‘As you can probably gather, Rory, Hans is a busy boy. Special favours for the English. Very special favours if you happen to be Scots. Do I hear that right, Liebling?’
‘Always.’ Hans nodded towards a door beyond the tiny crescent of the bar, hung with fake-looking gemstones. ‘Now? Or later?’
Tam shook his head. He said he was with Seymour. He didn’t want jealousy to wreck a perfect evening.
‘This man? Seymour? Jealous?’ Hans was rocking with laughter. ‘To be jealous you have to be human. Seymour’s a machine. He eats people alive. Small extra charge but – hey – what’s money for?’
Kreisky pulled Tam away. Bad company, he said. Bad, bad boy. They went to a booth beyond the dance floor, picking their way between couples moving slowly to a couple of jazz musicians on the raised stage. One after another, they each broke off to drape a languid hand over Kreisky and ask about his new friend. Nice and tall, one of them said. Interesting, purred another. Godlike, a third.
‘Sure. And speaks better German than you guys. I like a man with a tongue in his mouth.’
From the booth, Kreisky summoned the waiter and ordered French champagne. He wanted to know more about Tam.
‘You’re in the military, a build like that. Lean. Mean. Spot guys like you a mile off.’
‘You’re right.’ Tam went along with the fiction.
‘Army?’
‘Royal Marines.’
‘On attachment?’
‘On holiday. I have a sister who used to work in Berlin. She’s the one who told me about this place.’
‘That was nice of her. How come she knew about it?’
‘Her ex-husband. He went missing for a day or two. The last place she looked was here, by which time it was too late. He was besotted with a young Italian guy. Luigi offered to sleep with them both but she’d only do it with him.’
‘And?’
‘The husband divorced her. She lives in Naples now with the handsome Luigi. Loves it.’
Kreisky had a mask on a stick. He dropped it briefly. His face wasn’t built for smiling but he was doing his best.
‘That was a very good story,’ he said. ‘Tell me you didn’t make it up.’
‘Of course I made it up.’
‘A soldier with a sense of humour. Exciting. Did you make that up, too?’
‘What?’
‘About being a soldier?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Life’s a game, Seymour. Behind the mask we could be anyone.’
The champagne arrived. The waiter, a young Moroccan, popped the cork and blew Kreisky a kiss. Kreisky ignored him.
‘Prosit,’ he lifted his glass. ‘I’ve got a place down the road or there’s a park I know. Me, I’d prefer the great outdoors but I’m not a greedy man. Your call, my friend, not mine.’
*
It was dark by the time they left the club. Tam was lightly drunk. He let Kreisky link arms and they pursued their shadows down the pavement towards the main road. Back in the booth, over a second bottle of champagne, Tam had gently led the conversation to Czechoslovakia. When he said he’d never been to the place, Kreisky had advised him to not to leave it too late. Beautiful women, boys with a playful sense of humour, and some fine cuisine if you knew where to lay hands on it. Cross the border tomorrow, he said, and you’ll have the week of your life. Leave it until October and the show will be over.
‘You know that?’
‘I do, my friend. Always trust an American. We travel often and we travel well and we always have an eye for a bargain. In Czech-land the low-hanging fruit is unbelievable. And I’m not just talking about the boys.’
‘You’re a businessman? You do business there?’
‘I do. Did. It’s over now but it was fun.’
It’s over now but it was fun.
At the main road, they paused for a moment at the kerbside. The beckoning darkness of the park seemed to stretch for ever and when Kreisky’s hand found his, Tam fought the urge to bring this charade to an early end. Renata, he thought. Renata at ease amongst her own people. Renata with Edvard. Renata leaving the bar in Prague and making her way back to the Sudetenland to try and find her lover. Renata curled in the boot of the Opel, her mouth gagged, her bowels exploding. It was Kreisky who’d put her in harm’s way, Kreisky who’d manipulated the sale of the mine, Kreisky who’d traded a life for a fatter share of the profits. Since flying out of Prague, Tam had been waiting for an opportunity to hold this man to account. And now, on a warm evening in a quiet Berlin suburb, here it was.
