by John Lawton
§197
For over a year now the first thing he’d done on waking had been to put in Walter Hensel’s contact lenses. This morning he dropped them onto the bathroom floor and ground them to dust with the heel of his shoe. Then he smashed Walter’s glasses, flung the shoe at the wall and stepped into the shower and stood under the jets until the water ran cold.
There was nothing he could do about Walter’s mousey hair. It would grow out or he’d dye it back to his natural off-blond. But the moustache vanished in four swift strokes of the razor.
He stared at his own face in the mirror.
He did not know himself.
He wasn’t Walter Hensel anymore.
He wasn’t Joe Wilderness either.
He’d have to wait for Wilderness to turn up.
Bad penny, as his grandfather used to say.
§198
He put the Smith & Wesson back into its hiding place and took out the plastic bag, bound up with rubber bands, that contained the other versions of himself. He opted for a British passport, one with all the right stamps. He’d have to make an effort to remember the name.
It was a dogleg to get to the western end of the Berlin Corridor at Marienborn, adding another two hours driving time, but it was the only way. Once he was into East Germany, autopilot would take over, he’d done that route so many times. He’d be in Berlin by five o’ clock.
§199
He couldn’t stay at the Kempinski. He might bump into someone from Berlin Station. He might even bump into the deeply unforgiving Dickie Delves. And Delves would rat him out to Burne-Jones at the drop of a hat. The situation called for anonymity—a cheap, 2-star hotel in Wilmersdorf, one he’d never stayed in before, one walking distance from Grünetümmlerstraße.
There was no irrefutable reason to be in Berlin. He knew how this had happened. He wanted to ask, he wanted confirmation and he wanted to kill recrimination before recrimination killed.
He knocked on the door around 6:00 p.m.
The German girl answered … Trudie? Traudl? Standing in the doorway, her body a blockade.
“Erno is very sick. You must not come in.”
“I won’t keep him long. Is he awake?”
She didn’t answer. Tried to stare him down.
Wilderness pushed past her.
“You’re not the first visitor today,” she yelled at his back.
Wilderness turned around.
“Stop playing games with me. Who came? When?”
“It was a Russian. Asking for Erno. I told him what I tell you. He had no manners either.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Wilderness opened the bedroom door quietly.
Erno lay with his eyes closed, but the rhythm of his breathing was not sleep’s rhythm, and a reading lamp cast its arc on a small green book that looked as though it had only just slipped from his fingers.
His eyes opened.
“What kept you? I have been expecting you every hour since that damned Russian showed up.”
“I was in Prague—had to take the long way round, through Bavaria. What did the Russian want?”
“To gloat. He termed it a courtesy call, but he came to gloat. Left me this.”
Erno picked up the book, and Wilderness realised it wasn’t a thin volume of Goethe or Schiller but a West German passport. He looked at it, turning the pages.
“Pretty good.”
“Not good enough. It’s what got Nell arrested.”
The photograph was of a teenage boy, the name was Horst Burkhardt, date of birth given as 21.9.52, Wiesbaden.
“I bungled it, Joe.”
“Erno. It looks pretty damn good to me. Maybe they got a tip-off.”
“You’re just being kind.”
Wilderness was “just being kind.” He knew what they both knew. Of course the passport had got Nell busted. She’d been spotted at the border, and the Czech patrol had alerted the East German police, who had let her and the boy, whoever he was, get as far as Dresden. Thereby the Czechs managed to pass the problem, the culprits and the paperwork onto someone else. Typical cop laziness.
“Count the numbers on the cover.”
“Six.”
“There should be seven. It’s my eyes. Joe, I simply cannot see the small things anymore. The things that matter.”
“I came to tell you not to blame yourself and not to worry. I have it all in hand. When was Nell here?”
“She came twice. Once with the photograph of the boy, and then ten days later to collect the passport. Joe, who is this boy?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Could he be so important? So important that she takes a risk like this?”
“I don’t know that either. But I’ll get her back. We’ll get her back … me, Eddie and Frank.”
“Ah … the Schiebers. I could almost be nostalgic for our days as Schiebers, were it not for Frank. But dying men are beggars and beggars can’t be choosers. If Eddie comes to Berlin, bring him to see me, and if that means bringing Frank … so be it. I shall say goodbye to you all.”
§200
“Do you need anything?” Wilderness asked Trudie.
“Money would help,” she replied.
Wilderness gave her two hundred US dollars and told her what she didn’t want to hear.
“I’ll be back.”
§201
Southwark, London
It was not a feeling he cared for in the least. To be abroad in the town he called home—he’d known no other—and to be homeless.
His plane had landed at Heathrow at three. By five thirty he was in Borough High Street in search of Swift Eddie. Eddie was not home. He might not be home for an hour or maybe two—but Wilderness could not go home to Hampstead. Nor could he go to the office.
He sat an hour in a greasy spoon, drank three cups of tea the colour of fencing creosote, and waited. He had a view of Eddie’s front door. Another half hour and he saw Eddie walk straight past his own door and head on down the street.
