Bullet Beth

by James Patrick Hunt

  The yellow tram car stopped near the old Checkpoint Charlie and Rathau got off. He walked for about half a mile before hailing a taxi. The taxi took him further east until the driver stopped at the address Rathau had given him. It was dark when they got there and the rain was falling steadily. Rathau paid the driver and then he was alone.

  Berlin. What difference did it make? They could build modern corporate offices and massive American style malls and fill it with stores, but it wouldn’t take away the pervasive gloom, the melancholy. Rathau remembered seeing the movie Wings of Desire, while he had been in Hong Kong, oddly enough. Filmed in Berlin before the Wall came down, it was about an angel who falls in love with a mortal and wants to go back. Never a movie buff, Rathau had thought it bleak and ponderous. But he had been amused by the scene where two of the angels, dressed in dark overcoats and scarves, had sat in a BMW convertible and waxed nostalgic about what they missed about being on earth. And what was it they said they missed?

  “To lie, to be a savage, to be able, once in awhile, to enthuse for evil”.

  Enthuse for evil? And this from an angel? Christ, it was as if the German culture couldn’t resist giving others ammunition against them.

  Peter Rathau was an American and his father was an American. But his grandfather seemed to have remained a German Jew until the end. It didn’t matter that his home was in Skokie, Illinois. He remembered the grandfather making a dismissive, cruel remark about an Eastern European Jew. Peter had thought it discriminatory, tribal and gross. He said to his mother later, “Don’t you think it’s ironic?” His mother told him to show some respect. For he hadn’t been there and the grandfather had. Peter hadn’t thought that was much of a defense to what seemed like blatant elitism, but he wasn’t one to argue with parents.

  He walked six blocks, looking over his shoulder from time to time to make sure he was alone. Then he came to the address he had been given. He knocked on a door on what appeared to be an empty office building. A large bald man in a black leather jacket answered the door.

  “Yes?” he said in German.

  Rathau had a fair handle on languages. His Serbo-Croation was good and his Chinese allowed him to order more or less what he wanted on a Shanghai menu. German was easier to learn, but his was creaky and the bouncer knew he was an American before he finished his sentence.

  “Bruno referred me,” Rathau said.

  The bald man stepped back and opened the door. He gestured to an elevator and said, “Press nine.”

  “Danke,” Rathau said, and moved down the hall.

  Half a minute later, the elevator door opened to another world. An underground world, though not unusual for Berlin. There were couples having sex on the dance floor. Men looking like women, women kissing other women. Some barrel chested men wearing green lederhosen singing something guttural. Surreal, even to a man like Rathau, who had seen a lot of the world. The Brothers Grimm had supposedly taken their dark tales of gnomes and fairies and witches and wolves from the woods, but they could have easily seen it thriving here.

  Rathau moved to one of the bars and ordered a Coca-Cola. He did not drink alcohol. The barmaid brought it to him without seeming to acknowledge him. He had a couple of sips and then heard a voice speaking in English.

  He turned to look at a slight, wiry man with blond hair.

  “Pardon me?” Rathau said.

  “You are American,” the blond man said. “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are here to see Franz, yes?”

  Rathau straightened and turned to take the blond haired man in. Slight of build and thin, but there was a menace about him.

  “Yes,” Rathau said, “I am.”

  “You are a journalist.”

  “A writer,” Rathau said. Sometimes it helped if they didn’t think they were talking to a journalist.

  “Herr Johst does not give interviews,” the blond man said.

  “I’m not asking for one,” Rathau said. “I just want to talk to him.”

  “About?”

  “I’ll tell him that.”

  The blond man smiled. “Come,” he said.

  He led Rathau to a back room. The door closed behind them. The steady thump of the music could still be heard. They went down a long hall and the blond man opened a door.

  He gestured for Rathau to walk in before him.

  Rathau hesitated then. He was thinking of another journalist in Pakistan. He had been following a tip and he got into a car with men he thought could be trusted. His name was Daniel Pearl.

