The Man from Berlin (42 page)

This had to be the end, Reinhardt realised, as he changed magazines, trying to look everywhere at once. The air was full of the stench and blast of war. Smoke gusted up around the clearing, explosions blooming orange that curled into black. ‘
Captain
,' whispered Claussen. He held a key out in a trembling hand.

Reinhardt grabbed it, then hauled Claussen over to the
kübelwagen
. Straining everything he had, he managed to get the sergeant into the passenger seat, where he collapsed in on himself, his body folding around the hard edges of the car. As Reinhardt limped around to the driver's side, a bullet clapped past his ears, then another. He saw a band of Partisans racing through the woods towards him. He leaned his elbows on the
kübelwagen
's hood and fired. Bullets struck spurts of dust and blood high on one's shoulder; the others dropped into cover.

Reinhardt flung the MP 40 into the car and fumbled the key into the ignition. Hunched low, he floored the accelerator, spinning the
kübelwagen
in a tight circle and aiming it back down the track. There were stabs of flame and smoke from the forest, and the trees around him splintered and shattered as Partisans fired, bullets thudding metallically into the body of the
kübelwagen
.

An explosion in front of the car blinded him in a shower of dirt and earth. There was another one, right underneath, and the rear of the
kübelwagen
flared up into the air. It twisted around and crashed off the track with an eruption of splintered wood. Reinhardt felt a tremendous blow to his head as he was flung out across the hard ground. The car rolled onto its side, teetered as if undecided, then slumped onto its back. A wheel spun itself down, a length of ripped rubber flapping slower and slower on the car's chassis.

Groping blindly through the pain in his head, Reinhardt's hand closed around the Williamson and dragged it up to his mouth. Its metal shine dulled under the dusty heat of his breath, and from far away he remembered another place, hacked from the grudging earth.

Father, Father, it hurts.

Part Four

The Scar

44

FRIDAY

R
einhardt's eyes fluttered open
and he stared upward
, confused by what he saw, until he realised it was the light shifting through the tracery of branches in the trees above him. His vision steadied and it all came back in a rush of memory, and with it the pain in his leg, and another in his head.

He was lying on a thick bed of grass, his knee heavily bandaged. Lifting his hand, he felt another around his head, lumped over his right ear, and he ached everywhere, his fingers throbbing heavily. Sounds began to filter in. He could hear an aircraft, somewhere, the sounds of men talking, and a steady murmur like the lap of water along its banks. Pushing himself up, he saw movement through the trees. Lines of men moving steadily through the dim light of the forest. Men dressed in uniforms from a half dozen armies, red-starred caps and blanket rolls, shouldered rifles. Partisans. Off to one side, a group of men knelt around something on the ground, their backs and shoulders all rounded and taut, and on the other side of him, he now saw, were more wounded, all Partisans, and the realisation began to sink in that he was a prisoner.

Reinhardt's eyes shifted upward as the noise of the aircraft suddenly increased. All around, the forest went still, the marching lines of Partisans melting into cover. There was a blur across the forest's canopy as the aircraft passed above. No one moved, and then came a ripping sound, like fabric tearing, as an artillery barrage tore overhead and somewhere, not so far away, came a long tremble of explosions. There was silence again, then a ripple of movement as the Partisans resumed their march.

One of the kneeling men stood up. He was wearing, of all things, what looked like a white sleeveless waistcoat, with thick coloured stripes around the deep V of its neck. He assumed a stern expression as he plucked a pipe from his mouth and spread his hands to either side.

‘
Wiiiide
,' he said, and Reinhardt froze. The others laughed. Someone threw a pine cone. The man grinned, saw Reinhardt, and gestured at him with his pipe stem. The others straightened and looked around. One rose to his feet and walked over to him. He was a tall man, his face and arms deeply tanned, and his hair a wavy blond. He wore a khaki uniform with a major's insignia on the shoulders. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up high past his elbows, and a big pistol with a lanyard in the butt was holstered on his left
hip.

He was British.

He knelt on one knee next to Reinhardt, looking at him with clear hazel eyes. ‘How are you feeling?'

Reinhardt swallowed against a thick, dry mouth and nodded. ‘Thank you, I am well.'

The British officer nodded. ‘Glad to hear it, although it's no thanks to me and my chaps.' His German was slow, quite heavily accented. ‘Here's the doc that put you back together.' There was a rustle of grass, and Dr Begović knelt on Reinhardt's other side. ‘Understand you two know each other?'

Reinhardt let out a long sigh, then smiled. It felt right to smile, but it felt heavy, as well, like another sign that whatever journey he had been on these past few days, it was over. ‘We know each other. How are you, Doctor?'

‘I'm well, Captain.' He smiled back. ‘You have been out for the best part of a day. Your knee is quite bad. You won't be doing much with it for some time.'

