The Man from Berlin (36 page)

37

T
hey ordered him up a rutted e
arthen track towards the cluster of houses Reinhardt had seen earlier. A couple of vehicles were parked outside them, one of them a Horch staff car with open sides. As Reinhardt came closer, he could see the SS plates and decals identifying them as belonging to 7th Prinz Eugen. He had not realised he had slowed until the guard who had smiled poked him in the back with the muzzle of his MP 40. More cars were parked in the trees, black-suited soldiers lounging around them. Ustaše, and one of them was Ljubčić. He looked back at Reinhardt, his eyes glittering.

Two SS troopers stood guard over a group of prisoners lined up outside a house. Some of the prisoners were obviously soldiers – ­Partisans – but others just seemed to be peasants. Farther on, an army truck was parked with a squad of soldiers standing around it, most of them smoking with their heads down and their hands in their pockets, and unless Reinhardt was very mistaken they were not happy with what was going on. Something caught his eye on the Horch's front seat. A tube, white with red caps, fetched up against the angle of the seat and its back.

There was a scream from inside the house. Long, drawn out, the choking sounds of a creature in agony. Then nothing. A sigh went through the prisoners, and the soldiers around the truck seemed to huddle closer together. The door to the house banged open and two more SS dragged a body outside and dumped it on the ground. At least two other bodies already lay there, but Reinha
rdt could not be sure because following the two SS out, a long, bloodied blade in his fist, was Standartenführer Mladen Stolić. He had a blank expression on his face, but his eyes were wide and staring over a smear of blood across one cheek, like the war paint of a red Indian. He saw Reinhardt and smiled. His teeth were very yellow in the gash of his mouth.

‘I could get to like this liaison work,' leered Stolić. He was wearing a black shirt with his sleeves rolled up. His hands and forearms and the front of his shirt were bloodied and gored, and he carried the knife – the Bowie – in one fist, red to the hilt. He washed it in a rain bucket, wiping it clean and dry with a ragged cloth, breathing quick and light. There was a light in his eyes, the whites visible all around. Reinhardt could see the signs of his addiction clearly now, and wondered that he had not spotted them before.

‘Let's talk, you and I,' Stolić said. ‘Why don't we go inside? After you.' His hand trembled slightly, the blade quivering.

Reinhardt looked at the darkened doorway, at Stolić and his two SS, standing immobile and dough-faced. ‘After
you.'

‘I insist,' grinned Stolić.

Reinhardt knew, somehow, he had to win this, this small test of wills. ‘Make an old man happy.'

The Standartenführer chuckled again. He told his two men to wait outside, then stepped into the house, the rough boards of the floor creaking underfoot. Stolić made a grand gesture, a sort of cross between a genuflection and a bow, his arm spread wide, inviting Reinhardt in. ‘Beauty before age, eh?' he smirked.

‘In the trenches, we always used to say, “Shit before paper”.'

Stolić stiffened, then turned, shutting the door. The corner of his eye twitched as he smiled. ‘You're very funny, Reinhardt.'

‘I've been told that, you know.'

Stolić blinked, his smile fading away. ‘You've been asking questions again, haven't you?' He held the big knife by the pommel, twirling it back and forth between the tips of his fingers. ‘Telling tales out of school. Old man,' he said, with a lazy sneer. A long flash of light went up the Bowie as he spun it back, then forth. The blade had a curl at the end, the last part of the top edge curving sharply down to the point, and Reinhardt remembered that pathology report, the strange shape of the wounds on Vukić's body. Stolić stepped closer to Reinhardt. ‘I often wonder what you old timers're made of,' he said. He tapped the tip of his blade on Reinhardt's Iron Cross.
Tick tick tick.
‘What would you have to do these days to get one of these?'
Tick tick.
‘A bit more than floundering around in the mud. No?'
Tick.
The blade paused, that wickedly curved point resting on the medal. Stolić pushed slightly, then harder. Reinhardt let himself be pushed to the side, then back. Stolić's eyes widened, brightened, vanished behind a slow blink. ‘I mean, really, how hard could it have been?'

Reinhardt breathed long and slow, feeling a flush of anger creeping up his back, and that light-headedness that presaged something reckless. ‘A bit harder than putting on a black uniform and pretending it makes you German.'

