The Man from Berlin (24 page)

21

T
here was a message slip o
n his desk. Thallberg had called and was waiting to see him at the State House. He put the piece of paper from Freilinger on his desk and scanned the names. He took his own list of officers commanding the units in Schwarz and compared the two. Freilinger had underlined three names as having served in the USSR – Generals Grabenhofen, Eglseer, and von Le Suire. Only Grabenhofen was involved in Schwarz, and the other two were not on Reinhardt's list. Of the other transfers on Freilinger's list, one was in command of a unit in Schwarz – General Verhein – but had not served in Russia.

He straightened, stepped back from his desk. This was all getting tangled in his mind, and he needed to straighten it out. He glanced at the message slip again and saw that Thallberg had called about twenty minutes ago. He should take some time, try to make some sense of what he had now. He telephoned downstairs, ordering them to find Claussen and send him up, then shut the door and sat at his desk, flattening his map of the case onto it. He began adding information –
GFP
next to Hendel's and Krause's names. Pausing a moment, he linked Becker's name to the empty circle of the suspect. He glanced at the list Freilinger had given him, and then the list of commanders, and back at his map. For now, he refrained from listing those names. If anyone else came across the map, it would look very bad, especially as he had nothing to substantiate it all with. Underneath the suspect's circle he wrote
senior
, and then
USSR
, linking USSR to Vukić.

There was a knock at the door. ‘One moment,' he called. Reinhardt folded up the map, grabbed the keys to the
kübelwagen
, and opened the door. Claussen stood in the hallway. Reinhardt tossed him the keys and they went back downstairs and out to the
car.

‘Where to,
sir?'

‘State House,' Reinhardt answered. He settled into his normal position, back wedged between the seat and the door as Claussen took the car out onto Kvaternik, then pulled it around the Rathaus and back down King Aleksander Street. Reinhardt watched the streets go by on the right, the old Ottoman buildings giving way to the drab fronts the Austrians had put up until the car pulled in front of the pillared portico of the State House. A soldier on duty lifted a striped barrier and let Claussen park in the street down the side of the building. Next to the staff cars already there, black and shiny with pennants on their hoods, the
kübelwagen
with its dull grey panels looked like a fish out of water.

The foyer inside was gloomy and heavy. A woman in an army uniform directed Reinhardt to follow the stairs up to the second floor. He passed the offices of the small German civilian security administration that had accompanied the army into Yugoslavia. It was mostly officers from the Gestapo, with a few from the Sicherheitsdienst, the Nazis' own security service. They were mostly here to work with the Ustaše, oversee the treatment meted out to undesirables – Jews, Serbs, and Gypsies, chiefly – and to keep an eye on the ideological behaviour of the Germans. Unlike in Poland and the USSR, though, the Germans had not brought the full panoply of their bureaucracy and administration with them, and the civilians, even the powerful ones with senior Party ranks, were kept pretty much in check by the army. Bosnia was supposed to be part of Croatia, after all, an allied state. So no Reich governorate for Yugoslavia and so much less squabbling between civilians, soldiers, and SS; much less administrative chaos; and corruption at a manageable scale. And there were no death squads on the scale of the Einsatzgrüppen in Russia, the special action units, the rumours of which were enough to chill the blood. Mass killings were their forte: Jews, the politically undesirable, unwanted populations, resistance fighters… No, for that here they had the Ustaše, who managed very well.

Reinhardt stared at the
Geheime Feldpolizei
sign on the frosted glass of a door, at the blocky Gothic lettering, remembering other signs like it on other doors in Berlin. He had hated those names, bastard amalgams of police and political, but now he just felt detached from it. Was this what it meant to get old and jaded? he wondered. Men walked briskly past and around him as he stood there. Just as at the Abwehr offices, Reinhardt felt untouched by it all. Finally, he knocked and went in without waiting for an answer.

A corporal, tall and wiry in all ill-fitting uniform and with a fuzz of iron grey hair, was just opening the door for him and came to attention. Thallberg was on the telephone, standing in his shirtsleeves by a window that looked out over the road outside and across to a small park with a couple of Ottoman-era tombstones standing crookedly among the trees. His jacket hung over the back of a chair, and his equipment was strewn around an otherwise largely empty office. A camp bed with crumpled sheets stood against one wall. He gestured Reinhardt to take a seat as he listened to the person on the other line. He snapped a terse ‘Yes', then put the phone down on his desk and stood looking down at Reinhardt with his hands on his hips.

