by John Meaney
"Since you're with Hilde," said Klaus, "he might talk with you, after the thing is over. But no guarantees, you understand."
"Um, of course not."
I was supposed to recognize him, and did. Albrecht Reinhard, thirty-two years old, scholar and competitive biathlete – skiing and rifle-shooting – and the party leader's son, heir to the Black Path throne. And perhaps to its legal façade, the FPDA party.
Then the fencers were lining up in two rows, facing each other. Hilde leaned close to me, murmuring: "That's Jürgen, on the end."
His features were hidden by the goggles, but the chin looked strong and his stance was athletic. No surprise that he was Hilde's brother.
Klaus Eisenmenger walked along the edge of the hall, bypassing the fencers, heading for Albrecht Reinhard. I leaned close to Hilde.
"The scars on Klaus's face...?"
"Schmisse. You would say... Honour scars?"
"Ah. Right."
"Jürgen has some already." She sounded very proud. "This will be his last Mensur."
The swordsmen faced each other: square-on, not angled. Surely they weren't going to fence like this. But after they made a formal salute, whipping the heavy blades downwards, all they did was take a pace closer to their opponents.
"They have to stand on the spot now," whispered Hilde.
"You mean no footwork?"
"That's right."
Klaus Eisenmenger's voice rang out, announcing the first set.
Sweet God.
Blades flicked through the air, snick-snack-snick, and it was over.
"That's impossible," I said.
Crimson beads sprang out across taut white skin. Maybe two seconds had passed, but if I'd counted right, each fencer had cut five times with his heavy blade.
Hilde gripped my hand, as Klaus shouted his command, and once more the sabres whipped through the air. This time, one fencer staggered back a half step, then clenched his jaw and regained his position. That was when the point of the exercise became clear.
"They're brilliant," I told Hilde, meaning it.
Because they weren't scoring points. What mattered was each man's ability to stand his ground unflinching as the soft skin of his face parted, slit by his opponent's blade. It was how they faced the danger that counted.
That's courage.
Two more sets passed equally fast, producing the final cuts of honour, and then they were done. With a final ornate salute, they swung down their blades, removed their goggles and tucked them under their arms, and turned to face Albrecht Reinhard, where he stood at the end of the hall beneath a photograph of his father. Beside him, Klaus Eisenmenger stood stone-faced.
The swordsmen recited these words, their voices strong and resonant: "Kräftiges Volk, sterke Heimat, und Freiheit für alles."
Powerful people, and strong homeland. The first two parts of the oath weren't so bad, but the last part, freedom for all, meant freedom for people like them, and death to Jews, coloureds, Catholics, homosexuals, Muslims and anyone else who might be different. Then Reinhard began his speech. Behind him, the two men who had accompanied him stood blank-faced, giving nothing away. Everyone stood even straighter than before.
It's difficult for a non-German to appreciate how mesmerizing an orator Hitler had been. He'd worked on the psychological techniques obsessively, spending thousands of hours practising before the mirror (while failing to notice his own non-Aryan features). The younger Reinhard had similar charisma. He spoke of his pride in the true warrior spirit, the Teutonic knighthood destined to reclaim chivalry, honour and wealth.
The applause was emotional.
Then the group was breaking up, young men with bloodied faces chattering to each other. The handsome, bleeding Jürgen Schenck heading for his sister, a grin across his cut face. They hugged and kissed. Then Hilde dragged him across to me.
"And this is Larry."
"Pleased to meet you, Larry." His grip was strong, his eyes the same flecked grey.
"I'm very honoured."
I was sincere, because their spirit was admirable.
"Thank you. You understand what we're doing here?"
He hadn't tried to wipe away the blood.
"Becoming warriors," I said. "Facing danger without flinching."
"That's our goal."
"And" – I bowed my head – "you've succeeded."
He looked at Hilde with sibling love. Part of me wished that I was worthy of Hilde. The rest wanted to burst into bitter laughter, to yell at these bastards that they were scum, and to hell with what would happen next.
Hilde grinned at Jürgen.
At the far end of the hall, Klaus Eisenmenger looked at me and raised an eyebrow. It was a command, a summoning.
"You're honoured," said Jürgen.
"Yes."
Because it wasn't Klaus Eisenmenger who wanted to meet me, but the film-star-handsome man with the slick hair and mesmerising eyes.
Albrecht fucking Reinhard.
Using all of my self-control techniques, centring myself, I walked forward to meet the man who would destroy New Jerusalem.
You fucking bastard.
I held out my hand.
"I'm very honoured, sir."
"Thank you for coming. Not all your countrymen are like-minded."
He meant the English.
"Churchill has a lot to answer for."
Reinhard nodded and gave a smile, more like a lizard opening its mouth to reveal fangs, nothing to do with humour. We were using a shared vocabulary, because Hitler had believed the English were natural Aryans, and that if he bombed enough English cities, the populace would turn on Churchill and embrace the Wehrmacht.
"Good to meet you," Reinhard said.
Then turned to someone else, focusing on them.
My God.
It was like a searchlight swinging away from me. Freed from the beam, I watched as he went to talk to one of the suited guards, then to the bald man he'd come in with.
