The Man from Berlin (31 page)

‘Well, I suppose the only polite thing to do would be to ask them,' said Thallberg. ‘Verhein and Stolić.'

‘They're at the front.'

Thallberg nodded. ‘Then we'll just have to go to them. Ready for that?'

Reinhardt paused before answering. ‘We can't arrest them. Not with what we have.'

‘Who knows? We can at least question them, can't we? Put the fear of God into them?!' Reinhardt nodded finally, holding Thallberg's eyes, watching that manic grin flash across his face. ‘What about Becker?'

Reinhardt shook his head. ‘Not a word to him. He may tip them off. And believe me, he's more dangerous than he looks.'

‘So you keep saying.' Thallberg blinked. ‘Tomorrow, then. I'll need that long to get things ready here. Tomorrow, early morning? Six o'clock? From the barracks? I can take you in the sidecar if you need. How about movement orders? Need anything?'

Reinhardt shook his head, ignoring the rush of words, and thinking of the paper that Freilinger had given him. ‘I have movement orders and I can get us a
kübelwagen
,' he said. They were silent a moment. ‘Are we really doing this?' asked Reinhardt, half to himself.

‘It would seem so.' Again, that abrupt mood swing. Thallberg sat there, looking subdued and turned in on himself.

Reinhardt got to his feet. ‘Until tomorrow, then,' he said. The moment felt suddenly formal. Thallberg must have felt it, too, because he rose to his feet, and they shook hands. The moment broke, and the two of them smiled self-consciously at each other.

‘Until tomorrow, then,' echoed Thallberg.

With the film and file tucked under his arm, Reinhardt paused on the steps of the State House. He felt light-headed, adrift, despite having as firm a purpose as he had had these past few years. He lit a cigarette and walked slowly to his car in the gathering dark. Before he went anywhere, he knew, he needed to speak with Freilinger. There was unfinished business there, but he was afraid of what it might mean.

Back at headquarters, Reinhardt passed by his office a moment. There was a note from Claussen on the meeting with Captain Oster. The two soldiers treated for burns of the hands and forearms were 121st Jäger. Reinhardt grinned mirthlessly, but the grin faded fast as he leaned down to unlock his desk. It had been forced. Rather expertly, but forced nevertheless. He took a long, ragged breath, letting it out slowly, thinking that the unfinished business just became much harder, but at the same time simpler. He gripped the film case and the file tighter and went upstairs.

Freilinger's orderly was sitting behind his desk. Reinhardt walked past him, hearing the man's chair go scraping back as he lurched to his feet. ‘Captain, the major is busy.'

Reinhardt ignored him, raised his fist to knock, then stopped. He waited a moment, then pushed open the door. He walked in, seeing Freilinger look up. The major's eyes narrowed, then went flat as he saw Reinhardt. ‘Is this what you were looking for?' Reinhardt asked, holding the film and file
up.

Freilinger looked past him, at the orderly. He made a curt gesture with his head, and the door closed quietly. ‘It is customary, not to mention polite, to knock at someone's door,' Freilinger rasped. His eyes, though… his eyes battened on what Reinhardt held.

‘Is it what you wanted?' Freilinger turned those pale eyes on him, and he flinched as he smelled smoke.

‘Yes, Gregor. That's what he was looking
for.'

Reinhardt froze, because someone else had spoken. Someone sitting quietly in a corner of Freilinger's office. Reinhardt knew that voice, would know it anywhere. He took a step back from the desk, turning to the corner, at the man who rose to his feet, straightening his jacket and tie. He stepped forward, the light washing across his white hair.

It was Meissner.

30

H
ello, my boy.' Reinhardt was speechless. ‘Something of a surprise, it would seem.' Meissner smiled. ‘Don't blame Freilinger. I asked him to keep me out of it, especially as I didn't know whether I'd be able to come, or whether I'd be able to see you if I
did.'

‘Sir,' Reinhardt managed, finally. ‘It is good to see you.' And it
was.