‘So, how are you this morning?'

Reinhardt nodded as he took a cigarette from his packet. ‘Fine,' he said, offering the pack to Thallberg, who shook his head. Maybe it was the setting, seeing him in an office in a building like this. Despite his general sense of undress, Thallberg seemed sharper, more competent.

‘I'm hearing things,' said Thallberg, as he pulled back a chair and sat down. He put his booted feet up on the desk and crossed his ankles, scrubbing his hands through his unkempt blond hair. ‘Things have gone a bit pear-shaped over at police
HQ?'

Reinhardt nodded again around a mouthful of smoke. ‘Their suspect's dead,' he replied. ‘But seeing as whoever he was didn't do it, it still leaves us pretty much nowhere.'

Thallberg grunted. ‘And no sign of Krause.'

‘Are you asking me or telling
me?'

‘Telling.' He picked up a mug and peered into it. ‘You want some coffee? It's pretty good here.' He spooned coffee into two cups and handed them to the corporal. ‘That'll be all for now, Beike, thank you,' he said to him. ‘I talked to the Feldgendarmerie this morning and warned them off
him.'

‘Who did you talk to?' Reinhardt looked at the door through which the corporal had gone. ‘And who was that?'

‘That was Corporal Beike. My right-hand man, if I'm honest. Memory like an encyclopedia. I trust him. And I talked to the Feld­gendarmerie commandant.'

‘Colonel Lewinski?' Thallberg nodded. Reinhardt pursed his lips, holding Thallberg's eyes. ‘Lewinski's old-school Prussian. A gentleman. Also wholly ineffectual. Major Becker's the one who runs things around here, and he's the one you've got to worry about.'

‘You and he have a history together, correct?' Thallberg asked, echoing Claussen's words yesterday.

Reinhardt reminded himself not to underestimate this man who seemed to have so many facts about his own past. ‘Becker and I were in Kripo together. He was a bad cop. A dirty one. He hasn't changed. He runs the Feldgendarmerie here pretty much as he likes.'

‘
Becker?
Well… he's a bit squirrelly, but he's harmless enough.'

Reinhardt shook his head. ‘He's dirty. Whoever killed Hendel has got Becker looking for Krause. Like I told you last night, if he finds him before you do…'

‘Fine,' said Thallberg, shortly. ‘I'll deal with Becker if I have to.' He seemed to dismiss it from his mind, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. Reinhardt wanted to stress the point: Becker was not someone you could just turn your back on like that, but he let it go. ‘So, what do we have, then?'

‘You're supposed to have a list for
me?'

‘Right.' Thallberg pulled a folder towards himself and took a piece of paper from it. ‘Two, in fact. Transfers. And officers attending that planning conference. I had Beike working on that transfer list last night.' He passed it across the table. He yawned and ran a hand over his face, stubble rasping beneath his palm.

Reinhardt looked at the transfer list, squinting past the smoke that spiralled up from his cigarette. Like Freilinger's, it was only a half dozen names long. He ran his eyes down it, considering. He did not want to take out Freilinger's to compare it. Something held him back.

There was a knock at the door, and a soldier came in with two mugs of coffee. ‘There's only condensed milk. Sugar's there,' pointed Thallberg as he sat back in his chair with his mug held in two hands. ‘I had a look through Hendel's files. These here,' he said, pointing to a pile of paperwork. ‘There's gaps. Nothing on what he was doing here.'

‘Is that usual? I mean, I don't know how you GFP chaps work.'

‘You mean secret handshakes and Teutonic rituals? Silver daggers and oaths by moonlight?' Thallberg smirked. ‘No, we leave that kind of crap to the SS. And no, it's not usual. He was supposed to keep files and records. Just like any policeman.'

‘You've got nothing as to what he was
on?'

Thallberg chewed his lip, that same small gesture he had used last night. ‘Nothing.' Reinhardt could not tell whether he was lying.

‘So? What do you think?'

