by Ken Follett
It had started.
Macke asked him: ‘Where are we headed?’
‘Kreuzberg.’ It was a densely populated low-rent neighbourhood south of the city centre.
As they pulled away, the air raid siren sounded.
That was an unwelcome complication. Macke looked out of the window. The searchlights came on, waving like giant wands. Macke supposed they must find planes sometimes, but he had never seen it happen. When the sirens ceased their howling, he could hear the thunder of approaching bombers. In the early years of the war, a British bombing mission had consisted of a few dozen aircraft – which was bad enough – but now they were sending hundreds at a time. The noise was terrifying even before they dropped their bombs.
Werner said: ‘I suppose we’d better call off our mission tonight.’
‘Hell, no,’ said Macke.
The roar of the planes grew.
Flares and small incendiary bombs began to fall as the car approached Kreuzberg. The neighbourhood was a typical target for the RAF’s current strategy of killing as many civilian factory workers as possible. With staggering hypocrisy Churchill and Attlee were claiming they attacked only military targets, and civilian casualties were a regrettable side effect. Berliners knew better.
Wagner drove as fast as he could along streets lit fitfully by flames. There were no people around apart from air raid officials: everyone else was legally obliged to take shelter. The only other vehicles were ambulances, fire engines and police cars.
Macke covertly studied Werner. The boy was edgy, never quite still, staring out of the window anxiously, tapping his foot in unconscious tension.
Macke had not confided his suspicions to anyone but his immediate team. It was going to be difficult for him if he had to admit that he had demonstrated Gestapo operations to someone who he now thought was a spy. He could end up under interrogation in his own basement torture chamber. He was not going to do it until he was sure. The only way he might get away with it would be if at the same time he could present his superiors with a captured spy.
But then, if his suspicion turned out to be true, he would arrest not just Werner but his family and friends, and announce the destruction of a massive spy ring. That would transform the picture. He might even be promoted.
As the raid progressed the type of bombs changed, and Macke heard the profound thudding sound of high explosive. Once the target was illuminated, the RAF liked to drop a mixture of large oil bombs to start fires and high explosive to ventilate the flames and hamper the emergency services. It was cruel, but Macke knew that the Luftwaffe’s bombing pattern was similar.
The sound in Macke’s earphone started up as they drove cautiously along a street of five-storey tenements. The area was taking a terrific pounding and several buildings were newly demolished. Werner said shakily: ‘We’re in the middle of the target area, for Christ’s sake.’
Macke did not care: tonight was already life or death to him. ‘All the better,’ he said. ‘The pianist will imagine he doesn’t need to worry about the Gestapo, in the middle of an air raid.’
Wagner stopped the car next to a burning church and pointed along a side street. ‘Down there,’ he said.
Macke and Werner jumped out.
Macke walked quickly along the street with Werner beside him and Wagner behind. Werner said: ‘Are you sure it’s a spy? Could it be anything else?’
‘Broadcasting a radio signal?’ Macke said. ‘What else could it be?’
Macke could still hear his earphone, but only just, for the air raid was cacophonous: the planes, the bombs, the anti-aircraft guns, the crash of falling buildings and the roar of huge fires.
They passed a stable where horses were neighing in terror, the signal growing ever stronger. Werner was glancing from side to side anxiously. If he was a spy, he would now be afraid that one of his colleagues was about to be arrested by the Gestapo – and wondering what the hell he could do about it. Would he repeat the trick he used last time, or think of some new way of giving a warning? If he was not a spy this whole farce was a waste of time.
Macke took out the earpiece and handed it to Werner. ‘Listen,’ he said, continuing to walk.
Werner nodded. ‘Getting stronger,’ he said. The look in his eyes was almost frantic. He handed the earpiece back.
I believe I’ve got you, Macke thought triumphantly.
There was a thunderous crash as a bomb landed in a building they had just passed. They turned to see flames already licking up beyond the smashed windows of a bakery. Wagner said: ‘Christ, that was close.’
