The Man from Berlin (28 page)

‘What was?' asked Reinhardt.

Claussen pursed his lips as he shrugged. ‘The end of being a copper. I mean, what was the point?' He glanced around. ‘The lunatics had taken over the asylum, hadn't they? It must have been the same in Berlin.'

Reinhardt nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose it
was.'

‘What about you,
sir?'

‘The last straw?' Claussen nodded. ‘I tried to arrest an SA man who had thrown a homosexual out of a fifth-floor window. He was known for it. Everyone knew who did it. They knew nothing would come of it. It was not as if it was the first time, but something snapped that night. It was… not long after my wife died. I got blind drunk and tried to arrest him in the bar he always went to…' He trailed
off.

‘And… ?' prompted Claussen.

‘They laughed at me until I pulled a gun on him, and then they beat the shit out of me. Dumped me on the street. Spent the night in jail. Official reprimand for breaching the peace. Drunk on duty. Conduct unbecoming, et cetera, et cetera… The writing was on the wall for me, so I jumped before I was pushed.'

‘And now, here we both are,' said Claussen, after a moment. He stared at his hands as he ran them up and over the steering wheel. The engine tinkled as it cooled. Reinhardt thought back over what he had said and how easy it had been to tell it to this bluff man. He listened to the tone he thought he could hear in Claussen's voice. The one that matched his own feelings. That here was a chance to do the right thing, and that doing the right thing was not something he could do on his own. He needed someone with him, and it might as well be Claussen because there was no one else.

‘Hendel was GFP,' Reinhardt said, after a moment. ‘So was… is… Krause. Hendel was investigating someone senior. This someone was a friend of Vukić's, almost certainly her lover. Whoever this someone is, Vukić had something on him. Some kind of blackmail. She was working with Hendel to expose him, but it went wrong, and they both ended up dead and Krause is on the run. Krause has a film, or photographs, and the Feldgendarmerie are chasing him because someone's told them to get that evidence back.'

Claussen puffed his cheeks and blew his breath out. ‘God,' he muttered.

‘Quite,' added Reinhardt. ‘And to finish it off, it seems I've pissed off enough people that they've told Freilinger to bring the investigation to a close. He's being transferred to Italy, effective immediately.'

‘And
you?'

‘Orders'll come, for sure.' Reinhardt got out of the car and paused with his hands on the door. ‘In the meantime, I'm working with this GFP captain. Or maybe for him. Who the hell knows with that
lot?'

‘What about Krause, sir? Where is he, do you think?'

‘Sergeant, if you were Krause. If you were on the run. Where would you
go?'

Claussen looked back at him, unblinking. ‘The Reds,' he said, firmly, with barely a pause for thought.

‘The Partisans,' nodded Reinhardt. ‘I think you're right.' He tapped his hands on the door frame. ‘I want you to go over to the main hospital. Ask for Dr Oster, on my behalf. Remind him he told me about a couple of soldiers he treated for burns the other day. See if he's got records of them. Names. Units. Bring them back to me here if you get anything.'

‘Yes, sir. Captain. Just one thing, sir. I'd like to understand. About the church.'

‘It's a guess, Sergeant. It's the first church on the way in from Ilidža. I thought if my hunch about the killer's remorse was true, he might have wanted to pray. That would have been the first place he came
to.'

‘What time do you think?'

‘Seven o'clock would have been too early and too noticeable.' He looked at Claussen, saw the tightness in the corner of the sergeant's eyes, the bunch of his chin. ‘Ten o'clock would have been more likely. Is there something you want to add, Sergeant?'

‘Sir. There was someone there at ten. He was there before I arrived. He was still there when I left. On his knees. Hands in front of his head, head right down. Kept himself at the back. Didn't come for communion. I'd not seen him before and I only now just thought of him, as you were talking to that priest.'

‘Rank?'

‘Couldn't really see. An officer, I'm pretty sure. Smallish. Thin hair. Bald at the back.'

Reinhardt shrugged. ‘It could have been our man. Could equally have been someone else.'

‘Yes, sir. He moved his hands a lot.' Claussen demonstrated, his hands clasping and unclasping, running back and over each other. ‘Like they were dirty.'

