by Michael Dean
‘You’ve got a lovely arse! Oh! I love you!’
‘I love you, too.’
Himmelfahrt could only just lift the cases but would not have dreamed of letting the beloved carry one. He had his backpack on his back and a case in each hand. Thus burdened, Himmelfahrt struggled down the stairs from Naomi’s third-floor flat (no lift) ignoring the draught up his arse and banging the cases and the backpack into the wall now and again.
An old woman with a single long hair on her chin, an armoured overcoat and a brown hat with a turned-up brim appeared out of nowhere on the stairs. The hat was the kind that Himmelfahrt always fantasised about pouring Schwäbischer Wurstsalat into, just to watch the owner’s expression change. As he tried to get the cases round her he thumped one of them into the wall, taking a lump out of the plaster.
‘You’ll have to pay for that,’ screamed the old woman.
‘So that’s what happened to Mengele,’ murmured Himmelfahrt in English. And then in German, gasping from the pain of the cases. ‘Certainly, dear lady. I’ll definitely pay for it tomorrow.’
‘Grüss Gott, Frau Kaltenbrunner,’ said Naomi, sweetly.
The old woman glared at her, her lone hair bristling combatively.
Outside, Himmelfahrt struggled laboriously down Schumannstrasse towards the bus stop with the two cases, the backpack swinging around on his back, as Naomi walked next to him.
‘Oh, Marcus, do let me take one of those,’ she said.
‘No, wouldn’t dream of it. I can manage easily,’ he said, gasping, his lungs searing and burning, his arms straining in their sockets, his arse going numb from cold under the M&S briefs.
‘Marcus, can I ask you something?’ Naomi said. ‘Or is this not a good time?’
Himmelfahrt gasped. ‘Ask away, anything you like. My star sign’s Aries. My favourite colour’s blue. The luxury I would take on a desert island is you. I am circumcised, but then you know that.’
She laughed. ‘No, it’s just that … We’ll be meeting your parents soon.’
‘Yeah. Life’s one endless round of pleasure, ain’t it? I can feel the tension from here.’
‘Marcus, do you want me to become Jewish? I’ll do it if you want me to.’
Himmelfahrt dropped the cases and put the backpack down. Pleased to have an excuse.
‘Jewish? Do me a favour! Thanks, but no thanks. After you transformed my life with those pork chops with the mustard sauce? Never. And anyway, one Jew in the family’s enough.’
‘That would be you, would it?’
Himmelfahrt picked up the cases and the backpack again and resumed his struggle on down the road with them. ‘Yup. That would be me. Just call me sheeny. No, on second thoughts, don’t.’
‘Marcus! Don’t! Oh, that reminds me. Should we have said goodbye to John?’
‘We did. I broke his nose.’
*
During the whole of the last part of this conversation, Robert, on the upswing of an amphetamine known as ‘billy’ had been aiming a Colt 45 automatic pistol, originally owned by Private Randy Grainger of the US army before being stolen by Julius Plutznick, at Himmelfahrt’s back.
Mario (on Ativan and half-asleep) was saying ‘Yeh, go ahead. Go ahead,’ in a very slurred voice. It had been Mario who had spotted the headline in the LKZ about the unprovoked attack on Hans Stiefel at the exact time he and Robert thought they had beaten up Mark Hill. A captioned photograph of the victim, fortunately taken before the attack, confirmed that the brothers had got the wrong man.
Himmelfahrt was walking so slowly with his load that even at that distance (about 200 metres) Robert could hardly miss. What was making him hesitate was the backpack. But at that moment Himmelfahrt put it down again.
Robert again raised the gun.
*
Siegfried Gruber had walked the other way down Schumannstrasse because the tall blocks of flats were blocking his radio signal. As he finished sending to Pullach, the white van had drawn up outside Naomi’s flat. Two men got out and one of them had pointed a gun at the man he was supposed to be protecting.
With a growl, Siegfried Gruber ran at them, but strength, not speed, was his forte. (That and the ability to take a punch.) Robert had raised and lowered the gun three times and three times Himmelfahrt had protected himself with the backpack at the last minute. Now, Gruber could see that Himmelfahrt had put the backpack down again.
