The Boy from Berlin

by Michael Parker

  He turned back and studied the bed, wondering if the old man kept his most precious belongings with him. He walked up to the side of the bed and crouched down, sliding his arm beneath the bed frame. His hand struck a square object which he pulled towards him. For a moment he thought he had struck gold. But when he opened the box, he could only see a few letters and some old postcards. He ignored these and pushed the box back beneath the bed.

  And that’s when he noticed that Weber wasn’t breathing.

  He straightened and looked at the white face and the bullet hole drilled neatly into the forehead. Weber’s pillow was covered in blood.

  Demski stood up and switched the torch off. He had seen many bloody corpses in his time; often the result of a gangland killing. What he was looking at now was an execution.

  He thought of the nurse and turned towards the open door. He automatically cast his eyes up towards the ceiling and sensed that what he would find up there would not be pretty.

  Without too much caution, Demski scaled the stairs two at a time and pushed open the first door he came to. Lying on the bed was the nurse. She had been shot through the head.

  In that moment, Demski knew what had happened. And he knew now what was going to happen if he didn’t hurry. He wasted no time in thinking about being able to search the house uninterrupted, but ran back downstairs and went into the front room. He bent down beside the bed and pulled Weber’s box out. Then he emptied the few bits that were in there into his hands and rammed them into his jacket pocket.

  He fled from the house and ran back through the town to the hotel. He ignored the night porter’s stare and hurried up to Haman’s room. It took a while to rouse the German from his slumber, but when he finally made it to the door and opened it, Demski pushed past him.

  ‘Weber and his nurse are dead, Gunter,’ he said breathlessly. ‘And we’ll be next. Get your gear. We’re leaving.’

  Haman started to protest but Demski shut him up. ‘Five minutes, no more, or we’re dead. Do it now, Gunter!’

  He left the German standing there in his underwear, speechless. But five minutes later the two men were in the Mercedes hire car and heading fast towards the Austrian border and God knows where.

  The city of Innsbruck was waking up to a fresh, sunny day with the early morning dew vanishing as quickly as a misty breath. The noise of the rush hour filled the streets, and people hurried by, their minds fixed on journey’s end, or the day’s diary. The trams stopped and deposited passengers into the busy street, filled up and moved on again. Early street vendors plied their trade into the waiting arms of those who wished to buy their wares, while cafés welcomed them into the relative calm of a coffee laden atmosphere. Sitting in one of the cafés that dotted the pavements near the railway station were Demski and Haman.

  Their car was parked at the station and they had crossed the street to find an unobtrusive café where they could talk in relative safety. The drive from Arsdorf had been mostly silent as Haman let the full impact of Weber’s death sink in. Demski’s strident voice had lanced his brain like a knife at the hotel, and it was several minutes after fleeing the small town before the danger they were in began to have an effect on his sanity.

  Haman had come up with many questions, but Demski had shut him up because he needed time to think. He sensed that the German was close to breaking point because the poor man had never been in such a terrifying position before. It was the stuff of high drama he was used to seeing at the cinema; not experiencing it in real life. Demski had taken over the drive and hurried through the early morning light through the hills and eventually into Austria.

  Haman pushed a plate of half eaten meat and cheese away, his appetite lost. He rolled his empty coffee cup between his thumb and finger and glanced inquiringly at Demski.

  ‘What now?’ he asked simply.

  ‘What now? We split up; it’s all we can do.’

  Haman’s complexion and pallor was lifeless. The fear that had visited itself upon the man was now clearly evident in his demeanour.

  ‘Why?’

  Demski sighed deeply. ‘They’re after the two of us, Gunter. By going our separate ways, we stand a better chance.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why they are after us. What have we done?’

  It was naïve to say the least, but Demski could understand why he had asked the question. ‘Our crime, from their point of view, was speaking to Weber.’

  Haman leaned forward. ‘But that’s insane. What’s the harm in talking to an old man about the war?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Demski admitted. ‘But whatever it is, it was important enough to murder two people.’

  ‘But what did we do?’ Haman persisted. ‘We didn’t steal anything. We didn’t hurt anyone.’

  Demski jabbed a finger at him. ‘Just stop there, Gunter.’ He shifted in his chair, moving a little closer. ‘Whatever it was we did or didn’t do, it was enough. We didn’t know which way our inquiry was going to take us, but wherever it might have been, someone doesn’t want us to find out.’

  ‘But who are these people? What right have they to do this?’

  ‘Who are they?’ Demski frowned as he posed the question. ‘They’re Nazis, Gunter. And they don’t need to have a “right”, as you put it, to do anything; they do what they want.’

  Haman’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘They have no right,’ he spat out. ‘Why should they pick on an old man and his nurse? And why should they want to kill me? I haven’t done anything.’

  Demski regarded him with a look of pity. ‘Neither did six million Jews.’

  That stopped Haman in his tracks. It was like a blow to the face. He knew what Demski meant. The Jews hadn’t done anything either, except be Jewish. So what right did his countrymen have in deciding to erase an entire nation just because they didn’t approve of them, or had some twisted idea that the Jews were the cause of all their problems.