The two of them stared at each other a moment, the one seeing the scene as it was, the other as he imagined it. There was an echo of truth, suddenly, all around. As if a little piece of the puzzle had shifted, revealed itself. Then, without any further words being exchanged, Claussen drove away and Reinhardt went inside and over to the ­administration office. He felt tired. Drained. But in a good way. Like he used to feel sometimes after working a case with Brauer. He ordered a call placed through to Thallberg. He held the receiver in the crook of his shoulder as he shook a cigarette out and lit it. His knee ached, and he reached down to rub it absentmindedly. He thought about the officer the priest described as the line clicked, hummed, and then Thallberg's voice came
on.

‘Reinhardt?'

‘It's me,' he replied. ‘We should talk.'

‘When?'

‘Meet me at the fountain, on Baščaršija.'

‘Half an hour,' came the reply, and the phone went dead.

Reinhardt unbuttoned his tunic and slipped the file under it, nestling it against his ribs. Giving his knee a last rub, he crossed over the bridge to Baščaršija and sat at the little café where he always went and ordered Turkish coffee. It was that time of day again, the people of the city coming together, pushing away the cares of the war. There was something in the air; Reinhardt could feel it. He always found himself reaching for it, straining, but never managing to experience it, to capture whatever it was the people all around him seemed to feel.

A man came out of the barber's next door to the café, brushing his shoulders. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt with no tie, and carried a newspaper, which he folded and put under his arm. He leaned into the café, called his order, then sat down at the table next to Reinhardt, unfolding his paper. Their eyes met for a moment, and the man nodded a cautious greeting, one patron to another. Reinhardt nodded back as his coffee came. The waiter got his finger caught under the tray, and it clattered as he pulled it out from underneath. Reinhardt glanced at him, and the waiter gave a tight smile of apology as he backed away. Reinhardt dropped some sugar into the pitcher, watched it turn brown and sink. He stirred the coffee, let it sit, absorbed in the ritual, the comfort of the same gestures repeated time after time by him, by those around him, on the square, in houses across the city, in cities across the country.

‘Captain Reinhardt.'

He kept very still, then looked up. The man reading the paper was not looking at him, but Reinhardt could tell all his attention was focused on him. Moving slowly, Reinhardt unfastened the catch on his holster.

‘Please do not be alarmed,' said the man, as he turned a page, tilting his head to read the headlines. ‘I mean you no harm.'

Forcing himself to move calmly, Reinhardt poured his coffee, waited a moment, then sipped. The man turned another page, tutting at something he read. Another waiter brought the man his coffee. ­Reinhardt glanced at him, and the man looked back. He was big, broad, no subservience in his eyes as he went to stand by the café's entrance, seemingly relaxed, his hands behind his back, but his eyes roamed over the square.

‘How do you know who I am?' he asked, finally.

‘That is not important. If you agree to accompany me, someone would like to talk to you,' he said, rattling his paper into shape.

‘Who?'

‘I cannot tell
you.'

‘Where
to?'

‘Not far.' The man folded his paper in half, held it in one hand as he put sugar in his coffee and stirred it. His German was strongly accented, but good.

‘You do not offer much in the way of assurances.'

The man poured his coffee, letting it sit while he turned another page. ‘Captain. If we wanted to harm you, we could have done so. For assurances, I do not have any to offer. But,' he said, folding another page, ‘perhaps this might suffice. Two men have been following you. They followed you out to Ilidža and back. We cut them off at Marijin Dvor. So they don't know you are here.'

Reinhardt sipped from his coffee and watched the muezzin at the mosque on the corner of the square unlock the door to the minaret. ‘Men?'

‘Germans,' he replied, sipping his coffee. ‘Soldiers. I am going to get up and leave in a moment. If you wish to come with me, please wait approximately thirty seconds before following me, and keep your distance.'

Folding his paper back under his arm, he rose and strolled across the square, towards one of the little lanes that branched off Baščaršija and into the warren of houses and workshops that clustered tightly around the old mosque and around the back of the Rathaus. The muezzin stepped out at the top of the minaret, his fingers gripping the balustrade. As Reinhardt watched him, he took a deep breath. Reinhardt took one too. He finished his coffee and began to walk across the square, the hoarse cry of the muezzin floating over and behind
him.

