The apartment had turned into a busy crime scene. Police standing by the door, police searching every room, opening drawers and cupboards, rifling through possessions, photographers with flash-popping cameras, two men in suits and fedoras in muted discussion, two ambulance men lifting the plastic bag containing the body of Frau Leitner onto a stretcher, Bergmann’s corpse lying under a white sheet, patiently waiting its turn.
Harry sat at the kitchen table holding an ice pack to one cheek, being ministered to by two pretty Fräuleins in nurse’s uniforms, one of whom dabbed a cut on his chin with antiseptic-soaked cotton wool. He took a sip of Johnnie Walker from a china cup and stole a puff from his cigarette each time a Fräulein foraged in her medical bag for new supplies. They’d cleaned all traces of Frau Leitner’s body parts and fluids from his eyes, face and hair, but his shirt and trousers were splattered with ever-blackening stains, some spreading as far as his shoes and socks. His blood-soaked jacket hung on the back of the chair.
He had a thumping headache and his speech was slurred not so much by the whisky but, given the throbbing pain, by a jaw he knew must be broken even if the experts insisted otherwise. He was still numb with shock but it didn’t stop him reliving the last few hours, looking for the fatal errors in the operation, in particular, his own. But it was too complicated; there were too many variables, the adrenalin had long since worn off, the alcohol and aspirin were taking effect and his brain was telling his body to rest. One of the suits came over to inspect as a nurse applied a sticking plaster to his cut.
“Are you ladies almost finished?”
“Just about. Keep taking the aspirin, Harry. Go easy on the whisky, please.”
They packed up their bags and left.
“Major, we need a preliminary statement from you now, and as soon as you’re ready, Commander Laughton will want to see you. Tomorrow if possible.” Harry took another swig. “We’re going to take you to the Excelsior. The apartment is now compromised and out of bounds. We’ll have to find you something else, but until we do, you and your, er, girlfriend can rest easy. You’ll have protection.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. He’d suddenly lost faith in the value of protection, but then again, he was not nor had ever been the target. Like the others, he’d just got in the way. Systematic elimination of British government officials on their own territory by the Stasi or anyone else would be a declaration of war and whatever the state of diplomatic relations between East and West, they did not yet amount to that. But as regards moving out of the apartment, he’d come to the same conclusion for different reasons. He and Petra couldn’t live here any more. Even if the place were gutted and redecorated, it would always be the scene of two murders, forever in their minds, forever damned, a place visited by evil.
“But you got him?”
“Yes. Wasn’t difficult. He gave up without a fight. The police took him to go through the formalities and then lock him up. We’ll send a team in. We need to know if he’s just a hired hand or if he’s better connected than that. If he has a network.”
“He was certainly well informed.”
“Yes, it appears so. But he was totally calm when we arrived, almost a zombie.”
“A well-informed and very clever zombie.”
“You were lucky.”
Harry’s analytical mind saw the trap immediately. He regularly used the same technique himself. The suit’s tone was conversational rather than inquisitorial – an innocuous throwaway remark made simply to test the reaction, lay the ground for the lie, if there was to be one. No one was trusted. Everyone was under suspicion. He knew the assassin couldn’t have done what he did without inside information and at this precise moment, he was first in the frame, not least because he was the last man standing.
Why didn’t he kill Harry when he had the chance? He’d simply disabled him, shot Bergmann, then returned to deliver the coup de grâce. But he’d hesitated and left it too late. It made no sense to Harry or, by inference, the suits and it worried him. Only Harry knew Harry was innocent.
But then if the assassin had pulled the trigger, he would have condemned himself to die in a hail of police bullets. He wouldn’t have been the first to sacrifice himself for his profession or his love for the motherland. But maybe he thought he could bargain his way out of it, do a deal, or a swap, even? He’d be taking a big risk. He risked being left high and dry by his masters depending on how useful he was, how much he knew himself and whether or not his side had anyone they were prepared to trade. What he’d done was a hanging offence on either side of the Wall. The stakes could not be higher. For them both. Someone’s shouting. Petra!