  ‘Die Spinne,’ he said eventually as it dawned on him who was behind the murders.

  Demski nodded. ‘Exactly. The Nazi thugs are alive and well, and they’re hiding something important. Important enough to kill.’

  Haman stared into his empty cup as though he might find an answer there.

  ‘How did they find out we had spoken to Herr Weber?’

  Demski thought the question was naïve. ‘His nurse must have reported our visit. Poor woman signed her own death warrant.’

  ‘So what can we do?’

  Demski reflected for a while. ‘Split up,’ he said eventually. ‘You go home to your wife. Take her away for a while; just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll stay in Europe, carry on looking. If I leave a trail, they’ll come after me, leave you alone.’

  Haman shook his head vigorously. ‘No way! Absolutely not! We shall go to the police.’

  Demski reached across the table and grabbed his arm. ‘And announce to those Nazi bastards where we are? Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘But if you leave a trail, won’t you be announcing your whereabouts to them?’

  Demski relaxed and took his hand from Haman’s arm. ‘I can look after myself, Gunter. I can deal with these people. I’m used to watching my back, believe me.’

  Haman gave it some thought. ‘What about the car? Should I take that, or do you want it?’

  Demski shook his head. ‘No. Phone the hire company, report it stolen. Leave it at the station and get the train home. You got enough cash for a train ticket?’

  Haman took his wallet from his jacket pocket and flicked through the notes. ‘I may have enough.’ He shoved the wallet back into his pocket. ‘I can use my card,’ he said.

  Demski shook his head and took his own wallet out of his pocket. He peeled off some notes and handed them to Haman.

  ‘Take this. Might not be a good idea to use a card; it will announce your presence.’

  ‘What about you?’ Haman asked, genuinely concerned.

  Demski smile
d. ‘I can manage, Gunter. I promise.’

  ‘So what will you do now?’

  Demski decided not to tell him, working on the old saying about the least said the better.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me; I’ll be fine. Now, go.’

  Haman stood up and took a card from his wallet. ‘You will let me know when you get back to America, won’t you?’ He put the wallet back in his pocket and shook Demski’s hand.

  Demski nodded. ‘Sure thing; as soon as I’m back.’

  Haman let his hand go and sighed deeply, shaking his head. ‘Good luck.’

  He walked away from the table without looking back. Demski watched him go until he was no longer in sight. He then got up and walked across to the counter and paid the bill. He had no idea then where he would go, but before he made up his mind, Demski had to make a phone call.

  NINE

  ‘WHEN DO YOU think it all began to go wrong?’ the young writer asked. Babs was tired now. All the memories, the hurt and the fear seemed to drain her. But she knew she had to continue.

  ‘It was the night of the banquet. I didn’t know what Bill had seen at first. If I had, he wouldn’t have left the banquet alive.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t believe I almost came to hate him that night.’ She looked sharply at the young writer. ‘Not for myself but for Gus. But then I came to hate Gus!’

  ‘Love is a strong emotion, but so is hate. We all know how easy it is to switch feelings.’

  Babs studied the backs of her hands. They were lined and wrinkled; the hands of an old woman. But she wasn’t old. Not yet.

  ‘I had a feeling Bill knew something that could give the organization a real problem.’ She looked up. ‘Trouble was I didn’t know that and I had to find out.’

  ‘Why you?’

  Babs managed a smile. ‘I was the only one who could get close to him.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing at first. I thought it might be better to let Gus handle it.’ She sat up and leaned back, stretching her shoulder muscles. ‘But Demski was our biggest problem, and I thought the organization was handling that too.’ She laughed. ‘We underestimated him. And I think we overestimated ourselves.’

  Oakwood Park Country Estate in the New Jersey countryside was a throwback to the days when America had thrown off the yoke of British rule and replaced the empire builders with its own men of vision and strength. Elegant in its heyday and dripping with power, it had now lost the charisma that had once fortified its mystical eloquence, but its tired facade hid a more sinister truth.

  General Mort Tyler, its owner and custodian of values that were no longer part of modern America, was playing host to some formidable people in the world of global economics. Added to Mort Tyler’s guest list were men who played a key role in the American judiciary and in the industrial heartlands of this great country.

  None of the men who attended Mort Tyler’s splendid banquet would have missed it for the world. It wasn’t because the man was popular, but because of the date. It was 20 April, Adolf Hitler’s birthday.

  The only members of the press who attended were those whose affiliation and affection to the cause was indisputable. Other branches of the media were excluded, and any member of the paparazzi who tried, foolishly, to gain access was dealt with summarily.

  Mort Tyler coveted his role in the organization and moved heaven and earth to ensure the absolute privacy of all those attending. He was helped in this endeavour by having Chief of Police John Holder in his pocket. Four years earlier, Holder had been captain of detectives at the 7th Precinct in Newark. His accelerated promotion had been helped by the organization’s control on the levers of power in New York State, and it was under Holder’s authority that the police cordon around the huge estate was operating.

  One other guest at the function, and another reason the big hitters had assembled, was Gus Mason. They were there to honour Mason’s meteoric rise in the world of politics, and the fact that he was about to be chosen as the Republican candidate for the office of President of the United States of America.