Oh, fucking hell.
Klaus came over to me, then we walked a few paces together, away from Reinhard and the others.
"He's impressive, isn't he?"
"Very much."
"So. You're staying on Thierschstrasse?"
"Near the U-bahn station. Some... sympathetic friends in England recommended it."
"I understand," said Klaus. "In fact we'll be there, in your hotel, on Thursday at four p.m., the day after tomorrow. Would you like a chat, with one of our people? Jürgen Schenck, I hope, will attend also."
This could be it.
"A chat with your people?"
"Of course" – Klaus's smile caused his facial scars to bunch up – "we like to be careful in making friends."
"Am I a friend?"
"Do you want to be?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then everything should be fine."
This is access.
Phase one: infiltration.
As we drove back through the dark, impressive forest, I turned to Hilde.
"Thank you. Just... Thank you."
She bit her lip.
"Larry, would you mind if I dropped you off at your hotel, when we get back?"
After last night, this was a change in tack.
"Of course."
"But we'll go out on... Thursday evening. All right? Or dinner at my place?"
"Will there be dessert?"
She looked at me, then shook her head, but smiling.
Thursday evening.
I said: "You just concentrate on driving. Watch the road."
"Whatever you say, chief."
Thursday, after your Black Path friends have checked me out.
I touched my fingertips to my lips, and then to Hilde's. Her mouth was very soft.
She murmured: "You are perfect, Larry Brown."
"You're perfect yourself, Hilde Schenk."
We drove on in a kind of peace.
At ten o'clock that night I was sitting with Clive Rogers in an Italian restaurant, sha
ring a pot of Café Hag. He was easy to talk to.
"Hilde drew back from me," I said. "But we've dinner planned for Thursday night, just her and me."
"And how do you feel about that?"
"It's the recruitment meeting earlier that's important, in the hotel. There'll be someone there to vet me, someone used to questioning people."
"Of course. And spending the evening with Hilde afterwards?"
"Shit." I took a sip of coffee. "All right, I want it to happen."
"Ah-ha." Roger checked the aluminium cases beside him, something he'd been doing obsessively for the last two hours. "I thought so."
"But I don't want you getting near Schtüpnagel the same way, you understand me?"
"The man's a pig, I told you that."
Rogers had said that, but his dossier had indicated that he dreamed of a being a case officer, a fully fledged field agent. That might precipitate something stupid.
He'd already provided the setup for my initial access, and now he had two cases full of surveillance equipment for bugging the meeting room, if we could manage it. His contribution so far was brilliant. I wanted to keep it that way.
"That's right, Schtüpnagel is a pig, and you can trust that feeling. So I do not want you alone with Schtüpnagel, or having any conversation that's not purely business. Understood?"
In the background, music started up on the record player: country and western with an incongruous oom-pah beat, sung in German. They'd grown bored with O Sole Mio.
"If you'd met Margaret," said Rogers, frowning, "you'd know I don't need warning."
"Margaret."
"Used to be a secretary in our offices. One evening at six o'clock, she got into a lift in a department store. A lift with a man already standing inside, alone."
"Oh, shit."
"Yes. All her instincts warned her to not get in, so she said, but she was afraid she'd offend the chap, so she went in anyway. After the rape, he smashed her cheekbones and tore her mouth four inches wider. She's not been able to work since. There are no mirrors in the house, which she hardly ever leaves. And she used to be so bright."
You can always trust yourself when your subconscious signals doubt – meaning danger – about another human being. Always.
"That's bad."
"Yes. So what's the plan?"
"Drop the equipment in my room," I said. "Try to find out which room the meeting's in. Figure out a way to bug it, between now and Thursday afternoon."
"Larry, Larry. You're inviting me back to your hotel room?"
"Er..."
"Oh, my dear chap. I thought you were fearless."
"You're mistaking me for someone else."
A waiter rang for a taxi while I paid the bill. Soon we were on our way to the hotel. Rogers stayed silent during the journey. I spoke to the driver in German. No need for him to remember transporting two foreigners.
At the hotel, I went in ahead of Rogers, who was carrying two metal cases. As we passed the reception desk, I did my best to block the duty clerk's view, hiding Rogers. But it was unnecessary: the clerk was intent on a phone conversation.
"Sie möchten denn das gleiches Zimmer, mein Herr?"
It must be a regular guest on the other line. The clerk was asking if they wanted the same room.
"Ja, bitte schön, Herr Schenck."
We continued along the corridor, with Rogers examining the fittings: the carpet, the glossy white skirting-board, the wooden picture-rail that ran high, a foot below the ceiling.
Places where he could run a length of optic fibre.
Leaving the cases on my bed, we went back downstairs, to the comfortable drawing-room. The night clerk asked if we needed anything, and I ordered Café Hag. He brought it quickly, then returned to his desk.
Rogers asked: "Geschenk means present, right? As in a gift?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I'll be back in a mo. I take it you noticed?"
"Noticed what?"
"Oh, my dear chap. Never mind."
He went into the lobby. Shortly afterwards, there was the sound of laughter, and Rogers' voice saying: "I thought Christmas had come early."