“Get out of my way! I live here!”
She’s early. He stood up abruptly and his head swam for a second. He steadied himself then tottered to the front door followed by a suit. Petra was gesticulating with two Polizei.
“What the hell is going on?” She saw Harry and her mouth dropped open in shock. “Harry? Oh mein Gott! Harry?” She pushed between the policemen and rushed up to him, stopping to take in the sight: the black and blue cheek, the plaster on the chin, the blood-spattered shirt. “Oh my God, Harry. What the hell happened?”
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
She looked at him as if he were an alien.
“It’s not okay! What happened? Oh my God, you’re hurt! Is that your blood?”
She dropped her bag and flung herself at him. He winced in pain from several places at once and wrapped his arms gently around her. She hung on as if for dear life. Behind him she would see the sofa and the white, bulging, blood-stained sheet, the blood on the floor and the sofa and the walls, and she’d watch as two ambulance men walked casually past them with a stretcher and a black body-sized plastic bag. “Harry?” She was on the verge of breaking down.
“Come on.”
He shepherded her over to the kitchen and turned her so her back was to the sitting room. He held her at arm’s length. She had tears in her eyes and it broke his heart to see her so upset and afraid.
“There’s been… an incident. Two people have been killed” – she gasped and put a hand to her mouth – “and the man who did it is in police custody.” He tried to say it as calmly as possible but his speech was impaired. He sounded like someone just back from a major session at the dentist. She shook her head in confusion.
“What man? Who’s been killed? What were they doing here?” Her eyes pleaded with him for answers to questions beyond her comprehension. “Who are these people?” she said, looking at the suits.
“These men are colleagues of mine. They’re here to help us.” The suits were watching the exchange but made no attempt to acknowledge their introduction.
“Help us do what?”
“We’re going to stay in a hotel for a few days, to let things settle down.”
“Settle down what? What? Tell me!” she shrieked, her fear turning to anger. He held her by the shoulders.
“Petra. Go into the bedroom and pack a bag for a few days. I promise I’ll explain everything to you later. Okay?”
She flashed a glance at the suits and then back to Harry. She wiped a hand across her face and moved unsteadily towards the bedroom as they all watched. One of the suits followed her. The other turned to Harry.
“You’re still bound and will always be bound by the Official Secrets Act, Major.”
“I know that,” he said icily. “Have the good grace to let me handle this. I know what I’m doing.” The suit nodded but in a way that made clear he was not convinced.
***
The porter showed them into their room at the Excelsior, placed their bags on a stand and bowed as he backed out.
Harry had spent an hour with the suits giving them a blow-by-blow account of the last three days’ events, from the time he was briefed by Laughton, the research he’d done and where, the places he’d gone, the people he’d met, what he’d said to them and, in particular, what happened from the moment he stepped into the safe house earlier that day.
Petra had spent the time locked in the bathroom, largely of her own volition, but she was not cleared to hear what they had to say and Harry didn’t want her to anyway. He would tell her in his own way in his own time regardless of OSA considerations. He owed her that.
“We’ll be right outside, Major,” said a tall guy with a crew-cut, a chiselled jaw and a sharp suit, “round the clock.” He pulled the door shut behind him. Petra sat on the bed, still apparently in a daze. They hadn’t said anything on the ride over from the apartment.
“Major?” she said at last with heavy irony. Harry sighed. He had so much explaining to do and even now, he couldn’t tell her everything. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her; it was just that she didn’t need to know. Or maybe she did? He was still confused himself and not sure what on earth he could say that would calm her, which was all he really wanted. But what could he possibly say to reassure her that, despite being chased by a professional assassin who’d shot dead four people in cold blood, two of them in their own home, there was nothing more to worry about?
“More of a formality than anything.”
“Your work gives you a rank?” she said in disbelief.
