The Man from Berlin Read online

  ‘Very convenient, Captain,’ replied Reinhardt. They followed Kessler back to the office where they had started. The captain vanished through a side door, while the lieutenant invited Reinhardt to take a seat. Claussen stood at ease against one of the walls.

  Reinhardt ran his eyes over the notices. Traffic regulations, more orders of the day, punishment lists, the list of men gone missing or wanted for desertion. He took the seat the lieutenant had offered, stretched his legs out, and crossed his feet, wriggling his toes in his boots. He felt a sudden tiredness creeping up on him, a stiffness to his neck that presaged another headache. From the corner of his eye, he felt the prim little eyes of the lieutenant disapproving of his slouching. Right then, Reinhardt could not have cared less and he just wished for a moment to close his eyes. He did the next best thing and stared into space, out the window, and tried to let his mind empty of everything but the case. He failed as he thumped up against the impending meeting with Becker. If there was one thing Reinhardt hated and Becker excelled at, it was bureaucratic politics.

  ‘Captain Reinhardt?’

  He opened his eyes and looked up. An orderly was standing in front of him. ‘Major Becker’s compliments, sir. If you would come with me?’ Reinhardt motioned to Claussen to stay put and followed the orderly past the lieutenant’s snooty gaze and down a hallway into an office that could have been the same as Kessler’s in its layout. Kessler stood to one side of a desk behind which sat a major of the Feld­gendarmerie with flat grey eyes, dark red hair parted over his right eye as if with a ruler, and wearing a pair of little steel spectacles. Trays of paperwork ran along the edge of the desk nearest the door. The major held a pen poised over a form as Reinhardt came to attention and saluted. He blinked, motioned Reinhardt to take a seat, and turned back to his paper. His pen darted like a bird pecking for grains, once, twice, a flourish of a signature and he handed the paper to the orderly. Becker removed his glasses and folded them, holding the ends of the frames in his hands, and looked at Reinhardt. The orderly stood to attention to Becker’s right, just behind him. ‘You have requested information regarding traffic movements to and from Ilidža, correct?’ asked the major.

  ‘That’s correct,’ replied Reinhardt.

  The Feldgendarme looked at him, up and then down. ‘What for, if I may ask?’

  ‘You may.’ Reinhardt watched the blood rise to the major’s face, the clench of his jaw, and saw the glaze come over the orderly’s face as he wished himself away from this clash of officers, and was that the ghost of a smile on Kessler’s face… ? Reinhardt wondered if they knew of the history between the two of them, history that went back to Berlin when they were in Kripo together. ‘I am investigating the murder of a serving officer in the Abwehr,’ he said, judging he had left it just long enough. ‘The officer was found dead at the house of a Croatian journalist in Ilidža. I have reason to believe he went out there late on Saturday night. I would like to examine the traffic records for any indication of his killer’s movements.’

  ‘Who has assigned you to this investigation?’

  ‘Major Freilinger. Abwehr.’

  Becker nodded. ‘I see.’ He frowned. It was a frown for show, the sort a lawyer would use in court. Or a parent, knowing a child had been disobedient but wanting to play through the pantomime of question-­and-answer to its end. Becker was playing to an audience. He always did when he could. ‘This city has a police force, no? Why are they not investigating this case?’

  ‘Major Freilinger implemented the standard protocol with the Sarajevo police that in the event of a criminal investigation involving German intelligence personnel, we would have the lead or equal role in the inquiries.’

  Reinhardt could see Becker debating with himself whether to make things personal, but the bureaucrat won. He unfolded his glasses and put them back on. ‘I see,’ he repeated. ‘I am aware of the protocols. I am also surprised. I find the police in Sarajevo to be a thoroughly professional force. We work closely with them.’

  ‘As you say, sir,’ replied Reinhardt. Such a painfully transparent man, he thought, not even needing to guess the next question. Interesting, though, that Becker would play the bureaucratic card like this. Normally, he would string things out, play word games, try to humiliate Reinhardt. Usually, he would manage to bring up the disparity in their ranks now as opposed to back in Kripo, when Reinhardt outranked him.

