Nightfall Berlin

by Jack Grimwood

  The Englishman looked puzzled.

  They were in an interview room and Tom had just been pulled out of the customs queue. Random search was the reason given. About as subtle as he expected. An official from the Zollkriminalinstitut had led him into a room and left him there. The Englishman had arrived a few seconds later, giving Tom a firm handshake and his card.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know …’

  Spook pretending to be someone else produces a card to prove he’s the person he’s pretending to be. It was clumsy ten years earlier. Probably clumsy ten years before that. It didn’t matter what his name was. Tom doubted they’d see each other again. ‘You all right?’ the man asked. ‘You look … slightly ill.’

  ‘Bumpier flight than I expected. You’re from Bonn, the embassy?’

  ‘The Frankfurt consulate.’

  Tom doubted that. ‘An interesting post?’

  ‘Very,’ the man said. Entirely unironically.

  Dipping into his briefcase, Tom extracted the file he’d been given on takeoff. ‘I’d ask you to send his lordship my regards and thank him for ruining my holiday, but I plan to tell him myself in a moment. He’ll still need this, though.’

  ‘It contains a photograph in an envelope?’

  ‘There is no photograph.’

  The man stared at Tom, momentarily thrown. He was thickset, muscled. Useful in a scrap probably. All the same, someone who followed orders rather than gave them. ‘I was told –’

  ‘I tore it and the envelope into a hundred pieces, pissed on them and flushed them somewhere over the mid-Atlantic.’

  ‘You’re really planning to call him?’

  ‘Just as soon as I reach the Arrivals hall.’

  ‘Then I should probably give you this.’

  Tom’s name was on the front in Caro’s father’s handwriting. He ripped the envelope open knowing he wasn’t going to like what he found.

  Tom,

  Three investigations have found no evidence that the Patroclus Circle exists, never mind acts as a clearing house for organized filth. An ex-commissioner of the Met has told me to my face not to believe the rumours. Sir Cecil says otherwise. The bloody man’s writing his memoirs. Obviously enough, he says they’ll reveal all. He also claims to have a list of everybody implicated.

  You’re to extract him.

  We need you to keep up the pretence that this is an exemplary example of cooperation between old foes. At no point must East Berlin know that our interest is anything above humanitarian. But we need him, his memoirs and any list he might have. One final point. That photograph.

  I assume you flushed somewhere over the Atlantic.

  If you didn’t, feel free to burn it. You have my word the negative was destroyed a very long time ago. You asked what I had against you. And I said that when you first appeared with Caro, on the back of that damn bike of yours, I asked a friend to run due diligence. That photograph was the last thing to turn up.

  You were what? Ten, eleven?

  No one is responsible for his, or her, childhood, Tom. It’s taken me longer to realize that than it should. I’ve never mentioned the photograph to my daughter. I will never mention it to my daughter. Whether or not you do is your choice. I will say this, though. Your son is almost eight. I don’t know what was happening to you when you were eight. But do you really want a world where men like the one who took that photograph go free?

  ‘Bastard,’ Tom said. ‘Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.’

  Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he put it on the table, folded pleats into his father-in-law’s letter and lit the top edge, sitting back to watch the flame sink in an unsteady line towards the table’s Formica top.

  ‘You’ve changed your mind?’

  The man opposite put up his hands.

  ‘I’m just the messenger,’ he said. ‘Shoot someone else.’

  Putting a first-class train ticket from Frankfurt to Brunswick on the table, the man placed a travel warrant beside it. The warrant was for the Berliner, the British military train that ran through East Germany to West Berlin.

  ‘They told me I was flying.’

  ‘This way you can meet your handler.’

  Tom looked at him. No one had said anything about a handler.

  ‘I thought I was acting alone,’ Tom said.

  ‘Oh, you are. Entirely alone. Sir Cecil requested you.’ The man looked thoughtful. ‘Don’t suppose you know why? I’m meant to ask that.’

  ‘No idea,’ said Tom.

  ‘I rather thought that was what you’d say. Now remember, our line is you’re a friend of a friend of Sir Cecil’s. No official standing. You’re simply there to give an old man moral support.’

