A Few Words for the Dead

by Guy Adams

  We took our beers to a small table in the corner and muscled up the enthusiasm to make a few enquiries.

  ‘So,’ I said to Engel, ‘fill me in on the last movements of Lucas Robie.’

  ‘He was preparing to cross back over,’ said Engel, by which he meant that Robie was planning to return to East Berlin, where, by all accounts, he spent much of his time. ‘Usual business, plus,’ he added almost as an afterthought, ‘he seemed to think that there was something interesting going on involving a Russian soldier.’

  I chose not to think naughty thoughts. ‘What sort of interesting?’

  ‘Man by the name of Anosov, rising star, young lieutenant, predicted captaincy within the year.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  ‘He went crazy, climbed naked onto the wall and began machine-gunning passers-by.’

  ‘Bad for him.’

  ‘By all accounts, it took half an army to take him down. His body was little more than tatters under gunfire but he fought on. Nobody could believe it. He seemed superhuman. I dare say it was exaggerated, you know what people are like.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘There was no history of mental illness, no sign of anything that might have contributed to a breakdown. He went from loyal son of Mother Russia to shocking embarrassment within the space of a day.’

  ‘And Robie thought he knew why?’

  Engel shrugged. ‘He wasn’t very forthcoming but he seemed to think there was something more to it than just a madman and a gun. Lucas liked to chase the unusual stuff sometimes. In all honesty I think he found the day-to-day stuff boring, so when something more interesting came along he jumped on it. I doubt it would have come to anything, it was just a way of him relieving the boredom.’

  I could imagine that was true. Lucas’s ‘day-to-day stuff’ would have been the co-ordination of information from the network, arranging meetings and payments and then funnelling back the goods to Battle. For someone like Lucas, especially given the charmed life he led, that would have been child’s play, despite the need to spend a good deal of time on the ‘wrong’ side of the wall with all the dangers that could bring. He must have felt wasted dealing with the poor results of Battle’s network, eager to move on to more exciting opportunities. If he’d believed the actions of Anosov might lead to something exciting, he’d have been all over it.

  ‘Tell me precisely what he said about it.’

  ‘As I say, he wasn’t very forthcoming. I don’t think he wanted to discuss it until he had something concrete to pass on.’

  ‘All the more reason to know the little he did say.’

  ‘I think I asked him what was so interesting about a crazy guy. People go crazy sometimes, you know? He made a comment along the lines of “Who says he was crazy?”’

  I nodded, encouraging Engel to continue.

  ‘So I said, “The guy strips off and kills a bunch of people, he obviously isn’t in his right mind.” I definitely phrased the last bit like that because he laughed and said, “If he wasn’t in his right mind, what was?”’ Engel shrugged, ‘I had no idea what he meant and told him so. He just shrugged and changed the subject.’

  ‘What was?’ I wondered aloud.

  By the bar, a group of American soldiers were arguing good-humouredly about a game of cards they’d recently played. One of the soldiers was bemoaning the fact that he was owed money by someone else in the camp. The others were egging him on with his string of threats as to what he planned doing to the man if he didn’t pay up.

  Engel stared at the men and grumpily tried to hide behind his drink. ‘People that threaten and never do,’ he said, ‘hot air and empty promises.’

  ‘That’s espionage all over,’ I told him. ‘I wonder if they’re regulars? Another drink?’

  Engel, whose beer was barely touched, made to decline but I was already on my way to the bar, placing myself right next to the Americans.

  ‘Two more,’ I told the barman, this time speaking English.

  I turned slightly towards the Americans hoping one of them would take the opportunity to talk to me. A large, red-cheeked man with teeth so large he could bring down a bison on an open plain, offered me a terrifying smile.

  ‘Now, either you’ve turned your back on that lousy English beer you guys drink or you’re new in town. Which is it, feller?’

  ‘Bit of both,’ I said shaking the man’s hand. ‘Dennis Theakston.’

