A cell at the end of the corridor was empty. The guards pushed Tam inside and locked the door behind him. Still handcuffed, he gazed around. No bed. No chair. No primitive lavatory. Nothing except bare concrete. He looked up, half expecting a camera or some evidence of a microphone. Again, nothing.
He sank to the floor, his knees drawn up, his back against the coldness of the wall, trying not to think too hard. In the Marines they prepared you for capture and interrogation. They taught you ways of shutting out the enemy, of closing doors in the deepest parts of your brain, of defending yourself against the gut-loosening effect of the most basic fears. They can mess with you all they like, went the standard line, but your silence will defeat them. Fine, he thought. As long as you never ended up in a place as malevolent as this.
Tam shut his eyes. Try as he might, there were questions he had to answer, if only to prepare himself for what might happen next. How much did they know about him? Where did Schultz figure in all this? What about Beck, the retired general with his borrowed villa in the woods? And, most important of all, what about Dieter Merz?
*
They came for him later, Tam had no idea when. The interrogation room was on a different corridor: a bare desk, three chairs and a single window high on the wall. It looked dark outside. Mercifully, the screaming had stopped.
Tam was handcuffed to one of the chairs. It was made for a much smaller man. He wriggled for a while, trying to get himself comfortable, then lifted his head in time to see the Kriminaldirektor slip behind the desk. It was colder now and he was wearing a waistcoat under the suit jacket.
He asked Tam to confirm his name. He said he spoke good English but he’d be happier to conduct the interview in German. Tam obliged on both counts. The notion of an interview, under different circumstances, would have amused him. So urbane. So sweetly civilised.
‘We think you’re a spy, Herr Moncrieff. In fact, we know you are.’
Tam forced a smile and enquired whether they were at war.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Name, rank and number. That’s all I have to give you.’
‘Spies have a rank and a number?’ The thought sparked a smile. ‘Excellent.’
The parrying went on, neither man giving an inch. Tam insisted he was in Berlin on private business. The details needn’t concern the Kriminaldirektor.
‘The American? Kreisky? He was private business?’
‘Yes.’
‘You admit you killed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He tried to assault me.’
‘Sexually, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘After that club you went to? The pair of you? You’re telling me what happened in the park came as some kind of surprise?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And do you treat all your partners like that? Miss Menzies, for instance? Is she lucky to be still alive?’
Tam didn’t answer. This exchange was only the warm-up. The Reich had no interest in who really killed Kreisky. On the contrary, they were more than happy with the version they’d invented. What really mattered was just how much they already knew about Herr Moncrieff.
The Kriminaldirektor was toying with a pencil. So far the pad at his elbow was blank. He looked at his watch.
‘You could be back in England by now, Herr Moncrieff. In fact, you might have been wiser never to leave.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. But life is life. We all make mistakes. In your case, alas, far too many. Some people you should listen to. Some you should ignore. Alas, you chose the wrong people.’
Tam badly wanted to know who. Instead he said nothing.
‘You want Hitler dead. Am I right?’
Tam didn’t react.
‘I don’t want motive, Herr Moncrieff. I’m not interested in who fucked with your brain. All I want are names.’
Tam shrugged. He had no names.
‘Then let me be a little more specific. You came here as the messenger. You arrived with good news. You told certain people that the British would fight to keep Hitler out of Czechoslovakia. And you did that so they could get on with their own little war in peace. Isn’t that true, Herr Moncrieff? Weren’t you interfering in someone else’s family quarrel? A quarrel that should have been no concern of yours?’
Tam gazed at him. So far, this man appeared to know everything. So why did he need names?
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Tam said.
‘But you do, Herr Moncrieff, and what I’m offering you now is the chance to share those names. Otherwise this might get difficult.’
This? The space between them? The beginnings of some kind of relationship? The puppet-master and the dummy? The firing squad and the man on his knees?
‘I’d love to help you,’ Tam said, ‘but I can’t.’
‘Won’t?’
‘Can’t.’
‘Then you understand what will happen next?’
‘I have no idea. We’re civilised people. We’re not at war. I’ve told you what little I know. And now I imagine you’ll release me.’
‘Alas, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a spy, Herr Moncrieff. And worse than that you want to see the Führer dead.’
The Kriminaldirektor studied him a moment longer and then the door opened. He’s got a buzzer under the desk, thought Tam. Otherwise the timing is too perfect.
The same two guards he’d met earlier in the courtyard stepped into the room. They unlocked his handcuffs from the chair and hauled him roughly to his feet. Tam made no attempt to resist, not a single backward glance at his inquisitor. Within a minute they were back in the corridor that housed the torture cell. The door was already open. This time the dentist’s chair was almost horizontal.
Tam heard the door closing behind him. The guards manhandled him on to the chair, pushing his head back and then securing the strap around his chest. More ties bound his legs and ankles. Tam was trying to still his racing pulse, trying to empty his mind of the image of the drill and the blood coursing down the face in the chair. Then the Kriminaldirektor stepped into view. He knelt low, the way a priest might talk to a dying patient in hospital. Calm reassurance about the afterlife. An apology or two for how painful dying could be.
