Black Out (Frederick Troy 1)

by Lawton, John

  He had stood and offered his hand to Troy. Troy shook it. Dieter ignored the hand and sat. A boy in a bum-starver appeared from nowhere, tray held high, and dotted a cafetière and three tiny cups in front of them and was gone. Von Asche took a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. The catch was a white stud, a semiprecious stone in an oval silver hoop, inset with a small black swastika. When Troy and Dieter declined the offer he lit up and drew deeply. He reached for an ashtray in the centre of the table and flicked ash – index finger crooked to tap at the king-sized American cigarette. They sat with their obligatory black-market coffee untouched, waiting on the obligatory pause.

  ‘Two policemen,’ he said. ‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or intimidated.’

  The evident relish he took in the situation was relish only when demonstrated. He meant to rub their faces in it.

  ‘Still. I suppose all this must be terribly important to you. Who is this man, this passenger you want to see diverted to England?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ Troy said.

  ‘Oh, come, come, Herr Troy. Play up and play the game.’

  Troy said nothing. As far as he was concerned the bastard could quote the whole of ‘Drake’s Drum’ to prove that he was au fait enough with the English to send them up – all Troy wanted was that he should name his price.

  ‘This man – surely not a German, or your colleague here would arrest him in the street? Are we talking about a British citizen or an American? You can hardly expect me to lack curiosity.’

  ‘It’s an American,’ Troy conceded.

  ‘Ah, ah, ah!’

  Von Asche blew a smoke ring and took pleasure in the moment. Troy could feel Dieter bristling, hoped he would stick to his promise not to interfere.

  ‘So dog eats dog. I can’t tell you what pleasure it gives me to know that the victors have fallen out amongst themselves. Not that it will get you what you want any cheaper.’

  At last money.

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  Von Asche strung out the pause. Troy dreaded Dieter’s intervention, preferring to let silences run their course. Speaking to fill another man’s silence usually led to indiscretion.

  ‘To land in England?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A fault of some kind – an emergency on the aircraft?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘And where would I land?’

  ‘West London. There’s a new airfield under construction on the far side of Hounslow. They call it Heath Row.’

  ‘Aha.’ He paused to inhale and exhale at length and then added, ‘I always wanted to see England.’

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘I had hopes that I might see it sooner – say about 1940, but that was not to be. All the same it would be nice to see England.’

  He smiled – the man was taunting Troy. Defying him to blow it by a crude statement of patriotism.

  ‘You’ll do it?’ Troy repeated.

  ‘How much money do you have?’

  ‘I’ll pay a hundred pounds. Cash,’ said Troy.

  Von Asche threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘No, no, no, Herr Troy. You have much more than that. What did you bring? Two hundred and fifty?’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty. And that’s my last word.’

  Von Asche stubbed out the end of his cigarette and immediately lit up another. He blew the smoke at Troy and smiled.

  ‘Your last word. I see. I think the last word should be mine, don’t you?’

  He leaned across the table and dropped his voice to a stagey whisper. ‘Und das Wort Ist “Tausend”!’

  Troy felt Dieter rise in his chair and gently extended an arm to prevent him.

  ‘I can’t pay that!’ he said softly, almost without inflexion.

  ‘Then perhaps this American is not quite as important as you think.’

  Dieter could be contained no longer.

  ‘Troy, this is madness. The man is a crook!’

  ‘Quite,’ said von Asche, utterly unperturbed by Dieter. ‘What you ask is crooked. That is why you came to me, is it not? If you want this crooked act performed by this crook, then the price is one thousand pounds. Cash!’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty in cash. I’ll write you a cheque for the balance.’

  Von Asche shook his head gently from side to side.

  ‘No, no, no, Herr Troy. Cash. I’d hate to find that your cheque bounced or that your colleague here appeared with handcuffs when I tried to cash it.’

  He turned his gaze on Dieter, smiling, silently mocking him, delighting in his discomfort. The shiny skin around his eyes crinkling like Cellophane.

