The Kronestube was relatively quiet but then he rarely came on a Monday. He recognised one or two regulars, old guys who probably came in every night for their daily dose of beer, stodgy food and some semblance of social interaction. Old guys who probably lived alone in grubby apartments, living off their meagre pensions, eking out what few pfennigs they had left, awaiting their time to shuffle off. Guys like him, just older.
Harry poked at his goulash with a fork, moving chunks of gristle around the plate, hungry but not hungry, tired but restless, isolated but not alone, perched on his bar stool, head propped up by one arm. Suit Number Two sat in a booth to the side watching him, neither blinking nor diverting his gaze, it seemed, a feat he’d maintained for over an hour. Harry drained his glass. The barmaid was on him.
“Another?”
She wasn’t wearing her dirndl tonight but somehow the paucity of exposed flesh made her slightly more alluring. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it wasn’t.
“Why not?” he said wearily.
Within seconds the empty glass had turned into a full one and he dived into the thick head of creamy froth to locate the cool amber liquid lurking beneath. He glanced at Suit Number Two sitting motionless in the booth like a mannequin and raised his glass in an attempt to provoke a reaction, but there was none. He pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette from a packet that lay on the bar next to a full ashtray.
At the debriefing that morning, Laughton had been joined by a suit from compliance, who, naturally, had not been introduced and had said nothing while Harry reiterated the events of Saturday. The suit had glanced repeatedly at a sheaf of notes, presumably checking the story had not changed. Harry knew the score. They’d been to the same school and been through the same training so he knew how to behave: don’t protest innocence or challenge the relevancy of any question, don’t try to steer the conversation, don’t try to embellish the facts with opinion or supplement them with thoughts you didn’t have at the time and, above all, don’t, under any circumstances, get riled. All those behavioural characteristics he would look for. The complications and inconsistencies that would ultimately undermine the lie, because the truth, however implausible it may sound, was always pure and always the simplest.
Laughton had listened intently while the tape whirled, allowing him to speak freely and only interjecting to clarify rather than challenge a remark. They were going through the motions and they all knew it. There was nothing on Harry, but he knew that alone might not be enough to save him and it was highly unlikely he could just slip back into his old role, put it all down to experience and carry on as if nothing had happened. Anyway, he was not the only one on trial. Someone had totally misjudged the operation, sending an analyst into a situation so profoundly dangerous that even the two guys with field training had been unprepared. Furthermore, someone had betrayed them and that someone had to be found. He judged that Laughton’s subdued and benign demeanour reflected perception of his own vulnerability in the wake of the Bergmann fiasco.
And the film that he’d told Bergmann was worthless even though they both thought otherwise? Now Bergmann was dead, it was the only thing they had of any value, provided it could be leveraged. It was the only crumb of comfort to offer those caught up in the violent deaths of another seven people, the violence revealed by the film begetting violence in its revelation. In the end, he doubted whether natural justice would prevail over diplomatic pragmatism or political expediency and it depressed him.
A new apartment had been found three streets away. He should stay at the Excelsior tonight and tomorrow and arrangements would be made to move his belongings. Petra was staying with a friend, he’d told them, and she’d moved out yesterday, as requested. Just as a precaution. He would clear it with them before she moved back in, he said. He wasn’t going to engage in any discussion about his private life even if he knew that part of it was over. But he knew she would be watched for a while and he thought of warning her but decided against it. It would be like adding fuel to the fire.
He would stay away from the department for the rest of the week; take a rest, Laughton had said. He’d be assigned protection until he returned to his desk next Monday. Just as a precaution. He glanced at the suit in the booth and saw surveillance rather than protection, but he had no choice other than to cooperate for the time being. It would all become clear if and when they found the mole, and in time, everything would settle down and they’d be back to normal. Normal?
Petra’s words were still ringing in his ears. He bitterly regretted deceiving her, if only by omission, but what choice did he have? That was a consequence of the career he’d decided to follow and it was incompatible with all the aspects of the normal life she craved. But he’d deceived her on a personal level too and that was a choice he’d made. He’d never discussed his experiences with her, never explained why he was who he was, never confided in her or succumbed to the self-indulgence of admitting he had a problem, his excuse being he believed that in time everything would be all right.
But time alone would not heal his wounds unless he allowed it to and he didn’t know how. He didn’t know why the memories persisted, why he couldn’t consign them to history and put the past behind him, but he did know that it had cost him dearly. His failure to break free from his own cycle of misery and self-destruction had destroyed the only thing he held dear and would go on destroying everything until he did. He needed her more than ever now, but it was too late.
He took another swig and, leaving his glass half-full, got to his feet, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette and throwing a handful of marks onto the bar. Time to go. He stepped out onto the pavement and a car pulled up. The suit opened the door and they both got in without speaking. Tomorrow would be another day, a new start perhaps? Tonight, the dreams would be the same.