  ‘I’m Jerry Franks.’ He pointed to each of his colleagues in turn. ‘This is Lester Reynolds, Tom Hurwitz and Billy Shepherd.’ Each shook my hand in turn, big, assertive shakes to let me know they were both happy to meet me and capable of beating me in a wrestling match should the occasion arise. I love Americans. Unlike some of my countrymen, I don’t see openness and enthusiasm as qualities to frown upon.

  ‘I’m over here on business,’ I said. ‘My company imports wine and I have to sign the paperwork and shout at the packaging people. It keeps my boss happy.’

  ‘Who’s sat on his ass back at home, I bet?’ asked Reynolds, scratching at a moustache you could have comfortably stored a family of thrushes in.

  ‘You’ve got it,’ I agreed, and they all laughed at my fictional boss’s expense.

  ‘You drink in here often?’ I asked.

  ‘Most nights,’ Franks admitted. ‘It’s close to the base and they play decent tunes. There used to be a pool table too but some fool tore the hell out of the baize so it’s out of action.’

  ‘Shame,’ I said. ‘I’d have taken one of you on if the price was right.’

  ‘A betting guy, huh?’ asked Hurwitz, the man who had recently been explaining to the others what anatomical acts of violence he was willing to visit on the man who owed him money.

  ‘I like a flutter,’ I agreed and laughed again, pretty much to see if they would all join in, which, of course they did. Rapport is an easy thing to build if you keep your ears open and your pint glass filled. ‘In fact I was hoping to meet a friend of mine here tonight.’ I described Robie. ‘He owes me twenty deutsche marks from a little horse race we had a bet on.’ I turned away to collect my drinks from the disgusted-looking barman, letting the Americans think about the outstanding debt for a moment.

  ‘I think I remember the guy you’re talking about,’ said Hurwitz. ‘English feller, only seen him in here a couple of times.’

  ‘The guy that ran off with Grauber?’ asked Shepherd.

  Hurwitz nodded, clearly put out to have his story hijacked. ‘That’s why I remember him. Anyone Grauber set his sights on…’

  ‘Grauber’s always in here,’ said Franks, leaning in to me. ‘Local guy, slimy as hell, drinks too much. Always causing trouble.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hurwitz, wrestling the conversation back, ‘he sat down at your guy’s table and we were all laughing because we know what Grauber’s like. Then, all of a sudden, your man jumps to his feet and the two of them run out of here like they think the place is on fire.’

  ‘Haven’t seen Grauber since,’ said Reynolds.

  ‘I’ll drink to that!’ said Franks, going on to do so.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where Grauber lives?’ I asked. I was pushing my luck but they seemed onside enough to risk it.

  ‘Got a place over in Kreuzberg, hasn’t he?’ Franks asked.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Bunch of us went over there once, he said he had…’ He fell quiet, suddenly realising he’d said too much.

  Hurwitz wasn’t going to spare his blushes. He put his fingers to his lips and mimed sucking the final dregs of a joint. The rest of them laughed, Shepherd just looked a bit, well, sheepish.

  ‘Course, turned out he was full of shit,’ he said, clearly wishing he hadn’t brought the subject up.

  ‘You remember the address?’ I asked. ‘I’d happily give him a couple of my owed deutsche marks if he knows where I can collect the rest. Nothing worse than a guy who won’t pay up.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ agreed Hurwitz, who proceeded to not let me do so,
repeating instead some of the card game conversation I’d eavesdropped earlier. ‘Tell the man,’ he said to Shepherd, having worked himself up into a righteous frenzy on the subject of debt collection.

  Shepherd did so and, not wanting to seem suspicious, I called Engel over – introducing him as a trainee from my local office, which was more or less the truth – and we celebrated our new cross-Atlantic friendship with a couple more rounds of drinks.

  TWELVE

  Of all the areas of West Berlin wounded by war and separation, Kreuzberg bled the most. Hemmed in on three sides by the Wall, it had become a cheap residential area, filled with immigrants, artists and punk rockers. As will always be the case, while some looked down their noses at the area, others rejoiced in its diversity. In the last few years, music had brought a cultural validity to some of its concrete corners, Bowie and Iggy Pop giving their regal thumbs-up to the new wave of sounds bubbling up from the clubs and bars. Nothing breeds interesting culture more than decay.

