Pavel & I (46 page)

‘I know where Haldemann is hiding.'

‘Yes?'

‘You can take a few days to beat it out of me and hope he's still there when you're done. Or I can just tell you.'

‘If I rescue the boy.'

‘If you rescue the boy.'

‘It's a generous offer.' Again, that hint of an ocular smile, though the lips did not move. It was as though he could cut his face in two.

‘A phone call might do it.'

‘To say what?'

‘That the Colonel is dead. It might do it. Just as long as Anders is alive.'

Karpov shook his head. ‘It'll be better if we all go. Pick him up. Move on to Haldemann. I assume he's hiding in the city?'

‘Yes, in the city.'

‘I'll tell my men to get ready. You tell the woman. And get your coat.'

‘You'll let us go when you have Haldemann?'

‘If everything goes to my satisfaction.'

‘You will let us go?'

‘Your coat, Mr Richter. And the woman.'

When Pavel got up from the chair and turned, he found Sonia crouching next to Fosko's body, one hand in the monkey's fur. It was smoking from its chest.

‘We never even gave it a name,' she complained.

Pavel reached down and put a hand on her shoulder.

‘I thought you hated that monkey.'

‘So did I.'

He couldn't see her face but thought she might be smiling. Sonia bent her neck towards her shoulder and placed one cheek upon the back of his hand.

‘What happens now?' she asked.

‘First I get my coat, then we all go get Anders.'

‘And then?'

‘There's this man they are looking for. From the microfilm.'

‘Haldemann.'

‘Yes, Haldemann.'

‘Who's he?'

‘He's who everybody keeps dying for.'

‘Someone special then?'

‘A Nazi.' He looked over to Karpov. ‘We have to go.' He held out his hand and helped her up. For a moment they stood face to face.

‘The last time,' she said. ‘The last time we stood like this, you leaned forward to kiss me.'

‘Yes, I did.'

She shrugged, blushing, her hand in his. ‘You'd better get your coat, Pavel Richter. You might freeze.'

The Russians walked them both out into the corridor, then down the stairs and into the cellar. Underground, the air was hot and rotten; two Russians on guard, their shirts open to the navel, and a one-eyed Englishman under lock and key. They found me sitting on the ground inside the cage, cradling one boot by its heel. Around my woolly stocking there lay scattered the carcasses of insects. Pavel ignored me at first; searched the basement shelves for his coat. It had been taken off him when he had first been dragged down there. He found it and shook off the dust. Lev kept his eye on him, making sure he didn't pocket anything that could be used as a weapon. As he dressed, Pavel approached the cage.

‘Where are they taking you?' I asked him.

‘To Anders. I'm trading him for Haldemann.'

‘And the Colonel?'

Pavel shook his head. I took it to mean that the Colonel was dead, or getting there. It was sobering to think that he had outlived his role in our lives; that all he should leave us with was a picture: a fat man with fat lips, and a
faible
for mink.

‘What will happen to me?'

‘I don't know.' He turned to Karpov who stood at the top of the stairs.

‘What happens to him?' he called.

‘We take him along.'

‘They take you along,' Pavel translated. I think we both broke into a smile at the news. Behind Pavel, watching our easy interaction, stood Sonia, sweat running into her fox fur.

I fetched my coat and we moved out, five Soviet soldiers in civilian clothing and three prisoners, bracing ourselves for the cold. Outside,
the moon stood ripe and heavy, and the air so raw that one rationed one's breath. We got into the General's limousine. Karpov drove. Lev sat at his side, covering us prisoners with his gun. The other Russians jumped into a second car, its ignition coughing until it finally caught.

‘Where to?' Karpov asked Pavel.

‘Charlottenburg. Schillerstrasse.'

Sitting beside him, Sonia slowly, shyly, stole her hand back into Pavel's.

And so we left the Colonel's house, squeezed together on the back seat of a requisitioned German limousine, a Georgian gun in our faces. Pavel sat next to me, his eyes on the road. To his left, Sonia was holding his hand. A tender gesture, regretful of the time she had wasted on anger, only his wedding ring kept catching on her knuckle. I wondered briefly what Pavel would have done had I made to hold his other hand, my fingers laced with his. All I wanted was for him to know that I did not begrudge him his violence towards me. In the end I decided against it. It would have been too ridiculous. In all things one must answer the call of dignity.

