Nightfall Berlin

by Jack Grimwood

  70

  Finding vodka was what told Tom that Sir Cecil’s photographic studio hadn’t yet been searched. If it had, the Volkspolizei would have stolen the Stolichnaya.

  Reluctantly returning the bottle to its shelf, Tom went back to combing the little attic of a run-down house in Hackescher Markt. He worked methodically. What he wanted, besides the obvious, the memoirs, was to discover why Sir Cecil had decided to return to London, and who had changed his mind.

  The area was ordinary, the studio run down.

  Safely anonymous might be one way to describe it.

  A single bed, metal-framed. ‘He liked to photograph them …’

  A kitchen alcove with a gas ring. A tiny bathroom, lavatory cracked. A chintz chair with broken springs. Tom had put the tape containing Frederika’s confession beside the telephone on a table by the door.

  Water, water everywhere …

  Nor any drop to drink.

  Another telephone he couldn’t use.

  Another operator who wouldn’t put him through. The East Germans would find him eventually. Tom’s time was running out and only a fool would think it wasn’t. He wanted to call Caro. He knew he should have found a way to get a message to Eddington.

  In a drawer he found a Praktica SLR camera, a handful of Zeiss lenses, a rangefinder Zorki, which was an obvious copy of a Leica II. In a tiny darkroom, he found an enlarger, developing baths, developing chemicals, and strip after strip of already developed film.

  Holding a strip up to the light, Tom saw naked boys and knew he’d never expected anything else. Some were in their early teens, a few older than that, and a handful younger. All lay on the bed or stood against a wall in this room.

  Tom had Frederika to thank for the address.

  He’d asked if she’d read Sir Cecil’s manuscript, and she said that until she saw the pile of paper on his desk she hadn’t even believed there was a manuscript. She’d thought he was boasting, showing off. And no, she hadn’t read it before she burnt it and she doubted he’d made a copy. But that if he had, it would be at the studio. She seemed surprised Tom didn’t know that there was a studio.

  Tom didn’t find a copy but he found something almost as interesting.

  An East German-made 9mm Makarov.

  Double-action/single-action semi-automatic with a magazine capacity of … Tom dropped out the magazine and checked the load. Eight rounds of 9mm, all present and correct. Sir Cecil hadn’t struck him as the pistol-carrying kind. Had Tom been wrong about that? Or had the old man acquired it when the threats started? That was possible.

  The barrel was clean.

  Slowly, methodically, Tom took the Makarov apart, laid the pieces out, admired them and put them back together. There was a friendly familiarity to the handle’s feel in his fingers. Tom made himself put the weapon down.

  He got to thinking about how few videos Sir Cecil had to justify owning a high-quality Lowe VCR machine. The Jungle Book, The Aristocats, Robin Hood, The Rescuers. Plus Raiders of the Lost Ark, ET, Ghostbusters, Back to the Future …

  Bait for the boys, probably.

  There were no tapes hidden in the studio. Tom was on the right track, though. Sir Cecil’s other videos lived in an in-tray that hooked to the underside of the bench in the darkroom. A simple and surprisingly effective hiding place if you knew nothing about effective and simple hiding places.

  They were sleazy but no more.

  Small boys skinny-dipping in a lake.

  A group of youths in pants performing stretches.

  A boy of about ten, on his back, with another boy holding his leg flat to the ground, while Frederika lifted the other leg towards his chest until he performed the perfect splits. It was obvious that the child was in pain. A wooden sign behind Frederika read … Winding the tape back, Tom stopped it when ‘Reinickendorf-Tegelerforst’ came in view. That had been the heading in the notebook.

  The one with all the names.

  When someone knocked at the studio door, Tom ignored them. Next time they knocked he swore so fluently in Russian he could hear shocked silence on the other side. It worked though. They went away.

  He went back to looking at the sign.

  Wondering what it meant.

  71

  The third time someone knocked on the studio door they shouted something. They shouted it three times. Polizei. Polizei. Polizei.