  But that was Pakistan. This was contemporary Germany. And they were at the back of a seedy nightclub.

  Rathau walked in to the room.

  It was a dark room. Walls almost painted black. There were a couple of paintings on the wall. In one of them, a woman lay on a bed naked and dead, blood staining the sheets around her buttocks. Rathau had seen people dead before; victims of war and slaughter in person, but for some reason the painting on the wall made him shudder involuntarily. He took his eyes off it and surveyed the rest of the room. Modern furnishings. Black leather and a desk with a glass top. On top of the desk was a coiled whip.

  Behind the desk was Franz Johst. He was looking at a pornographic magazine. He wore spectacles. He looked up at Rathau, then over at the blond man.

  “This is the journalist?”

  The blond man, whose name was Kurt Hebbell, said, “He says he is a writer.”

  A thin smile on Johst’s face. “A writer, uh? They say that anyone who writes provokes society.”

  Rathau said, “Do they.”

  Johst said, “You are American.”

  “Yes,” Rathau said. “Your English is good.”

  “Ach. We had to learn it from the Americans after the war.”

  Rathau estimated Johst to be in his late forties. He said, “I think that was before your time.”

  Johst went on as if he had not heard him. “What is it they said? Uh? They wanted to keep the Americans in, the Russians out, and the Germans down.”

  Rathau said, “Bygones.”

  Franz Johst laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. He said, “And I suppose you think we still need to be watched, uh? Like children.”

  Rathau shrugged. “Politics,” he said. “I don’t get involved. Besides, the war’s over. For that matter, the Cold War’s over too.”

  “That,” Johst said, “is not necessarily a good thing.” He gave Rathau a penetrating look. “What is it you want, Herr Rathau?”

  “Just background,” Rathau said. “Nothing formal.”

  After a moment, Johst said, “Nothing formal. But, what is it about?”

  “The Korporation.”

  Franz Johst held his gaze. Rathau was aware of Hebbell shifting his weight. Rathau tightened and he found himself looking at the whip again.

  Johst said, “Korporation … You mean a business?”

  Rathau said, “You know what I mean.”

  Johst said, “That has been abolished. It is no longer part of Germany. You come to seek a story, material for your book. Blood and iron, uh? Something medieval.”

  “If there’s nothing to it, there’s nothing to it.”

  “There is nothing to it,” Johst said. He gestured. “Look around. We have everything in Berlin. Sex, nightclubs, art. It is bohemian now. Mere empty sin, nothing more. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “You haven’t.”

  Johst made an aristocratic gesture that said, we’re done here. “Kurt will show you out,” he said.

  Peter Rathau was a courageous man. And like most courageous men, he feared. His heart had been racing for a moment, but he relaxed a little when Johst had indicated that their time was finished. There was danger about the man and while danger had to be met with for the sake of the story, sometimes you had to listen to the hairs on the back of your neck. But he hadn’t had time to turn when Hebbell clubbed him from behind and took him to the ground.

  Rathau was on the ground unconscious. Hebbell
looked to Johst. He said, “Throw him off the roof?”

  “Nein. The river. Take Martin and Heinrich with you.”

  The field was flat and green and its color contrasted with the grey, heavy sky that seemed to reach down and park against it. A couple of trees on the side, a road in front. The sound of a vehicle approaching.

  A van. Small and blue, a European Ford model. There are no windows on the side. The driver has the transmission in low gear because the road is muddy and he fears getting stuck. The road is rutted and uneven and the engine can be heard straining and pitching, as the van makes its way north. Not moving quickly, but with a determination to make it to a small house north of Belfast.

  The Irishman driving the vehicle is a soldier in the IRA. A terrorist still. He does not know much about the prisoner in the back of the van except that he’s an American and that he’s been nosing around things he should leave alone. A week earlier, British police raided the Sinn Fein headquarters and took all the documents they could find. So much for peace accords. The British Army had not changed and it had them all feeling like they were under siege again.

