Berlin Red (23 page)

‘What do you want?' demanded the officer on duty at the Ostkreuz district police station. The tiled walls gave off a strange glow as they reflected the dusty light bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

‘I am here to see Inspector Hunyadi,' replied Pekkala.

‘Hunyadi?' barked the man. ‘Well, you've come to the wrong place! Who said you could find him here?'

‘I must be mistaken,' said Pekkala.

‘Damned right you are mistaken! He works over at the Pankow station. Every policeman in Berlin knows that.'

‘And where might I find the Pankow station?'

‘Where else? On Flora Street!'

‘I apologise,' Pekkala told him. ‘I am not familiar with the city.'

The apology seemed to soften the policeman's tone, although only slightly. ‘Walk out the door,' he told Pekkala, ‘turn left and head up to the Ostkreuz tram stop. If it's still running after last night's air raid, take the tram to Pankow-Schönstrasse and the station is right around the corner from there.'

Pekkala bowed his head in thanks, turned and walked out of the door.

Kirov was waiting outside. He fell in step with Pekkala as they headed up the street. ‘Well?' he hissed.

‘He works out of a police barracks in the north of the city,' answered Pekkala. ‘That's where we're going now.'

‘And when we do find him?' asked Kirov. ‘What then? Do you honestly think he'll lift a finger to help us?'

‘He will if he thinks it's worth his while.'

‘And how do we convince him of that?'

‘Take a look around you, Kirov, and tell me what you see.'

Without breaking his stride, Kirov glanced up and down the street. ‘What am I looking for?'

‘Just tell me what you see,' insisted Pekkala.

‘A city which was once perhaps quite beautiful.'

‘And now?'

‘It's a junk yard.'

‘And things will get worse, much worse, before this war is over.'

‘I won't argue with that.'

‘And neither would Hunyadi, I expect,' said Pekkala. ‘Any fool can see which way this war is going. There may be some who still believe a miracle can save them, but I doubt an old policeman like Hunyadi would be one of them.'

‘So we are all agreed that Germany will lose the war,' muttered Kirov. ‘Is that enough to make him change his mind?'

‘It might be,' answered Pekkala, ‘if we offer to take him with us back to Moscow.'

Kirov stopped in his tracks. ‘And why would he want to do that?'

‘Because there is neither a present nor a future here. In Berlin, there is only the past.'

‘And if his loyalty prevents him?'

‘Then we will have no choice but to convince him otherwise.'

‘You must not worry!' exclaimed Hermann Fegelein, sitting beside Lilya as she pulled up in front of the police station.

‘I'm not worried,' she answered quietly, staring straight ahead through the rain-spattered windscreen.

But Fegelein knew it was a lie, and it made Fegelein angry that a dishevelled Berlin cop would rob this woman of her peace. With his rank, and the backing of Himmler, Fegelein had no doubts that he himself was untouchable. But this poor woman was only a secretary, with no real way to defend herself against such serious allegations, especially if, as seemed to be the case, this inspector had found no one else on whom to put the blame. As far as Fegelein was concerned, the fact that Hunyadi was hauling in Fraülein S was the most obvious sign that he had reached a point of desperation.

Fegelein almost felt sorry for Hunyadi, ordered to pursue a mirage which existed only because Hitler said it did. Even if the Allies had managed to get their hands on a few juicy pieces of gossip, none of that would win or lose the war. And all the while the real danger – a million Russian soldiers massing on the banks of the River Oder, 80 kilometres to the east – continued unhindered by the Führer's dilapidated war machine.

‘This man is just doing his job,' said Fegelein, trying to console her. ‘He interrogated me, for God's sake, and I'm still here, aren't I?' Fegelein laughed and rested a hand upon her shoulder. ‘I know how these people work. Just reply to his questions. Don't tell him anything he doesn't ask to know. Keep your answers short and simple. You'll be out of there again in no time!'

Lilya got out of the car, shut the door and walked up the concrete steps to the entrance of the police station.

The sergeant at the desk insisted on escorting her to Hunyadi's office. Along the way, the sergeant mentioned that he would be off duty soon and asked if she might like to have a drink.

She glanced at him and gave a noncommittal smile. ‘I'm not sure that will be possible,' she told the man.