  ‘Do the East Germans believe that?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ He handed Tom an envelope labelled ‘Deutschmarks’, then produced another, far thicker one, labelled ‘GDR Marks’. ‘Don’t get caught taking in Noddy money. You’re meant to buy it at the border. And you’ll need this …’ He put a wad of US dollars on the table. ‘There are clothes shops near Frankfurt station. Buy yourself something less tropical. They’ll roll their eyes when you offer dollars but they’ll take them.’

  ‘The rest is for bribes?’

  ‘Be careful though. The last man didn’t make it back.’

  Tom looked at him. ‘The last man?’

  ‘They didn’t mention him? Had a car crash. Could be coincidence.’

  Tom wondered if Cecil had also asked for him by name.

  13

  The showers at Brunswick station were hot enough to scald and even that didn’t make Tom feel clean. So he rewashed his hair using liquid soap from a swivelling bottle on the cubicle wall, wrapped himself in the towel he’d been given, and headed for the white-tiled changing rooms to dry himself and dress. His face in the mirror was tanned.

  That was about all he could say for it.

  He had no trouble meeting other people’s eyes but there were days when he found it hard to meet his own. The tan made him think of the West Indies, which made him think of Charlie, which made him curse his father-in-law all the more. Splashing water on to his face, Tom towelled it dry, dressed quickly and headed for the concourse of Braunschweig Hauptbahnhof.

  Three p.m. 1500 hours in army-speak.

  The Berliner left for the second part of its round trip at 4 p.m. An hour’s time difference between here and the UK … A bank of phone boxes stood almost opposite. If he called now, Caro should be home.

  ‘How was the flight?’ he asked.

  ‘The stewardesses were kind to Charlie. The captain asked if he’d like to see the flight deck. That helped. Where are you now?’

  ‘Brunswick station.’

  ‘I thought you were flying,’ Caro said.

  ‘So did I. Apparently not. I’m taking the military train.’

  ‘Bloody Daddy. That’s probably his idea too. That’s where I’ve been, you know. They’re keeping Charlie for a few days. He’ll enjoy that. He likes being at the Hall. Don’t forget his stamps, will you?’

  What stamps? Tom almost asked.

  ‘A postcard of Checkpoint Charlie, remember? With as many Bundespost Berlin stamps as you can fit on it. Some of those marzipan sweets too.’

  ‘The ones with Mozart on the front?’

  ‘That’s them. Have a good trip, if possible.’

  ‘You’re going to have a quiet afternoon?’

  ‘I’m on my way out.’

  ‘Where?’

  Caro hesitated. He wished she hadn’t.

  ‘Things to do,’ she said. ‘I should go.’

  ‘So should I,’ Tom said. ‘I’m meant to be meeting someone before I board. He’s going to brief me, supposedly. I imagine he just wants a look.’

  ‘Better go then.’

  ‘Better had,’ Tom agreed.

  Tom took his unhappiness out into Brunswick’s Berliner Platz. Of course, what else was it going to be called? Head down, he kept walking. Wondering what would happen if he missed th
e train.

  If he headed off and never came back.

  A poster for Rambo 2, with a half-naked Sylvester Stallone clutching an RPG-7, stared down from a tattered hoarding. The bar under it echoed with Nena’s ‘99 Luftballons’. Three streets, twenty minutes and a dozen snatches of the same song later, Tom was wondering if West German bars played anything else.

  They did. In a café two shops later, a boy was singing along to ‘Heroes’.

  A kid sat in the doorway beyond, knees drawn up to her chest, her gaze fixed blankly on her feet. The couple ahead of Tom walked straight past her. She had the sheen of a user, her hair was oily and her skin shiny. He could smell it the moment he stopped, the stink of someone with nowhere to wash.

  The girl looked up, wondering what he wanted and how much it was worth.

  Looking around him, Tom confirmed what he already suspected. No one was watching. He wasn’t being followed and, for the rest of the world, being with her had rendered him invisible. Splitting the bundle of Deutschmarks he’d been given, one third/two thirds, he held out the smaller bundle and watched her eyes widen. Seconds later her face closed down.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ he said.