Wait. Be patient.
They crossed the road. A hundred metres took them to the entrance of the park. Kreisky had drunk most of the last bottle of champagne. He held his drink well but he’d begun to lower his guard. If Tam had a day or two to spare, if his sister could bear to part with him, there might be a way he could show Tam places in Prague, in Brno, even in goddam Karlovy Vary, he’d never forget.
‘You’d like that? You’d like to come along with me? Take in some sights? Meet one or two people? Have a fine time?’ He pulled Tam to a halt. They were deep in the park now, the lamp posts along the path shedding a soft, yellow light. Kreisky was gazing up at him, his eyes moist. ‘You know something else? That mask of yours was just great. But the real thing? Even better. Kiss me…’
His hands reached up for Tam’s face. Tam shook his head.
‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Over there.’
He led Kreisky away from the path and on to the grass. As far as Tam could judge, the park was empty. Cloaked in darkness, he brought Kreisky to a halt. Nearby he could make out what looked like an ornamental pond, surrounded by a tumble of rocks. Back on the road, hundreds of metres away, a truck rumbled past.
Finally Tam stopped. Kreisky began to fumble with the waistband of his trousers, then swore as his fingers snagged on the buttons of his fly.
‘On your knees,’ Tam said.
Something in Tam’s voice, a new note, brought Kreisky’s head up.
‘That’s my line,’ he said.
‘Just do it.’
‘Me first, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Kreisky nodded, uncertain. Then he reached for Tam’s fly. ‘OK, buddy. I guess this round’s on me.’
‘My pleasure.’
Tam’s knee caught him under the chin. Kreisky’s head jerked back and his mouth opened as he fought for air. His hands clutched at nothing, flailing in the darkness. He tried to scream but could manage nothing but a thin wheeze. Prone on the grass, he stared up at Tam. At last he managed to swallow a little of the pain.
‘Shit,’ he managed. ‘You guys like it rough.’
Tam straddled his chest and drove his fist as hard as he could into the very middle of his face. First one fist, then the other. Then again. And again. The remains of Kreisky’s nose was pumping blood.
Tam stopped. Waited. Kreisky was moaning, barely conscious. Finally his eyes fluttered open.
‘You’re going to kill me?’
‘Not yet.’
Kreisky stared up at him, trying to make sense of the answer, of this abrupt shift in his fortunes, trying to understand. Then his hand went to his face, mopping at the blood.
‘What does it take?’ he whispered through his broken teeth. ‘A thousand? Two thousand? We’re talking US here. Dollars. Ten thousand?’
‘Tell me about Edvard. Edvard Kovač.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘A woman called Renata?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Little town called Jáchymov? The Hotel Kavalerie?’
Silence this time. Tam asked the question again. Kreisky was terrified now and it showed in his eyes.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘I never went there.’
‘You’re lying. You were at the hotel. You met Kovač. And afterwards there was Renata, too.’
‘Never.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve never set foot in the Sudetenland.’
‘Then how
do you know about Karlovy Vary?’
‘Rumour. Hearsay. Call it a guess. Call it any fucking thing you like. I’m a businessman. I make an honest living. People rely on me. Sure, I earn good money but why the hell shouldn’t I?’ He paused for breath. He’d begun to hyperventilate. Finally, he was back in control of himself. ‘Twenty-five thousand and we’ll call it quits. How does that sound?’
‘You had the woman killed. Either that or you shot her yourself.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘And probably Kovač, too. For what? For money. You know what that woman must have suffered before she died? Have you any idea?’
Kreisky shook his head. He was whimpering now, small animal noises that seemed to lodge in his throat. Tam told him to turn over.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
‘You’re gonna kill me?’
‘Turn over.’
