Colonel Lance Travers liked Berlin. Unlike his compatriot at the DIPD, the fifty-year-old military attaché to the British Embassy liked the food, the beer, the bars and the restaurants. He also liked the nightclubs, the art galleries, the museums, the parks and the architecture, at least that which had survived destruction in 1945.
He liked his three-storey government residence with private garden in the affluent suburb of Charlottenburg and his chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benz. He liked a diplomatic status that provided him with four live-in staff: personal assistant Caroline; French chef Gaston; Gertrud, his German housekeeper; and Bogdan, his Polish gardener.
He liked entertaining the ambassador, friends and foreign dignitaries at home along with his socialite wife, Antonia, eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Bascombe, and when they weren’t being ferried to an exclusive restaurant or the opera he enjoyed playing his extensive collection of classical music on his Grundig high fidelity stereophonic radiogram.
He loved his teenage children, George and Annabel, going for walks in the park with them and their German shepherd, Lilli, closely but discreetly shadowed by their personal security escorts, Trevor and Martin.
But he especially liked being at the epicentre of world affairs: the stand-off between four nuclear powers, who, like pumped-up boxers standing nose to nose in the biggest arena, traded insults, threats, abuse and relentless provocation in preparation for staging the biggest event in world history. World War Three would surely start where World War Two had ended, here in Berlin, the final frontier. Best of all, as the ambassador’s representative on the Joint Intelligence Committee, he was at the cutting edge of international diplomacy and privy to all intelligence and counter-intelligence matters.
He’d had a routine and superficially constructive meeting that morning with his opposite numbers from the French and US Embassies at which they’d exchanged titbits of useless intelligence. The tripartite occupiers of West Berlin were always keen to show off their intelligence prowess and demonstrate their unwavering commitment to the joint struggle against a common enemy, but that didn’t extend to sharing sensitive information because anything remotely useful they always kept to themselves.
So the diplomats played out their monthly charade for an hour or two and then, at the invitation of Monsieur Gaillard, whose turn it was, retired to lunch at Le Papillon, a three-Michelin-starred restaurant in the French zone. Five courses, two bottles of vintage claret and three cognacs later, the American made his excuses and left his European cousins to spend the afternoon at the sauna in the basement of the Kolonial Kavalier Klub.
Alone in the sauna, Gaillard and Travers were able to speak freely about the vulgar and uncultured American and go on to exchange “classified” information they’d withheld from their supposedly unreliable opposite number.
Gaillard could not resist having a dig. “I understand you lost Bergmann before you even got started.”
Travers didn’t care to take lessons from the French. They had never thanked the British properly for saving their backsides. Twice! And anyway, it wasn’t his department.
“Bloody spooks. Should have kept him in jail, put the thumbscrews on him instead of moving him around their little network of burrows and hidey holes.”
Later, when the pompous frog Gaillard had left, the philistine rosbif retired to his private dressing cubicle and Colonel Travers was finally free to indulge in the thing he’d been looking forward to most: sitting naked on the wooden bench with his back against the wall, legs akimbo, being fellated by Kristof, the eighteen-year-old pool attendant. It would have been the highlight of his day had they not been so rudely interrupted.
The door to the cubicle opened with a click, the unexpected sound breaking Travers’ enrapt concentration and causing him to open his eyes and glare at Kristof. Lock the door in future, you stupid bitch! Kristof got to his feet, wiped the back of a hand across his mouth and, as he left, took a handful of notes from the tall stranger standing by the open door, naked but for the white towel around his waist. Travers sat up, confused and annoyed and suddenly conscious of his own nakedness.
“Who the devil are you?”
The stranger closed and bolted the door behind him and walked over to the bench, reaching behind his back to extract a pistol tucked into the towel. He pointed it at Travers’ head.
“I am your humble servant, Colonel. You are my master.”
It took a while for Travers to make the connection. The guy was no member of his household nor was he employed at the embassy, so “servant’ meant nothing. But “master”? Through an intermediary, he handled three operatives. To each he was known uniquely as “overlord”, “sovereign” or… “master”.