Tam tried not to listen. He had no full list of names. Only Schultz and Beck and Dieter Merz. Could the drill deliver these three? And if so, might it not be best to get the whole business over with?
He shook his head, hunting for a way to resist, some means of survival, and far too late he realised the opportunity that was offering itself. This was the path to redemption. This, long overdue, was the moment when he could atone for Renata and for Edvard. Whatever they did to him now would be nothing compared with the suffering he’d inflicted on the two Czechs.
He looked up at the Kriminaldirektor. There was still no sign of the man in the white coat, nor the drill.
‘Names?’ It had come down to a single word.
‘No.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a fear of drowning, Herr Moncrieff?’
‘Everyone has a fear of drowning.’
‘Good. The record, if you’re interested, is one minute, sixteen seconds. You’re a big man. You must have big lungs. We wish you luck. All you have to do is this.’ He raised his thumb. ‘And the drowning will stop. Then you will tell us the names. Otherwise, I’m afraid you will die.’
There was a movement in the background and the man in the white coat finally appeared. Instead of the drill he was carrying a metal watering can and two towels.
He came to a halt beside Tam. Bending low, he cranked the chair flat until Tam was lying horizontal, his head tipped back. Moments later the man in the white coat plunged both towels in the watering can and then laid them on Tam’s face. The water was ice cold. Already he was having trouble breathing.
‘Are you ready,
Herr Moncrieff?’ It was the Kriminaldirektor.
Tam didn’t move, didn’t answer. He didn’t want to dignify this obscenity with any kind of compliance. They were going to drown him. In cold blood.
He heard the scrape of the watering can on the concrete floor and then came the first trickle of water on to the towels. There was pressure on the towels, maybe from one of the guards, keeping them in place. Tam was holding his breath the way he’d always been taught, just the lightest lungful of air, nothing dramatic, nothing that would quicken his pulse and set off all the other alarm systems.
‘More. Not too much.’ The Kriminaldirektor again.
Tam tried to relax. So far so good, he told himself. He had a picture of Renata and Edvard in his mind. They were at Edvard’s mother’s table, that first night in Karlovy Vary. They were laughing. They were alive.
‘More. He’s good.’
The pressure on his face increased for a moment, then relaxed as more water found its way through the sodden towels. He could feel the coldness of the water creeping down his throat but the nose was the worst. His body was beginning to strain against the leather straps. As the water trickled deeper and deeper it was triggering reflexes he couldn’t control. Renata, he thought. Concentrate on Renata. Remember what happened to her. Remember that moment you lifted the boot of the Opel, and that moment rather later when you realised just who had been responsible for her death. You. You, who didn’t care enough. You, flat on your back in the bowels of this foul regime. You, earning the pain and maybe the exit you so fully deserve. Death in Jáchymov. Death in Berlin. Death everywhere. An entire regime, an entire Volk, distilled in a single word. Tod. Death.
He began to choke. He was aware of nothing but darkness and an overwhelming desire to breathe again. The water had reached even deeper. He tried to imagine it pooling in his lungs, but all control had gone. He was suffocating. He was losing consciousness. People who’d nearly drowned always talked about those moments before the lights went out, how suddenly peaceful you were, how resigned, even how thankful. They were wrong, wrong, wrong. Drowning was foul. Drowning was terrifying. Drowning was a place you’d never want to visit again.
Then, abruptly, it stopped.
The towels were removed from his face. Someone altered the pitch of the chair, returning it to the upright position. Even the straps were undone. Tam was on his side on the chair, retching on to the floor. The thin pale liquid from his lungs bubbled on the grey concrete. He stared at it, trying to work out whether he was still alive.
The Kriminaldirektor cleared his throat. His tone had changed. He was checking his watch. There was a hint of admiration in his voice.
‘Very good, Herr Moncrieff. One minute, twenty-one. Our congratulations. Before we start again, perhaps you’d like to take a look at this.’
He was holding a scrap of paper. He gave it to Tam. Tam wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, then tried to focus. Slowly it dawned on him that he’d seen this piece of paper before. It came from a pad beside the bed at the hotel in Nuremberg. Their name at the top. Their address. And beneath, in two hands, the briefest dialogue.
I’ll do it, Dieter had scribbled.
Hitler? Tam had queried. Kill him?
*
The guards took him back to the office. His shirt was soaking. He felt sick. The thought of another session with the wet towels made him tremble. The Kriminaldirektor settled himself behind the desk.
Tam wanted to know where the note had come from.
‘Dieter Merz. He gave it to us. The man is a patriot. You’d expect nothing more.’
‘He’s alive?’
‘Of course he’s alive. In fact, they both are. He and that lady of his.’
‘She’s released? She’s back with him?’
‘I have no idea. Our enquiries are at an end.’
‘And Merz?’
‘Merz has been promoted. Services to the glorious Reich. And I don’t mean his flying.’
Tam tried to take in the news. At least, he thought, just the hint of a happy ending. Even now, in the age of the wolf, death sometimes knew its place.