26

T
he alley was very narrow, cobbled, lined with sho
ps with white walls and wooden fronts that hinged down to make benches or shelves upon which the merchants sat or displayed their wares. Several of them had unfolded little mats in their shops and were on their knees, praying. Others called out to him, gesturing him to come in, brandishing little cushions with embroidered swastikas, or cannon shells worked into minarets, but he walked past them, his eyes on the man in front of him, and on the men he went past. It was clear that some of the merchants knew him as their eyes fixed on him a moment, then slid away.

The man turned down another, narrower alley, darker than the first, with no shops on it. Reinhardt hesitated, looking behind him. He could see no one following him. The man was only a silhouette ahead of him. He followed him, his steps echoing on the cobbles. The place smelled of stagnant water and waste. It was quiet all of a sudden. The alley turned, turned again, and then there was brightness at the end of it, and an abrupt wash of colour and noise as a tram went past on the main street. Reinhardt saw the man come to the end of the alley and turn left. Hurrying, he came to where the alley opened onto the street and saw no
one.

Reinhardt was standing on King Aleksander Street, not far from where the street turned sharply around the Rathaus, which lifted its ochre walls with their amber bands just a few hundred metres to his right. Across the street was another lane, leading up into Bentbaša, and the man could only have gone in there. Stepping across the tram tracks, trying not to hurry, he walked into the alley. It was very crooked and dark, the cobbles uncertain under his feet. The houses were in the Ottoman style, wooden partitions like boxes with windows protruding from the first floor, hanging over the alley. The doors were low, built into thick walls of stone, or plaster, with heavy knockers or bells hanging from them. He looked back, but King Aleksander Street was lost in the twists and turns of the alley. He felt suddenly more alone than he had felt in a long while. He put his hand on the butt of his pistol and walked carefully
on.

A cat jumped into the alley and froze as it saw him. It flattened itself against the wall, then streaked away, back the way he had come. He watched it go, then saw an open door just ahead. He looked up and down the alley, but again saw no one. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly in, taking his time, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was a bare room, only a wooden bench running around it. Another door directly in front opened onto a corridor that led farther into the house.

There was strong daylight at the end. Someone stepped into the doorway ahead. With the light behind him, it was hard to see who it was, and in any case his attention was drawn to the man he had followed this far. He stood to the left, in the shadow of the open door, and he held a pistol in his hand. Another man stood in the other corner, dark skinned and with hair as black as coal, an MP 40 pointed at ­Reinhardt.

‘Captain,' said the man from the café. ‘Your pistol, please.'

‘You said I would not be harmed.'

‘You will not be. If you do not give me your pistol, you walk back out of here. Your choice.' His face was as flat as his voice.

Whoever it was ahead of him turned slightly. An inviting gesture. ‘Please. Come in, Captain.'

Reinhardt felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders at the voice. He pushed the door to the street shut. Raising his right hand, he drew his pistol slowly with his left, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and handed it over to the man. Then he walked through into a sitting room, furnished in the Ottoman style, with low divans and tables, dark carpets on the floor, and dark wood on the walls and around the windows. The beamed ceiling was quite low, but the room was full of light that shone in from the house's courtyard, breaking around the man who stood there.

‘Dr Begović,' Reinhardt said. The two of them shook hands. ‘A pleasure to see
you.'

‘Likewise, Captain,' replied the doctor. His eyes were wide and bright behind his thick glasses. ‘Will you take a seat? Perhaps some coffee?' A brass pot and some little cups stood on a carved wooden table. Three cups, Reinhardt saw, as he sat on one of the divans with his back to the window, facing the door. Begović sat next to him. There was a silence, but not an unpleasant
one.

‘I would like to say I'm surprised, Doctor,' said Reinhardt, at last. ‘But somehow, I'm
not.'

‘No?' asked Begović as he poured. ‘A shame. I do so like surprises.' There was a hint of a smile in his voice as he handed him a cup. He took one for himself and leaned back in the divan. He watched Reinhardt as he took a sip, then another. ‘I find myself in something of a bind, Captain. I have something that I think may be of use and interest to you, but I am not, as you may be starting to understand, commonly in the business of making the lives of you and your colleagues easy.' Reinhardt watched him, letting him talk. ‘Those with whom I work are also of the same opinion. They don't like my talking with you.' He looked at the man who had led Reinhardt here as he walked slowly across the room and through a door that he shut behind him. The other man stood quietly by the door, his machine pistol slanted across his chest.