“I work for the secret service…”
“Jesus!” She stood up and stomped across to the window, which, he judged, was about as far away from him as she could get. She crossed her arms and stared through the glass, keeping her back to him.
“Don’t tell me it comes as any great surprise.”
She put on a mocking voice. “How was your day at the office, dear? Ooh, a couple of people got their brains blown out, nothing special.”
“It doesn’t happen to people like me.”
“Nor me!” She whirled around, stabbing her chest with one finger.
“Petra, I know it sounds sinister but really, most of the stuff I do is boring and mundane.”
“How can I be sure of that? You never tell me anything. If it’s so boring and mundane why couldn’t you tell me? Why did you have to wait for something hideous and awful to happen before you mention anything?”
Before he could answer there was a tap on the door. He found it a welcome relief. Maybe it would give her a moment to calm down.
Chisel-jaw’s head appeared. “Major? Can we have a moment, please?”
Harry stepped into the corridor. The suits were back. They looked awkward and serious.
“Did you forget something?”
“They lost him.”
“Who?” But he had no doubt.
“Your assassin. The Polizei lost him.”
“Oh Christ. How?”
“He shot them. Three of them.”
“No! That’s not possible. Wasn’t he cuffed?”
“Apparently.”
“Well then…?”
“Look, we don’t know all the details yet and I doubt there’ll be many witnesses to exactly what happened. The car mounted the pavement and crashed into a phone box. People saw a big guy with a gun crawl out and run off. Three dead coppers inside. Thought you should know.”
Harry’s head began to throb again. It had to be a macabre joke, a ruse just to watch his reaction or trick him into saying something incriminating. He didn’t trust the suits any more than they trusted him. There was no room for trust in their game.
“Look,” said Senior Suit. “I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about. You were never the target; he already had a chance to finish you off and didn’t” – Why do you keep mentioning that? – “so he’s got nothing to gain and everything to lose by trying to hunt you down again.” Hunt me down again? Thanks, pal!
Harry thought about it. It was logical. Boyd and Dennis were in the way and would have tried to stop him. There would have been no other way to immobilise them. Frau Leitner too. She would have screamed or struggled, an obvious impediment. Harry’d had a gun but he was already on his knees and maybe it was quicker to kick him in the head and save a bullet than break step. Whatever the reason, the target had been reached so there was no further need to clear a path. But the guy had come back for him, so they’d said, and hadn’t pulled the trigger. Because I wasn’t the target, the police had arrived, he was outnumbered and he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
Senior Suit was talking. “The Polizei are pulling out all the stops. Different when it’s one of their own, never mind three, but my bet is he’s already back on the other side. Get some room service and have a rest. You’ve got a meeting with Laughton on Monday at ten. We’ll pick you up.”
Harry watched them turn and go. No pleasantries, no concern, no grace, no humanity. What a miserable world they lived in, he thought to himself. The same one as you, Harry. They still believed he was guilty. That was the default position, guilty until proven innocent. That was the way it worked in their world. Justice turned on its head. He went back inside, unsure of what he was he was going to say to her. He’d have to tell her. He’d have to tell her everything, including the gory details. He had one chance to finally be honest with her and he would leave nothing out or else he’d lose her and that was unthinkable.
She was standing by the bed, looking at her unopened suitcase, arms folded, biting a nail. He took a deep breath.
“Er, that was the guys in suits again.”
“Laurel and Hardy?”
“I don’t know their names.”
“Of course you don’t!” she snapped at him. This was not going to be easy.
“The guy who killed, er… the killer, is on the loose. He got away.” She threw her head back and exhaled, long and deep. “But he’s not considered a danger, not to us anyway.”
“He’s murdered two people and he’s not considered a danger?” The words came out slow and measured but the look said it all. He was not credible. None of them were. Tell her everything.
“Seven.”
“What?”
“He’s killed seven.”
She slowly sat down on the bed and put both hands to her head as if to steady her brain, force it to compute the irrational nonsense she was being told.
“Seven? Why stop at seven? Why not nine?” she simmered, challenging him to dispute the obvious.