“Kessler?” he hissed. Travers had never seen the guy before. Not in the flesh. He’d seen an old picture and knew his name and that, through his intermediary, he was the ultimate recipient of assignments passed to the newspaper kiosk owner in Kurfürstendamm and, somehow, the job got done.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, attempting to exert his authority while fully aware that he was, at this particular moment, powerless and extremely vulnerable. “We can’t be seen together.”
“I want a name and a location.”
“Who, what? What do you mean?”
“Bergmann’s handler.”
“What about him?”
“I want to know his name and where he is. We have unfinished business.” The tone of Kessler’s voice said it all, leaving a chill despite the heat.
Travers thought for a moment, trying to quell the panic he could feel building inside. He had a gun pointed at his head by a trained and highly experienced assassin, someone who had no compunction about murder. He’d eliminated Bergmann successfully but he’d wasted six others, including three cops. That made him a fucking psychopath and that made him unpredictable. He took a chance.
“You did a good job, my friend. You know you’re held in high regard.” He thought he sensed the gun hand relax a little and although it may only have been his imagination he clung on to it. “You did extremely well to complete the assignment so swiftly and the target got what he deserved, but I confess our superiors are a little perturbed about the, er, collateral damage. A bit too messy for their liking,” he ventured. The wrist holding the gun tightened at the implied criticism and Travers’ heart skipped.
“They were in the way. It was necessary.”
Travers breathed again. “Yes, I’m sure it was. But the job’s done now. Mission accomplished!” Travers managed a weak smile. “There’s nothing to be gained by going after a low-ranking civil servant. It’ll just cause us all a load more aggro.”
“Name and location.”
Travers wasn’t making it up. The incident had been turned from a political assassination into a routine murder investigation, and that was far preferable. The target had been silenced; that was all that was required. Pursuing and murdering another incidental player would be counter-productive, probably lead to reprisals and make them think again about using the film. They’d discussed the entire operation in the JIC and he knew the film was of less importance than Bergmann himself. He took another chance.
“You’re in the film, you know. A starring role.” He saw Kessler blink and he felt further emboldened.
“What film? What nonsense is this?”
“Bergmann brought with him a film, taken in ‘44. Nazis shooting a load of Italian civilians. Engel was in charge. You were there too, doing your bit for the Fatherland.” Kessler’s eyes strayed a fraction. Travers was feeling more confident now. “They won’t use it. They’ve got skeletons of their own we already know about, but if you waste another one of their flunkeys, they might think twice. Out of spite.” He watched Kessler. Remembering 1944, perhaps? Considering the options? It lasted only a second.
“Name and location.”
Travers sighed. “Who is this guy anyway?”
“It’s personal.”
Personal? Travers shook his head. Kessler had lost it.
“Look, Kessler —” he started, but didn’t finish.
Kessler grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the naked, shrieking Travers off the bench and onto the tiled floor. He lifted him onto his knees and held his face down on the tiles with his buttocks in the air and his legs spread wide.
“You will find out and you will tell me. You are a British traitor. You have no choice.” He pressed the muzzle of the Beretta against Travers’ anus and prodded it. “And in case you are not sure, that is the gun.”
“Don’t be a fool. If you do this, you have no country left.” The words were strained and distorted, squeezed out of one side of his compressed mouth. “They’ll come after you and kill you.”
“I am already dead. But you will also be dead and then I will go to your house and I will torture and murder your family, chop up their bodies and flush the pieces down the toilet.”
Travers wasted no more time. “Harry Male.”
“Repeat!”
“Harry Male, he’s in a civilian role but technically he’s a major.”
“Where is he now?”
“I have no idea. Even I don’t know where these guys live. All I know is he moved out of his apartment after you redecorated it with blood and bullets.”
“Your house will look the same if you don’t do as I say. I want to know where he is!” he shouted, increasing the pressure on Travers’ neck and poking the gun even harder.
Travers whimpered. “I don’t know. I’ll find out.”
“You will find out and send me a message by the usual means. You have two days!”
“Okay. Okay!”
Kessler removed the gun from Travers’ anus and pressed it against his jaw instead. Using his free hand, he unfastened his own towel and let it drop.
“What are you doing?” asked Travers, suddenly alarmed, but the question was stifled as Kessler clasped his free hand over Travers’ mouth and pulled back his head, pressing himself against his buttocks. Travers moaned in fear and a sense of foreboding.