  With Gus was his father, Bill Mason, something of a reluctant guest, but his son had been very persuasive, pointing out that only as a family could he show the strength that could be found in a trusted, family unit. Babs was there too, her looks and glamour a massive attraction to many of the priapic men who harboured hopes of a liaison but knew their hopes were, in reality, a lost cause.

  After the meal, the speeches and demanding shouts of, ‘Give us Gus!’, it was the turn of Gus Mason to rise and give the speech of his life to those people who would do anything to lift him to the highest pinnacle of the American dream.

  Bill Mason listened to his son’s speech, at first with a moderate approval. He found it strident in places and contrived, sometimes disconcerting, but he realized it would be music to the ears of those who were assembled in the eloquent banqueting hall. Those seated at the top table looked on with smug satisfaction. The longer his son’s speech went on, the more worried Bill Mason became. There was an element of rebellion in the lines, a hint of anti-Americanism, although these men were all hardcore Yanks; old school empire builders. There was also a subtle hint of totalitarianism which Bill Mason found worrying, and wondered if he was the only one in the hall who saw something sinister in all this.

  When Gus Mason sat down, the glad-handing began. First, Judge Henry Lawrence shook his hand vigorously, followed by Mort Tyler. Babs Mason looked on as all the power brokers clamoured to rub shoulders with the man who they believed would be the next president. If there was stardust to fall from his shoulders, they wanted a sprinkling. After all, they were funding the campaign and would almost certainly expect it to pay dividends. But how? Babs found it a little disconcerting.

  Bill Mason got up from the table and took his unfinished drink with him. He had no idea what he wanted to do just then, but felt the need to stretch his legs. So he wandered around, nodding at the few faces he recognized in the room. He noticed too, that some of the top table diners were making their way to a door at the far end of the room. It looked to him as though it was being done discreetly; as though they didn’t want to appear rude to the guests in the room. He couldn’t see Gus.

  His curiosity began to surface and he started making tracks towards the door when someone touched his arm. It was Babs. He raised his eyebrows in delight because they had hardly been able to exchange two words since the beginning of the evening.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’

  Babs smiled. ‘I’m fine. What did you think of the speech?’

  ‘Do I have to answer that, Babs? Do I really?’

  She stood in front of him. ‘I take it you didn’t approve?’

  ‘I imagine that the majority of Americans wouldn’t approve either.’

  The smile left her face. ‘Gus needs you on his side, Bill.’

  ‘Gus?’ He pointed around the hall. ‘Don’t you mean everyone here, or is it just those on the top table?’ He lifted the glass to his lips. As he sipped the amber liquid, he couldn’t take his eyes of Babs. She was gorgeous; a catch for any man. He knew the American public already loved her and that admiration was growing. ‘They’re the ones backing him, aren’t they?’

  She turned, looking in the direction of the top table. ‘They’re powerful men, Bill,’ she said over her shoulder. She swivelled. ‘And you can be part of it.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll bail out this time if you don’t mind, Babs.’ He lowered his head a little. ‘I’ll catch up with you later?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but began to walk away from her.

  Babs grabbed his arm. ‘Bill, why don’t we get a few minutes alone?’

  He gave her a puzzled look, not quite sure what her intentions were. His expression softened and he stepped a little closer to her. ‘Here?’ His eyebrows arched and he glanced upwards. When she nodded he felt a reaction gathering in his loins. ‘Where?’

  ‘We can use my room. Give me ten minutes.’

  ‘I don’
t know where your room is,’ he told her.

  Babs smiled. ‘That’s not like you, Bill.’ She reached forward and brushed his cheek lightly with her lips. Her perfume wrapped itself around him. ‘Just go up to the first floor. I’ll find you.’

  He gave her hand a squeeze as he pulled away. ‘Ten minutes?’ Babs nodded and he walked away.

  She watched him go, knowing there was something he was holding back, and she needed to find out what it was. And find out soon.

  Mason wandered off. He had been bored and with that came curiosity. He made his way towards the opposite end of the room and went through an open door. He found himself in a fairly large hallway with stairs leading to the upper floor. There were a few people there talking, but none of them took any notice of him. He put his glass down on a convenient table and walked up the stairs as though he had every right to be doing so. At the top he took a right turn and stood for a while to get his bearings, wondering where he should be so that Babs could find him.

  A corridor with windows overlooking the large acreage at the rear of the house led away from where he was standing. He ambled along it expecting it would take him somewhere above the end of the banqueting hall. He listened carefully for any sounds that might tell him where his son had gone with the others who had left the top table, not wanting to come across any of them before he had finished his liaison with Babs. It was still fairly quiet, but he soon heard the muffled sounds of men’s voices. There was laughter too and in the air was the distinct fragrance of cigar smoke.

  Getting closer to where he believed the men were, Mason stopped and wondered what to do. Whatever Judge Lawrence and the others who had filed out of the room with Gus and Mort Tyler were up to, it was probably none of his business. He thought about a plausible reason for being up there, but could not come up with one. Being nosey was hardly an excuse and he certainly couldn’t tell them the real reason.