  ‘Troy,’ Dieter said, brimming with anger, ‘you cannot do this!’

  Troy ignored him. ‘Cash it is,’ he said.

  Dieter got to his feet, ostentatiously took a banknote from his pocket and threw it down next to his cup.

  ‘Enough is enough. I’ll be in the jeep.’

  Von Asche looked up at him. There was a silence in which the roar of the room became audible while they waited for Dieter to get clear.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to share your passion,’ von Asche said at last. ‘What did this man do that you want him so badly?’

  Troy got up and put a banknote down on top of Dieter’s.

  ‘The price is a thousand. Money’s all you’re getting,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish. I’ll be taking Christmas lunch here tomorrow. Twelve until two. I suggest you join me then. If, of course, the Berlin Police find such a transaction indigestible, you might come alone.’

  He let out a colossal cloud of smoke and smiled at Troy.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ Troy said.

  94

  Out in the street Dieter was stamping his feet. Troy found it hard to tell whether this was anger or a measure against the biting cold. Clark sat in his jeep, still reading, buttoned up almost to the eyebrows. Dieter turned at Troy’s approach.

  ‘Good God, Troy, what have you done? What have you done? A thousand pounds? This is madness, utter madness! You haven’t got a thousand pounds!’

  ‘Get me to a phone and I will have.’

  Dieter seemed to weigh this up for a second or two and then sighed deeply.

  ‘OK. OK. We must go back to the station and book the call.

  ‘It was gone six and the electricity was off again by the time the operator called back with the international connection to Troy’s family home in Hertfordshire. Apart from the occasional crackle the line was clear enough, and Rod heard Troy out in silence.

  ‘Right, Freddie. Let me get this straight,’ were his first words and Troy knew at once that he meant to argue. ‘You want me to get on to the bank, at half-past six of a pitch-black Christmas Eve, dig old McCrimmon out of his club or whatever bolt-hole widowers have on Christmas Eve. Get him to draw out an order for seven hundred and fifty quid, wire this to a bank in Berlin which will then have to open up especially to enable you to pick up the cash, with which you will then bribe a German pilot to fake an emergency landing in England, at which point you will step in with your Bow Street warrant and arrest this bugger you’ve been obsessed with since the war. Now tell me, Freddie, have I got it right – this is in essence what you’re asking me this Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Yes,’ seemed almost inadequate as an answer.

  ‘Have you taken complete leave of your senses?’ Rod exploded. ‘For Christ’s sake, Freddie, it’s Christmas Eve. My children are shaking their presents under the Christmas tree to see if they rattle, your sisters are upstairs swapping frocks and dirty stories, my wife is pouring sherry for everyone, your mother is asking awkward questions about what time you’ll be arriving this year and why is it only you that has no sense of punctuality. What am I to tell her – that you’ve gone barking bloody mad?’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, man. You’re a policeman. You can’
t cook up schemes like this!’

  ‘Rod – please do this. It’s important. You can do this. It’s not a lot to ask.’

  ‘Of course I can do it. The point is I won’t. I won’t dig out McCrimmon at this time of night—’

  ‘Rod – we have millions with that damn bank!’

  ‘That’s not the point. He’s an old man. He has a right to be left in peace. I won’t do this to him and I won’t let you do this to yourself. It’s an obsession – can’t you see that? For Christ’s sake, Freddie, just walk away from it. It’s over. It was over years ago. You can’t go on living your life on some ancient pain.’

  There was a loud clank as Clark flipped open the lid of the stove and threw in another strip of Old Berlin. In the red light of the flames Troy could see Dieter watching him through the darkness, hands supporting his chin, elbows on his desk, meeting his gaze eye to eye. It was obvious that Rod’s harangue had been audible in the room. There was a whispered exchange at the other end and a rattle of Bakelite, and another, deeper, accented, world-weary voice came on the line.