Gruber, running along the street, bellowed ‘Herr Hill! Herr Hill! Hinlegen! Hinlegen!’ (lie down) as he ran, but Himmelfahrt didn’t hear him (nor did Naomi).
The breathless Gruber growled again, surged forward and tackled both Plutznick brothers simultaneously from behind, just as Robert fired. The bullet aimed at the middle of Himmelfahrt’s back went high over one of the blocks of flats. Himmelfahrt and Naomi heard nothing and continued walking to the bus stop.
On the ground, Mario rolled to a seating position but Siegfried Gruber smashed him in the face with a meaty fist. Robert swung the pistol at Gruber. With no time to change his grip, he hit him with the barrel, which only stunned him momentarily. But it gave Mario and Robert enough time to scramble back to the Plutznick furniture van and drive off.
By then, Himmelfahrt and Naomi had turned out of Schurnannstrasse and into Beethovenstrasse, accompanied by Himmelfahrt’s unfailing da-dah’d rendition of the famous opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth (just about the only classical music he knew).
Gruber, only momentarily stunned, had gone back to following the couple. He swore to himself under his breath. Again, he had not got the number of the van.
39
By the time Frau Stikuta returned Herr Biedermeier’s call the landlord was in bed, heavily sedated with Librium. Frau Stikuta spoke to the ample wife, who told her that Herr Hill was gone, the police had been here, and a transmitter had been removed from Herr Hill’s room.
The first two pieces of information staggered Frau Stikuta. The third, Herr Hill’s hobby, transmitters or whatever, was a matter of indifference to her. Hildegard Stikuta put the receiver down, her face tense. She had never liked Mr Hill, always known he was unreliable. And his replacement was not due to start until January. And the police… The police!
Hildegard Stikuta took a taxi to the hospital to ask her husband what to do. In times of crisis she reverted to girlhood, with Gustav as Daddy-O. Hildegard found poor Gustav still chafing at the frustration of having his leg in plaster. It was up in traction at the moment. She did not know where to start, there were so many problems. She timidly asked her husband how he was and Gustav roared out the information that he could walk but was in pain.
Why should such a good man have to endure such problems? thought Hildegard. The son of a preacher laid low by cruel circumstance, bad driving and foreign teachers. She took a deep breath and began diffidently, ‘Bad news, Gustav.’
Hildegard Stikuta summarised Himmelfahrt’s various outrages, the complaints and his change of status to felon on the run, about to flee the country. She also mentioned that Frau Biedermeier had telephoned again, just before she left, claiming compensation for a missing door key.
‘The police? Why didn’t you tell me?’ yelled Gustav at the top of his voice.
‘I am telling you.’
‘This was this afternoon, you say? And we’re just sitting here! This Hill bastard has ruined our good name. Years of building a respectable reputation and one poltroon ruins it in weeks. I’ll kill him!’
He then let loose a flood of expletives that he surely had not learned at the parsonage where he had told Hildegard he grew up. He was brick red in the face.
He hauled his leg down out of traction and looked at his watch. Gustav Stikuta knew the times of the international trains into and out of Ludwigsburg by heart. The next one was at 5.30. That Hill bastard was still here. And he was going to get him. And he was going to do things to him that had made strong men in the navy scream for their mothers.
*
Hartmut Plutznick sat in a compartment of
the international train and re-read his wife’s letter for perhaps the tenth time. He was rueful. He was annoyed. He was not particularly concerned. Naomi’s letter said that she had met someone else. She had not wanted to betray Hartmut, she had written, but her feelings and those of the other person had overcome them. Towards the end of the letter she said that the other person was someone she worked with, and right at the end she said it was Mark Hill. They wanted to leave Ludwigsburg together and start a new life.
Hartmut blamed himself. Some weekends he had not come home at all. This was partly because he had met some exciting people in Tübingen and partly because he wanted to teach Naomi a lesson. Show her who was boss. Punish her a bit. But he had neglected her, he could see that now.