‘Doctor, I was with someone. A sergeant, who was wounded, but I don't see
him.'

‘Your sergeant is dead, Captain. Of his wounds.'

Reinhardt looked away, his mouth tight.

‘Friend of yours, this sergeant?' asked the British officer. Reinhardt nodded. ‘Sorry, we've not been properly introduced,' he continued, extending his hand. ‘Major Brian Sanburne, Rifle Brigade.'

Reinhardt shook the proffered hand. ‘Captain Gregor Reinhardt.'

He took Reinhardt's papers from a pocket. ‘I know. Not often a captain of the Abwehr falls into our hands,' he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

‘Am I your prisoner, or theirs?' asked Reinhardt, motioning to Begović.

‘Both, really,' said Sanburne. ‘They found you, but they're not sure what to do with
you.'

‘There is some reluctance to take prisoners, as you might understand, Captain,' said Begović. Up here, in the mountains, he seemed subtly different to Reinhardt. Harder, more purposeful. Like a man in his element. ‘Prisoners slow us down, and you have not exactly been particularly caring of those of us who have fallen into your hands.'

‘Yes, well, no one's talking about abandoning you, or having you shot,' said Sanburne, wryly. ‘At least not
yet.'

‘Captain, I personally am glad you are well, but your countrymen are making our lives very difficult. Major Sanburne has offered to take you off our hands for now, and that has been agreed to. I have many other duties to attend to, so…' He rose to his feet. ‘I'll leave the two of you alone. Perhaps later, Captain.'

‘Doctor, before you leave… Do you have news of that young man in Sarajevo?'

‘Jelić? We have him.' Reinhardt felt a rush of relief. ‘That was clever, using that drop-off to leave a message.'

‘The days of the Shadow are over, then?' said Reinhardt, watching Begović carefully.

The doctor looked back at him, then grinned, a sparkle in his eyes. He nodded at Sanburne, then left, back to his wounded.

‘So, Captain… we've a bit of time before we have to move on. I thought we'd have a chat? Something to drink?
Tea?'

‘Tea,' said Reinhardt.

‘
Sarn't Major, two cups of that tea you made earlier, if you please,
' Sanburne called out in English. He turned back to Reinhardt. ‘Been a bit of trouble getting the tea made. In the desert, we'd just pour petrol over a can of sand, and voilà, practically smokeless fire.'

‘You were in North Africa?'

‘Long-range desert group. Odds are we might almost have crossed paths a few times, eh?' Reinhardt took a tin mug of tea from a sergeant with the heavy features of a boxer. ‘Cigarette?' asked the major, proffering a silver case. ‘Turkish, here, or English…'

Reinhardt took a Woodbine, which Sanburne lit for him. ‘What are you doing here, Major?' he asked, drawing the tobacco deep. He coughed, not used to such strong blends anymore.

‘Liaison group. One of several.' Sanburne's eyes were steady on him as he lit his own cigarette. ‘The Četniks are a dead loss. Not to mention practically German auxiliaries as well. We're putting our weight behind the Partisans. Official policy
now.'

Reinhardt breathed out, nodded. ‘We thought
so.'

‘You with that general?' Sanburne asked suddenly, mug held in two hands.

‘What?'

‘Begović told me you were after a general. One got himself killed yesterday. Chap by the name of Verhein. There was a devil of a fight, but his death threw your chaps off quite a bit and allowed a couple of Partisan brigades to break through. You had anything to do with that?'

‘With the general?' Reinhardt nodded, thinking of Begović's bargain with him.
I help you, I help my people.
‘In a way,
yes.'

‘I'd like to hear about that a bit later. In the meantime…' He brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, and Reinhardt was struck by how, behind that tan, and the deep lines around his eyes, and his rank, the major was a young man. ‘You've a decision to make.'

‘Oh?' Reinhardt drew deeply on his cigarette.

‘I'll be blunt, Captain. I'd like you to work for
us.'

Reinhardt exhaled, narrowing his eyes around the smoke. ‘What makes you think I'd do that?'

‘Wild guess. A hunch. Something the good doctor might have let slip.'

‘Such
as?'

‘Not being overly happy with your life.'

‘It's a long way from not being happy with one's life to becoming a traitor.'

‘Well, put it this way. It's us, or them,' he said, motioning to the Partisans. ‘I can afford to be slowed down even less than them. I've a job to do that doesn't require me babysitting someone like you. So a yes gets you out to Alexandria, and a chance to make a difference in this war – I'm guessing a difference you've been wanting for quite some time – but a no sees you given back to them.'

Reinhardt was taken aback. ‘That sounds less than gentlemanly, Major.'

