‘Sir, sir? Are you alright?’ Angi kept asking as Peters stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the floor.
When he recovered sufficiently to reply Peters dismissed her with a curt ‘good bye.’
Later back at Heer Strasse as he showered and then changed into his running uniform of hooded sweatshirt, track bottoms and trainers, Peters tried to think only about the journey ahead of him blotting out any thoughts about Streich and his quest to track down Wolfgang Schulz. Or the NVA general he had saved from a Stasi firing squad.
Instead he tried to look forward to the idea of travelling as a free agent on a Monday morning when the rest of his world around him was trudging in surly silence back to work. He would once again trace the path in reverse he took on that first tour of duty to Berlin at the end of the 80s. Peters made a promise in his head that he would call in on his mother at her retirement home in Basildon, that he would look up old comrades from the regiment who were still in London, that he would visit the graveyard in the east end, that he would sit in the same stand where he had been taken as a boy, that he would wear the same claret and blue colours of the team that his father had adopted long ago as his own.
But Peters still had the weekend alone to annihilate in Berlin. On Sunday he would map out a plan to sell the flat while starting the search for another somewhere deeper and far more anonymous in the east. Yet it was Saturday and he still had the option of a farewell drink in ‘Der Zug’ with Marion. One last trip there would surely not risk exposure, he calculated. He desperately wanted to say goodbye to her too because he knew he had to give up being a regular at the club. Otherwise someone would eventually ring the tabloids and the private life of ‘Christopher’s’ hunter would be out in the open.
Before setting off for his run, Peters tried Blucher’s number again but found that there was still no answer. Instead he spooled through his text messages this time in the vain search of anything from Miriam. As he was leaving the mobile finally bleeped and he ran over and picked up it excitedly. It was a farewell message from Karen: ‘No show, no calls, no way mister. Screw U.’ At least she had helped him make up his mind. He would definitely spend his last ever night inside his favourite swingers’ club.
Peters then took a stool from the living room into his bedroom placed it beside the wardrobe, balancing on it while he fumbled about the top until he felt a small iron locked strong box. He searched through the drawers at either side of his bed until he found a rusting key and placed into the box’s lock. After a couple of vigorous turns it yanked open. Inside was another souvenir from the Gulf, a ‘Tokarev’ pistol handed over to him as a token of thanks by the Iraqi Republican Guard captain who had defected with his entire company to the British just hours after the air war began. Peters took the weapon out of the box and cocked it to see if the firing mechanism still worked hoping and praying he would never have to use it for real.
Through lunchtime and into the early afternoon Peters darted through narrow tracks between the oak and ash trees of the Grunewald. Rays of harsh, brittle sunshine illuminated his way as he criss crossed through the forest, avoiding the main routes used by fellow joggers, unconsciously at first staying clear of the path he had taken a few weeks before when he came across his Russian assailants.
Winter’s grip was relenting in the woodland, the air felt fresher, here and there Peters could make out in clearings little beds of daffodil buds, their shapes resembling tiny pale Pentecostal flames; even the magpies no longer had the forest to themselves as the trees transmitted the twittering and yammering codes of returning migrant birds. Light filtered through vegetation and leaves all around him. Peters was filled with a sense of renewed, elated evasion as he thrust deeper and deeper into the Grunewald.
After doubling back, this time at twice the pace as on entry, Peters halted outside the Heer Strasse S-Bahn to catch his breath, clear snot from his nasal passages and find somewhere to lean against so he could do his stretches to cool down.
At the side of the station Peters noticed that a shiny silver six seat VW people carrier was parked across the path leading up from the forest to the main road. Half bent over with a stitch in his side he walked past the vehicle and immediately experienced a sensation of danger all around it. With his back to the van now he heard the action of the side door sliding open and the word ‘Tavarich’ being called out from inside. Peters froze waiting for that familiar, terrifying clack-click of an automatic weapon being cocked.
But there was nothing more audible though except that word again repeated by a familiar weak voice: ‘Tavarich!’
Peters paced backwards towards the open door and saw Yanaev strapped tightly into a single back passenger, looking absurdly child-like. Two bald sober looking men sat behind him who Peters had never seen before. They both wore black crombie coats and dark suits and ties. Peters thought Yanaev’s travelling companions wouldn’t have looked out of place working in a funeral parlour or in a bad production of a Beckett play.
Yanaev seemed to strain in his seat as he began to talk.
‘How fortuitous running into you over here, Captain Peters. It gives me the chance to issue my formal congratulations.’
For a minute Peters said nothing back and simply stared at this diminutive, spectral figure in a grey suit, noting once again that the only sign of life were those darting, chocolate drop eyes.
‘There’s nothing to congratulate me for, Yanaev. My work is never done.’
The Russian flashed back his wan smile as Peters gulped for air.
‘Well it is re-assuring to know that the finest of the Berlin Polizei never sleeps. Especially after bringing to an end “Christopher’s Wrath.” By the way I understand that that is the name of the first book out later in the summer. I have connections in the publishing industry who tell me this. You should hurry up and get yours done.’
Peters took several deep breaths and kept his hands on his hips before nodding in the direction of Yanaev’s fellow passengers.
