The Berlin Crossing (17 page)

‘What do you mean, “another possibility”?’

‘Martin Weber is what I mean.’

‘Martin Weber? He must be ninety if he’s a day and what’s he got to do with it?’

‘He’s about seventy,’ Fitch-Bellingham said, ‘and I know that Rudi was to get in touch with him about delivery.’

‘You never told me this, F-B.’

‘And if I
had
told you, Jonathan? Everybody on that damned committee of inquiry would know Martin Weber’s name by now,
and what would that achieve? Martin is one of the last assets we’ve got to ourselves, and we don’t want anybody muscling in
on him, do we?’

Fitch-Bellingham could read the struggle in Yearling’s small, round face: a struggle between scepticism and the Director’s
wish for a solution to the organization’s seemingly terminal woes.

‘You really think it’s possible to do that, F-B? Salvage everything using only an untried novice and a pensioner we haven’t
heard from for years?’

‘Martin may be of pensionable years, Jonathan, but he is fit and well, and furthermore we have kept in touch all these years.’

Yearling looked sharply at him. ‘You never said you were in touch.’

‘Need to know, Jonathan, need to know.’

‘You really think you can pull this off?’

Fitch-Bellingham spread his hands. ‘There’s always an element of risk,’ he said.
And we all need to cover our tracks
. ‘You’re well aware of that, Jonathan.’

‘The last thing we need is a propaganda coup for Ulbricht and his cronies, questions in the House and headlines in the
Mail
about operational cock-ups.’

‘England demands,’ Fitch-Bellingham said quietly.

‘Yes, every man must do his duty.’

The Director was silent, as if savouring Nelson’s call to arms. Fitch-Bellingham was amused: he wondered if Nelson would have
enlisted a young Irishman and an elderly Prussian. On balance, he thought, yes.

‘Do it,’ Yearling said finally. ‘Let me know what you need – money, passports, clothing, the usual stuff. When do we go?’

‘In about a week.’

‘So soon?’

‘I can’t keep Feldmann locked up here too long.’

‘And his brother?’

‘Under lock and key – and medical care. He thinks he’s going to be charged with assault.’

‘And the fellow here thinks his younger brother is facing a charge of murder if he doesn’t cooperate?’

‘He’ll cooperate,’ Fitch-Bellingham said. ‘He
is
cooperating.’

Yearling lifted his small head, listened for a moment.

‘It’s so quiet,’ he said. ‘Where is Feldmann, by the way?’

‘In the kitchen, I should think,’ Fitch-Bellingham said, ‘having a bite of lunch with Adams.’

‘Do it, F-B,’ Yearling said again. Fitch-Bellingham thought the Director looked old beyond his half-century of years, an old
man hoping against hope that a last throw of the dice might win him back his budget, his organization. ‘And may God help us
all.’

‘It’s my experience, Jonathan,’ Fitch-Bellingham drawled, ‘that the Almighty generally helps those who help themselves.’

The kitchen at Highfield was in the basement. Fitch-Bellingham paused at the foot of the stairs, listening to the voices coming
through the open doorway of the kitchen. Adams’ voice was deep but the Feldmann boy’s was deeper. No quavery hint of nervousness,
Fitch-Bellingham noted with satisfaction. If you didn’t know the pair of speakers, you’d have no idea that one was thirty
years younger than the other.

The voices drifted along the corridor in fluent German, the younger man’s in fluent
Hochdeutsch
, Adams’ in colloquial German picked up on the bombed-out streets of occupied Berlin. Listen with your eyes closed and you
could be back in Berlin, in a bar with bare tables and a hole in the roof, listening to two fellows discussing football. Except
that these two were talking about Danny Blanchflower and Tottenham Hotspur and the year was 1962.

He padded silently along the corridor but he knew it didn’t matter, that Adams would sense his presence no matter how quietly
he tiptoed.

For a split second Adams’ eyes met his as Fitch-Bellingham stood in the doorway but he gave no indication of his presence
to Feldmann, who was sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the door.

‘
Alles in Ordnung
?’ Fitch-Bellingham asked quietly. Everything in order?

‘
Ja wohl,
’ Adams said. ‘
Wir unterhalten uns über fussball.
’ We’re chatting about football.

‘
Gut,
’ Fitch-Bellingham told him in German, ‘but now we must talk about work. We don’t have much time to get Herr Feldmann ready.’

Roland pushed back his chair, turning to look at Fitch-Bellingham.