Encouraged by the fact that he had not been rejected outright, the sergeant knocked upon Hunyadi's door, opened it without waiting for an answer from inside, and held out his hand for Lilya to enter the room. ‘I know where we can get champagne!' he whispered.

These words did not escape Hunyadi. ‘Close the door on your way out,' he ordered.

When Lilya and Hunyadi were alone, he gestured for her to sit down. ‘Please,' he said.

She did as she was told.

For a moment, Hunyadi said nothing, but only studied his visitor. Fegelein might be a snake, thought the inspector, but he has good taste in women. ‘How long have you worked for the Gruppenführer?' he asked.

‘Almost two years.'

‘And where were you hired?'

‘In Paris,' she answered. ‘I was working for the occupation government, translating documents.'

‘From German into French?'

‘And the other way around. Yes.'

‘And he hired you on the spot?'

‘More or less.'

Hunyadi felt the woman's stare burning against his face. He noticed that her right fist was tightly clenched, like someone who meant to lash out if provoked. ‘And has the Gruppenführer been a suitable employer?' he asked, saying the words with unusual emphasis, so that she might grasp their proper meaning.

‘I am his driver. Nothing more,' she replied. ‘For anything else, there are others.'

‘Elsa Batz, for example.'

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.'

Hunyadi sat back in his chair and knitted his fingers together. ‘Do you know why I have called you in?'

She nodded. ‘Information has been passed to the Allies. They say there is a leak from Berlin Headquarters.'

‘Who is they?'

Lilya breathed out sharply. ‘The source of the leak may still be a secret, Inspector, but the fact that you are trying to find its source is not. Anyone who sets foot in the bunker knows exactly why you're here.'

‘And have you set foot in the bunker?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘Never.'

‘But you must have heard things. Gossip and so on.'

‘I hear only what Gruppenführer Fegelein wants me to hear, and he has the full trust of Heinrich Himmler, as well as the highest security clearance. Forgive me, Inspector, but you might as well accuse the Führer himself.'

‘And if you were me, Fraülein S, whom would you accuse?'

She considered for a moment before replying. ‘Someone like me,' she replied. ‘Someone who is an outsider. Someone who wouldn't be missed.'

Hearing these words, a dazed look swept across Hunyadi's face. In that moment, he was not thinking of the beautiful woman who sat before him, or of the reason she sat before him now. Hunyadi was thinking of his wife. He stood, resting his fingertips upon the desk, as if uncertain of his balance. ‘Thank you,' he said hoarsely. ‘You can go.'

As Lilya Simonova left the building, taking the back stairs so as to avoid the duty sergeant. At the end of the staircase, the door opened out into a narrow alley, separating the police headquarters from a now-abandoned block of flats on the other side.

It was raining harder now. The air smelled of damp ashes.

For a minute, she rested with her back against the wall, feeling her heart rate slowly return to normal. Slowly, she unclenched her fist, revealing a small vial encased in a thin coating of brown rubber. The inner glass container was filled with potassium cyanide. She had been given the vial before she left England, what seemed like a lifetime ago, and had carried it with her ever since. Lilya had not known, when she walked into the police station, if she would ever walk out of there again. One question too many from the Inspector, and all she had to do was slip the vial into her mouth, bite down, and the shimmering liquid would snuff out her life before she could draw another breath. But Hunyadi had been kind to her. Too kind, perhaps. She was not out of danger yet. The time might come when she would have to put the vial to use. She slipped it into a tiny opening in the collar of her leather jacket. Then she walked out to the street, where Fegelein was waiting in the car.

‘You see?' he asked with a smile, when she had taken her place again behind the wheel. ‘There was never anything to worry about, was there?'

‘No,' she replied softly, as she put the car in gear. ‘It was just as you said it would be.'

‘What the hell is this about?' demanded General Hagemann. He sat in the back of an SS staff car as it hurtled towards Himmler's headquarters.

Three hours earlier, he had been in the middle of a dense pine forest, 20 kilometres east of Berlin, scouting new areas for deploying his mobile V-2 launch trucks. Then the staff car had appeared, slipping along a road which was little more than a horse track, its glossy black finish overpainted with sprays of khaki-coloured mud splashed up from the hundreds of puddles it had driven through to get this far.

Two men had climbed out, wearing the black uniforms of the Allgemeine-SS. Both men were clearly irritated to have left the relative comfort of their barracks. Brusquely, they ordered General Hagemann into the car.