“That is not my gun. So, in case you have any doubt. This is what I will do to your wife and children, before I kill them.” He thrust steadily and Travers’ muted cries turned into a rhythm of muted screams that continued for three whole minutes.
***
Kessler had watched the apartment on and off for two weeks. The day after the kill, he’d seen a young woman assisted by a tall, bearded young man with spectacles and sandals remove several boxes and load them into a small van. But he’d had limited time to conduct surveillance between shifts at the Regent and was also faced with two difficulties: the apartment was so close to the Wall there was no convenient vantage point, and he had to contend with the continuous presence of the police, to whom he was now public enemy number one.
According to the posters he’d seen, the man they were looking for was aged between forty and forty-five, one metre ninety in height with dark brown hair and athletic build and had been wearing a leather bomber jacket over a cotton button-down shirt, khaki trousers with leg pockets and stout boots. The man known as Schneider was five to ten years older, thirty centimetres shorter due to his stoop and walked with a pronounced limp, had grey/blonde hair and was only ever seen in a threadbare tweed jacket, creased black trousers and scuffed sandshoes. Even so, the man known as Schneider would be conspicuous in his own right if seen regularly passing a crime scene.
He’d made the assumption the target would have moved out of the apartment and although he’d thought twice about blowing his cover with Travers, the fact was, his life was over and there was no going back. They could send whomever they wanted; they would fail. He alone would succeed and he didn’t care who he took down with him in the process.
He finished his shift each day and picked up the paper. There was no news from the East or anywhere else. He concluded he would have to pay a visit to the Travers residence after all and it frustrated him. He had no qualms about carrying out his threat; it was just that he couldn’t understand why Travers would not take the easy course and give him the information. He had nothing to lose by complying, everything to lose by not.
On the third day, Rudi engaged him in conversation and the envelope appeared inside his paper. He now had an address as well as a name. But there was more. Major Harry Male had resigned his position and would be required to leave the apartment by the end of the week. It meant the plan had to be brought forward. Soon Kessler, along with Schneider and Radler would disappear forever. But first, he had business to conclude at the Regent.
***
The man known as Schneider was able to watch the main entrance of Major Harry Male’s new apartment from a coffee shop on the opposite side of the street but as yet there had been no sighting of the target. He checked his watch. It was almost time to leave for the Regent. He couldn’t possibly be late for his final shift and, for the first time ever, it would be foreshortened.
The timing worked quite well. By the time he got back to Radler’s apartment early the next morning, collected his weapon, some tools and his few belongings and returned here it would be around eight a.m. He and the target, once suitably restrained, could spend a couple of hours discussing old times, during which he would conduct a range of minor medical procedures, including one or two amputations and when either he got bored or the target was no longer responding satisfactorily, he would terminate the meeting and take his leave. But he wanted to be sure – sure he had the right place and the right man, because by the time he returned, he would have burned bridges and it would make his job all the harder. He had already considered the possibility Travers may have misled him and if that were the case, retribution would be swift. Travers was a coward but he was no fool; the target meant nothing to him and he should be in no doubt about Kessler’s sincerity and his ability to carry out the threat. He would do anything to avert danger to himself and his family now he’d experienced first-hand what would follow if he didn’t comply.
Kessler allowed himself a wry smile. He’d known many queers in his time, most of them of rank, and he hated them all. Perverts; he’d have had them all shot. But the stimulation and pleasure he’d got with Travers was born out of something else. It was the humiliation, the domination and the violent oppression that turned him on, his uncompromising show of omnipotence and unassailability, the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Movement across the road caught his eye. It was him: casual clothes, back from a night out somewhere, putting a key in the lock and entering the apartment building. He waited and watched and counted the steps in his head. The lights would go on in two minutes on the third floor. It took fifteen seconds longer, but a figure appeared at the window. The panes were unlocked and pushed open and the inside shutters closed to leave a vertical sliver of light. See you at eight, Major Male.
***
The man known as Schneider resumed his station at nine thirty, hunched over the steaming, foaming trough, scrubbing at the soiled pans and baking trays in between loading and unloading the industrial dishwasher. The headcount in the basement would reduce as dinner service ran down until by 1 a.m. only he, Ziegler the queer and the new arrival Dulka, a filthy Slav, were on duty.