Reinhardt looked at Thallberg's second list, which was longer. He folded them and put them on the table. He spooned sugar into his coffee. ‘I think it's not much good to me anymore.' Thallberg raised his eyebrows in query. ‘Freilinger told me this morning the investigation's being halted. I'm supposed to stand ready to report for new duties.' He sipped the coffee. ‘He's being transferred to Italy.'

‘Investigation's halted?' repeated Thallberg. ‘Who ordered
it?'

‘Banja Luka. After pressure from the Feldgendarmerie here.'

Thallberg took some coffee, worked his mouth around it. ‘
Fuck
,' he said, pushing himself back in his chair. He rose and went over to the window. ‘Look,
sod
that. I don't care what some
poxy
staff officer said. This isn't over. One of my boys is dead, and I want to know why, and who did it.' He drank more coffee, and seemed to hesitate over something. ‘You don't want to give it up, do
you?'

Reinhardt felt a lurch, a sudden tilt deep inside. He did not want to give this up, no. But what did that mean? Where would it take him? He looked back at Thallberg before slowly shaking his head. ‘No. No, I don't.'

Thallberg grinned, the man Reinhardt had met last night coming out. ‘Want to work for me, then?'

Reinhardt forced himself to think slowly. ‘Work for you? What would that mean?'

‘Just that, Reinhardt. You don't need to pussyfoot around with this.' He came back over to the desk. ‘You keep going with your investigation. Find whoever killed Hendel. Give me a name. Anything. I'll take it on, I promise.'

Reinhardt swallowed hard, letting his eyes drift away, then back. ‘And then?'

‘Then? Well, then we'll have our man. Or at least we'll have Hendel's man. And someone in Berlin will be very happy with
us.'

‘And that's enough?' asked Reinhardt, quietly.

Thallberg heard it as a statement. ‘That's enough,' he said, firmly. ‘More than enough.'

‘Enough to do what? For what?'

‘Christ, Reinhardt, who
cares
?' exclaimed Thallberg. ‘Enough to write your ticket out of this shithole, perhaps? Enough to catch the baddie? Isn't that what you old-time coppers were all about?'

‘Nice of you to make the distinction,' said Reinhardt, covering his confusion by drinking from his mug. Thallberg grinned, and ­Reinhardt felt a growing excitement. The chance to pursue the investigation, perhaps even finish it. With someone like Thallberg backing him up, it could be done. But the risks, to dance with the devil on something like this. Behind Thallberg's boyish exuberance there had to be someone ruthless, merciless. He could never afford to forget that. ‘All right, then,' he said, riding roughshod over his own misgivings, reaching out to grab the tiger's tail.

‘Good,' said Thallberg. ‘Well done.' He took a piece of paper from a drawer and wrote quickly on it, then walked to the door and called for Beike. He smiled, self-consciously, it seemed. ‘It's strange, Reinhardt. You know, you and all those other Berlin coppers were heroes to me when I was a boy. And now, here I am, working with one of you! It's a bit like living a dream.'

Thallberg handed his paper to his corporal and Reinhardt kept his face blank, even as he struggled to understand who Thallberg was, and what he had just done agreeing to work with him. The GFP officer seemed to lurch between almost childish enthusiasm and a semblance of ruthlessness. Reinhardt had not yet seen that harder side come out, but he knew it was there.

‘So, where will you start?' Thallberg asked, closing the door.

‘At the beginning, I think.' Reinhardt put his coffee down on the table. ‘I'll start by retracing the moves the killer probably made. I'm going to go back out to Ilidža and start from Vukić's house. But first,' he said, smoothing out Thallberg's transfer list, ‘let's have a look at this. Where did you get these names from, did you
say?'

The captain came around to Reinhardt's side, looking over his shoulder. There were seven names. ‘From here. General staff records.'

‘So it's about as reliable as it comes, then,' said Reinhardt as he read the names off. He pulled out his list of units involved in Schwarz, comparing the COs to the list of transfers. Only two names matched up: those of Generals Verhein and Ritter von Grabenhofen. Two other names were listed as having served until fairly recently in the USSR – Generals Eglseer and von Le Suire – but their units were not involved in the operation. He circled all four names with a pencil. ‘What do you know about these ones?'