“Because I was never the target. The guy had a job to do and the people he killed got in the way of him doing that job. He’s a professional, he doesn’t do it for fun.”
“Listen to yourself! You actually admire this guy? He’s a professional? He has principles?”
“No!”
“What kind of a world do you live in, Harry? I have no idea who you are.”
“Petra. They think he’s already back in the East.”
“Think!” she screamed. “They think? What do I care what these people think? What do I care what you think?” She stabbed a finger at him. It hurt but it was true. He may as well be a stranger to her. “What if I’d been at home?”
It had already crossed his mind and if he thought there had been any chance she’d been there he would never have taken Bergmann. Never in a million years. He would never knowingly put her in danger. Knowingly? But you have put her in danger, Harry.
“I’ll look after you. I’ll make sure we’re okay and soon things will get back to normal and…”
“I’m pregnant.”
The mini-fridge in the corner of the room kicked into life, the rattle and hum of the condenser incongruously loud in the silence that suddenly engulfed them.
“Oh,” he said, lost for words. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of hope, a ray of optimism, a feeling of release and escape and the stirrings of joy tempered by the fear of a new unknown. But like the fragments of a dream you try so hard to remember that it dissolves into fairy mist, the moment came and went. They had not had sex for a long time and she showed no signs.
“It’s not yours.”
They stood in silence, heads down, unsure of what to do next. Her belligerence had gone; her body language spoke sadness and regret and his, desolation. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to berate her for betraying him, for the lies she must have told: the monthly meetings that went on late, the drinks with friends, the weekend conferences, visiting her mother. The deceit and the cruelty and the utter selfishness of it all. But he knew he was to blame. He knew it was all his fault and any anger he felt should be directed, as usual, at himself. He had form, and it was inevitable. I don’t know what she sees in me – I’ll make an honest woman of her one day.
“May I ask…?”
“A friend from university.” She sniffed. She was crying and he wanted to hold her, but he felt awkward. It would be impolite. She’d suddenly become as much of a stranger to him as he appeared to be to her and it wasn’t the done thing to cuddle a stranger.
“May I ask why?”
“Why do you think, Harry?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks and stood up, her anger returning to counter the anguish. “I don’t know who you are. You never talk to me. We never go anywhere together. I don’t know what you do or what you have done or where you came from or where you’re going or whether you have any family or where they are.”
“I have no family.”
“Well, it really doesn’t matter now.”
“You’re all I’ve got.”
It was someone else speaking his words. Harry Male never said anything that revealed his emotions or his feelings. His innermost thoughts were private, not for public consumption. Articulating his inner thoughts served no purpose other than to trivialise their essence and demean the speaker. That had always been the case before. The dubious justification.
Her face creased in frustration. The anguish was back. “I’m just someone who shares your apartment. Nothing more.”
“Tell me what you want, Petra.”
“What do I want? I want to love someone. Someone who loves me. Someone to share my life with. I want children. I want a family and a nice house and a good job and I want to go on sunny holidays and swim in the sea and have picnics in the park and go to the Christmas markets and play in the snow and sit indoors in front of a roaring log fire when the rain is falling outside. I want a puppy dog and cosy slippers and a soft bed with a hot-water bottle. I want a real life, Harry. I want a normal life. With someone I can trust.”
“That’s what I want too.”
“You don’t know what you want, Harry. That’s your problem.”
“My problem?” She was slipping away from him now. His instinct was to lash out, react to her hurtful criticism, tell her she was the one who’d been unfaithful to him, she was the one who’d slept with someone else and kept it a secret and lied to him. But he couldn’t, because he knew she was right and if he were really honest with himself, it was too late. She’d already gone.
“You’re trapped alone inside this shell, wrestling with whatever demons are tormenting you, hoping that one day it will all be okay, that one day it won’t matter any more, that time will have healed the wounds and you can move on. Yet somehow you stay, wallowing in the past, in your self-pity. You won’t talk about it, you can’t forget about it and you can’t deal with it. Unless you do something to break free, you’re doomed to spend what’s left of your life in this living hell.”