  ‘Indeed. But if Major Freilinger has activated the protocols, would not such an investigation be better conducted by the Feldgendarmerie?’

  ‘Sir, that is a question I respectfully suggest that you address to Major Freilinger.’

  ‘I intend to. Or rather, I shall wait until he, or someone, explains to me why the Feldgendarmerie should merely assist, and not lead.’ He took a folder from his in tray and folded his hands atop it. ‘There are rules. Procedures to be adhered to. I should like to see some formal request to this unit before I release any information. When I have seen a written request, I will be more than happy to provide whatever assistance I can. Please be so kind as to inform Major Freilinger of that.’

  ‘Sir, I was made to understand by Major Freilinger that the Feldgendarmerie had been consulted on the handling of this investigation and it would be left in the hands of the Abwehr.’

  ‘I have seen nothing to that effect. Until I do, your involvement in a murder investigation is an anomaly to me.’

  Reinhardt sat still, clamping down around the anger that he always felt in the face of such bureaucracy. ‘There is no way that you might see fit to assist me pending such a notification?’

  ‘None.’ Becker’s nostrils quivered and narrowed, and his mouth straightened. As if he were clamping it shut around what he really wanted to say. Or holding back a smile.

  ‘Sir, I must respectfully point out to you that time is of the essence in such an inquiry. The longer –’

  ‘I am a policeman, Captain,’ Becker said, coldly, but his eyes glittered brightly, daring Reinhardt to contradict him. ‘I also am someone who believes no good ever came of bending rules.’ His eyes glittered even brighter. ‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ he said as he opened the folder and pulled a sheet of paper towards him. ‘Orderly, please see Captain Reinhardt on his way.’

  7

  The orderly came back to sudden life, moving back past Reinhardt to hold the door open for him. Good survival instincts, observed Reinhardt, sourly, although he was sure the man had heard every word and stored it away for gossip in the NCOs’ mess. Reinhardt saluted and left, pulling Claussen in his wake as he went back outside to the kübelwagen. Reinhardt slumped against the side and held his hand out to Claussen. ‘Give me a cigarette, would you?’

  Claussen shook a Mokri into his fingers. ‘No luck with those lists, then?’ asked the sergeant after a moment.

  ‘Nothing gets past you, Sergeant, does it?’ Reinhardt quipped, then shook his head at the self-serving tone of his irony. Claussen just stood there, imperturbable. ‘“Written authorisation” and all that crap. Freilinger said he would clear our way with the Feldgendarmerie. Maybe he has, but it hasn’t filtered down to Becker yet.’

  ‘There’s a bit of history there, isn’t there?’

  Reinhardt frowned at Claussen. ‘What?’

  ‘You and the major.’

  Reinhardt knew of Becker before he met him. The night they finally met, he and Brauer had followed him across the nighttime city, the air sodden and chill, back up to the same second-floor apartment. They paused, listening at the door to the low mutter of voices. Moving carefully, Reinhardt tried the handle. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open and stepped quickly inside.

  Two men sat at a table across the room looking at papers. Official-­looking documents, with photographs and stamps and seals all half spilled out of a leather satchel. Passports. IDs. One of the men was Becker, thin red hair and little steel spectacles. The second was a bulky man, elder
ly, a fringe of grey hair seemingly painted onto his brick of a skull. Two more men, big and heavy, sat off to one side, counting piles of money. All of them went still as Reinhardt and Brauer stepped quietly inside.

  The two big men began to get to their feet until Brauer pulled a Bergmann submachine gun out from under his coat. ‘Let’s all just sit still, shall we?’ he said, quietly. Its stubby little barrel pointed at the two men, who sat down slowly. ‘Hands where I can see them, gents.’

  Reinhardt said nothing, only locked eyes with Becker. ‘Do I know you?’ Becker asked, after a moment.