She had turned elsewhere for comfort, got confused and now she was calling him to come and sort it out. And he was doing that. Yesterday, he had had some important classes (Introduction to Fortran, COBOL and Other Computer Languages) but he had cleared time today to come home and get things straight. One word from him would be enough; the boy Mark would be put in his place. Hartmut intended to do it with a smile on his face. And then …
And then he would go hack to Tübingen as quickly as possible. One of the exciting people he had met there was a woman on his course, but nothing had happened yet. He had been loyal to his wife. He felt a fool now for holding back. No more. When he returned to Tübingen he would take his real revenge. Oh yes! He knew exactly what he was going to do with his new girlfriend. His wife, as he always told people, with a thin-lipped smile, was a very good teacher.
Hartmut Plutznick looked at his watch. Not long now. The train got into Ludwigsburg at 5.30, before continuing on its way to Stuttgart, Cologne and finally Ostende, where it met the ferry to Dover.
*
Lieselotte Quednau was content as she packed a tennis racket into a long canvas holdall in her new, pleasant, light and airy flat. The tennis racket was a present for her son, who she had not seen since he was a baby, when she had left the east. She had had word from Normannenstrasse that the Firm, the KONSUM, had located the rocket scientist Siegfried Henkins.
The rubbish about him being at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore had been CIA disinformation, as she had quickly found out. Henkins, like a lot of Nazi scientists and later a few American ones, had got cold feet about the potential of what he was doing. With the help of clever boys like Arno Götsch she had traced him to Padderborn, where he was working as a carpenter under an assumed name. The Firm would pick him up soon and take him back east. She had been told that Markus Wolf himself, head of the Secret Service, wanted to meet and thank her. She was due for a holiday and promotion. They were quite happy to let her see her son again, too. She touched the tennis racket, and shut her eyes for a second at the sheer joy of it all. She ordered a taxi to the station and set off for the east with a song in her heart.
*
Kai-Uwe Prengel set off for the station at about the same time from his rather less pleasant flat in Ludwigsburg-Ossweil, not far from the Biedermeiers. Lieselotte Quednau had ordered him to see her off at the station. ‘Kiss me goodbye’, as she had put it.
But he had no intention of doing that. He had just read a message from their bosses back east, intended for Dorothea Stoll. Lieselotte Quednau was walking into a trap, set by the monster, Dorothea Stoll. As soon as she arrived in Berlin, she would be arrested as a British spy. For a matter of seconds, as he read the message, Kai-Uwe Prengel considered warning the old bat. But all that would achieve would be his own arrest, when the Firm found out.
However, neither did he intend to stay in Ludwigsburg, at the mercy of the Stoll woman. No, Kai-Uwe Prengel would take a trip of his own, not to Berlin but to BND headquarters in Munich. He would go over to the west. He could give them that rocket scientist, Siegfried Henkins, as a welcome present.
Kai-Uwe Prengel felt a great relief at his decision. He was exhausted. People in the west thought that East German ‘Romeo’ spies had training in ars amorata or were especially good at it. That was a complete myth. Prengel was a vain man, albeit conventionally good-looking. His boss back east, male and homosexual, found him attractive. So he had been plucked from the typing pool and sent to seduce Lieselotte Quednau.
And then the whole sex business had got totally out of hand. Lieselotte Quednau simply would not stop. And when he couldn’t do it she … well, she just made him. And then Dorothea Stoll started. At first he had been pleased. Dorothea Stoll was an attractive woman. But she was an animal! The two of them had worked out a rota. Lieselotte was Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays; Dorothea was Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. One day, just one verdammt day, they let him have in peace without having sex. And that was Sunday. And he was an atheist, so he didn’t even go to church. Kai-Uwe Prengel had damn well had enough! He had damn well had enough!
‘Station!’ he barked at the taxi driver.
‘OK mate. No need to be rude,’ said the driver.
‘Just shut your gob and drive,’ said Kai-Uwe Prengel.
*
Günther Bemmann, star of West German intelligence, arrived at Ludwigsburg with easily enough time to set up his usual immaculate operation in his usual calm, suave way. He kept sending Gruber on joke errands to pamper his whimsical, offbeat sense of humour (Bemmann was a devoted Goons fan). His best Gruber prank yet was sending Gruber to keep watch for a wanted man at Ludwigsburg station entrance. The man he described, in great detail — height, weight, facial appearance, hair — was Lenin.