“Quasi” brushed off the usual jibes from his work colleagues as they reached the end of their shifts. They were always worse in the evening; the morons were in high spirits and looking forward to getting off and having a couple of beers and his butt was the obvious one to kick. He was sorry he couldn’t say goodbye to them all, but maybe by tomorrow they’d learn and for a short while afterwards at least reflect on their shortcomings. On the bright side and barring any unforeseen events, he would be able to bid farewell to Müller and Fuchs, who would arrive at 4 a.m. in order to prepare for and supervise the morning deliveries. It was cutting it a bit fine but it was doable.
Once the last load had been sorted, stacked and sent back upstairs to the kitchen, Schneider filled his bucket with hot water, splashed in some detergent and pungent disinfectant and started mopping the floor. Ziegler and Dulka left him to it as usual, retiring to the staffroom for a cigarette.
He worked methodically, going over the entire area twice, and it took him an hour to finish. He emptied the dirty water down the drain and wiped down the stainless-steel surfaces before heading into the staffroom to tidy up. Ziegler and Dulka were nowhere to be seen but the stink of tobacco smoke lingered and he masked it by spraying air freshener around the room. He swept the floor, rearranged the chairs and emptied the ashtrays then hobbled off towards the staff toilets.
Inside, he heard a rhythmic grunting from one of the cubicles and stood by the door, listening; the queer had obviously made a new conquest with the Slav, or maybe it was the other way round? He dropped to the floor and peered through the fifteen-centimetre gap under the door. Two pairs of shoes, one behind the other, pointing the same way towards the back wall, trousers and underwear round the ankles. He pondered leaving them to it, but they were annoying him and he had nothing better to do for a while. He decided he was due a bonus.
He took a step back then launched himself at the cubicle door. The flimsy catch broke easily and the door flew inwards, smacking into Ziegler’s backside and ramming him and the conjoined Dulka against the back wall where they uncoupled and collapsed over the toilet pan in a tangled heap.
The Slav was the first to try to recover but Kessler grabbed a handful of hair and thrust him face-first against the wall, breaking his nose and leaving a bloody smear on the tiles as he crumpled and fell on top of Ziegler. The queer started screaming, unable to move, pinned down by the Slav, squashed in the corner between the toilet pan and the cubicle wall. Kessler hauled the Slav off him and flung him out into the wash area, then stepped back in and stomped on Ziegler’s genitals. The queer screamed again, face contorted in agony. He leaned over and grabbed the queer’s tunic at the throat, lifted his head up and punched him once in the forehead. He fell back, unconscious.
Kessler gathered his breath. The Slav was still semi-conscious so he gripped his shirt collar and dragged him backwards, trousers still around his ankles, out of the washroom and across the floor to the walk-in freezer where he released his grip, kicked him in the ribs for good measure and opened the door. He threw him onto the floor of the freezer then went back for Ziegler. He was back in thirty seconds, by which time Dulka was already on his knees trying to get out, so he kicked him in the head and he toppled back inside.
He dragged the groaning queer inside the freezer and threw him on top of the Slav like a sack of potatoes, then snapped off the inside door handle, slammed the door shut and turned the temperature dial to blast-freeze. They would be solid within forty minutes. Kessler looked at the trail of bloodstains on the floor that stretched from the washroom and considered cleaning them up, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. No one would have time to notice.
He looked at his watch again: three forty-five. Müller and Fuchs would be here soon. He returned to his wash trough and filled it with steaming water and detergent. He put on his elbow-length rubber gloves and waited. Within minutes he heard chatter from the corridor: Müller and Fuchs, bellowing with laughter about something, swaggering into the wash area, looking for sport. He buried both hands in the water up to the elbow and Müller slapped him on the head as he walked by.
“Morning, retard.”
Fuchs looked around. “Where’s the other two?”
“I believe they are locked in the freezer, Herr Fuchs.”