When nothing happened, Tam hauled him to his feet then pushed him roughly to his knees, facing out towards the darkness. Then he made a gun from his two fingers and put them behind Kreisky’s ear, very light, very gentle, just tickling the hairs on the nape of his neck. ‘This is a gun. It happens to be a Czech gun. I don’t suppose you even knew her name, did you?’
Kreisky shook his head. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.’
Tam was staring down at him.
‘All I want is the truth,’ he said. ‘About Renata.’
‘And you won’t kill me?’
‘I won’t shoot you.’
‘She was there. You’re right. I met her. The rest I don’t know about. You’re telling me she’s dead? I never knew that. On my word, I never knew that.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘God help me, I’m not.’
Tam heard a dog in the distance. He looked round. There was a figure on the path, close to one of the lamp posts. From a distance it looked like a woman. She had a dog on a lead. The dog had started to bark and she was peering into the darkness in Tam’s direction.
Tam froze. Then he put Kreisky in a chokehold, settled one knee in the small of his back, tensed for a moment and then jerked hard. The body beneath him went suddenly limp. Tam thought his neck was broken but he couldn’t be sure. His hands were covered in blood.
Tam got to his feet, grunting with the effort. The woman on the path had spotted movement in the darkness. The dog was off the lead, bounding across the grass. Tam took a final look at Kreisky, then stirred his body with his foot. Was he dead? He didn’t know. The dog had arrived, some kind of terrier. It was panting with excitement. Tam was good with dogs. He knelt beside it, fondling it, gentling it as the animal licked the blood from his hands. With luck, he thought, it might eat what was left of Kreisky’s face.
Tam looked up for a moment, checking to make sure the woman was still on the path. Then he headed deeper into the darkness of the park. After a while he found a stream and knelt beside it and did his best to clean himself. The water was colder than he expected and he splashed it on his face, watching the tiny figures in the far distance, silhouetted against the street lamps. Torch beams told him that the police must have arrived in force. He watched them for a moment and then he spotted a footbridge that led across the stream. On the far side of the park was an unlocked gate beside another main road. Minutes later he’d found a public phone. He’d committed Bella’s number to memory.
‘Who is this, please?’
‘It’s me. Tam.’ He read her the location of the phone from the placard in the box. ‘I need a little help.’
She was there within half an hour, driving – of all cars – an Opel. Tam had been hiding in a recess beside a garage. He hurried across the pavement and ducked into the car. Bella saw the blood at once, thinly diluted by the water.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’
‘No.’
‘What happened?’
‘Just drive. Please.’
She put the car in gear and headed back into the city. Twice they passed police cars speeding out towards the park.
‘I’m afraid I can’t go back to the hotel. Not like this.’
‘You’re right. Come back to my place. But be careful what you say.’
‘Why?’
‘Listening ears. We need another story. You’ve been out late. You’re drunk. I’ve brought you home. You lucky, lucky man.’
Tam spared her a glance. He could still picture Kreisky kneeling on the damp grass, still feel his neck pinioned in the angle of Tam’s arm, still remember the moment his body went limp.
‘I think I killed a man tonight,’ he said softly. ‘I think that’s something you should know.’
‘Was it Kreisky?’
‘Yes.’
‘That could be a problem.’ She might have been smiling. ‘But nothing we can’t resolve.’
Part Three
20
POTSDAM, BERLIN, 31 AUGUST 1938
It was still dark when Dieter jerked awake. Someone was hammering at the door downstairs. He rolled over, feeling for Keiko. She was still asleep, her mouth barely open, her face a mask.
Dieter got out of bed, reaching for Keiko’s dressing gown. He could hear shouting now, two voices, both male.
‘Merz!’ one yelled. ‘Raus!’
Downstairs, the stone floor of the old stable was cold underfoot. Thieves, Dieter told himself, were masters of silence. These people weren’t thieves.
He opened the door. Not two men but three, all uniformed, all Gestapo. The leader pushed past him without a word, then gestured for the others to follow. Dieter half-turned, the door still open behind him, aware of the thunder of boots on the wooden staircase.