  Engel regaled me with band names that meant nothing to me as we made our way, ever so slightly more drunk than was strictly professional, towards Grauber’s address. I think he was surprised at my enthusiasm for the music – I was English, in my forties and in the shadow of Battle (a man I imagined insisting that good music died alongside Vaughan Williams). I tried to explain I was also a Londoner who had relished diversity and change from the first moment his feet trod its ancient pavements.

  The Wall loomed over us as we approached Grauber’s block, lit by its constant arc lights. The snow was getting heavier, settling on the pavements and the top of the wall, sharp white sparks coiling in the night sky.

  Unlike the elaborate frescos for which the Wall itself would later be famous, the block’s pale grey skin was tattooed with rough graffiti. Great whorls of green and red spray paint, the signatures of those who ran through these streets trying to leave their mark in the only way they knew how.

  Engel and I walked up the short ramp to the block entrance. Sat on the adjoining wall, her legs swinging, heels pounding out a bored rhythm against the bricks, was a young girl. She looked to be about eight or so, her blonde hair pulled into pigtails, her face a rebellious sneer as she watched the two of us approach.

  ‘Bit late for you to be out, isn’t it?’ asked Engel.

  She smiled, the street lights only catching half of her exposed teeth.

  ‘Do what I want,’ she replied, rattling a box of matches at us as if to prove as much.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

  She opened the box and plucked out a single match which she lit and stared at as it crackled in the half-light. ‘Wherever I want.’

  She took the lit match and popped it into her mouth, the flame hissing out on her wet tongue.

  Engel made to say something then thought better of it. What was there to say? Don’t do that? It was done, and besides, the girl had made it quite clear how uninterested she was in our opinions. He shook his head and we continued on our way to the entrance.

  Engel pressed the buzzer for Grauber’s apartment. There was no answer. I pulled up the collar of my coat, but the chill of a Berlin winter cared little for my weak attempts to keep it from my bones. I looked to the young girl, meaning to block Engel from view as he forced the lock on the door, but she had jumped down from the wall and was dancing in the street, twirling around in the heavy snow.

  Behind me, I heard the door open and Engel and I made our way inside and towards the building’s elevator.

  ‘Eighth floor,’ he said, consulting the sign next to the graffiti-scrawled metal doors. Apparently Klaus was going to burn the world, or so he had promised in bright yellow spray paint.

  Engel pressed the button calling the elevator and we waited a few moments, doing our best to appear utterly at home in the damp, tatty foyer.

  On the wall there was a poster warning tenants not to dump their rubbish in the communal areas; another advertised the services of an affordable plumber; yet another invited callers to express their desires to Claudia over the phone. Premium rates would be charged but Claudia insisted it would be worth the caller’s while. I wondered if Claudia was, in reality, a tired housewife doing her best to make ends meet. Did she moan her way through the tedium? Pouring impossible fantasies into the ears of the lonely as she dreamed of a burgeoning bank account?

  The elevator arrived and Engel and I stepped inside. Engel pressed the button for the eighth floor and the elevator began to rise.

  ‘Reminds me of the building where I grew up,’ said Engel as the cables creaked above us. ‘I couldn’t wait to get out of it.’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ I said. ‘We’re just seeing the shell. Home is what you make it.’

  Engel shrugged but was clearly unconvinced. Having had the good fortune not to grow up in a divided city, I shut my mouth on the subject.

  The elevator doors opened and we walked out into the cold once more. Up here, a wind forced a tunnel of snowflakes along the balcony before us. Looking down I saw the young girl was still dancing in the road, now striking matches and flinging them into the air around her where they glowed orange for a second before winking out.

  Arriving at number 114, I hung back as Engel knocked on the door. We had no idea about Grauber, he might be friendly enough, but an intelligence officer always stacks the odds the best he can. People can react badly to strangers on the doorstep. They can react twice as badly when there are two of them. Guilty people might be tempted to run or fight (and in either case, the second man then comes into his own). In this case, it hardly mattered as nobody came to the door.