While Gruber was looking for Lenin, Bemmann placed his ten trained operatives skilfully. Nothing could go wrong. The British spy was not to be harmed, of course, Britain was an ally, but he most certainly had to be captured. Surprise was of the essence.
Bemmann, immaculate in his charcoal grey suit, leaned elegantly against the back of the fast food booth on the platform at Ludwigsburg station. He had never failed yet. A surprise for Mr Mark Hill, also known as Mr Marcus Himmelfahrt, was assured. He would not be going to London. He would be spending his evening in Pullach with Günther Bemmann.
*
‘Crutches! Crutches!’ yelled Gustav Stikuta, as he balanced at the foot of his bed, keeping the plaster cast off the ground with difficulty. He was reddish purple in the face, with effort and hatred.
Hildegard Stikuta looked round helplessly and shrugged. Hans Stiefel peeped out of the curtains round his bed. Gustav Stikuta glared at him. Hans Stiefel hastily drew the curtains again, snuggling under the bedclothes, trying to disappear off the face of the earth.
Gustav Stikuta suddenly realised he needed his clothes. ‘Nurse!’ he roared, in a voice loud enough to rattle the windows ‘Nurse! Clothes!’
A nurse walked wearily toward the sound of the roaring voice.
‘Nurse!’ roared Gustav Stikuta, again.
‘What is it?’ said the nurse, reprovingly. ‘Is something hurting you?’
‘Nurse, my clothes immediately,’ commanded Gustav. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘You are not allowed to leave,’ she said. ‘You have not been discharged.’
‘Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,’ yelled Gustav. ‘My clothes! Now! Or I take the hospital to court for false imprisonment. Hildegard, hurry yourself. Phone for a taxi.’
Hildegard Stikuta knew there were times, quite frequent times, when she could control her husband in the way one controlled a dangerous dog. But she knew that this was not one of those times. Gustav Stikuta had slipped the thin leash that tied him to civilisation. Hildegard went out to the corridor and phoned for a taxi on the direct line.
Gustav advanced on the nurse, foaming at the mouth. ‘My clothes! And crutches! Now, you cow. You arsehole. You lump of dung …’ There was more but it was all in Latvian.
The nurse fled. Hans Stiefel cowered deeper under the bedclothes, burrowing into his bed.
*
Hans-Peter Fauser got off a bus outside Ludwigsburg station. He had been born middle-aged. Obsessed with mathematics, ches
s and crossword puzzles, a martyr to chronic dandruff, Hans-Peter Fauser could, with no lack of charity, be called a geek.
But now his life had been transformed by an affair with an older, married woman. Beate Brenner had found love with this man who could, and would, quote every move from every chess match the Russian Grand Masters had ever played.
Hans-Peter Fauser wished to travel on the 5.30 train only as far as Stuttgart, where Beate lived. Now she was a widow, and her daughter had moved out to go and live with her boyfriend, he and Beate could enjoy whole evenings playing chess together. Also they might have sex, though it wasn’t as good as chess. He had his travelling chess set in his anorak pocket, along with a couple of oranges. He never went anywhere without a chess set. He never went anywhere without oranges.
He looked round the station platform at the crowds, hoping to see someone he knew who would give him a quick game of chess on the train. Not seeing anyone, he glanced at the configuration of bogeys under the train on the next platform. Each configuration had a different marker-number, known as a DIN number, when new bogeys were ordered. Not many people knew that. But Hans-Peter Fauser did.
*
Dr Thomas Schöchle arrived at Gustav Stikuta’s bedside in the two-bedded room at the same time as the taxi driver — the former guided by the nurse and the latter by Hildegard Stikuta.
‘It is my medical opinion …’ began Dr Schöchle.
‘You can stick your medical opinion up your arse, little boy,’ roared Gustav Stikuta. ‘And then you can take it out and wipe your mouth with it. If a set of crutches and my clothes are not brought in two minutes I’m calling my lawyer. And then you will need a doctor, boy.’
Gustav Stikuta had killed three men in his life. He had beaten two of them to death with his fists. This influenced his dealings with people and people’s reaction to him. Even in his seventies he was a formidable physical presence. And his burning desire to kill a fourth man, English bastard Mr Mark Hill, who had ruined the hard-won respectability of his business, only intensified the rabid rage devouring Gustav Stikuta.