‘Merz tells us that you wanted him to shoot down the Führer. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Am I allowed to ask?’
‘Of course. You’re right. I was sent on a mission. To Czechoslovakia. Two people died. I hold myself responsible. Along with Kreisky, the banker.’
‘Whom you also killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the Führer?’
‘He’s responsible for everything. For my friends who died. For whatever happens next in Czechoslovakia. Everything.’
‘And so he must die, too?’
‘Of course.’
‘But that makes you crazy, doesn’t it? Thinking life’s that simple? Thinking you can make a friend of this flier, this Dieter Merz, take advantage of him, use his access to the Führer…?’
‘He didn’t do it,’ Tam pointed out. ‘He came to you.’
‘Do you blame him for that?’
‘Not at all. I’m sure the Japanese lady was more important than me.’
‘Indeed. Unless you gave him assurances about those friends of yours.’
‘Which friends?’
‘The ones who were to secure her release. After the Führer had perished.’
Tam held his gaze. This, he knew, was the crux, the end of the road. These were the names they wanted. Schultz. Beck. And whoever else was plotting to settle their own debts with the Führer.
‘I lied to Merz,’ Tam said. ‘There were no friends.’
‘That’s nonsense, Herr Moncrieff. And you know it.’
He paused to check his watch. Then he looked up. Tam braced himself for another trip downstairs, another session with the wet towels, another cupful of cold water bubbling in his lungs, but the Kriminaldirektor hadn’t finished. He pointed out that there wasn’t a mark on Tam’s body. He’d been arrested at the airport on a technical charge that had proved groundless. There’d been no torture, no duress. He’d been rebooked on this morning’s flight to London and it would be in his interests never to enter Germany again.
‘You’re releasing me?’ Tam blinked.
‘We are.’
‘As long as I keep quiet?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then Oberleutnant Merz won’t be quite so lucky a second time. He sends his compliments, by the way. And he hopes you’ll understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘That you owe him your life. He only talked to us on the condition we spared you. Schön, ja?’
The Kriminaldirektor got to his feet. Tam stared up at him.
‘You said this morning’s flight.’
‘I did, Herr Moncrieff.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s a quarter to three in the morning. There’s a woman downstairs who will look after you. Heil Hitler!’
*
Bella was waiting in an office inside the main entrance. She was sitting alone, staring into nowhere. Tam, accompanied now by a plain-clothes clerk, lingered for a moment in the open doorway. The clerk had a form for Bella to sign. Herr Moncrieff was being released into her care. She studied the form briefly.
‘This is to attest the goods are in an acceptable condition.’ She looked up at Tam. ‘They didn’t drop you at all? No damage round the edges?’
‘I’m fine. Let’s go.’
She looked at him a moment longer, then scribbled a signature on the bottom of the form and returned it to the guard. The clerk separated the copy beneath and gave it to Tam.
Outside, the broadness of the street was empty. Tam sucked in a lungful of the cool night air.
‘Where are we going?’
‘My place. I have to get you to the airport first thing. Pain of death if I don’t.’
They began to walk. Tam wanted to know about his luggage.
‘It’s still at the airport. The woman at Lufthansa is looking after it.
She’s the one who phoned us when they arrested you. We were making representations all day. I suspect you owe our Ambassador a drink.’
‘Who did he talk to?’
‘A flunkey at the Foreign Ministry in the first place. Then Ribbentrop. To be honest we never expected to get you out so soon. Chamberlain’s flying over this afternoon. Maybe releasing you is a gesture of good intent.’
Tam nodded. The thought that he might have become a pawn in the wider negotiations over the Sudetenland was richly ironic.
They turned off Wilhelmstrasse and made their way towards the building that housed Bella’s apartment. Tam was walking slowly, his head up. She asked whether they’d hurt him or not.
He nodded, said nothing.
‘How?’
He shook his head. He wouldn’t say. They crossed the road. Bella had produced the key to the outside door. She paused to insert the key, then pushed the door open with a little mock-curtsey.
‘Full service,’ she said. ‘After you.’
Tam gazed inside. Opening the door had triggered the light in the lobby. Freshly painted green walls. Newish carpet. And the faintest scent of bleach.
He shook his head. He knew he couldn’t go in, couldn’t risk another enclosed space.
‘How do I get to Tempelhof?’ he said.
‘Now? At this time of night?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can drive you there. If it’s that important.’
‘I want to walk.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
She studied him for a long moment. Then she stepped closer.
‘Be honest,’ she said. ‘What did they do to you?’
Another shake of the head. The last thing he wanted just now was to revisit that hideous basement room.
‘Just give me directions,’ he said. ‘Please.’
He wouldn’t meet her gaze. At length, she shrugged. She was under orders to make sure he got to the airport in good time to make the flight. Could she trust him not to get lost on the way to Tempelhof? Or simply disappear?
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘I’ve no idea. I thought I knew you. Now I’m not so sure.’
For the first time he smiled. She hesitated for a moment, then described the route. First bridge across the Spree. Then keep going south. The airport was five miles away. Two hours at the very most.
Estocada Page 37