‘And you, my boy.' Smoothly, without thought, he enfolded Reinhardt in a warm embrace. After a moment, Reinhardt brought his free hand around on the old man's back, his palm open against the smooth material of Meissner's jacket, and closed his eyes. He smelled of cologne and cigars and clean cloth. God only knew what he himself smelled like, Reinhardt thought. As if sensing his thoughts, Meissner stepped back. He had that paternal sparkle in his eyes, the eyes themselves framed by a web of wrinkles that deepened across his cheeks when he smiled. ‘You look tired, Gregor.'

‘I suppose I
am.'

‘I'm not surprised.' Meissner held on to Reinhardt's shoulder, his hand firm, and looked deep into his eyes. Almost despite himself, despite the suspicions and the fatigue, he felt better. Calmer than he had felt in a long time. ‘Come. Sit with
me.'

There was a second chair in the corner. Reinhardt sat, the file and case in his lap, Freilinger going back behind his desk. The major seemed far away, and what Reinhardt had wanted to say seemed farther still. ‘What are you doing here,
sir?'

‘Foreign Office business. I'm doing a sort of grand procession through Croatia, then on to Italy. Evaluating our allies. Renewing contacts. Making new ones. Catching up with old friends. Diplomacy, in short.' He smiled.

‘And you, sir? Are you well?' Meissner's hair was white, but it had been for a long time. He had felt thin to Reinhardt. Fragile, as if old age had finally caught up with
him.

Meissner shrugged, raising his eyebrows. ‘Nothing retirement would not solve.' He smiled, wrinkles suddenly spreading like tributaries across his cheeks, and Reinhardt could not help but smile back.

Meissner leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. The skin of his face, where it stretched across his cheeks and under his jaw, had the fine sheen of parchment. ‘Tell me, really. How are you, my
boy?'

‘To anyone else, I'd say fine. But…' Reinhardt sighed, twisted his mouth. ‘It's like I can't see two steps in front of me anymore. I seem to spend much of my time trying to forget. About Carolin. About what I've seen. Friedrich's lost at Stalingrad.' Meissner only watched, and listened. ‘You know, we had begun talking again. After a fashion. I had a letter from
him.'

‘Brauer told me something of it the last time I saw
him.'

Reinhardt brightened. ‘Brauer? How is
he?'

‘Making life a misery for new recruits at infantry training. You know how he can be!' They shared a smile. ‘He told me he wrote to you recently, otherwise I'd have brought you a letter from
him.'

‘And the others? What news of them?' The ‘others' Reinhardt referred to were some of the officers and NCOs Meissner had taken under his wing after the war. A band of brothers, of sorts. The few who had survived the war and then the fighting in Germany at its end. Some were in the police, some in the army. A few in government, others in private practice. Nothing in common but the war, and each other, and Meissner.

‘
Comme ci comme ça
, as the saying goes.' Meissner lifted his hands off his knees, then put them gently back down. ‘But tell me, Gregor, tell me something of what you are doing. Freilinger has been spinning the most fantastical tale of murder and intrigue. Apparently he has you acting as a proper policeman again.'

Reinhardt glanced across the room at the major, sitting calmly behind his desk, hands folded under his chin, watching. ‘You could say that, sir,' said Reinhardt. Meissner only looked at him, encouragingly. ‘Two murders. One of them an Abwehr officer, who turns out to have been GFP, only he was really SD, investigating an army general called Verhein. This general was romantically involved with the second victim, a Croatian journalist. An Ustaša. They both had evidence Verhein is a Jew who has managed to hide his origins. He killed them both, or had them killed. We're not sure,
yet.'

‘ “We”?'

For almost the first time in his life, Reinhardt ignored a question posed by his old colonel. ‘Sir, what are you really doing here?'

Meissner smiled, gently. ‘It really is diplomacy, Gregor. But…' He paused for a moment, and although his eyes never left Reinhardt's, Freilinger rose quietly to his feet, as if hearing an unspoken signal. He went and spoke to his orderly in the outer office, then shut the door and sat back down. Reinhardt felt a chill rise up his spine.