Five minutes later, he returned. His smile was smug as he sat down.
"What was that about?" I asked.
"Hans is a very nice young man." Rogers poured some coffee. "Very nice indeed."
"Oh," I said. "Er... Oh."
The hotel was frequented by Black Path, so there was a chance that the tables in this room were bugged. Rogers took a pen from his pocket and wrote on a napkin: Room 13.
Same floor as me. Handy.
"Well done, Clive."
It was the first time I'd used his forename. He looked surprised.
But I guessed what he'd done. He'd heard the clerk say 'Schenck' earlier, and pretended he'd misheard it as Geschenk. So he asked, who was the lucky person receiving a present? And while they'd been chatting, he'd managed to take a look at the reservations book.
I toasted him with decaffeinated coffee.
TWENTY-THREE:
MUNICH, March 1963
Rogers returned to his own hotel by taxi. I went to bed, after checking the contents of the metal cases: camera, cables, film reel, tape recorder, handheld screwdriver, and a bunch of tools that a carpenter or electrician might use.
Next morning, while the streets were still quiet, I went for a run. When I got back, wiping sweat from my face as I entered the lobby, Rogers was waiting.
"I thought I'd try the breakfast here," he said. "My hotel is awful in that regard."
"I remember. You said. Gimme twenty minutes. Thirty. Start without me."
"Mmm. Well, carry on, old thing."
In my room I did calisthenics, stretched, then showered. In a fresh shirt and a different suit – I'd packed a spare – I went downstairs, feeling good about the coming day. I joined Rogers downstairs, ordered eggs, and drank juice and coffee while I waited.
"Have you read the news, old thing?" asked Rogers.
"No. Anything exciting?"
"Some government chappie in Westminster caught with his trousers down. Profumo, never heard of him before. But his illicit girlfriend had another lover, and he's based in Moscow, apparently."
"Oh, really."
It sounded like a classic honey trap, the kind of thing the KGB are good at.
"They're saying the government might fall, the silly bugger. Of course, if it had been one of those big, strapping Cossack dancer chaps, you could understand the temptation."
"For God's sake."
After breakfast, we went up to my room and hung the Nicht stören sign on the door. Inside, we got to work. I pulled a chair up against the door, stood on it, and Rogers passed me a hand-drill from one of his equipment cases.
"The traffic's not very noisy outside," he said. "Should we wait?"
"It's always quiet here. You'd be surprised."
There was a radio built into the bedside cabinet. Rogers switched it on, turning the Brandenburg Concerto up very loud. I started to drill a hole through the wall, above the door.
"Covert DIY is boring," Rogers murmured.
"Uh-huh."
"Pun intended."
I paused as the drill-bit stuck.
"What?"
"Never mind."
"All right."
We carried on, until the maids came along, bypassing my door because of the privacy sign. They got to work in the other rooms. There was nothing for Rogers and me to do except wait, and talk.
"Are they all as fit as you?" he asked. "How many miles did you run this morning?"
"Eight miles, that's all."
"Oh, right. Only eight miles."
"Gradual progression. You work up to it. It's necessary."
"If you say so."
He didn't sound as if he believed me. But here's the thing: when the crunch comes, the physical organism recognizes danger by dumping adrenaline through the system. The massive tidal pulse can shock an untrained person into stillness, alwa
ys a bad idea.
When the bastards come at you, within a fraction of a second you experience biochemical distress equivalent to a ninety-minute run. That's when you have to function, or freeze in the headlights and die.
"I think the cleaners are gone," said Rogers.
"Then we'll carry on."
We worked in short bursts, whenever the coast was clear, picking the lock to room 13 – around the corner, on the same corridor as mine – then drilling a hole in the wall above the door, running an optic fibre and microphone wire along the corridor's picture-rail. It was late afternoon, and I was inside room 13 fitting the fingernail-sized microphone, when Rogers tapped three times on the door. Our emergency signal. I moved fast, leaving the mike where it was atop the doorframe, and moved the chair back to where it belonged. I brushed dust from the seat with my hand, checked everything again, then exited.
Rogers was already inside my room, holding the door open. I went in.
"They're here," he murmured. "Checking in right now."
"A day early? Shit."
I crossed to the window. There was no clear view of the street, no interesting vehicles or people in the portion that was visible.
"I was standing at the top of the stairs," said Rogers, "and I heard—"
Voices sounded from the corridor outside. Eight men went past, possibly nine. One man stopped after a few paces, answered a question, then stayed in position. On watch.
Damn it.
We could slide up the window and climb out, but it was still daylight and someone might notice. Why the hell were these bastards here now?
Rogers was building an igloo of blankets on the bed, muffling the sound of the camera. He switched the thing on, then added his overcoat and mine to the insulation. From outside came the sounds of choir music drifted outside. The radio in room 13. (I checked the holster at the small of my back. The Beretta doesn't weigh much, but you know it's there, and comforting.) Rogers stared at the moving reels of the tape-recorder.
It lasted half an hour: their meeting, our waiting. Surveillance is all about shallow breathing and bladder control. Finally, shadows moved across the bottom of the door. Rogers began to shift, but I held up my hand, raised two fingers, and pointed.