He could hear Keiko now. She was calling his name. Then came the slap of flesh on flesh and she began to scream.
Dieter was already halfway up the stairs. The tiny passage to the bedroom was blocked by one of the men. Dieter tried to push past, glimpsing Keiko. The leader had pinned her against the bedroom wall, naked, while the other man tore a blanket off the bed. Seconds later, they wrapped her in the blanket and hustled her towards the door.
Dieter tried to fight but it was hopeless. He landed a couple of blows on the third policeman but found himself looking at a Luger automatic. The leader had wrestled Keiko past and was heading for the stairs.
‘If Merz is trouble,’ he yelled over his shoulder, ‘shoot the little bastard.’
Dieter demanded to know what was going on. Where was the paperwork? On whose authority had these people even arrived?
‘Ask your poxy friend Ribbentrop.’ It was the leader again. ‘Heil Hitler!’
The two policemen left the house with Keiko. Moments later, Dieter heard the cough of an engine and a grinding of gears as the car nosed away. Dieter was still facing the gun. The remaining policeman gestured towards the bedroom and told him to get changed. Something warm. Something suitable.
‘Suitable for what?’
‘More visitors,’ the man was close to apologetic. ‘They’re on their way, I’m afraid.’
They arrived within minutes in a black van. There were four of them, all in plain clothes. Dieter sat downstairs in the tiny kitchen, still facing the policeman with the gun while they tore the house apart. Not a word of explanation or apology, just a grim-faced determination not to leave a single object intact. Cupboards were emptied, drawers ransacked, Keiko’s personal bag, in scarlet and yellow silks, seized and carried out into the darkness. Upstairs, the floor joists trembled as the bed was upended and subject to detailed inspection. One of the search party descended with something black and metallic in his hand, festooned with tape. He put it on the kitchen table in front of Dieter.
‘It’s a listening device,’ he announced. ‘Yours?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then whose?’
‘I’ve no idea. I thought you people knew everything. Where’s my girl gone? What’s all this about?’
The searcher shook his head. These weren’t que
stions for him. He was simply here to do his job. And now it was over. He led his men back to the van without a backward glance at the chaos he’d left behind. Shortly afterwards, the policeman holstered his Luger, bade Dieter a solemn farewell and stepped into the thin light of dawn. He must have arrived on two wheels because Dieter heard the roar of a powerful motorbike before silence descended once again.
An hour, he thought. Maybe less. An hour for your entire life to be demolished in the hands of strangers. Who had sent these animals? And why? Dieter shook his head, mounting the stairs, approaching the open bedroom door, viewing the wreckage inside. A book of haiku he recognised as a treasure of Keiko’s had been destroyed, the pages ripped from the binding. A favourite print from Nagasaki, mounted and framed, had been smashed to pieces, and beside it, torn to shreds, lay a clutch of souvenir photos he’d brought back from Japan.
Dieter stared down at the remains of the life he’d shared with Keiko. This was wanton, violence for the sake of violence, a shove in the chest writ large. He felt utterly helpless, but angry, too. This is the way it must happen to the Sol Fiedlers of this world, he told himself. No logic. No apology. No hint of explanation. Just the glorious certainty that other people – their possessions, their loved ones, their very lives – were there for the taking.
He wondered about the time. He always slept with his watch under his pillow. It was a special watch, a Stowa Marine based on an old naval pocket watch, and it had been a presentation trophy from the happy days in Northern Spain. It marked his twenty-fifth kill in the war against the Reds. He began to lift sheets and blankets and the splintered remains of the wooden bedframe until finally he found it, the case stamped on and wrecked, the broken hands frozen at 04.17.
*
Georg was preparing breakfast for Beata when Dieter arrived. They were still living in the house by the lake while Georg tried to find a place of their own. Dieter knocked on the door and then walked in. He could hear Beata upstairs in the bathroom. She was singing.
Georg turned round to find Dieter behind him. Georg swam every morning in the lake. He’d wound a towel around his midriff and his hair was still plastered to his scalp.
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