‘Once,' said Meissner, ‘you asked me why I had joined the Party. Do you remember? And do you remember I told you it was the best way I could think of to be able to do my work? You know, it hurt me terribly – inside – to think you and Carolin would think the Nazis' work was my work. It is not.' Reinhardt felt colder and colder, and his breathing came short and high over the bands he felt tightening around him. As if sensing it, Meissner gave that gentle smile of his. ‘There are only a few of you, you know, with whom I can be this honest. My work is something else entirely, which my functions at the Foreign Office enable me to do. I am opposed – implacably – to the Nazis. To what they have done to the Germany I love. I have been opposed to them from the beginning. And there are many who feel the same way I
do.'

He paused, as if to let it sink in. Reinhardt swallowed. ‘The resistance,' he whispered. ‘You are talking about the resistance.' These words, these
thoughts
, were forbidden. His mind spun.

Meissner nodded. ‘Yes,' he said, simply. There was a pause. ‘This does not surprise you?' Phrased as a question, it was more of a ­statement.

‘No,' said Reinhardt, but if he was honest with himself, what he felt was relief as a part of his mind he had sealed away, a part that knew Meissner as a Nazi, was suddenly gone. ‘No, I am not surprised. Why?'

‘Why? We Germans – or should I say, we Germans of a certain class – are not easily led to oppose authority, and none of us was imaginative enough to foresee what has happened. War, yes – but not like
this
! Their extremes, their laws, their cults, their hypocrisy, their
ridiculous
strutting… The course of the war… The catastrophes, one after the other… The treatment of the conquered… For myself, I could not see visited upon another generation the suffering we went through.'

‘How did it begin for
you?'

‘In the heart rather than in the mind. As thoughts rather than words. Then as words rather than deeds. Then, finally, action came.' Meissner nodded. ‘Before the war, it was contacts with friends and counterparts abroad. Meetings. Opinions shared.
What ifs…
­explored. Discussing the Nazis as if discussing a particularly nasty illness someone had. One never mentions it by name. All very civilised. The discourse of erudite, worldly men. What fools we were. How
naïve
,' he said, his words all the more powerful for their measured, gentle tone. ‘Then it was words exchanged between old friends. Cautiously. Carefully. One could not be too careful. Even more so now. There are many groups, but none with the potential that ours has. We are numerous. Some in high places. Some in low. Some near, some far. And some,' he said, his eyes glinting sharply, ‘who do not know they fight for the resistance at
all.'

‘Me?' Meissner nodded, slowly. He felt the pull of the colonel's eyes, pushed past them to those memories of those last days in Berlin. Huddled in the corner of Meissner's study, seeing it again. Seeing it differently.

‘Will you go back in?' Meissner asked, finally.

‘I'll do it for you, sir. For nothing else.'

Meissner sighed softly, nodded, the fire playing across his white hair. ‘Thank
you.'

‘Me,' said Reinhardt, again.

‘You,' whispered Meissner. ‘We placed you carefully. Moved you as we thought best. It was always a difficult business. Now, it is becoming all but impossible. The Nazis are strong, and they are clever. They have broken many groups. Broken many men, and no few women. You may have heard of those young students, The White Rose. Such bravery in ones so young. But the noose is tightening, and I fear it is only a matter of time before it closes around me. For now, although I am free to move around more or less as I please, I have noticed things – small things – are different, and so the work I am doing, the work I need to try to finish, has become that much more important.'

Meissner looked down and away. ‘The problem is, for all our good intentions, we are just a group of faceless Prussians, crotchety old businessmen and nobles and pensioned soldiers meeting in the shadows, bumbling on about uncouth Bavarians. My boy,' he said, turning his eyes back on Reinhardt, ‘what I'm going to say to you, now, you will not like. My group' – he sighed – ‘has been talking to Verhein. We need him. We need someone with his charisma. We need someone with the loyalty he inspires. With the contacts he has in the army.'

Reinhardt swallowed slowly, forcefully, against the tightness in his throat. ‘And… ?' he managed. He knew the answer, but he needed Meissner to say
it.

Meissner seemed to know that, or at least understand it. ‘And, Gregor, I need to know what you know. I need to know what you are planning now that you know about Verhein. And, if possible, I need to know whether you can give me what you've found and be persuaded to look away.'