‘Those goons in there aren’t your hit squad are they Yanaev? They wouldn’t look out of place walking behind a coffin but I doubt they’d put you in one.’
‘Actually these gentlemen are my legal representatives and will gladly speak to you at any time to help you with your enquiries. We are on our way to Tegel. I have an appointment in London tomorrow which as you know is such a fantastic city.’
‘What are you going there for, an illegal arms convention?’
The two lawyers grunted simultaneously and signalled with their eyes to Yanaev who held his hands up to them in a gesture of reassurance.
‘Don’t worry gentlemen. Captain Peters has a sense of humour, that’s all. Which is a quality I have always liked in the English. That’s why I enjoy doing business there. I’m actually off to seal a property deal near your Olympic village. Maybe while I’m there I could buy a football team too.’
‘You waste your money how you see fit Yanaev just don’t bother buying West Ham United,’ Peters answered.
‘I only play to win Captain!’ the Russian said before using a finger to flick back a shirt sleeve and reveal a diamond encrusted gold watch.
‘I’m afraid we have to be at the airport soon. Such a pity we couldn’t chat further but just remember that next time we do our two friends here will be in the company.’
Peters leaned into the vehicle and tried to appear as menacing as possible.
‘Just remember Yanaev I don’t give up on any of my investigations. I have a long memory and infinite patience. By the way I wonder how much you knew about our friend Streich. After all you control the sale of Eastern Bloc explosives in this town. You must have known a former Warsaw Pact comrade was seeking to purchase some lethal Czech play dough from one of your dealers. After all your soldiers aren’t afraid to use it to blow things up that might annoy you. Or places either - like a gay sex shop.’
Yanaev seemed completely unaffected by Peters’ warning or his revelation about ‘Boyz R Us’. Instead the Russian parried
with a warning and a revelation of his own.
‘My love of England extends to your literature. One of my favourite books is the “Wind in the Willows”. And best of all I adore Mr Toad. What a character, always getting into scrapes and mishaps. Just like your slimy friend, the fat one that you like to hold court with in the Marriot Hotel.’
Peter’s heart started pounding and panic spread through him as Yanaev pointed to one of his attorneys to slam shut the door. As Peters watched the MPV do a three-point turn and shoot off eastwards down Heer Strasse dark thoughts and images of Blucher, broken, beaten and blood-soaked, entered his head.
He tore through the traffic ignoring the lights and the protesting klaxons running towards his apartment across the road and the mobile inside which was still receiving invitations to sell his story or to consult on film scripts.
There was still no answer from Lothar’s number and at first Peters contemplated calling Kottbusser Strasse to spark a missing person’s investigation. Later when he calmed himself during more warm-down exercises Peters tried to de-code what Yanaev had told him, guessing that it was a warning rather than a hint that Blucher had been disappeared like poor Irina. Instead of setting off a man-hunt Peters left a message on Lothar’s mobile imploring him to ring his at any time day or night. Then he rang the Marriott who informed him that Herr Blucher had in fact checked out three days ago but hadn’t left a forwarding address even though his bar bill remained unpaid.
After a long bath and a 20-minute nap Peters dressed, called a cab to take him to Steglitz and spent the first half of the night sipping beer alone in the cafe of the Korner Strasse S-Bahn station. He waited until eleven o’clock before marching forcefully down the street running parallel to the rail line until he was at the gates of the club. On pressing the bell whoever was in charge inside kept him waiting for several minutes before eventually buzzing him in.
He was relieved that it was Marion who greeted him at the door, took his entry fee and ushered him towards the changing rooms and the lockers. Peters stripped alone down to his black boxers slipping on a pair of flip flops and entered the bar area.
The train was already in motion as the regulars, each ‘car’ comprised of a male-female couple, were sliding and shoving themselves around the main room to the strains of the Kylie Minogue version of ‘The Locomotion.’ No one seemed to have noticed him come in. Peters headed straight for the bar and ordered brandy noting that Marion was on her own tonight.
‘Where’s hubby?’ Peters asked as ‘Der Zug’s’ co-owner swayed her hips to the sound of the club’s anthem.
‘He’s in Hamburg with a few of his football buddies. Hertha are up there this weekend. Do you not read the sport pages?’ she said trying to make herself heard above the music, the grunts and groans of the human locomotion, and the moans and squeals of the Japanese women on the TV screen above having sex with black American GI Joes.
‘I try not to read any papers Marion, least of all the ones that write about me,’ Peters said lifting his brandy glass in salute to the proprietress.
Marion clicked her fingers and grimaced before calling Peters behind the bar.
‘You wanna do it over the pumps, Marion? That’s not very hygienic for the punters,’ he teased.
She put her forefinger over Peters’ lips and stroked them gently.
‘Shussh. I have a present for you. Come inside,’ she beckoned him into the tiny office to the left of where the spirits were lined up.
Peters took his brandy with him into the cubbyhole sized room which was filled with boxes of porn DVDs, condoms and lubricants.