Hagemann gave one helpless glance at the men who had been assisting him.

The look on the face of Sergeant Behr, who had stood by him since the earliest days of the V-2 project, confirmed the general's own worst fears – that he was unlikely to survive whatever journey awaited him in the back of that SS staff car.

It would have been useless to protest. Hagemann simply ordered Sergeant Behr to take command of the mission, climbed into the back of the car and lit his pipe. As the smoke swirled around him, the general attempted to compose himself so that, at least, he might meet his end with some degree of dignity.

Hagemann realised, as the car slewed around and began making its way back in the direction from which it had come, that he might never know what he had done to deserve this punishment. There would be no trial. These days, there was no time for such elaborate productions. In all probability, the general guessed, he would simply be driven to some part of this bleak forest even more remote than the one where he had been when the men arrived to collect him. He would be walked into the woods, and forced to kneel in the dead leaves. He could almost feel the dampness in the ground against his skin as it soaked through the fabric of his trousers. And then he would be shot.

Hagemann found himself almost impatient for them to get on with their task.

But the car continued on its way.

By the time they emerged from the forest and turned on to the main east–west highway, known as Reichsstrasse I, Hagemann was beginning to wonder if he had perhaps misjudged the situation. A flicker of hope appeared in his mind. He leaned forward and cleared his throat. ‘Where did you say you were taking me?' he asked the men.

‘We didn't,' replied the guard in the passenger seat.

The general's optimism crumbled. He slumped back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. As he did so, he felt the shape of his gun in its holster on his waist. It occurred to him that, provided he moved quickly, he might be able to draw the gun and shoot himself before the men in the front seat could stop him. That would, at least, deprive them of the twisted pleasure they were sure to take in carrying out their duties, and would bring an end to his suffering.

But he quickly set aside the idea. The truth was, he didn't have the courage to shoot himself and he knew that he would probably only make a mess of it if he tried.

They did not travel into Berlin, but instead took a ring road, skirting around to the north.

By now, more than an hour had passed since Hagemann had climbed into the car and he had become completely confused.

Finally, Hagemann could stand it no longer. ‘What the hell is going on?' he demanded.

‘Himmler wants to see you,' said the driver.

‘You didn't hear it from us,' added the man in the passenger seat, ‘but I think he is giving you a medal.'

Hearing this, Hagemann's whole body went numb. ‘A medal?' he whispered. ‘From Himmler?'

He had never actually met the Reichsführer before. In that, Hagemann considered himself lucky. Few people, no matter how highly they were ranked, emerged from meetings with the Lord of the SS without having been blackmailed, intimidated or otherwise brought to their knees. For a while, Hagemann had convinced himself that he might be able to avoid meeting Himmler altogether, and he would gladly have done without the medal in order to continue that streak of good fortune. But there was no way out of it now.

For the rest of the journey, Hagemann sat there in silence, slowly reassembling his self-control.

Arriving at the compound at Hohenlychen, the car pulled over in front of the red-brick building which served as Himmler's residence.

‘In there,' said the driver. ‘No need to knock. You are expected.'

Hagemann got out of the car and made his way into the building. Passing through the front door, he found himself in an elegantly furnished space, which had the appearance of an upscale doctor's waiting room.

There was a door on the other side of the room but it was shut and Hagemann, being uncertain as to whether he should knock, decided to wait here instead.

He was just lowering himself down into one of the leather chairs when the door opened and Himmler appeared from the darkness on the other side. ‘Hagemann!' he exclaimed with a smile. ‘I have looked forward to this meeting for a long time.' He strode into the room and shook the general's hand, as if they had always been friends.

Dazed, the general managed to nod in greeting.

‘Sit!' commanded Himmler.

Hagemann felt his legs practically give out from under him and he subsided into one of the chairs.

‘I hear congratulations are in order,' said Himmler, sitting down opposite him.

‘They are?' asked Hagemann.

‘Come now,' Himmler laughed. ‘There's no need for false modesty here.' He leaned forward and wagged a finger at the general. ‘I have learned that the Diamond Stream device is now fully operational. Even now, I expect, our rockets are raining down upon the enemy with pinpoint accuracy!'

Hagemann's mouth dropped open with surprise. ‘But that's not true!' he gasped. ‘More tests are required. We haven't yet . . .'