They came to a school, a low brick building in an asphalt yard. ‘In there, I think,’ said Macke.
The three men walked up a short flight of stone steps to the entrance. The door was not locked. They went in.
They were at one end of a broad corridor. At its far end was a large door that probably led to the school hall. ‘Straight ahead,’ said Macke.
He drew his gun, a 9mm Luger pistol.
Werner was not armed.
There was a crash, a thud, and the roar of an explosion, all terrifyingly close. All the windows in the corridor smashed, and shards of glass rained on the tiled floor. A bomb must have landed in the playground.
Werner shouted: ‘Clear out, everyone! The building is about to collapse.’
There was no danger of the building collapsing, Macke could see. This was Werner’s ruse for giving the alarm to the pianist.
Werner broke into a run, but instead of heading back the way they had come he went on down the corridor towards the hall.
To warn his friends, Macke thought.
Wagner drew his gun, but Macke said: ‘No! Don’t shoot!’
Werner reached the end of the corridor and flung open the door to the hall. ‘Run, everyone!’ he yelled. Then he fell silent and stood still.
Inside the hall Macke’s colleague Mann, the electrical engineer, was tapping out nonsense on a suitcase radio.
Beside him stood Schneider and Richter, both holding drawn guns.
Macke smiled triumphantly. Werner had fallen straight into his trap.
Wagner walked forward and put his gun to Werner’s head.
Macke said: ‘You’re under arrest, you subhuman Bolshevik.’
Werner acted fast. He jerked his head away from Wagner’s gun, seized Wagner’s arm, and pulled him into the hall. For a moment Wagner shielded Werner from the guns in the hall. Then he thrust Wagner away from him, causing Wagner to stumble and fall. In the next moment he stepped out of the hall and slammed the door.
For a few seconds it was just Macke and Werner in the corridor.
Werner walked towards Macke.
Macke pointed his Luger. ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Werner came closer. ‘You need to interrogate me, and find out who the others are.’
Macke pointed his gun at Werner’s legs. ‘I can interrogate you with a bullet in your knee,’ he said, and he fired.
The shot missed.
Werner lunged and knocked Macke’s gun hand aside. Macke dropped the weapon. As he stooped to retrieve it, Werner ran past.
Macke picked up the gun.
Werner reached the school door. Macke took careful aim at his legs and fired.
His first three shots missed, and Werner went through the door.
Macke fired one more shot through the still-open door, and Werner cried out and fell down.
Macke ran along the corridor. Behind him, he heard the others coming out of the school hall.
Then the roof opened with a crash, there was another noise like a thud, and liquid fire splashed like a fountain. Macke screamed in terror, then in agony as his clothes caught alight. He fell to the ground, then there was silence, then darkness.
(v)
The doctors were triaging patients in the hospital lobby. Those merely bruised and cut were sent into the out-patients’ waiting area where the most junior nurses cleaned their cuts and consoled them with aspirin
s. The serious cases were given emergency treatment right there in the lobby then sent to specialists upstairs. The dead were taken into the yard and laid on the cold ground until someone claimed them.
Dr Ernst examined a screaming burn victim and prescribed morphine. ‘Then get his clothes off and put some gel on those burns,’ he said, and moved on to the next one.
Carla loaded a syringe while Frieda cut the patient’s blackened clothes away. He had severe burns all down his right side, but the left was not so bad. Carla found an intact patch of skin and flesh on his left thigh. She was about to inject the patient when she looked at his face and froze.
She knew that fat round countenance with the moustache like a dirt mark under the nose. Two years ago he had come into the hall of her house and arrested her father. Next time she saw her father he had been dying. This was Inspector Thomas Macke of the Gestapo.
You killed my father, she thought.
Now I can kill you.