Of course, the chippie.
He’d let him order first. Let him get his choppers round a few mouthfuls of cod and chips. Always more amenable when eating.
Another ten minutes and Wilderness went to the chippie, found Eddie head down in trencherman mode and pulled out the chair opposite.
“What … chomp … do you … chomp … want?”
“Nice of you to ask, Eddie. Fish cake, mushy peas and a small chips.”
“I mean … chomp chomp … what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Prague?”
“I have … we have a problem.”
“We?”
Wilderness explained in short, simple sentences, just shy of telling him what the trade-off was to be.
“I really don’t want Burne-Jones finding out about this.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be sitting here if you did, would you?”
“Or Alice. If she knows, he knows.”
“Or Judy? Have you thought what you’re going to tell her?”
“I’m not going to tell her anything until we have Nell back.”
“Makes sense, I suppose. All the same, ‘We’?”
“The Russians will trade Nell.”
“What, like we did with that twat Masefield and ole wotsisname … Bernard Alleyn? Look how that worked out.”
“It’s Bernard Alleyn they’ll trade for.”
The knife and fork clattered down.
“I think you just killed my appetite. Y’know, I was happy at the Yard.”
“Maybe, but you had no future there.”
“I say! I was happy at the Yard, and then you come along after … fuckin’ ada … fifteen fuckin’ years and the next thing I know I’m back in bloody Berlin with Frank bloody Spoleto. Joe, have you never heard of the quiet life? I do me crossword over breakfast, I have a pint in a pub at lunchtime, I come home at six to a nice beef bourguignon or a plate of fish and chips, then I wipe the floor with the toffee-nosed kids on University Challeng
e and go to bed with a good book. Right now I’m on Iris Murdoch.”
“Have you finished?”
“I don’t need a ‘We.’ ”
“I need you to come to Dublin with me.”
“What’s in Dublin?”
“Bernard Alleyn.”
“Oh bloody Nora. How long have you known?”
“Since January.”
“And he’s agreed to the trade.”
“Not yet. That’s why I need you to come with me.”
“I have a job, Joe. I work for Burne-Jones, remember. I can’t just swan off.”
“No. But you can get sick.”
Eddie cogitated. Looked longingly at his cooling cod but made no move to resume eating.
“Frank. Promise me there’ll be no Frank this time.”
“Can’t do that, Ed.”
“Why not? He’s back in New York. He won’t want to come to Berlin.”
“I need the bridge. We do this in the British sector, we’re fucked. It has to be the American, it has to be Glienicke. And to get Glienicke, I need Frank.”
“How long?”
“Four days, maybe five.”
“And when it’s over you’ll come clean with Burne-Jones?”
“Ed, I’ll let him tear off my epaulettes and break my sword over his knee.”
If I live through this, that is.
§202
“I suppose you want to kip at my place?” Eddie said.
“Yes. I can’t go home. And I’ll need to use the phone.”
“If you must.”
Around half past ten Wilderness put in a call to New York. With any luck he’d catch Frank on his first bourbon of the day.
“You got some nerve.”
“Well, you were never one to bear a grudge.”
The last time they had met, Wilderness had all but knocked him cold. And Frank could bear a grudge for eternity and a day.
“Right. That’s me. Job. Hit me with a plague of boils, why don’t you.”
“It’s more serious than that, Frank.”
“I don’t care. Hear me? I don’t fucking care!”
“It’s Nell.”
“So?”
“The opposition have her.”
“Oh Jeezus H. Christ. How did that happen? I thought she was tucked away safely in Bonn working for the Krauts.”
“They posted her to Prague. Then the British posted me to Prague—”
“And you let this happen?”
“No Frank, I didn’t let it happen—it happened.”
“So … you make a mess and call on your old buddy to clean it up. Joe, I should just let you sink in the shit. You hear me, kid? I should just let you fuckin’ sink.”
“But you won’t.”
Silence.
Steaming time.
Wilderness knew that when Frank finally spoke he would be positive.
“Nell. Right. What do you have in mind?”
“They’ll trade.”
“What? Like last time?”
“Exactly like last time. I mean exactly.”
“You’re kidding! You mean they still want—”
“Not out loud, Frank.”
“Sure, sure … but fukkit … you’d think they’d have given up by now.”
“Yeah, well … they haven’t.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yes.”
“And you figure you can talk him into it?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to try. Just … get me the bridge, Frank.”
“What’s wrong with the British crossing?”
“Would I be calling you if that were feasible? Think about it.”
“OK. Sure, sure.”
“It has to be the bridge. And if the guns come out, I’d be happier on the bridge than out on a road. Less … exposed.”
“You’re planning a shoot-out at the Glienicke Corral—again?”
“Not planning, just allowing for.”
“Jesus H. Christ. Joe. You could get us all killed.”
“You won’t be on the bridge, Frank. It’ll be like last time. You get to keep your feet in West Berlin.”
“One shot. All it takes is one shot and your career in MI6 is over.”