Himmler held up one hand, commanding the general to silence. ‘I understand,' he said. ‘The need for secrecy is paramount, and I'm certain you are acting on the highest authority.'

‘There is no secret!' blurted Hagemann. ‘It's not ready yet! It worked once. That's all. Before we can even install the devices, they must be properly calibrated. I'm still trying to get my hands on more components.'

Himmler was staring at him. ‘Are you serious?' he asked.

‘In your presence, Herr Reichsführer, I would not dare to be anything else.'

Himmler nodded slowly. He looked like someone waking from a trance. ‘You will keep me informed,' he said.

It appeared that the meeting was over, almost as soon as it had begun.

Once more, Hagemann shook hands with the Lord of the SS, but at the moment when he tried to release his grip, Himmler refused to let go.

‘It is important that you understand the gravity of the situation,' said Himmler quietly. ‘I am, as you know, in overall command of Army Group Vistula; the only force that stands between the Red Army and Berlin.'

‘Yes,' answered Hagemann, gently trying to remove himself from Himmler's grasp. He began to overheat. Droplets of sweat prickled his forehead.

‘If you were to look at our strength on paper,' continued Himmler, ‘you would see a formidable presence. Tanks. Guns. Tens of thousands of combat-ready troops.'

‘Yes.' Hagemann gave up his attempt to untangle himself from Himmler's soft, persistent grip. He surrendered his arm, as if it no longer belonged to him and, with his free hand, wiped away the sweat which had leaked into his eyes and blurred his vision, distorting Himmler's face into an Impressionistic smudge.

Now Himmler stepped even closer, his emotionless grey eyes fixed upon Hagemann's face. ‘But if you were to see what is actually there on the ground,' he said, ‘you would realise how little of Army Group Vistula actually exists. It is a legion of shadows, and shadows will not stop the enemy. But your rockets can, at least long enough to allow us to forge a truce with the western Allies. The Americans, the British, the French – they all realise that we are not the true enemy. The enemy lies to the east, General, the Bolshevik hordes who will, without your help, seek to wipe us from the face of the earth. Now,' he smiled faintly, ‘have I made myself clear?'

Hagemann, tasting the salt of perspiration in the corners of his mouth, could only nod.

At last, Himmler released him. ‘Go now,' he said.

Hagemann staggered out to the waiting staff car. Within a few minutes, they were on their way south towards Berlin and the dreary forest track where the general had left his crew. He imagined them there still, sitting on their helmets in the rain and waiting for him to return.

‘No medal?' asked the driver.

‘No medal,' said Hagemann. He was staring at his hand, as if to reacquaint himself with it. The marks of Himmler's fingers still showed upon the chapped skin of the general's knuckles.

‘I heard there was a medal,' the driver said to the man in the passenger seat.

‘That's what I heard, too,' replied his friend.

The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror, his eyes making contact with Hagemann's. ‘Maybe next time,' he said.

Back at his headquarters, Himmler had not yet left the room where his meeting with the general had taken place. Instead, he paced angrily back and forth upon the Persian carpet, breathing in short whistling breaths through his nose. From his pocket, Himmler removed a small, leather-bound case containing an Iron Cross, 1st Class, which he had intended to present to General Hagemann. But the general's denial had spoiled everything.

Now he wondered if Fegelein, who had brought him news of the Diamond Stream's operational capability directly from Hitler's bunker, might somehow have misunderstood. Or perhaps he was being misled. Furious at the thought that someone, maybe even Hitler himself, might have lied to him, Himmler returned to his office and called the bunker.

‘Get me Fegelein!' he ordered.

There was a long wait. At last, he heard Fegelein's voice.

‘Herr Reichsführer!' Fegelein shouted down the line. ‘I have just come out of the midday meeting. I will have the usual report drawn up within the hour. Was there . . .'

Himmler didn't let him finish. ‘Did you, or did you not, hear Hitler say that the Diamond Stream was working?'

‘Yes! I did. Absolutely.'

There was a long pause.

‘Is that everything, Herr Reichsführer?' asked Fegelein.

Without replying to the question, Himmler crashed the phone down into the receiver. Then walked to the front door, opened it and pitched the medal case out into the courtyard. The case popped open and the Iron Cross, its silver edges gleaming, skittered away into the mud.