From a table, balanced on top of a row of boxes she took down a rectangular parcel in buff coloured wrapped paper, a thin white thine bound tautly across it in the shape of a St. Andrews Cross. On the front someone had scrawled in spidery writing: ‘Martin Peters. C/O Der Zug, Korner Strasse, Steglitz, Berlin.’ Peters looked closer at the parcel and spotted that it had a franked post mark stating that it had been posted from Berlin Schoenefeld Airport.
Marion gently slapped Peter’s ass, raised herself up slightly on her heels and whispered into his ear: ‘You unwrap that gift by yourself and then you can have me down in the basement afterwards.’
When she left the tiny room Peters broke off the rope and tore through the wrapping until it revealed a 10 X 4 framed painting.
It was a copy of ‘The Meeting of Wellington and Blucher’, the work of Irish artist Daniel Maclise painted to commemorate the British-Prussian victory at Waterloo. Peters had seen the real one once on a visit to the Royal Gallery shortly after he had returned from the Gulf War. He remembered at the time being struck by the impression that the painter had portrayed a mood of grimness and tragedy, that Maclise had been mindful of the reality of war rather than seeking in any way to glorify it.
The two old war horses meeting at the inn known as the Belle Alliance were depicted surrounded by death and loss, of cadavers strewn across cannons, of men dying in their comrades’ arms, of a young officer being given the last rites by a priest. Amid Maclise’s images of carnage combined with triumph Peters divined a message from Lothar Blucher: his informer was alive and well.
In his impatience to rip open the parcel Peters at first failed to notice a post card placed inside the package. He bent down to the floor, picked it up and held it to the light. It showed the naked torso of a young man in a peak leather cap pouring a bottle of mineral water over a perfect six pack. Above the sun tanned Adonis there was a palm tree and the word ‘Florida.’ Peters turned the card over and read the single-line message in the same familiar spidery scrawl: ‘Wish you were him! Lothar.’
Forty Eight
The single cling-clong chime of the church bell on the French side of the river Saar was the only noise to disturb the deep sleep of Hanweiler in mid morning. He detected that same smug soporific stillness to the border village from the moment he stepped off the little train that had taken him all the way from Saarbrucken’s main station to the very edge of western Germany and the pen-ultimate rail stop before it crossed the frontier for its final destination in the Lorraine town of Saargumines. As he ambled down the main street through the centre towards where the old customs post used to stand Peters remembered again that long overnight journey from Hanover in ‘88, the two of them silent and furtive in the car, he going south-westwards with his charge into safety towards a new life under a completely new identity.
Their only conversation had been as they reached the Saarland when Peters asked why his agent had chosen the region to re-settle after being spirited out of the east.
‘Those around old Eric will get the joke!’ the general had responded, groggily, attempting to resist nodding off in the passenger seat.
‘This was where Hoenecker grew up and where my father came from. At least we still share that in common,’ the defector added irritated by Peters’ questioning.
This morning, on the right hand side of the street just past an off-license which only sold the local Saar brew, Karlsberg beer, with its door flung open and its elderly owner reclining in a chair beside a gas heater, a languid moulting Alsatian dog at her feet, Peters reached that familiar building once more.
It was a two-storey chalet shaped house with two residences, the extended family of Lebanese exiles were still living on the ground floor, a widower above them, the name of ‘Stock’ written inside a laminated strip beneath a buzzer.
He pressed it several times but there was no reply from the intercom and was about to do the same to the one below when he heard a cracked voice behind him.
‘Herr Stock is not in. He takes a stroll in the forest and then goes over to France for lunch. Every day. There’s a dyed blonde French tart that serves him over there who he’s always raving about,’ there was a jealous cackle in her throat.
Peters turned around and saw that the old dear had left her dog to his slumber next door. He bowed and smiled back at her.
‘Do you know when he might come back? I have some
papers for him to sign.’
‘Oh Herr Stock! You can set your watch by him. Always returns between 2.15 and 2.30. And he goes to bed afterwards,’ Peters guessed from her tone that the crone secretly harboured some faint passion for the old boy.
‘Then I shall come back for him. This is his lucky day!’
The old girl grinned with excitement imagining that her handsome, reserved but often distant neighbour might have just come into a windfall.
He looked towards the junction where the border used to be and noticed that the bar at the end of Germany with its white net curtains and that omnipresent tangy reek of friend onions was still there. Peters bowed once more and almost clicked his heels in theatrical deference towards ‘Stock’s’ secret admirer.
A few minutes later he was downing his first beer of the day and wondering if anyone had recognised him through the new disguise he took on 24 hours earlier just before he left Berlin. Peters had chosen a salon near Theodor Hauss Strasse and opted to have his hair bleached and clipped severely. From a nearby apothecary he bought a pair of glasses with the weakest of lenses that tinted when the sun struck the glass. Now in the reflection of the window of the little pub where Germany stopped and France started, Peters thought he somehow looked ridiculously camp, like a gay Mod in a light blue Italian cut suit and matching raincoat.
He spent a couple of hours reading the local papers, downing a few more beers and picking unenthusiastically at an insipid dish of Spaghetti Carbonara. Then shortly after two o’clock he reached into his inside coat pocket and felt the pistol’s smooth surface wrapped up in a napkin.
The Swinging Detective Page 34