‘Look
away
?'

‘Yes,' replied Meissner. His mouth opened as if to say something else, but he stopped.

‘Don't,' whispered Reinhardt, hoarsely. ‘Don't say it. Don't say “Just this once”, because
you
know, and
I
know, that's not true.' He bent forward, hunching around the weight he felt, feeling the frustration, the rising anger. ‘I suspected something,' he said, finally. ‘I suspected Freilinger was obstructing me. Deftly, I'll give him that. He tried to keep me away from investigating senior officers. He gave me a list without Verhein's name on it. He steered me towards an SS Standartenführer… I didn't know why, though.'

‘Freilinger was put in a difficult position. He is one of us. He has tried to talk to Verhein, but the general won't listen.' He looked over at the major.

Freilinger unfolded his hands. ‘When the murders happened, I suspected Verhein's involvement and I decided to do something that I suspected you would find distasteful.' He paused, swallowed around the scrape in his throat. ‘I decided to let you proceed, to gather evidence, to then try to orient you in another direction, and to use that evidence to persuade Verhein to at least listen to us. Verhein was offered a staff position at Army High Command.' Reinhardt nodded. ‘It would have put him at the heart of operations and close to Hitler himself. We needed him to take that post but as one of us. Or with us. He has been refusing it, but all of sudden I hear he is taking it. We think something has happened to make him change his mind.'

The telephone on Freilinger's desk rang. Reinhardt jumped, looking at it. Freilinger ignored it. There were footsteps in the outer office, a voice, and the ringing stopped. ‘You are talking about blackmail.'

‘We are,' said Meissner. ‘I am. Exactly that. We did not know of Verhein's Jewish origins, although we suspected something like it because of what he has done and said – or rather didn't do and say – throughout his military career. Especially in Russia. We did check his records. If they were falsified, they were very well falsified. Now we know. We can use this to talk to
him.'

Reinhardt hunched forward again. He screwed his eyes tight shut and shook his head. ‘My God,' he whispered. ‘You will use this…' He looked up. ‘You are asking me to take no further action against a man who may have committed murder, or ordered it done.' Meissner nodded. ‘Why? Because you need
him?'

‘I am convinced Verhein will help us. He already is, only he can't seem to see it. And if he can't bring himself to help us willingly, then, yes, I will force him. I lose nothing but a pawn in a game. He stands to lose much, much more.'

His life. His career. Reinhardt thought back to Hendel's dossier. ‘His sister.'

‘Yes,' said Meissner. ‘His one weakness.'

‘You are talking about sacrifice. Two lives for
one.'

‘No,' rasped Freilinger. ‘We are talking about one life for many. For thousands. For hundreds of thousands.'

‘Think about it, Reinhardt,' whispered Meissner. ‘Think what Verhein could mean for the resistance.'

‘I'm thinking, believe me,' snapped Reinhardt. He screwed his palm into his forehead in frustration, and in embarrassment at having talked in such a way to Meissner. ‘Do you know,' he said, his head in his hands, then looking up, ‘do you know what you're taking away from me? For the first time in I don't know how long, I had found myself again. Found a reason to be. To live.'

‘I can give you a reason, my boy. Now you know what I'm doing, what I stand for, you can join us. I can take you with me to Italy with Freilinger. This place is a slaughterhouse. It's bad enough now, just wait until we're gone, and everyone here is at each other's throats again.'

Reinhardt thought about Dr Begović and wanted to shake his head no, to tell Meissner it did not have to be that way, but he was distracted again by a telephone in the outer office, more voices. ‘I am sorry, Colonel. I… it just seems… wrong, to
me.'

‘It's a bit late to get a
conscience
, Reinhardt,' snapped Meissner. Reinhardt froze, as a child freezes under the whip of his father's voice. Meissner's eyes bored into his, then softened. He passed a hand over his face. Reinhardt saw how the hand shook, like an old man's. For the first time, he seemed to see that Meissner's skin was dotted with spots, stretched tight, clawlike, over the bones. ‘I am sorry, my boy,' Meissner whispered. ‘I should never have said that.'