  The prisoner is blindfolded and his hands were cuffed in front of him. They had removed a gun from his possession, a Glock .40. Austrian gun that American agents seemed to favor these days. The American is guarded by two more men holding Smith and Wesson .357 revolvers. He must have sensed they were onto him because he tried to go out the back door of a pub, but Danny Shea had been there waiting for him with a club. When the American regained his senses he was in the van blindfolded. He had told them he was an American, thinking it would mean something to them, but it didn’t. Collins had cracked him one across his brow then and told him to shut his fucking face and after that the American kept quiet.

  • • •

  The American agent’s name was Virgil C. Reinhardt. His birth certificate - originating in Manchester, New Hampshire - did not specify what the C stood for, but he had been called Charlie for most of his life. He was concentrating now, telling himself not to panic because he had been in worse situations than this. But he couldn’t think of one at this particular time. He wondered if he should tell them he had never much liked St. Patrick’s Day because the Americans always got so drunk, not showing much respect for their patron saint. Maybe they’d laugh and soften up a bit. Or maybe they’d hit him again and tell him to shut his fucking face. Christ, he hated Ireland.

  They pulled him out of the van at a thatched cottage with a white roof. Quiet out here, isolated and unnerving. When they took his blindfold off, he felt a mixture of emotions. Relief, because not being able to see in moments like that is a terror in itself. But only so much relief, because if they were going to allow him to see them, the odds of them letting him live were not good.

  The windows were covered, green shades pulled down to keep out the light. There were beer bottles and a couple of syringes lying on the bare floor and Reinhardt remembered a journalist saying the IRA was as much about controlling the drug trade as anything else. It was cold, no heat that he could feel and his captors still had their coats on. Two of them holding guns on him and a third stout looking fellow with the expression of a rat terrier. The terrier came up to him and put a finger against his head. He pushed so that Reinhardt could feel it.

  The terrier said, “You know what we do to snitches?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Reinhardt said.

  “Two bullets in the brain. Bang, bang.”

  “I thought it was kneecaps.”

  Reinhardt had his back to a wall, literally, and it was an easy thing for the terrier to bounce his head against it. Reinhardt winced and could not prevent himself from crying out. His hands were in front of him and if he wanted to he could have reached and hit the terrier back. But he restrained the urge, which wasn’t easy. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Christ,” Reinhardt said, “I’m an American. What do you want with me?”

  “American my ass. That’s not going to get you out of this, boyo. Now what the fuck were you doing asking about Donnie O’Sullivan? And don’t deny that you were.”

  “I’m not denying it. Look, it has nothing to do with the IRA. I’m not a British agent.”

  “You’re allied with the British and you’re in our country now.”

  “Yes, your country. And who do you get most of your financing from? Americans. Irish Americans. You kill an American and it’s going to make your next fundraiser in Boston a little awkward.”

  “Don’t evade the issue, boyo. We can kill you and not take the responsibility and no one will be the wiser. You follow?”

  Reinhardt examined the situation. The terrier was what they would call “full Belfast.” Filled with hate and beyond reason. He could try to convince them he was a tourist with a big mouth, but it wouldn’t work. Maybe the truth would get him home.

  Reinhardt said, “Yeah, I follow.”

  “Now what do you want with Donnie?”

  “All right,” Reinhardt said. “He’s got ties with Hamas. That’s all we’re interested in. I want to discuss that with him. I could care less about the IRA.”

  The terrier seemed to study him for a moment. Then he turned to acknowledge the two gunmen, hard killers both. The terrier turned back. He said, “You mean the fucking Palestinians?”

  “Yeah,” Reinhardt said. “That’s all I’m interested in.”

  “Jaysus,” the terrier said. “You mean now we’re part of your bloody axis of evil?”

  “No. It’s not like that. Listen, that’s all I want from him, I swear. You kill me and it’s going to more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “You make a good point, yank. If you’re tellin’ the truth. But I think you’re a fuckin’ liar. I think we let you go and you’ll go straight to the British and tell them all about this.”