It would be simple. She would give him four times the maximum dose of morphine. No one would notice, especially on a night like tonight. He would fall unconscious immediately and die in a few minutes. A doctor who was almost asleep on his feet would assume his heart had failed. No one would doubt the diagnosis, and no one would ask sceptical questions. He would be one of thousands killed in a massive air raid. Rest in peace.
She knew that Werner feared Macke might be on to him. Any day now Werner could be arrested. Everyone talks under torture. Werner would give away Frieda, and Heinrich, and others – and Carla. She could save them all, now, in a minute.
But she hesitated.
She asked herself why. Macke was a torturer and a killer. He deserved to die a thousand deaths.
Carla had killed Joachim, or at least helped to kill him. But Joachim had been kicking Carla’s mother to death when she hit him over the head with a soup cauldron. This was different.
Macke was a patient.
Carla was not very religious, but she did believe that some things were sacred. She was a nurse, and patients put their trust in her. She knew that Macke would torture and kill her without hesitation – but she was not like Macke, she was not that kind. This was nothing to do with him: it was about her.
If she killed a patient, she felt, she would have to leave the profession and never again dare to care for sick people. She would be like a banker who steals money, or a politician who takes bribes, or a priest who feels up the young girls who come to him for First Communion classes. She would have betrayed herself.
Frieda said: ‘What are you waiting for? I can’t gel him until he calms down.’
Carla stuck the needle in Thomas Macke, and he stopped screaming.
Frieda started to put gel on his burned skin.
‘This one’s only concussed,’ Dr Ernst was saying of another patient. ‘But he’s got a bullet in his backside.’ He raised his voice to talk to the patient. ‘How did you get shot? Bullets are about the only things the RAF isn’t throwing at us tonight.’
Carla turned to look. The patient was lying on his front. His trousers had been cut off, showing his rear. He had white skin and fine, fair hair on the small of his back. He was woozy, but he muttered something.
Ernst said: ‘Policeman’s gun went off by accident, did you say?’
The patient spoke more clearly. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to take the bullet out. It will hurt, but we’re short of morphine, and there are worse cases than you.’
‘Go ahead.’
Carla swabbed the wound. Ernst picked up a long, narrow pair of forceps. ‘Bite the pillow,’ he said.
He inserted the forceps into the wound. A muffled cry of pain came from the patient.
Dr Ernst said: ‘Try not to tense your muscles. It makes it worse.’
Carla thought that was a stupid thing to say. No one could relax their muscles while a wound was being probed.
The patient roared: ‘Ah, shit!’
‘I’ve got it,’ Dr Ernst said. ‘Try to keep still!’
The patient lay still, and Ernst drew the slug out and dropped it into a tray.
Carla wiped the blood from the hole and slapped a dressing on the wound.
The patient rolled over.
‘No,’ Carla said. ‘You must lie on your—’
She stopped. The patient was Werner.
‘Carla?’ he said.
‘It’s me,’ she said happily. ‘Putting a bandage on your bum.’
‘I love you,’ he said.
She threw her arms around him in the most unprofessional way possible and said: ‘Oh, my dearest, I love you, too.’
(vi)
Thomas Macke came around slowly. At first he was in a dreamlike state. Then he became more aware, and realized he was in a hospital and drugged. He knew why, too: his skin hurt intensely, especially down his left side. He was able to figure out that the drugs must be reducing the pain but not completely eliminating it.
Slowly he remembered how he had come here. He had been bombed. He would be dead if he had not been running away from the blast, chasing a fugitive. Those behind him were certainly dead: Mann, Schneider, Richter and young Wagner. His whole team.
But he had caught Werner.
Or had he? He had shot Werner, and Werner had fallen; then the bomb had dropped. Macke had survived, so Werner might have too.
Macke was now the only man living who knew that Werner was a spy. He had to speak to his boss, Superintendent Kringelein. He tried to sit upright, but found he did not have the strength to move. He decided to call a nurse, but when he opened his mouth no sound came out. The effort exhausted him and he went back to sleep.
