face, make his ablutions, and thought back to the way this had all started, just like this, just three days ago. A knock at the door in the early morning. News that turned your life on its head. He was not the same man now. He felt calmer, more centreed, more at peace with himself than he had felt in a long while. For all he seemed to have dug himself a hole, he felt he could now see further than he could for a long time, and for all that the days had seemed to draw themselves out interminably, he felt events now accelerating past the point where he could control them, even if he had wanted to.
He packed a few things in a rucksack – a change of clothes, his toiletry bag, then the file. He slipped Carolin’s picture from its frame and folded it into his tunic pocket, noting the wear and tear on his uniform, the whisper of threads at the end of the embroidered eagle. Looking around t
he room, he saw nothing else to take, and, if he was honest, his chances of coming back were slim.
Downstairs, Freilinger was waiting next to a kübelwagen that had been kitted out for a mission. A spare tyre with a rope coiled around it was fixed to the front deck, shovels and cans of water were strapped to the sides, and a pair of MP 40s were racked behind the front seats. Claussen stood arranging supplies on the rear bench. Reinhardt walked up to him, then offered his hand. Claussen took it.
‘Sergeant,’ Reinhardt said. ‘I am… happy that you are coming.’ Claussen just nodded, handed over a helmet with a set of goggles attached, and put his rucksack into the car.
Freilinger handed over a sheaf of fuel coupons. ‘Which way will you go?’
‘The eastern road, through Rogatica. It’s a bit less travelled than the southern route. It’ll be quicker.’
Freilinger nodded. ‘I’ll try to put it about subtly that you took the road south through Trnovo, then.’ He seemed to hesitate, then extended his hand. ‘Good luck, Reinhardt.’ He thought a moment, his lips tight. ‘I am sorry we didn’t trust you sooner with what we knew and suspected.’
Reinhardt took his hand, remembering the conversation with Meissner. ‘Sir. When did it begin for you?’
‘Resistance?’ Reinhardt nodded. Freilinger held his eyes. ‘Kragujevac,’ he said, simply, and nothing more was needed. Freilinger gripped Reinhardt’s hand hard, and then he was gone.
As they drove out of the barracks, the sky was still dark and dotted with stars, but the tops of the hills on either side of the valley were silky with the coming dawn. Turning right at Vijećnica, they drove up past the old stone span of the Goat Bridge – for centuries the point that marked the beginning of the long, long road to Constantinople – climbing up and around the rocky flanks of the mountains that channelled the river into the city, into the rising sun, until up ahead they saw a sandbagged checkpoint at the crossing where the road forked. Straight on and up, to Bare and Stambulčić, or left, deeper into the mountains, towards Rogatica in its valley, towards Goražde and Foča on the banks of the Drina, towards the far-flung slopes of Mount Sutješka, where Operation Schwarz was now under way.
The Man from Berlin Page 33