‘So why are you?' asked Reinhardt, fastening onto the opening the doctor left.

‘Why indeed?' murmured Begović as he sipped from his cup. He wrinkled his nose, pushed his glasses a bit farther up, and looked out at the garden. ‘Why do we always do things that don't seem to make perfect sense, Captain? There's never any rhyme or reason to it. Maybe it feels right at the time? We hear a small voice – our conscience, perhaps – telling us it's the right thing to do? Let's just say you were kind and considerate, Captain, not least of all to me. You were kind when that is the last thing someone like you needs to be. You were considerate when you didn't have to be. You tried to do your best in this investigation. It was no fault of yours things turned out the way they did. And word reaches us. Of Captain Reinhardt, of the Abwehr. A tricky interrogator. A tough man, but a fair one. I think – and I am not a poor judge of character, Captain – that you are a good man. A good man, in the wrong place. Am I right, do you think?'

Begović looked away, letting his eyes rest elsewhere. Perhaps he had seen the sudden rush of blood to Reinhardt's face, the wet sting in his eyes. Reinhardt felt ridiculous, reacting the way he did, but it had been a long time since anyone, least of all a Partisan, had called him a good man. ‘Why am I here, Doctor?'

‘I think you need help, Captain,' Begović replied. ‘And I am ready to give it to
you.'

‘Doctor, not that I'm ungrateful, but someone like you doesn't help someone like me without hoping to gain from
it.'

Begović gave a small smile. ‘Of course, you are not wrong, ­Captain. You will hear what my motivations are. In the meantime, though…' He rose to his feet. ‘Simo!' he called. A door opened, and the man whom Reinhardt had followed from Baščaršija stepped into the room. He looked at Begović, then at Reinhardt before stepping aside to allow another man in. The man was heavy, balding. He took a hesitant step, then another, walking slowly up to Reinhardt, moving with a pronounced limp. He looked uncertainly between him and Begović, fixed Reinhardt with his eyes, and spoke in hesitant, accented German.

‘I am Branko Tomić.'

Reinhardt felt his breath go tight inside him. Begović invited them all to sit. ‘Branko's German is not very good, so I will translate for you,' he said. He said a few words to Tomić, who only nodded, looking back at Reinhardt. He had smooth, shiny skin, which showed a sheen of sweat. He carried a bag, which he placed at his feet as he
sat.

Reinhardt looked at this man, whom he knew only from what Jelić had said. One of Vukić's oldest collaborators, supposedly in Zagreb. The two of them were looking at him, and he did not quite know what to say. He picked up his coffee and sipped. ‘Were you at the house of Marija Vukić on Saturday night?' He watched Tomić carefully as Begović repeated his words. The man knew some German, as he gave a small nod before Reinhardt had finished speaking.

‘
Da
,' said Tomić.
‘Ja sam bio tamo.'
His voice was light for a man of his size.

‘Yes,' translated Begović. ‘I was there.'

‘Can you tell me what happened?'

Tomić nodded, looking down, twisting his hands one against the other. He had big hands, meaty, heavy. He looked up finally, his eyes flicking between the two of them. ‘She asked me to come,' he said, finally. ‘To set up a camera for her. I –' He stopped as Reinhardt held up his hand.

‘I know about the camera. I found it.' Tomić looked surprised, taken aback, as if a script he had been planning had been rewritten without his knowing. He looked at Begović, who looked back expressionlessly. ‘Just tell me what happened that night, please.'

Tomić nodded. ‘If you found the camera, then you know that Marija… she liked to watch herself with her men.' He looked distant as he talked, as though he spoke of something of which he disapproved, or that embarrassed him. He glanced at Begović, who had his head down as he translated, his eyes on the floor. ‘That Saturday, I set things up for her. She was very excited. I had seen her that way many times. It worried me. She told me she would make someone pay for the way they had treated
her.'

‘You knew who this was?' asked Reinhardt.

‘Yes. A German officer. General Verhein.'

Reinhardt felt a wave of relief pass through him. ‘How did she know
him?'

‘They were lovers in Russia, but he ended
it.'

‘Do you know why she would do what she planned that night?'