  Engel knocked again. This time there was a noise from inside as someone sent something spilling with the shattering of glass.

  ‘You think we’re making Mr Grauber panic?’ asked Engel.

  ‘Always possible,’ I agreed, ‘or he’s in terrible trouble and would very much like our assistance.’

  Engel smiled. ‘Either way…’

  He once again took the opportunity to prove his skill with a locked door.

  ‘You’re worryingly good at that,’ I said.

  ‘A man needs a varied selection of skills in this business,’ he agreed.

  The door gave in and we stepped inside. We were immediately hit by the smell. Body odour and rot, food gone bad. Underneath that was another, more worrying smell: petrol.

  Ahead of us, a hallway extended to the rear of the apartment, doors leading off from it. All was dark, the faint light from the open door behind us revealing the tatty state of the hallway wallpaper but little else.

  ‘Mr Grauber?’ I called, ‘are you all right? We just want to talk to you if that’s OK?’

  From further into the apartment came a wet, slapping sound, like someone stepping out of the bath.

  ‘Please don’t tell me he was just in the shower,’ moaned Engel.

  ‘Better that than the possible alternative,’ I said. ‘Can’t you smell it? The petrol fumes?’

  ‘Stay back!’ came a voice from one of the far rooms. ‘You have to stay back. I can’t… It won’t let me…’

  ‘Mr Grauber,’ I said, ‘please, there’s no reason to be concerned. We just want to talk to you for a minute.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he was crying. ‘It won’t allow it…’

  ‘What won’t allow it?’ I asked but there was to be no answer. There was deep, pounding sound and an arc of orange light cut across the hallway.

  ‘Oh God…’ said Engel.

  Grauber walked into the hallway – he didn’t run, he walked – his entire body ablaze.

  I looked around for something I could use to try and put him out. I ran into the closest room, hoping it would be a bedroom – it wasn’t. From the light of the burning Mr Grauber, I could see a ratty sofa, a television and a stack of discarded takeaway boxes. Then I noticed the window. In place of curtains, Grauber had hung a blanket. I snatched at it. Behind me, Engel screamed. I tore the blanket down, bringing the heavy pole it had bee
n draped over along with it.

  Entering the hallway, I was faced with the unbelievable sight of Engel being pinned against the wall, Grauber’s flaming hands gripping him by the lapels of his jacket.

  I lifted the blanket, meaning to throw it over both of them. Engel’s shirt was already alight, the flames from Grauber’s arms licking upwards towards the young man’s face, singeing his hair and searing his cheeks. Grauber had other ideas. He threw Engel towards me and continued on his way out of the door.

  I beat at Engel’s chest with the blanket. The young man hadn’t suffered any major injury, though he’d be sore for a while.

  ‘Go!’ Engel shouted. ‘Get after him!’

  I did as I was told, stepping out onto the balcony where Grauber was stood looking out into the snow-filled night. How could he still be moving? Surely the shock of the flames should have killed him by now? I could smell his meat burning, hear his skin and muscle crackle and pop as it constricted around his bones.

  I raised the blanket but there was no time. Grauber climbed onto the edge of the balcony and jumped out into the Berlin night.

  I watched as his flaming body toppled towards the snow-covered ground below, the flames whipping behind him in the updraft. Then, he hit the ground with a dull crack, splayed out on the ground. He looked uncomfortably like a flaming swastika, the snow hissing around him.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’ Ryska asked, tapping at the table in irritation. ‘That a man can set himself on fire and then just walk around?’

  Shining watched her fingers, the short nails striking out an irregular rhythm on the surface of the table. He tried to decide if she was just angry or whether the irritation was covering something deeper. He realised he was overthinking matters, always a failing of his. Ryska was simply expressing the incredulity everyone always did when faced with the business of Section 37. No doubt she was conflicted, on one hand relishing the fact that she might be on the front line against a possible rogue agent, on the other cursing the fact that said agent was clearly mad.