  In case he hadn’t heard the first few times, the officer shouted again and Tom heard a solid tap in the silence that followed. A hydraulic ram being positioned below a handle. For an absurd second, he considered hiding in Sir Cecil’s darkroom; but it was small, boxed off from the studio with chipboard, and not remotely bulletproof. He doubted they’d pay attention to Sir Cecil’s hand-scrawled note: No Entry Under Any Circumstances When The Red Light Is On.

  Looking round, Tom discovered he was already standing beside the studio door. The Makarov in his hand. Eight rounds. One in the breech. He was impressed to find himself there without having to think about it.

  Outside, they’d be doing that silent sign thing. You there, me there, you first, me second … Tom counted down in his head, wondering how many officers there were. Whether he should start firing.

  The door blew. Flipping back, it hit the wall.

  Now was when he’d throw a flash bang. Maybe tear gas, if he could grab the door and trap whomever was inside. Instead a Volkspolizei officer sidled in. Only to drop her pistol the moment Tom elbowed her throat.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said.

  He had to fight the urge to apologize.

  Instead he swung her round to use as a shield and put his Makarov to her head. Seeing two pairs of eyes stare from the doorway.

  ‘In,’ he barked. He barked it in Russian.

  When those outside glanced at each other, Tom tightened his finger on the trigger and that was enough. They shuffled through the studio door.

  ‘Take out your side arms,’ he ordered. ‘Put them on the floor and kick them across. I’ll shoot the first of you to disobey.’

  Since he didn’t have anywhere to store their weapons, he put them in the darkroom, intending to lock it. A decent kick would break the lock, but, then again, he could shoot faster than they could kick.

  It was as he was deciding this that Tom wondered why Sir Cecil had needed such a grand enlarger. There were no massive photographs pinned to the walls, the chemicals were in modest-sized bottles and Sir Cecil owned no developing baths larger than A4.

  Why then?

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Tom said.

  Tumblers fell into place.

  ‘You’re not Russian,’ a sergeant said.

  To live without hope is to cease to live. Dostoevsky had nailed it. Tom glanced beyond the Volkspolizei to the telephone, the seeds of a plan forming.

  ‘Some days,’ Tom said. ‘I think I should be.’

  Sir Cecil had had Third Reich Intelligence files put on microfilm and flown back to London for decryption and archiving. Thousands of them, tens of thousands. He’d made bonfires of the originals.

  That’s what Henderson had said.

  If there was a copy of Sir Cecil’s memoirs it was on microfiche; carbon paper didn’t come into it. Tom looked at the man behind the sergeant. He was in civvies. ‘You’re Stasi,’ Tom said accusingly.

  ‘I’m a detective.’

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  The man shook his head.

  Breaking the seal on the Stolichnaya bottle, Tom held it out.

  72

  ‘I want a number in England.’

  ‘Impossible.’ The detective stared at Tom in shock.

  ‘Do it,’ Tom said.

  ‘They won’t give it to you.’

  ‘They’re not giving it to me. They’re giving it to you. You think the operator knows I’m here? Tell her whatever you need. Say it’s official. Say it’s state business. Tell her the KGB rezident will be very cross if she doesn’t give you the number. Tell her he’ll be very cross with you. Tell her that if she tries
to record it she will be jailed.’

  The man went from looking drunk to looking drunk and sick.

  Picking up the receiver, he began a conversation that grew increasingly heated until he tossed the word KGB into the mix and the operator began backing down. ‘Here,’ he said.

  Tom took the receiver.

  The dial tone changed and Tom heard the familiar, but very distant, sound of a telephone ringing in the UK. It rang seven times and then someone picked up, recited the school’s number and waited.

  ‘This is Major Fox. I’d like to speak to my son.’

  ‘Major Fox …’

  It would be. The master who’d taken the call that time he telephoned from Moscow. ‘I believe it’s still before lights out?’ Tom said.

  ‘You’re in Moscow?’

  ‘Berlin this time. If I could speak to my son?’

  ‘Oh,’ Mr Marcher said. ‘It’s exeat. Your son’s not here.’