Sanburne grinned, his eyes suddenly very hard. ‘ “Gentlemanly”,' he repeated. He stubbed his cigarette out on the ground. ‘I have always wondered why the English and that epithet seem to go hand in hand. Put it this way, Captain, and forgive the bombast. We didn't build the biggest empire known to man by being gentlemen.'

‘I see,' swallowed Reinhardt.

‘And before you throw “blackmail” at me, it's not. If we weren't here, you'd be theirs anyway.'

Reinhardt was silent a long while, sipping from his tea. It was milky and sweet, the way the British seemed to like it. It felt good going down. ‘There may be another way.' Sanburne raised his eyebrows. ‘May I have a little time alone, Major? To think?'

Sanburne nodded. ‘Not much, though. We'll be moving on come morning.' He took something else from his pocket. ‘I think this is yours,' he said, handing over the little leather package Meissner had given him and holding up the Williamson. ‘Must be a good story with this one. Perhaps you'll tell it to me, one day.' Reinhardt took it, a little too quickly, perhaps. Sanburne's eyes widened, but he said ­nothing.

‘Thank you,' said Reinhardt.

‘Until later, then.'

Reinhardt finished his cigarette and lay back, feeling light-headed. He thought about Claussen, about his steady presence from the very first minute of the case. There had been a sense of kinship there, towards the end. It did not seem right for Reinhardt to have reached something like an ending, only to have Claussen lost behind
him.

He closed his eyes and must have slept, for he opened them with the light deeper. He managed to get himself to one knee, then to his feet. He wobbled as his knee throbbed in pain, putting out a hand to hold himself against a tree. A Partisan with a rifle stepped forward, snapped something. Reinhardt mimed walking with his fingers, gestured at the forest. Mollified, the Partisan quieted. Reinhardt took a tentative step, then another, his knee hurting but not unbearably so. He looked around, spotted where it seemed a little lighter, and pointed. The guard nodded.

He limped through the trees to where they thinned, the guard following quietly. A file of Partisans marched past, one of them still a boy with an oversized cap tilted back on his ears walking with a man who had to be his father. The boy talked quietly, excitedly; the father looked at Reinhardt as he went past, face broad and dark and his hands massive where they held the strap of his rifle.

Limping to just inside the tree line, Reinhardt saw that they were camped high on the side of a mountain, its flanks dropping away before him into a steep-sided bowl of a valley. It was late in the day, and far away to the west a milky sun was setting where the mountains lay knuckled across the bottom of the sky. The valley below was sunk in shadow, and he could see no sign of the Drina. He took off his jacket and sat down gingerly, flexing his fingers, back against a tree, and looked towards the setting sun, thinking, letting his mind drift where it would.

He remembered what he and Brauer had talked about all those months ago in Berlin. Had they burned away enough of themselves to survive this war that was not theirs? He knew now, as then, that he had not and that he never would. But he also knew now it
was
his war. It was just that he had been fighting it the wrong way. Head down, in the shadows, back bent, and every day a little more of himself sliding away to wherever the parts of yourself went when you lost them.

He remembered as well what he had told Begović at the safe house in Sarajevo – that the track of his life was a scar that hid what was and what might have been. Scars healed well if they healed quickly, he thought. Was this such a chance? To change the track of that scar, alter it, make it something different? Heal it? Cauterise it? What image was he looking for? The past was what it was, and what might have been, could have been – should have been – lay hidden, lost, obscured by its weight. The past could not be changed, but the future was different, and it was here, now. It always had been.

He thought of the people in his life whose opinion he might have sought. Meissner, Brauer, maybe even Freilinger, certainly Claussen. Dr Begović. His son, if he was alive. And Carolin, most especially. He unfolded her picture and held it in his hand, his thumb stroking that fall of her hair. Then he thought that all his life, he had waited on the good opinions of others and nearly always done what was expected of him, hoping it was the right thing. Often it was. Sometimes, it had not been. This time… this time, it felt right that there was no one to
ask.

He shifted the tunic on his lap, his eyes switching back and forth between the eagle and swastika stitched onto the right breast, the Iron Cross on the left. Almost unconsciously, his fingers began to pick at the loose stitching along the eagle's wing again, working and worrying it. Something had happened to him these past few days. He had found himself again, and found a new side to men he thought he had known well. He had found respect in the ranks of his enemy, and danger from his own side. He had become aware of another way of fighting this war, the presence of a fork in the track of his life, and in that hut in the forest he had taken the first steps down that different path.

He knew now he had never lacked for choices; it was decisions that were missing. So often, he had been passive in the face of what needed to be done. Running that confrontation in the forest over and over in his mind, pinned to the certainty in Goran's eyes, he was afraid he still was. That he had only really decided when faced with the inevitable. It felt right, what he had decided, what he felt, but he could not help but ask himself – his old self-doubt surfacing – how genuine a feeling, a decision, was
it?