“Let’s take it from the top, we need to get our story straight.”
Steinlein was sweating, he’d put his uniform cap on the table and undone the top few buttons of his blouson. Now he was holding a pen, ready to write down whatever I said.
We were in an interview room, both of us sitting at the table. I was still drunk, still trying to understand what had happened. Hanna Krause had been shot. Despite Unit 9, despite all the material we’d uncovered. Despite everything.
I sat up straight, trying to sober up, to order my thoughts. But the memory of the lightning flash, her figure falling, the realisation that she would never get up again … How long had I known Hanna? Ten years? Now she was gone. Why her? Why not Kaminsky? Why always the good people?
Steinlein was right, we needed to get our story straight. The twin reel tape recorder on the table was still, this was between me and Steinlein’s pen.
“Everything?” I asked, still trying to stop my brain from replaying those moments at the Soviet War Memorial. I waited for Steinlein to nod. Everything.
“I’m on leave from the Republikschutz, and you approached me—when was it? Just over a week ago.” I was trying to breathe properly. Steady, regular breaths. I watched the lieutenant’s face closely, searching for a clue as to what to include, what to leave out.
But Steinlein hadn’t reacted, his pen hadn’t touched paper.
“I received an anonymous tip-off a week ago,” I tried again. Steinlein’s pen started scratching at the rough greyness of the form, taking down what I was saying.
I gave him an account, edited him out, took responsibility for everything we’d done together. At the end I was shivering, I was thinking about Krause, about Kaminsky’s lucky escape, about the whole bloody mess. About our failure.
Steinlein left the room, closing the door behind him. I sat in the chair, indifferent to my fate.
It was another ten minutes before the lock clicked open.
“Comrade Captain, would you accompany us?” a constable requested, politely enough, but with that hint of steel that police officers must practice.
He led the way, a police recruit taking up the rear of our convoy as we went along corridors and down stairs to the custody area. A sergeant stood behind the desk, ready to receive his new guest.
“Martin Grobe, presented for detention,” the constable announced.
At a signal from the sergeant the constable pulled my left arm behind my back. I bent over in pain, my head hitting the desk. The recruit emptied my pockets and the sergeant documented my belongings.
“Reason for detention?”
“Criminal Code paragraphs 112 and 99.”
The desk sergeant wrote down the paragraph numbers, murmuring to himself as he did so: “Murder. Terrorism.”