  Tom groaned. He needed his son to be there. Today was Saturday; the smallest boys were allowed phone calls on Sunday. It helped with homesickness. How could Charlie pass a message for his mother to pass to her father if he wasn’t there? It wasn’t even a complicated message. Can you ask Mummy to tell Grandpa I’m in Berlin and might be able to find that book he wanted …

  ‘My wife collected him?’

  The silence was stricter this time. It suggested that Tom should know these things. In it was everything Tom hated about Charlie’s prep school, and why he hadn’t wanted Caro to send him there. ‘Who then? His grandfather?’

  ‘Not Lord Eddington,’ said Mr Marcher, taking obvious pleasure in the title. ‘I must say his Great-Uncle Max drives a magnificent car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That purple Rolls-Royce.’

  This wasn’t the question Tom was asking. He wasn’t actually asking a question. His what was instead of a swear word.

  ‘My son was collected by his great-uncle?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Marcher, not liking Tom’s tone. ‘Who said that, should I talk to you, please tell you that you have something of his. A book. He’d like it back.’

  Oh Christ … Tom’s guts felt hollow. ‘Mr Marcher. My son doesn’t have a great-uncle.’

  ‘He must have.’

  ‘Believe me, I’d know. There are no great-uncles on either side of the family. When was my son taken?’

  ‘Taken?’

  ‘Mr Marcher. When did Charlie leave?’

  ‘This morning, obviously. Exeat starts at ten.’

  ‘And ends when?’

  ‘Three-thirty for the smalls.’

  ‘And what’s the time at your end?’

  ‘It’s almost four.’

  ‘Is my son back?’

  ‘Major Fox,’ Mr Marcher said. ‘Parents are sometimes late.’

  ‘He’s not with his parents,’ Tom said flatly. ‘He’s with a stranger. Call the police. Do it now.’

  ‘I think we should wait. It might be a family friend. A friend of his grandfather’s. The car might simply have become stuck in traffic.’

  Tom’s fingers tightened on the receiver.

  ‘Call the police,’ he ordered.

  ‘I’m going to call Charlie’s grandfather,’ Mr Marcher said suddenly, sounding stubborn. ‘He’ll know what to do. Is his number still –’

  ‘Describe the man.’

  ‘Major Fox –’

  ‘Tall, short, fair, dark?’

  ‘Old. Swept-back hair. Patrician.’

  ‘You saw Charlie leave?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Marcher said, defensively. ‘He climbed into the car willingly enough.’

  ‘He probably liked its colour, its shape or the sound of its engine. You were there, Marcher. You let this happen. I hold you responsible.’

  ‘Really, Major Fox –’

  ‘If anything happens to my son, I will have you killed. I won’t even bother to do it myself. I’ll just look at the photographs.’

  73

  The Kripo detective’s hand hovered over the telephone.

  ‘What should I say?’

  ‘Whatever you need to say to get through.’

  Tom’s Makarov wasn’t pointed at his head. It wasn’t pointed at him at all. But it hung loose and Tom was the only person in that room with a sidearm. Cold fury had burnt the alcohol from Tom’s system. He imagined this showed in his face. That the detective realized he was wound tight enough to use it.

  He’d like his book back.

  ‘Do it,’ Tom ordered.

  Picking up the receiver, the detective demanded something of the operator. A few seconds of silence followed and then he came to attention.

  ‘Yes, Comrade General,’ he said.

  He offered Tom the receiver.

  ‘It’s me,’ Tom said, not bothering to introduce himself. ‘We need to meet … Yes,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  74

  The courtyard that Sir Cecil’s studio overlooked was cluttered with rubbish, cracked and peeling. Its art deco buildings had been beautiful once, quite possibly elegant. These days … They looked as ruined as Tom felt.

  Tom was heading for the road, the Makarov held loosely at his side, when he realized the rezident was already on his way in.

  ‘I brought your post,’ Rafikov said.

  A card, bought for Anna, the American girl that Charlie met at Guantánamo, but never sent. On one side was a sunset, on the other Charlie’s neatest writing. He asked if Daddy was sending him toy cars.

  ‘Here,’ Tom said, handing over his pistol.

  ‘Major, what’s wrong?’ The levity was gone from the rezident’s voice.