Tomić gave a small shrug and paused before answering. ‘I am not sure. Marija… she was complicated. I knew her ever since she was a girl. Even then, she could be difficult. We… you know of her work as a journalist?' Reinhardt nodded, and Tomić continued. ‘We travelled with Verhein's men for a while. The two of them began an affair. One day, though, Marija went away with some men from your Einsatzgrüppen. She went to cover one of their actions. Me, and Jelić, we didn't want to go, and we stayed behind. When she came back we knew there had been a problem. Something was very wrong between her and Verhein. They didn't talk, and we went away the next morning. She wouldn't say what happened.'

He paused and said something to Begović, who poured him a cup of coffee. Tomić took it with fingers that trembled and lifted it to his lips. ‘She said nothing more about it until about two months ago. She found out Verhein was here, and she told me she was planning something, and she wanted me to help to preserve it…' He looked down again, his face twisting as if around a memory he found particularly difficult. ‘I did not like it. I often argued with her, but I could refuse her nothing. Ever since she was a girl. But this time, I knew it was different.

‘There was that officer, the lieutenant. He was involved, and I did not know what or why. So, that Saturday, I set up the camera for her, and then I waited. I had a room in the shed in the garden.' He took a quick sip of coffee before continuing. ‘But then I heard shouting. I went into the garden. The noise went away. I went back to my room. I waited. But then…'

‘How long did you wait?'

‘Some time. More than an hour.' Reinhardt nodded for him to continue. ‘And so then I heard a shot. I heard her scream. I… was so scared, I did not dare to go up. I hid. Someone ran past me and jumped over the fence and into the fields. Another person chased him, then came back. I heard a car drive away. I waited, and then I went up. I found her dead. I took the film, and I ran.' He spoke all this in a rush, Begović frowning as he tried to keep up with the flow of words.

Tomić paused, and Reinhardt held up his hand. ‘Slow down, Mr Tomić, please.'

He nodded, then resumed, more slowly. ‘I hid in Ilidža the rest of that night, then I made my way into Sarajevo, to the studio. I waited for nightfall, then used the studio to develop the film. Then…' He seemed to deflate, suddenly, as if he had reached the end of something.

‘Then he came looking for us,' finished Begović.

‘When you took the film, did you leave the padlocked door open?' Reinhardt asked.

Tomić frowned as he tried to remember. ‘I don't know. I think so. I was rushing to get
out.'

So that explained how the killer knew of the film, and why he had turned the darkroom upside down looking for it. It also, Reinhardt realised, meant the killer would have had to have gone back to the scene as otherwise he – they, he now realised – could not possibly have known about
it.

‘Tell me about Verhein. Did he come alone?'

‘I didn't see. But he usually had a driver. An Asian,' said Tomić, his two fingers pointing to his eyes. ‘Like a Mongol. Nasty. Devoted, like a dog, to Verhein.'

‘Anything else? Anything about what was planned for that night?'

‘You are judging her, aren't you?' Tomić looked between Reinhardt and Begović. ‘You are.' He looked down, looked far away. ‘Maybe… maybe I should tell you something about Marija, before you judge
her.'

‘Mr Tomić,' Reinhardt interjected. ‘It is all right. You don't need to say anything.'

‘I do. Because you are judging. I can see it. And if you judge her, then you judge me. I knew her since she was a baby. I was a friend of Vjeko. Her father. We were in the first war together. The Austro-­Hungarian Army. I was… badly wounded. After the war, Vjeko took care of me. I started working for him. Then Marija was born. Such a lovely girl. But difficult!' For a moment, a smile crept across Tomić's face, a memory. Then it was gone.

‘When Marija's parents divorced, Marija spent more time with her father than mother. Me and Vjeko raised her. He was a loving father, but he was tough. When she was sad, it was to me she came. Then Vjeko began getting more and more involved in politics. With the Ustaše. The Ustaše were not for me. Vjeko was my friend, but I could not follow him in that. But she loved her father. Very much. Marija was… pulled into that circle. She became a believer. The Ustaše used her, as well. She was young. Beautiful. She had talent. But… she changed. She still seemed to be the same sweet girl, but I knew better. Inside, she was changing. She was becoming twisted. They were… not good men, some of them. I tried to stop it, but I couldn't.'