The next time he awoke, he sensed it was night. The place was quiet, no one moving. He opened his eyes to see a face hovering over him.
It was Werner.
‘You’re leaving here now,’ Werner said.
Macke tried to call for help, but found he could not speak.
‘You’re going to a new place,’ Werner said. ‘You won’t be a torturer any more – in fact, you’ll be the one who gets tortured there.’
Macke opened his mouth to scream.
A pillow descended on his face. It was pressed firmly over his mouth and nose. He found he could not breathe. He tried to struggle, but there was no strength in his limbs. He tried to gasp for air, but there was no air. He started to panic. He managed to move his head from side to side, but the pillow was pressed down more firmly. At last he made a noise, but it was only a whimper in his throat.
The universe became a disc of light that shrank slowly until it was a pinpoint.
Then it went out.
17
1943 (III)
‘Will you marry me?’ said Volodya Peshkov, and held his breath.
‘No,’ said Zoya Vorotsyntsev. ‘But thank you.’
She was remarkably matter-of-fact about everything, but this was unusually brisk even for her.
They were in bed at the lavish Hotel Moskva, and they had just made love. Zoya had come twice. Her preferred type of sex was cunnilingus. She liked to recline on a pile of pillows while he knelt worshipfully between her legs. He was a willing acolyte, and she returned the favour with enthusiasm.
They had been a couple for more than a year, and everything seemed to be going wonderfully well. Her refusal baffled him.
He said: ‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes. I adore you. Thank you for loving me enough to propose marriage.’
That was a bit better. ‘So why won’t you accept?’
‘I don’t want to bring children into a world at war,’ she said.
‘Okay, I can understand that.’
‘Ask me again when we’ve won.’
‘By then I may not want to marry you.’
‘If that’s how inconstant you are, it’s a good thing I refused you today.’
‘Sorry. For a moment, there, I forgot that you don’t understand teasing.’
‘I have to pee.’ She got off the bed and
walked naked across the hotel room. Volodya could hardly believe he was allowed to see this. She had the body of a fashion model or a movie star. Her skin was milk-white and her hair pale blonde – all of it. She sat on the toilet without closing the bathroom door, and he listened to her peeing. Her lack of modesty was a perpetual delight.
He was supposed to be working.
The Moscow intelligence community was thrown into disarray every time Allied leaders visited, and Volodya’s normal routine had been disrupted again for the Foreign Ministers’ Conference that had opened on 18 October.
The visitors were the American Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, and the British Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden. They had a hare-brained scheme for a Four-Power Pact including China. Stalin thought it was all nonsense and did not understand why they were wasting time on it. The American, Hull, was seventy-two years old and coughing blood – his doctor had come to Moscow with him – but he was no less forceful for that, and he was insistent on the pact.
There was so much to do during the conference that the NKVD – the secret police – were forced to co-operate with their hated rivals in Red Army Intelligence, Volodya’s outfit. Microphones had to be concealed in hotel rooms – there was one in here, only Volodya had disconnected it. The visiting ministers and all their aides had to be kept under minute-by-minute surveillance. Their luggage had to be clandestinely opened and searched. Their phone calls had to be tape-recorded and transcribed and translated into Russian and read and summarized. Most of the people they met, including waiters and chambermaids, were NKVD agents, but anyone else they happened to speak to, in the hotel lobby or on the street, had to be checked out, perhaps arrested and imprisoned and interrogated under torture. It was a lot of work.
Volodya was riding high. His spies in Berlin were producing remarkable intelligence. They had given him the battle plan for the Germans’ main summer offensive, Zitadelle, and the Red Army had inflicted a tremendous defeat.
Zoya was happy, too. The Soviet Union had resumed nuclear research, and Zoya was part of the team trying to design a nuclear bomb. They were a long way behind the West, because of the delay caused by Stalin’s scepticism, but in compensation they were getting invaluable help from Communist spies in England and America, including Volodya’s old school friend Willi Frunze.