‘Yes, Herr Ingham,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to talk about football. Let’s do whatever you want me to do and then my brother
and I can go home.’

Anger in the voice, a hint of steel.
Let’s get on with it and then we can all go back to where we came from
. Fitch-Bellingham liked that, it reminded him of his own young years in Berlin. Except it hadn’t quite turned out the way
they’d all wanted. The bombed-out, wartime streets of the city were busy shopping thoroughfares now but the war still went
on, in the darkness, out of sight, a shadow world that was real. And the Wall cast the longest shadow of all.

Fitch-Bellingham drew a chair up to the table; the metal legs squealed in a kind of agony on the tiled floor.

‘If all goes to plan,’ he drawled, ‘you’ll be going home in a week.’

‘Is there a doubt about it? You said “if”.’

Fitch-Bellingham gave Roland one of his thinnest smiles.

‘There’s always a doubt,’ he said. ‘There’s a doubt about having your head bashed in as you’re leaving High Street Ken station
on a Saturday night.’

‘Or being strong-armed at a police station by a fellow who gives you a false name.’

‘
Touché.
’ Fitch-Bellingham was no longer smiling. ‘But you and I have made an agreement. Yes or no?’

Roland nodded. He looked around at the huge kitchen, the institutional cupboards, the giant range, unused now, dwarfing the
electric cooker where Adams had prepared lunch. I’m like the electric cooker, he thought, at sea in an ocean that is too wide
and too deep.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So what do I have to do for you – or are you just going to continue feeding me lies?’

Adams stirred in his chair. ‘Watch your mouth,’ he said quietly, ‘or else I’ll have to close it for you.’

‘Gentlemen.’ Fitch-Bellingham looked with fondness at Adams. ‘We’re working together here, on the same side. No need for friends
to fall out.’

Adams caught his eye, permitted himself a knowing grin.
No need for friends to fall out
. Fitch-Bellingham had said exactly the same thing to the British redcap in the flat in Wilmersdorf, just off the Ku’damm,
back in the spring of 1946. He remembered the MP looking from Fitch-Bellingham to the pair of naked bodies on the bed, back
to Adams, immaculate in his uniform with his corporal’s stripes, still holding the gun in his hand. Adams could have vanished
after shooting them but he’d waited until the military policeman arrived, then waited until Major Fitch-Bellingham arrived
shortly after. Just like he’d waited until Hedwig had her Kraut boyfriend’s
schwann
stuck inside her before he shot them both. Bitch, whispering her Kraut sweet nothings in Adams’ ear, feeding his presents
of food and drink to her Kraut lover, fucking him behind Adams’ back. Her fucking days were over now. His own too, Adams had
thought. But his major had taken care of it.
No need for friends to fall out
. Just write it all down, Corporal, Major F-B had told him, in your own words, describing as best you can exactly what happened.
Two foolscap pages, complete with crossing-out and inkblots. Nobody but the major had ever read those pages. Locked in some
file now, Adams
thought, for the major’s eyes only. Both Fitch-Bellingham and Adams knew that the foolscap pages would never have to be used
as leverage. The corporal was Fitch-Bellingham’s man, that was all there was to it.

‘Just so he knows who’s in charge, sir,’ Adams said.

‘I think our young friend is fully aware of who’s in charge.’

Roland met his gaze, nodded. ‘So let’s get on with it, Herr Ingham, or whatever your name is.’

Fitch-Bellingham got on with it, in a slow, measured voice.

‘I’m sending you to Germany,’ he said, ‘but you’ve probably already divined that. To Berlin, to our side naturally. You’ll
cross into East Berlin, visit a friend of ours, pick up a package, then deliver it to me. After that we’ll fly you back to
London, hand you another airline ticket to Ireland and we’ll advise you to forget whatever you’ve done for us before we shake
your hand and wave you off into the sunset – or the sunrise, as the case may be. That’s it.’ He spread his long bony hands
above the kitchen table. ‘You’ll be home free in a few days.’

‘If it’s that simple, why involve me? I’m sure you have umpteen staff who could collect your package.’ He glanced at Adams.
‘My guardian here, for example. Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff with me and my brother?’

‘I told you,’ Adams said quietly, ‘to watch your mouth.’

The long bony hand was raised again.