Stolić's face tightened. ‘Don't piss me off any more than you've done already, Reinhardt.'

‘Heaven forbid.'

The light in Stolić's eyes hardened, then lightened. ‘What've you got there in your pocket? Not fiddling with yourself, are you?!'

Reinhardt had not realised he was holding the Williamson, and held it up. Stolić stepped closer and peered at the inscription on the casing. ‘What does it
say?'

Reinhardt did not have to read it. He knew the words by heart. By feel. ‘It says, “
To Lieutenant Terence Blackwell-Gough, 5th Somerset Rifles, from his father, Michael Blackwell-Gough. November 1917
”
.
' He realised as he spoke them that he rarely said them out loud. They took on a different rhythm and weight, he realised. He looked at the old watch, as if seeing it anew.

‘I didn't know you spoke any English.'

Reinhardt shrugged noncommittally. ‘A few words.'

‘Tell me its story.'

‘Why?'

Stolić grinned. ‘Something to pass the time. Break the ice. 'Cause I'm asking nicely. Take your pick.'

Reinhardt shook his head. ‘I took it off a dead Englishman. That's all you need to know.'

‘The only Englishmen I ever met in Spain weren't worth all that much. Most of them finished up on the end of this,' Stolić drawled, sloughing through Reinhardt's memory, his eyes focusing on the tip of his knife.

‘Most Englishmen I came up against would have snapped you in two without thinking about it.' Stolić put the Bowie's point back on Reinhardt's Iron Cross, pushed. It slipped, caught up against the medal's edge. ‘What is with you and the knife?'

Stolić smiled at it. ‘Part of an UstaÅ¡a's holy triptych, Reinhardt. “Knife, revolver, bomb.” The most effective and suitable means to an end. You know, we took our oaths in front of a crucifix, a knife, and a revolver.'

‘Except now you're SS. And you're still playing with boys' toys like knives?' Stolić pushed hard again on the Cross, but this time Reinhardt took a quick step back, let Stolić's weight pull him forward. ‘And what is it with you and medals? You want
one?'

The Standartenführer's face went white, then red. ‘Tell me, Reinhardt, have you actually
killed
anyone in this war? Or have you spent it behind your desk while others did it for
you?'

‘I'm sure my body count's not as high as yours, but most of the ones I killed could shoot back.'

Stolić snorted. ‘Why have them shoot back? An unfair fight's a fair fight by me.' He flipped the knife, caught it by the handle. He grinned, yellow teeth like filthy nails. ‘It's like a drug. All this.'

‘And I did my killing with a clear head.'

‘What?'

‘How long have you been addicted to Pervitin?'

‘What?'

‘You're addicted to Pervitin, Stolić. Addicted to speed. I saw the pills in your car. I can see the signs of addiction all over
you.'

‘Wha…
?'

‘It takes more than popping pills and butchering unarmed men to make you a brave man, Stolić.'

Stolić's face creased into a snarl. ‘I don't need any fucking pills to make
me –'

‘You take them because you're weak, Stolić. Because they make you feel better about yourself. About missing out on all the action in Russia. About not being more like Grbić,' said Reinhardt, remembering the name of that Croatian Army colonel Stolić seemed to despise
so.

‘
Grbić?
What do you –'

‘Did you kill Marija Vukić?'

A flush crept up Stolić's neck, the planes of his cheeks going red. ‘You arrogant little shit,' he hissed. ‘You accuse me…
?'

Reinhardt felt cold and focused, but a part of him gibbered at the risks he was taking. He pushed that part away, the weak part, the part that had cowered in the corner of Meissner's house all those years ago, the part that had run away from his life as it was then instead of trying, however futilely, to make it right. He forced himself to smile at Stolić and then found that it felt right, and he did not have to force it after all. ‘Vukić was really something.' Stolić's face went blank. ‘She'd have got an Iron Cross if she were a man. That drove you mad, didn't
it?'

Stolić made a sound, as if he were gagging. ‘You don't –'

‘She was more of a man than you'll ever be,' Reinhardt slashed across Stolić's words.