  ‘My son’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Your government?’

  ‘They’re not like that.’

  ‘All governments are like that.’ Pulling a packet of Belomor Kanal from his pocket, General Rafikov lit two and passed one to Tom, who took it without thinking. ‘Perhaps you’ve been told this to unsettle you?’

  ‘I called his school. They said he was with his great-uncle. He doesn’t have a great-uncle …’ Tom’s voice was matter-of-fact. When this was done, he’d rage. Until then, he needed his anger in tight control.

  The monsters had finally crawled from the walls. It was no longer Tom’s dreams they haunted, he no longer simply had to keep his nightmares at bay. Unable to reach him, they’d gone after his boy.

  He’d like his book back.

  The original was gone, burnt to ash by Frederika. What if Tom was wrong and Sir Cecil hadn’t transferred the manuscript to microfiche? What if he had and Tom couldn’t find it? He couldn’t swap his son for something he didn’t have. The blackness threatened to destroy him.

  ‘I need to get home.’

  ‘That will help how?’

  ‘I’m going to find my son.’

  ‘You’re going to get yourself arrested. London believes you killed Sir Cecil, you know that, don’t you? They’re already worried you’re working for me. What would you think if you were them? What would you do?’

  ‘I have to help Charlie.’

  ‘How will getting arrested help him?’

  It wouldn’t. In fact it might get him killed.

  Tom reran that thought, feeling it settle in his guts with the certainty of stone. He couldn’t risk a false move. The toy cars had been a warning of what would happen if he got his next move wrong. His silence, the elusive memoirs, Flo Wakefield’s HMSO notebook. He needed to work out which of those would be enough to save Charlie. Perhaps all three …

  In which case, he’d need to get the notebook.

  His duty was to get it to Lord Eddington. But this was Charlie. How could he be expected to put duty above that? How could anyone? He would demand proof that his son was alive. As long as Tom was in East Berlin they would have to keep Charlie alive. And if they hurt the boy in any way, then he would hunt them down, kill them. He needed them left in no doubt of that.

 
‘You were told to help me, weren’t you?’ Tom said.

  ‘And I did.’ Rafikov’s voice was smooth. ‘You’re still alive. You owe me that. Besides,’ he shrugged, ‘who says I was told to help you?’

  ‘It was the commissar’s idea to send me to that camp.’

  ‘Marshal Milov’s plan to send you. My idea to extract you. Strange as it sounds, I have an interest in keeping you alive. Quite possibly, at this moment, I’m the only person in East or West Berlin who can say that.’

  Tom believed him. ‘What do you know about Reinickendorf-Tegelerforst?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’ Rafikov’s eyes became hard.

  Tom took a gamble, although probably less of one than it felt. ‘There are Russians mentioned in Sir Cecil’s memoirs. East Germans too.’

  ‘There are no memoirs, remember?’

  Tom kept his face impassive.

  ‘They were burnt,’ Rafikov said. ‘You told Henderson that they were burnt. You told FitzSymonds that too. You said there were no copies.’

  ‘What if I was wrong?’

  ‘You know where a copy is?’

  Trust no one. It was Fitz that taught him that. Trust no one, not even yourself. Tom hesitated … ‘In a message FitzSymonds intercepted, Sir Cecil said he’d given me the memoirs. He hadn’t. But he must have given me a clue.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  ‘If I knew that I’d have the memoirs.’

  ‘One day,’ said General Rafikov, ‘we must play cards for real. If you live that long.’ He smiled. ‘What do you consider the chances of my glorious allies finding this copy before you do?’

  ‘The GDR? Unlikely, but not impossible.’

  ‘And what do you think London would do with this copy should they get their hands on it?’

  ‘Suppress it.’ That was the only answer that made sense. For all the fuss about whether Spycatcher should be published, there was no way they’d let Sir Cecil’s memoirs be released.

  ‘Having read them first?’

  ‘Of course,’ Tom said. ‘I’m told you debriefed Sir Cecil. So I doubt there’s much in there you don’t know. My guess is that you didn’t share everything Sir Cecil told you with your East German allies …’