We raced towards Berlin. The Grünewald woods soon gave way to the city's outskirts, and country road turned into thoroughfare. It never ceased to take my breath: those majestic roads lined by a landscape of rubble. Here and there a wall stood up out of the debris, five storeys high, its windows shattered, the roof collapsed, leaning into the moon like a drunk picking a fight. At the next corner, two lampposts, bent at the waist as though in curtsy. The car hurtled on and came upon a street where buildings stood plentiful; a little chipped, it is true, but defiantly beautiful with their twelve-foot doorways and
Jugendstil
balconies. Drawn curtains at the windows, the streets too cold for foot traffic, and too poor to afford more than a handful of cars. One could drive
through Berlin on nights such as this and feel like there was not a living soul beyond those headlights; the city dead and one's every breath a smoke signal, sent into the air in the vain hope of an answer.

Another corner, a change of gear, and the car rolled to a halt.

‘There,' said Pavel. ‘Towards the end of the block. They might have posted sentries.'

Karpov cut the engine and got out of the car. Sonia sat shivering while Lev passed around cigarettes, then a match, one hand always on the gun, eyeing them for movement. We sat smoking, aware of Sonia's mute shiver, waiting for what would happen next.

Outside, Karpov sent two soldiers to circle the building, then wrenched open the gate to Paulchen's backyard, and disappeared within.

The door burst open, amidst a shower of splinters. Whoever had been on guard must have been asleep or had been taken without a chance to call out. They wore civilian coats over their uniforms, but Anders recognized them for Russians immediately. You could always tell by their boots. The trim man with the wire glasses was their leader. Unlike the others, he wasn't holding a rifle.

‘Which one is Paulchen?' he asked into the mass of boys who sat rooted to their various corners, chess piece or marble in hand, or a spoonful of soup arrested midway between bowl and mouth. His German was open-vowelled, the rhythms wrong. He had to ask again.

‘Which one is Paulchen?'

The boys' eyes turned to the armchair where Paulchen had been brooding by the phone. His Luger was stuffed down the seat-cushion's side, along with a half-bar of chocolate.

‘You?'

A glum nod.

The Russian shot him. There was no haste to the act. He threw back the coat, unbuttoned his gun from its leather holster, took it out, levelled it, and shot Paulchen in the face. The bullet whistled through the backrest and shattered the window behind. It wasn't as loud as Anders would have imagined. As the blood squirted from the hole underneath Paulchen's eye, he remembered his vow to set to his comrades with a knife. It threw him into hot anger with a God who answered prayers willy-nilly, and made an angel of this silver-haired Russian who now bent down to him and ran a probing hand over his injuries.

‘Are you Anders?' he asked.

Anders nodded, just as Paulchen had done a moment earlier. He had no fear of being shot.

‘Can you walk?'

Another nod.

‘Then stand.'

As Anders staggered to his feet, the man scooped up the telephone, dialled a number and spoke briefly in Russian. Before he hung up, he passed on the address, injecting something like a ‘j' before the ‘i' of Schillerstrasse. Then he walked back over to Anders, took hold of his hand, and marched him out like a schoolboy. The other Russians stayed behind. Anders wondered what would happen to his comrades of old.

Downstairs, another Russian joined them, also armed with a rifle. They walked through the yard, out the open gate and towards a jeep and a limousine. Pavel and Sonia were in the back of the limousine, along with the one-eyed man who worked for the Colonel. Anders had last seen him when they'd carted off Schlo', his neck bent double like a fish hook. The three figures sat together like they were sharing a taxi. The boy stood rooted, confused as to what to feel, until he made out the gun that was pointed at them from the front. It reconciled him, and he allowed himself joy at seeing his friends alive.

‘Move,' said the Russian. ‘Get in the car.'

He was not sure how to greet Pavel, so he hugged Sonia first, stuck
his face into her furs then withdrew embarrassed when he encountered bare skin.

‘I didn't squeal,' he started to say, but she shushed him, passed him over to his grave and bearded friend. They shook hands. Pavel's thumb soft upon his knuckles.

‘You're hurt,' he murmured. ‘What happened up there?'

‘The Russians shot Paulchen.' He tried to keep it in, but it tumbled out nevertheless. It was that or burst into tears. ‘How come you're both sitting in a car with them?' he asked, and was embarrassed when he saw they did not know how to respond.

Karpov opened the car door briefly to get his cigarette case which he had left on the dash. It was made of ornamented silver, and bore three monogrammed initials,
CИK.
The cigarettes inside were American. He offered one to Pavel. Pavel accepted. ‘Your father?' he asked in Russian, pointing to the monogram.

‘Yes. Stepan Ivanovich. May he rest in peace.'