Stolić hefted the knife, holding it out in front of him in his right hand. ‘I don't care what Becker said,' he muttered, seeming to talk to himself. ‘I'm going to cut you up, you miserable turd.' He stopped, frowned. Reinhardt drew his baton and extended it. Stolić sniggered. ‘What the fuck is that? A magic wa –' Reinhardt flicked the baton at Stolić's fist. The tip flexed and slashed into Stolić's knife hand. He squalled in surprise and pain, and the knife flashed and clanged to the floor. Reinhardt whipped the baton up and slashed it down into the junction of Stolić's neck and shoulder. The Standartenführer slumped to his knees with another
cry.

‘You piece of
shit
,' Reinhardt snarled, hoarsely, as he smashed the baton into Stolić's upper arm. ‘I ate people like you' – he struck him again – ‘for fucking' – he struck him again, across the ribs – ‘
breakfast
' – again, across the thighs, the knees – ‘in the trenches.' The rage encompassed him, filled him. He was ice all through. Stolić rolled into a ball on the floor, his breath rasping. Reinhardt stood over him, the baton raised in his quivering fist. ‘You
prick
!' he rasped. ‘You think I got this Iron Cross by being a fucking
choirboy
?!' He beat Stolić again across the back of his thighs.

Stolić whimpered, raised his arms over his head. ‘
Stop
, please. No more.'

As fast as it came, the anger flowed out of him. He felt it recede, from his fingers, up through his arms. He blinked once, twice, and it was gone. He pulled Stolić's arm down from where he had wrapped it around his head. Stolić cried out, turned his head down into the ground. Reinhardt grabbed his ear and twisted, turning his head back up towards him. Stolić's eyes were wild and rolled back like those of a cornered animal, and his breath gusted up, fetid and sour. Reinhardt lifted his fist up, the baton held high. Stolić fastened his eyes on it as if it were some kind of salvation.

‘Don't look at that, look at me. At
me
, you shit,' he hissed. Stolić rolled his eyes on him. ‘Did you kill Marija Vukić?'

Stolić shook his head. ‘No. No, I don't…' His eyes turned back to the baton.

‘At
me
, Stolić. Look at me. That's right. You don't what?'

‘I don't know…'

‘What?!'

‘I don't know if it was
me.'

‘What do you mean, Stolić?'

‘I don't… blood. There was…' He trailed off, his eyes folding away. Reinhardt struck him across the side of his thigh, above his knee, on his hip, his ankle. Stolić shuddered with pain, curling up tighter.

‘There's
always
blood. Who killed
her?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I don't believe you.' He hit him again on the knee. ‘I know you were there that night. Tell me about
it.'

‘Wha… ?' Reinhardt raised the baton, and Stolić's eyes fastened onto it. ‘
Yes
, yes! All right. Yes, I was there.'

‘
Where
, Stolić?'

‘The hotel. At the hotel. But I didn't kill her. I didn't. Please. Tell me I didn't.'

‘Was it Becker?'

‘I don't know.
Please.
'

‘What did you see that night? What did you
see
?'

‘There was… I saw Becker. We were talking. Outside the hotel. Then… my room. I don't remember. I don't
remember
.'

‘
Think
, Stolić!'

‘There was someone. I saw someone. I think…'

‘Who, Stolić?' The Standartenführer's head dropped, away from the baton, and he seemed to go limp. Whatever fear or tension held him together drained out of him, and he folded against the floor. ‘Was it Verhein?
Stolić!
' Reinhardt felt for his pulse. It was there, faint but rapid. He stood up, blinked, and suddenly realised the position he had put himself in. He collapsed the baton, putting it back in his pocket, looking down at an SS Standartenführer lying unconscious on the floor.

It was quiet and he did not know how long he stood there, but the creak of the door and a sudden intake of breath made him turn. One of Stolić's SS stood there, mouth agape. He seemed to remember himself, fumbling at his rifle and screaming over his shoulder. Reinhardt stood away from Stolić, hands wide at his side. The other SS erupted briefly into the doorway and then left.

‘Are kneeling and staying still,' yelled the first SS, a Croatian accent thickening his German. ‘Are staying
still!
Are not
moving!
' He called to Stolić once, twice, his eyes darting from the Standartenführer to Reinhardt. He knelt there, hands at his sides, and wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this.