  ‘Freddie – is Nikolai. Come home, my boy, it is over. It is a wise man who knows when to quit.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Yes you can – or this thing will kill you.’

  Troy put the receiver back in its cradle. Dieter was still watching. He sat back and took his chin off his hands.

  ‘It’s Chrismas Eve,’ he said.

  ‘I know. People keep telling me.’

  ‘My wife will be cooking supper soon. I should be home to put my girls to bed. Why don’t you join us? The meat is thin, but the wine is plentiful. Who knows I may turn into a real Prussian and break out the Schnapps.’

  Troy looked at Clark. He was invisible from the waist up, but Troy could hear the turn of pages as he ploughed on through his book.

  ‘Can you get me on a flight out?’ he asked.

  ‘Not tonight I can’t.’

  ‘That’s OK. Tomorrow will be fine.’

  Clark leant down to look at his notebook by the glow of the fire.

  ‘The morning could be tricky. Lots of RAF types going west. Late afternoon’s OK. There’s a charter going right through to England round about six. You wouldn’t have the stopover at Hannover.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Troy said softly, feeling the first wash of resignation flow over him. ‘Six will be fine. Who knows, I may take the tourist trip.’

  ‘Is there somewhere I can drop you gents?’ Clark asked.

  Troy turned to Dieter. ‘Can we walk to your house?’

  ‘Yes. Only a couple of miles.’

  ‘In that case no, Mr Clark. Take the night off. It’s Christmas Eve.’

  Clark rose and stuffed the book in his thigh pocket.

  ‘People keep sayin’ that,’ he said.

  He reached into the depths of his greatcoat and plonked down a small package on the desk in front of Dieter.

  ‘A little something for the missis, sir. What would Christmas dinner be without a glass of brandy and a nice cup of coffee to follow? Mind you, I can’t fix you up with the brandy. Well, gents, I’ll bid you goodnight, and I’ll see you at Gatow tomorrow, Mr Troy.’

  He left. The lights flickered on for a second or two, then the power surged, the bulbs popped and they were in darkness once more. It seemed to Troy to be an apt symbol of his life for the last week or more.

  95

  Gently, Dieter warned Troy that he would prefer not to talk shop when they got home. He liked a life apart from his work. Troy could not imagine what such a life might be like. He had lived so long in one world alone.

  Dieter swept two small girls into his arms as they stormed him at the threshold. He told them to say hello and goodnight to Mr Troy, and bundled them upstairs to bed.

  Frau Franck – Cosima – was small and blonde and talkative, -as quick in English as her husband. She took his coat, offered him a glass of Hock and sat him down in the narrow, high living room, festooned with home-made decorations, down to a home-made tree sitting by the window. Dieter had cobbled it together from more bits of Old Berlin, slapped on the branches at right angles to the main stem, and given it a lick of green paint. It looked like Christmas with Marcel Duchamp. Under its branches, gathered around the zinc bucket in which it stood, were dozens of brightly wrapped presents. Troy remembered how neatly Rod had used the idea of Christmas to get him to come home.

  When the children had been read to and persuaded against nature that they should sleep, Dieter came down and he and Troy and Cosima shared ten ounces of pork that otherwise might have better fed two. The wine was plentiful. Rather than Schnapps, Dieter found two inches of pre-war Armagnac that had somehow escaped British bombs and Russian infantry.

  Dieter was different in his different world. He chatted in a lowkey manner. The tendency to make a thesis of everything seemed to have been brushed off on the doorstep. He had a talent for small talk. He was constantly affectionate towards his wife. He covered her hand with his frequently. Pressing it rather than holding it. An habitual gesture – a reassuring conjugality. Cosima had passed the entire war in Berlin. She had seen the world turned upside down, dissolved into dust and all but blown away. Troy watched the nuances in their gestures as he listened to this tale of hell. He had seen nothing like it, he thought, since the death of Ethel Bonham. Even though the constant touching, and the way Cosima would gently biff his shoulder with her head like a young cat, was remote from the spare intimacy of the Bonhams, the image – the metaphor – stood. They fitted each other like gloves. It was startlingly natural. It had beauty, containment, safety, peace and pleasure. It occurred to him that this was a way of life he had rejected, or that had somehow passed him by, and at thirty-three was unlikely in the extreme to be offered him. And he didn’t miss it one jot.