“Then help me.”
“I’ve tried, Harry. But you always push me away. Sometimes I think you don’t even know I exist. You have to do this yourself.”
She picked up her case and jacket.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“To stay with a friend.”
“Who?” She didn’t answer but they both knew. “But you can’t. Not yet. Wait till it’s all died down.”
“You said there was no danger. Laurel and Hardy said there was no danger.”
“I know. But I just don’t like the idea of you going alone.”
“I’ve been alone for a long time and so have you. I hope it all works out for you, Harry. Please ask your colleagues to let me into the apartment tomorrow so I can collect the rest of my things?”
It was over. There was nothing more to say or be said.
***
The man known to Frau Brucker as Radler got back to his apartment block just before 6 p.m. as a tall, well-dressed gentleman was closing her door behind him. He was in his sixties, sported a grey goatee, a few strands of wispy hair and wore a striped three-piece suit. He positioned a black homburg on his head, but frowned and looked furtive when he saw the dishevelled figure approaching him. Radler guessed the man’s demeanour was more dirty secret than disdain and he’d be too conscious of his own indiscretions to notice the splashes of blood on Radler’s clothing.
“Abend,” the man known as Radler said without stopping and carried on up the stairs.
“Ah, guten Abend, mein Herr.” The tone was too casual, affected normality.
He dismissed any thought of the filthy assignations of two old Jews. On another day he’d have stopped and had some sport at the old boy’s expense and maybe even knocked up the old hag Brucker to see how quickly he could make her blush, but the man known as Radler had a lot to think about. He had much on his mind and it needed planning. He’d terminated seven today, all but three collateral damage, some of which was to be expected, but three scheiß Bullen was a bonus he hadn’t anticipated.
He let himself into his apartment and stripped off his jacket and trousers which were speckled with blood – whose he couldn’t say, but imagined most of it had been acquired within the confined space of the police car. Those amateurs had cuffed him with his hands in front, the young pig next to him in the back seat holding a gun. A moment’s distraction and he’d pounced, twisting the handcuff chain around the pig’s wrist and forcing it upwards. The gun had gone off, shooting the driver in the back of the head, causing the car to veer across the road. The other pig in front tried to grab the wheel while he struggled with the pig in the back and they’d put two holes through the roof of the car before shooting the passenger too. He’d then smashed gun and handcuffs into the face of the young pig, twisting the gun round and firing into his left eye before the car mounted the pavement and rammed a phone box. He’d used the gun to shoot through the handcuff chain and then tumbled out on the pavement amongst a number of astonished pedestrians, who panicked and scattered at the sight of the armed assailant who walked briskly away and disappeared up a side alley.
But the man known as Schneider had had a long day. He was fatigued and he was due back on duty at the Regent at nine thirty so he needed food and rest. He’d already decided the best place to hide was in plain view, which meant not deviating from his schedule. He could have a couple of hours’ sleep, pick up a bratwurst from a stall and eat it on the way to his shift.
He drank deeply from the tap in the kitchen then used a bolt cutter from his toolbox to cut through each handcuff and, along with his clothes, stuffed them in a box which he slid under the bed. He didn’t have to go to great lengths to conceal evidence; by the time anything was found he’d be long gone. He took a hot shower, washed the brown colouring out of his hair and fell into bed. He set the alarm but although he was desperately tired, his mind would not let him rest. The moment he’d dreamt of all his life had actually arrived and it had come in the most unexpected way. Now everything had changed and both Schneider and Radler would soon disappear without trace.
He felt a surge of energy course through his body, a renaissance of spirit and a rekindling of purpose long since lost, he’d thought never to regain. It was like being reborn, being given a second chance to achieve the only objective he’d ever had and now better equipped than ever to succeed. He felt the pride once more, the burgeoning ferocity and the uncompromising determination to do what he had to do and this time, he would not fail.