‘I’m accustomed to giving orders, not explanations.’ Fitch-Bellingham’s tone belied the severity of his words. ‘But this one
time – this one time only – I will explain. It’s true that my colleagues here, or somebody else, could perform this errand.
It’s also true that this particular errand is best carried out by someone not known to our friends on the other side of the
Wall. You,’ he nodded at Roland, ‘are such a somebody. But you are more than just anybody, which is why I am entrusting
you with this task. You speak German like a native Berliner, that’s important, but that alone would not be enough. You’re
a pretty confident young man, Roland Feldmann. You’re cool under pressure. And you’re trustworthy – you didn’t walk away from
your brother’s mess. Not to mention,’ Fitch-Bellingham permitted himself a smile, looking at the muscular young man beside
him, ‘you’re in pretty good shape and you can handle yourself.’

‘No doubt,’ Roland said drily, ‘you’ll put all that in writing for me.’

‘I warned you!’ Adams was rising from his chair.

Fitch-Bellingham waved him back to his seat.

‘This is no joking matter. Understand?’

Roland nodded.
It couldn’t be as simple as this fellow was making out but he’d manage
.

‘So. When do I leave for Berlin?’

‘In two days.’

Fitch-Bellingham caught the look of alarm on Adams’ face.

Roland shrugged. ‘The sooner the better. And my brother?’

‘He’ll be waiting for you when you get back. You can go home together.’

‘And,’ a smile lighting up his face, ‘I can see Terry before I go to Berlin?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Your brother is still in police custody and we have to sort out the paperwork.’

Another shrug, a shake of the dark head. ‘But I have your word that Terry and I will go home together after Berlin?’

‘Yes, you have my word.’ Fitch-Bellingham stood up, stretched his long frame like a greyhound. ‘I have some details to discuss
with my colleague here,’ he nodded towards Adams, ‘so why don’t you take a walk in our garden, enjoy a little of our English
pastoral beauty.’

Roland looked at the two older men for a moment before turning away from them.

‘I should add,’ Fitch-Bellingham said to Roland’s back, ‘that our neighbours round here think that we run a funny farm in
this place – they’re always watching out for chaps climbing over the wall.’

Roland kept on walking. They heard his footsteps fading away on the basement stairs.

Adams cleared his throat, stroked his dark-shaven jaw.

‘Two days, sir. What do you want me to do with him in
two days
?’

‘Not a lot, Corporal.’

They heard the back door slamming; moments later they caught a glimpse of Roland’s corduroy-trousered legs passing the barred
kitchen window above their heads.

Fitch-Bellingham and Adams swung their gaze from the barred window and looked at each other, almost smiling. There wasn’t
much, legal and otherwise, that they didn’t know about each other.

‘Not much you
can
do in a couple of days, sir.’

‘Get the maps out. Get him familiar with the city, the streets, the trams. Set him plenty of tests, the usual stuff.’

‘And his cover? Student or something, visiting East Berlin?’

‘He goes in as the usual day tripper.’ Fitch-Bellingham fingered the salt cellar on the long table as if it were a pawn on
a chessboard.

‘And coming out? His pass is good for just the day.’

‘I’m still working on it, Corporal.’

Adams cleared his throat again. ‘And the two days, sir? I mean—’

‘You mean, what’s the rush? Good question, Corporal. The way I see it, Herr Feldmann senior back in the Irish Republic is
liable to be asking questions soon. Right now there’s a postcard view of Tower Bridge winging its way to our Irish-German
jeweller explaining that the brothers Roland and Terry have decided to head for Brighton for a couple of days. In a few days’
time another postcard, of Brighton Pier, will tell Mum and Dad that our boys are having fun and will be home in a few days
and not to worry. All done in our best forger’s own hand.’ Adams nodded: James Finkelstein, forger and reformed graduate of
Wormwood Scrubs, was the best in the business. ‘But it seems to me that our Herr Feldmann is probably your typical German
paterfamilias – he’ll rant a bit at first, but no more than that. Later, when Frau Feldmann gets agitated because her boys
haven’t phoned, especially baby Terry with his wretched asthma, then it seems to me that our German papa will start to wonder.’
Once more Fitch-Bellingham lifted the salt cellar in his long fingers. ‘I daresay he’ll start making phone calls, asking questions,
maybe even take a trip to London. The boys have already been checked out of their hotel, very early in the morning, just the
night porter on duty and he was the worse for wear. But,’ he looked at Adams, ‘if Herr Feldmann senior fetches up at the hotel
desk, a lot of questions will inevitably be asked. And a lot of knickers will end up in a twist if we have the Ambassador
of the Federal Republic asking questions.’