  Midnight struck. What church bells remained in church belfries rang out. Troy felt he should be going. Felt he should leave them to an intimacy that was fascinating to watch, but in which he had no place.

  ‘Let me call you a cab,’ said Dieter.

  ‘I’d rather walk,’ said Troy.

  ‘It’s two miles!’

  ‘All the better,’ said Troy. ‘I need the air.’

  He thanked Dieter for all he had done and set off along the empty streets back to the Kurfürstendamm. He wondered if the not unpleasant feeling that spread softly within him was relief and freedom from the impossible pursuit – or just Hock and Armagnac. It’s over, he told himself. It’s over.

  It was, Troy thought, remarkable how far he had strayed. His frustration with Dieter had given place to something approaching gratitude that he had stood firm and honest at a point when Troy was ready to break any rule, bend any law. It was snowing gently, flakes the size of half-crowns billowing down around him, a white night magic in the small hours of Christmas Day. All the world was white. Somewhere in the gathering snow behind him he heard a squelch – a wet footstep – and turned to look, then all the world was green. Green of a rather pleasing shade, the old Victorian green of a good billiard table. His father had had one in just this shade.

  96

  Troy lay in a fitful half sleep on the long, peeling white verandah of his father’s Hertfordshire house. He had no idea why he was there. It seemed years since he had lain like this, yet he was unmistakably conscious that he was in some stage of the slow convalescence from one of the many childhood illnesses that had dogged him throughout those years. He was warmly wrapped, almost to the neck, cushioned and propped against the head of an old oak and iron porter’s trolley, like a piece of baggage awaiting collection. The sun shone in the west. Down the garden, off towards the end of a lawn that covered more than an acre he could see the large stooping figure of his paternal grandfather, Rodyon Rodyonovich. Well into his seventies, still the Slavophile, a simple-life disciple and friend of the late Count Tolstoy, he was dressed in the manner of a Russian peasant and swung the heavy scythe against the long grass of the unkempt lawn in the fond pretence
that it was good Russian wheat.

  Troy’s father had bought this house in the late summer of 1910, for no other reason than that the long, south-facing verandah struck him as being faintly like home. Laughingly, he called the crumbling Georgian pile his dacha. When one of the natives shrewdly observed that there was no higher ground between this small village in the English Home Counties and the mountains of the Urals, his father’s attachment to the place became complete. ‘There is nothing,’ he would say, biting back near hysterics, ‘there is nothing between me and Moscow!’

  In the November of the same year Tolstoy had died a peasant’s death in a railway hut at Astapovo, attended only by his family, his followers, the Bishop of Tula and the world’s press. Rodyon Rodyonovich knew it was time to leave. Only the old man’s world status had kept the secret police at bay. Without him there was no future in Russia for a Tolstoyan. Before Christmas he was in Hertfordshire, where he lived out the rest of his life, dressing in the coarse linen costume of the peasant, refusing to learn a word of English, writing long letters to The Times (which his daughter-in-law had to translate on his behalf ), preoccupying his grandchildren with tales of the old country and the peaceful revolution, and quaffing vast quantities of claret.

  The old man had dropped his scythe and lumbered closer. His huge hands rested on the verandah railing – Troy could count the hairs on the backs of his fingers – and he leaned his bear-like face down towards his grandson.

  ‘Are you awake?’ he asked in Russian. He looked off somewhere over Troy’s right shoulder. ‘I don’t think he’s awake yet.’

  Troy struggled to open his eyes and realised he was blindfolded. There was the distant sound of dripping water and the smell of mould and decay.

  ‘Take it off,’ said a woman’s voice in Russian.