  “I’ve forgotten it already.”

  The terrier laughed. “Yes,” he said, “but we won’t.” He made a gesture to one of the gunmen and the man started forward. That was when Reinhardt rushed the terrier, full force and he had his hands on the guy’s lapels and then on his hair as he pushed him into the gunman who was close by. Reinhardt snapped the terrier’s head into the face of the gunmen and there was a cry as both men went to the ground and then he had the gunmen’s revolver in his hand as the other gunman was pointing and shooting, but it was happening quickly, the adrenalin making the shooter’s hand shake as Reinhardt fired twice and put the guy down. Reinhardt then slammed the revolver into the gunman’s face and then was on his feet as the terrier was on his. Reinhardt put the gun on the terrier, but the terrier was holding his hands up, crying out, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.”

  Reinhardt moved to a part of the room. One of the men was dead, the other unconscious.

  The terrier said it again, “Don’t shoot. I’m a British agent. I’m a British agent.”

  Reinhardt said, “What?”

  “I’m a British agent, for fuck’s sake. Don’t kill me.”

  The man was surrendering and Reinhardt was not one for killing prisoners. Still, this was too convenient. He said, “You’re a British agent.”

  “I’m Irish, I know. But I’m working for the British. MI5, Special Branch. The secret Force Research Unit. I swear to you. I swear on my mother.”

  Reinhardt said, “Who’s your handler?”

  “Julian Hodge. I swear. You can check with him yourself. Tim Brogan, that’s my name. My codename is Snakebite. He would know that.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  “I’m not, I swear.”

  Reinhardt kept the gun on him. He had heard of Hodge. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  Reinhardt said, “But you were going to kill me.”

  “I had to for Christ’s sake. If I hadn’t, they’d’ve been on to me. I’m not the only one, I promise you. The British can’t get men in the IRA from the outside, so they recruit from the inside. It’s how it works, man.”

  Reinhardt said, “I should kill you, you piece
of shit.” He was starting to see that the turd was probably telling the truth.

  “I would in your place,” the terrier said. “But killing a British agent would make things awkward for you, wouldn’t it?” The terrier was smiling at him now.

  Reinhardt sighed. He lowered the gun. “Right,” he said. The terrier relaxed and Reinhardt took a couple of steps and punched him in the face. The terrier was still on the ground when Reinhardt walked out.

  Like many successful men, Jay Cooper was largely a creature of self invention. Born in Toledo, Ohio to what would politely be called humble circumstances, he had made a determination to be a certain person. He was a patriot and, by nature, a conservative man. But only those who knew him well — and few did — could understand why he chose a career as a spy. He himself could not really explain it to you. Nor did he care to. He preferred to remain remote and unfathomable.

  His real name was not Jay, but Jerry. As Archie Leach had transformed himself from a working class English cockney to suave superstar Cary Grant, Jerry Shaw made himself into Jay Cooper. He was always well groomed, always well poised, always well spoken.

  A woman had once told him he was like Gatsby. He didn’t take it well. Gatsby was a fraud and a loser and he let a little tramp like Daisy Buchanan ruin him. Besides, Jay had little use for Fitzgerald or the decade that produced him. Jay Cooper, in contrast, was nostalgic for the fifties. He thought that been the nation’s high point. Certainly, its most stylish.

  He liked women and they adored him. No one thought he was gay, despite his attention to clothes. He was a dandy, not a homosexual and there has always been a difference. He once told someone at a party that Ronald Reagan had always been underestimated. For his fight against Communism, you mean? Well, Jay had said, there was that. But I mean his style. He was a very stylish man. Always wore a sportcoat and tie on Saturdays, you know. Jay wasn’t trying to be funny when he said it.

  It was conversations like that that helped Jay navigate society events without being taken too seriously. He was funny and witty and charming and he never took himself too seriously. Surely, a man like that would not be so base as to engage in espionage. It would be beneath him.