  ‘You were a useless detective in the Kripo post in Wilhelms­haven,’ Reinhardt said, watching Becker flush, then go pale. ‘You transferred into Gestapo in 1934. Apparently, you were too useless even for them, and they dumped you back in Kripo here. You’re keeping company with Hannes Lemke, Gestapo border control in Bremerhaven,’ he said, looking at the man sitting with him, ‘and two crooks from the Hamburg mob. Missing are Walter Fischer from the Foreign Ministry, and Gerhard Cordt, from the Gestapo property seizure division. Stop me if I’m wrong, or going too fast.’

  The silence was thick, tense. Becker’s eyes flashed back and forth between him and Brauer, back to him, to the other men. Becker swallowed, a little smile flickering across his face. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’re ripping off people trying to get out of Germany. Jews, mostly. But not exclusively. Fischer provides papers. Lemke facilitates exits, Cordt disposes of properties. You invest the proceeds with the Hamburg mob, who also provide a little muscle when needed. With me so far?’

  ‘You have evidence, of course?’ asked Becker.

  ‘Other than what’s in front of me?’

  ‘This?’ Lemke said. ‘This is… material… seized…’ He trailed off, looked desperately at Becker.

  Reinhardt ignored him, looking at Becker. ‘I’m not sure where you fit in… ?’

  Becker’s mouth moved, and then he smiled again, as if he knew a particular secret was out. ‘Me? I suppose I’m a talent scout. You might say my forte’s organisation. And persuasion.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve proof,’ said Reinhardt to Becker. ‘But more to the point, it’s who you know more than what you know, these days. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Becker nodded. He took off his glasses, tilting his head down and to the right, keeping Reinhardt in sight, considering the implications that Reinhardt’s contacts would outweigh his.

  ‘Everyone’s got to make a living, I suppose,’ he said, eventually.

  ‘The truth is I need your scam.’ Becker smiled, and the others seemed to relax, tension draining out of the lines of their shoulders. This was what they had been expecting. ‘Make it a good one, Becker. Nice and honest.’

  ‘Four hundred marks.’ Becker grinned.

  ‘So you pay.’ Reinhardt put a piece of paper on the table, ignoring the protestations from Lemke, watching Becker. ‘You can keep your scam going. For as long as you can manage it. You charge the price you just mentioned. I’ll be checking. But whoever I send you, you take out for free. Consider it as reinvesting back into the business.’

  ‘You’re fucking crazy,’ hissed Lemke.

  ‘If you renege, I’ll expose you,’ said Reinhardt, ignoring him. ‘If you roll this scam up within six months, I’ll expose you. If you harm a hair on the heads of anyone, especially those I send, I’ll kill you.’

  Becker wormed his glasses back on, picked up the paper. ‘Isidor and Hilda Rosen,’ he read.

  Reinhardt nodded. ‘They’re next. And that’s it. I’ll be in touch. And I’ll be watching. A pleasant evening, gentlemen.’

  ‘I’ll find you,’ snarled Lemke. Becker only looked at him, eyes steady behind his glasses.

  Reinhardt walked out, Brauer stepping backwards, keeping the Bergmann trained on them. They walked quickly back downstairs and out, over to another street to the car where another of his men was waiting. He slumped in the back, lighting a cigarette with a hand that suddenly trembled.

  ‘Christ,’ breathed Brauer, removing the Bergmann’s magazine as the car sped away. He craned his head back around from the front. ‘How long do you give ’em?’

  ‘Before they find us? Not long. I’m not worried about that. It’s what we know, against what they can do…’ He closed his eyes. He felt light-headed, giddy, like he used to feel after action in the old days, like he used to feel back in the trenches. Truth was, he had no idea how long he could ride that particular tiger. But it felt like the first decent thing he had done in a long time.

  Reinhardt took a long draw on the cigarette, then nodded. ‘We were both in Kripo. I was a chief inspector, and he worked Gestapo liaison, among other things. He was a bad officer.’ Very bad. Corruption. Brutality. Incompetence. Becker was so bad, even the Nazis did not know what to do with him, but he was connected. And clever, although cunning was more the word. Always managing to get away with it, until the day when he messed up one case too many – including one that involved the death of the daughter of a Party official who had Goering’s ear, and Becker was gone. Reinhardt had happily forgotten him, until the day he arrived in Sarajevo and found him here, second in command of the city’s Feldgendarmerie detachment.