“It’s not a career. It’s a job. But yes … it’s over. Shot or no shot, it’s over.”
“Did it ever occur to you that it might be the end of my career too?”
“Not if you play your hand right.”
“Did it ever occur to you to ask why I’m going along with this cockamamey scheme?”
“Many times in the last two minutes. I think you might just give a damn about Nell.”
“Oh sure … suddenly I’m Mr. Softee. OK. Maybe I do care about Nell. But … Goddammit … I’m fifty-six years old.”
Wilderness had never had a real idea of Frank’s age. When they met, twenty and more years ago, Wilderness had been a teenager, so had Kostya, and Eddie not much older. Frank was a different generation.
“I’m fifty-six years old. And I’d like to retire. But you can’t tell the Company to go to hell. They tell you to go to hell. Win or lose they’re going to hate this. They’ll pension me off and hope my involvement stays under wraps. Meanwhile … meanwhile I have the ad agency. It’s not just a front, it’s a real Madison Avenue advertising agency. Cigs, whiskey and automobiles. Steve Sharma, the senior partner you met in ’63, died last year. They need a figurehead. Someone who’ll swank in three or four times a year, chomp on a Cuban, hand out the bonuses and bonhomie and quietly pick up his obscenely large share dividend. I’d be happy to be that man. Very happy.”
“Of course, but let’s remember this is about Nell.”
“Sure. We rescue Nell. We move heaven and earth and Berlin to rescue Nell. We’ll be the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Just don’t get me shot before I light the Cuban and pick up my dividend. Capisce?”
“Oh yes, capisco.”
“One shot, Joe. One shot and we are fucked!”
“And on that note …”
“What?”
“Are you still in touch with the Kopps?”
There was a malign silence. Frank Spoleto was never stuck for words. If he was thinking what to say they might well be in trouble. Wilderness could almost see him looking over his shoulder, switching the phone from one ear to the other.
“They … er … still have an account with us, yes.”
Which meant Frank still had an account with them.
§203
One day in 1948 Frank had caught two kids raiding his “warehouse” at Tempelhof. How they got in was not important. The base was about as tight as a sieve.
It would have been typical of Frank to have banged their heads together and put the fear of Frank up them. He didn’t, and, as he explained to Wilderness the next time the Schiebers met at Paradies Verlassen, it would have been a waste of time.
“These kids just don’t scare.”
“I can imagine.”
“I mean … they’re fifteen … at twelve they were in the Hitler youth, defending Berlin against the Red Army. One of them, don’t ask me which, they’re as alike as two peas … one of them actually got a medal pinned on him by Hitler. I mean personally … the day before the fucker shot himself.”
“So what did you do?’ ”
“I put ’em on the payroll. All those ragbag gangs of kids we run into from time to time, trying to steal from us … well, these two will see ’em off. Think of the gangs as wolves and foxes. We just hired two sheepdogs that could rip the guts out of a tiger.”
Wilderness and Eddie OK’d this. Misgivings only began to set in when Wilderness met them. His own childhood had been one of parental vacancy and neglect, but it had not left him as stripped of emotion as Rikki and Marti Koppenrad. These boys were hardened. Full metal jacket, full metal trousers.
It came as a shock but no surprise when they killed their first.
Hans-Jürgen Richter.
Frank was furious.
&n
bsp; They’d collared the boys in the back room of the club.
“For fuck’s sake! The guy worked for us!”
Wilderness interrupted.
“Frank, is that us … as in you, me and Eddie or us as in American Intelligence.”
“He worked for Uncle Sam. You idiots just took out an American agent!”
Rikki spoke. Softly but uncowed.
“He was a Nazi.”
“So? Berlin is full of fuckin’ Nazis. We can’t round up all of them, we can’t prosecute every last one of the fuckers … so some of them end up working for us.”
Rikki was absolute in his simplicity.
“We kill Nazis.”
“For fuck’s sake, why?”
“They destroyed our country. More than Monty’s tanks, more than your Flying Fortresses. We kill Nazis.”
“I do not fucking believe this!”
Wilderness never knew what bargain, what compromise, Frank had reached with the Kopps, as Eddie dubbed them.
Every so often, almost till the day Frank and Wilderness had left Berlin, a former Nazi would be found dead in the street. The Kopps had their trademark—whatever the organ they’d aimed at, head or heart, they’d put a bullet through each hand … a bizarre parody of the crucifixion’s nails.
Throughout the 1950s and well into the ’60s Wilderness had heard stories of Kopp kills. The boys, grown to men, had become expensive contract killers, although it was said they would still kill any Nazi for free.
§204
“Set up a meeting,” Wilderness said.
“The Kopps? The fuckin’ Kopps! That’s your plan?”
“That’s my plan B.”
“Jeezus, Joe. The more I hear, the less I like this. I say ‘one shot could get us all killed’ and you say ‘hire the Kopps’!”
“Try to see them as our safety net.”
“I have a problem seeing a couple of whack-jobs as anything but a couple of whack-jobs.”