  If he’d had time he might have seen if he could find out where she came from, put her in a taxi home and hope that, in some way, home wasn’t worse than being on the streets. But he didn’t have the time.

  He left her staring after him as he walked away.

  Cars crowded the street, and neon signs lit shop windows, despite it being a long way from dark. A traffic policeman wore his hair in a ponytail. A rack of cheap leather jackets attracted Tom’s attention outside a jeans shop.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  The boy from the shop looked at the unpriced jacket and named a figure that had Tom putting the garment back. The leather was cheap, the lining synthetic, the stitching crude. Caro would have hated it.

  They settled on £35, give or take.

  Stuffing his old jacket, shirt and tie into a Levi carrier bag, Tom examined the T-shirt he’d also bought, dragged on the leather jacket and checked his reflection in the shop doorway. He looked more like the man he remembered. As he headed for the station, he felt happier.

  He had a job to do.

  Dm Militärzug

  Helmstedt-

  Marienborn-

  Berlin Stadtb

  15.54

  Abfahrt

  Gleis 2 West

  It took Tom a while to find the right departures board but his train was waiting at Platform 2 when he got there. Blue and cream carriages had carefully painted Union Flags beside their doors. Royal Corps of Transport was picked out in gold lettering along the sides. It all looked so English he laughed.

  Squaddies on leave from NATO bases in West Germany were heading to West Berlin for a long weekend of drinking and brothels. There were NCOs and their families. An officer with his wife, and two small children who trotted at their heels like gundogs. The second-class coaches were already crammed, one of the first-class carriages was nearly full, and a thickset man blocked the entrance to the final first-class carriage. Tom was approaching it when the train warrant officer peeled off from talking to a lieutenant.

  ‘That’s officers only.’

  Maybe it was Tom’s cheap leather jacket that tightened the WO’s face. Or the fact his face was unshaven. Perhaps he simply looked jetlagged.

  ‘Your pass,’ the warrant officer demanded.

  Tom felt in his pockets, realized it was in the pocket of the jacket he’d bundled into the Levi jeans bag, and crouched to retrieve it. As he did so, he looked up and caught the gaze of the thickset man by the door. The man was laughing.

  ‘Making an entrance?’ he asked.

  ‘Apparently,’ Tom replied.

  The man put himself between Tom and the WO. ‘Long time no see.’

  Tom looked at him.

  ‘It’s been …’

  Not long enough, Tom thought.

  Henderson, who in Tom’s experience liked to be called ‘H’, gave the warrant officer his brightest smile. ‘He’s the reason we have a fourth carriage.’ Turning to Tom, he added, ‘I’m glad you decided to join us, I thought I was going to have to hold the bloody train. Come on.’ He pushed between a family, slowing to take advantage of the view as he edged past a teenage girl in a thin top. ‘A man has to find his amusement somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘If you say so,’ Tom replied.

  Henderson stopped on the steps, turned and grinned. ‘You po-faced bastard. I thought you meant that for a moment.’ He entered first and Tom followed, finding himself in a carriage old-fashioned enough to belong in a Poirot film. Its dining table was already laid. This was higher than Tom expected, as were the chairs. A bottle of white wine chilled in a silver bucket. A bottle of good claret stood open and airing. A port decanter rested on the side.

  ‘We don’t touch that until Potsdam,’ Henderson said.

  Tom raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Potsdam port. It’s a tradition. There’s a loco change at Potsdam, from theirs back to ours. That’s when we’ll start drinking. Glass for glass until we reach West Berlin. Now, I should tell you, I’ve been running the what ifs.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘What’s the worst that happens if we leave Sir Cecil there? What’s the worst that happens if we don’t? The obvious questions …’

  Tom realized that Henderson didn’t know that Sir Cecil was wanted back at any price. That thought worried him. The options being Henderson didn’t have the full facts … Or, if he did, he didn’t trust Tom enough to share them.

  Either way, not good.