  ‘What now?’

  Reinhardt screwed his eyes shut, rubbed his forehead, and exhaled long and loud. ‘Christ, I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe he does.’

  ‘What?’ Claussen was staring across the parking area towards where Kessler was coming out of Feldgendarmerie headquarters. The captain looked at them across the yard a moment as he put his cap on his head, then turned away down the side of the building, over to a row of parked vehicles. Reinhardt exchanged a quick look with Claussen, then straightened up, dropping his cigarette and screwing it into the ground with his boot, and went walking after Kessler.

  The Feldgendarme was checking out a vehicle as Reinhardt came up. He looked expressionlessly at him, signed off the form, and returned it to a waiting NCO. ‘I am sorry it has to be so formal between us,’ he said.

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Look,’ said Kessler, after a moment. ‘I cannot give you the files, but I have seen them. There really is not much in them that I think can be of interest to you.’

  ‘That is kind of you, Captain,’ Reinhardt replied. ‘I would need to come to that conclusion myself, though.’

  The two of them were silent a moment. Reinhardt waited, hoping Kessler would feel the silence as an urge to say something more. ‘Becker is a stickler for the rules, it’s true,’ Kessler said, finally. ‘What he’s really afraid of is that the records will show the killer went right through our controls, and the Feldgendarmerie are culpable in some way. And he may be right. We certainly had our hands full over the weekend.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Reinhardt asked, rubbing at his right eye, and then clenching his fist as his finger stole treacherously towards his temple and the imagined mark of his pistol’s muzzle.

  Kessler cleared his throat, a slight frown creasing his forehead. ‘Because of the planning conference. At the spa, in Ilidža.’

  Reinhardt remembered suddenly the staff cars parked outside the hotel. ‘Of course. Yes.’ He had known of the conference. He remembered it being mentioned at the daily briefing late last week. A planning meeting, the finishing touches to Operation Schwarz. How could he have forgotten that? ‘Thank you, Captain. So there was much traffic?’ He knew he sounded inane, but he needed to keep Kessler talking.

  ‘Especially in the early part of the evening of Saturday. The conference ended on Saturday afternoon. Most of the attendees were returning to their units at the time.’

  ‘Most?’

  ‘Some stayed on at the hotel, I believe,’ replied Kessler. There had been staff cars parked at the hotel this morning. Maybe connected to the conference. Maybe not. ‘During an event such as the conference, we receive a copy of the list of author
ised attendees. We check their arrival off against the list. On such occasions, unless the incident is egregious, normal traffic duties can be suspended or superseded. Therefore, what is listed will be only unusual incidents. Not improperly inflated tyres, or smudged or illegible registration, or overloading. That is why I can assure you no incident was reported that would seem to impact upon your investigation.’

  Reinhardt looked down at the ground, at oil stains and gravel and the marks of tyres, but what he saw was the investigation withering away in a series of dead ends, or foregone conclusions. He ran his fingers around the back of his neck, where the muscles were still tight, and thought of photographs of soldiers. ‘Whom do I ask for a list of the attendees at that conference?’

  There was a pause. ‘You would need to check with the commandant’s office, Captain,’ replied Kessler. ‘If you think that information would be of some use.’ The Feldgendarmerie captain kept his voice flat, but Reinhardt heard the question in his words. He had no idea if the information would be useful. It would certainly be risky to ask for it, and certainly risky to do anything with it, but it was all he had at the moment. This case was bundled tight; any loose thread was something he could hang on to, pull on, see what unravelled with it, and hope it did not unravel all over him.

  Kessler stared at him, leaning back slightly. ‘But surely you do not think there is any connection…’ His voice faded away, his feet shifted. Putting distance between himself and Reinhardt. Between himself and whatever it was Reinhardt was after. Again, Reinhardt left the question hanging. Let the man draw his own conclusions, and his own implications of his own role in this. Whatever this might be, it was clear no right-minded soldier wanted any part of it, and it was clear that was what Kessler thought of himself.