The two men looked at each other in surprise, as if trying to see the joke, then back at the hunchback stooped over the trough. Quasi never uttered more than the odd grunt, so to hear him articulate an entire sentence was a novelty indeed. They were further surprised when the retard removed his hands from the water and turned to face them, making eye contact for the first time ever. And their surprise turned first to astonishment then alarm as the freak straightened his back and stood to his full height, seeming to tower over them. So gripped were they by the transformation, they failed to notice the kitchen knives in his hands, or resist as they watched him slide one into each of their bodies, just below the ribcage.
Kessler watched each face contort in confusion and terror as reality took hold and then used all his weight to push forward, pinning each of them against the high-sided dishwasher. Müller let out a scream of horror and Fuchs grabbed the knife hand in desperation but Kessler was strong and proceeded to work both knives up and down until both men were screaming and their bodies convulsing, their heads bobbing up and down like they were on springs. Then after only a few seconds, Müller went limp and he let him fall to the floor. But Fuchs was still resisting, so he twisted him around until he was facing the trough, reached down and grabbed both feet and tipped him in. Fuchs’ face came to the surface, arms flailing, knife still embedded to the hilt as the water and foam turned red; Kessler casually held him under until the writhing and splashing stopped.
Kessler removed his rubber apron, and with the muffled sound of desperate wailing and banging coming from the freezer, put on his crumpled jacket and left the Regent for the last time.
***
The man known as Radler didn’t bother to tell Frau Brucker he was leaving. He regretted she would find a sizeable sum of money in his apartment but he had taken all he could squash into his rucksack and if he needed more later, there was no shortage of ways in which to get it. It pained him to think another fat ugly Jew might benefit from a windfall and he had considered knocking her up and strangling her, but dismissed it as a self-indulgent distraction and he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks, not now he was so close.
The alarm would have been raised at the Regent for sure and they would be in no doubt as to the identity of the murderer: a deformed hunchback retard with a pronounced limp called Schneider. They knew his address, too, but they’d find it was three kilometres to the north of Radler’s apartment and inhabited by an elderly couple called Schmidt.
He’d changed into clean clothes because he wanted to look his best: a white shirt, navy cotton drills and black leather bomber jacket. His black leather boots were polished and he wore a dark green Tyrolean hat with an eagle feather in the band.
His rucksack contained all he needed: electric hair clippers, a pair of pliers, a small bolt cutter, a junior hacksaw, surgical scalpel, three metres of electrical flex with a plug on one end, two clamps on the other and a light switch in the middle, a fifteen-centimetre metal spike, a Swiss army knife and some nylon cord. His new Makarov nestled in its holster under his arm.
He had breakfast in the coffee shop and surveyed the entrance to the apartment from a seat by the window. The windows were still open and the shutters still closed on the third floor which meant the target was still in bed. The only person to leave so far had been a woman and her small dog. He checked his watch: 8 a.m. It was time.
He slung his rucksack onto his back and crossed the street. There were six buttons on the panel outside the building – two apartments on each floor, the button second from top bearing the name “Male, H.”. He pressed the named button at the bottom.
“Ja.”
“Parcel for Stümmer.”
The front door clicked open and he made his way swiftly along the hall and up the stairs. At the top, he chose the door to his left, the one facing the front of the building. He reached inside his jacket to retrieve the Makarov and screwed on the silencer he’d taken from the opposite pocket. He had no intention of shooting the target, at least not immediately. First, he had work to do with his set of tools, but he wasn’t sure how much initial resistance to expect and the gun was a necessary precaution to ensure he could take control of the situation quickly.
He put his ear to the door but could discern no noise from within the apartment. He tried the doorknob with little expectation, but was surprised to find it turned easily and he braced himself. The door opened silently and he stepped inside, senses taut and alert to the slightest sound or movement. But the apartment was gloomy and the only noise was that of traffic three floors down filtering through the gap in the shutters.
He reached the sitting room, moving silently, gun arm extended, sweeping left and right, past the kitchenette, into a carpeted corridor to an open door: a bedroom with a freshly made bed. He felt a prickle in his neck. He turned and opened the door opposite: empty. He increased his pace, his heart beginning to pound. He kicked open a third door: bathroom, empty. He whirled around and strode back into the sitting room. There were keys on the coffee table on top of a handwritten note.
Arrivederci!
He lowered his weapon. Harry Male had gone.