  A low thud as the engine started was followed by a lurch as the couplings engaged. Braunschweig Hauptbahnhof began slipping away behind them. ‘Next stop,’ Henderson said, ‘Helmstedt. Where we’ll get an Eastie Beastie.’

  ‘An East German loco?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’ He smirked. ‘A veritable Trabant among trains. Stinking of exhaust and over-heated oil. We’ll be keeping the windows shut.’ Glancing between the ice bucket and the already-opened bottle of Margaux, he said, ‘White or red?’

  ‘White,’ Tom said. ‘Less likely to make my jetlag worse.’

  Henderson’s gaze sharpened. ‘I rather thought you’d travelled out from London. No one said anything about having to fly you in.’

  ‘West Indies.’

  ‘Dear God, what have we got going on there?’

  ‘I was on holiday.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t have you pegged as the holiday-taking type.’

  ‘Sometimes I surprise myself.’ Taking a swig of wine, Tom felt a headache hit. Not from the alcohol but because it was too damn cold. Besides, he had a low tolerance for being patronized.

  ‘How’s your German?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘My Russian’s substantially better.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Henderson. ‘Their side of the Wall, speaking Russian means you’re important. Not liked, but important. They’re still the power behind the throne whatever the East Germans like to pretend.’

  And I have friends in Moscow.

  Caro’s father had made it clear he expected Tom to trade on that if necessary.

  ‘You’ve been briefed?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘On Sir Cecil? A little.’

  ‘He was in Germany after the war. Nothing special in that. Half the British Army was there.’

  ‘I know,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve met some of them.’

  Pouring himself a glass of red, Henderson downed it and reached for the bottle. Outside, their engine was being swapped for an East German model. The track beyond Helmstedt turned out to be flanked by barbed wire, watchtowers and minefields. ‘Not that the Ossi are afraid of their people escaping,’ Henderson said sourly.

  ‘Ossi is what they call themselves?’

  ‘Ostdeutsche, East Germans, Easties. It’s what we and the West Germans call them … Here we go,’ he a
dded. Ten minutes later the edges of a town appeared and the train slowed as it approached Marienborn. ‘You might want to watch this.’

  The warrant officer Tom had seen earlier, the lieutenant he’d been talking to and another soldier clambered down and marched – parade-ground perfect – up the platform towards a waiting officer, who stood ramrod straight.

  ‘He’s Soviet,’ Tom said.

  Henderson nodded. ‘Ossis inspect civilian trains. The Sovs this one. That was the original 1945 agreement and the Sovs are damn well sticking to it. Worked well enough for forty years. Probably work for the next forty too … And here we go …’

  All four men vanished through a station door.

  ‘Who was our third man?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Translator. He relays any questions to both sides. You noticed he carried a NAAFI carrier bag?’ Henderson grinned. ‘Thought you might …’

  It had been hard to miss.

  ‘Porn,’ said Henderson. ‘Nescafé. Tights for their wives. Spark plugs for their bloody Trabant cars. Helps keep things smooth.’

  ‘What do we get in return?’

  ‘Vodka so bad you wouldn’t use it to light a barbecue. Right, here we go again. Next point of interest, Magdeburg. Famous for its twin-spired cathedral, political prison and agitprop murals. It’s also where we start supper. Great juicy steaks to upset the Ossi commuters. It’s all theatre. Them, us. This whole bloody train.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Tom muttered.

  Outside the window, a work party came into view. A couple of the group were men, the rest women, stripped to their waists, in bras and khaki trousers, heads down and backs running with sweat as they swung their pickaxes. The afternoon was hot, the embankment sun-baked and the Berliner might as well have been invisible for all the notice they took of it.

  ‘Politicals,’ Henderson said. ‘With orders not to look at us. Doesn’t mean we can’t look at them.’ He was staring at the youngest, her grey bra so sodden with sweat that it might as well have been invisible.

  Tom sighed. ‘Let’s go back to Sir Cecil. What’s he like?’

  ‘You know that certain kind of Englishman who hides his razor-sharp intelligence behind being a bit of a buffoon?’ Henderson said.

  ‘That’s Sir Cecil?’