Bill rolled over to find a space where Irene’s warm, naked body used to be. He glanced around the room and saw there was no sign of her. Instead, a small, handwritten note was on the pillow in a beautiful looping cursive script:
Gone out to see B1 man about a dog. Talk later xx
Bill thought about Errington’s office and, more specifically, the aged single malts hiding in his drinks cabinet. He lay on the bed and stared blankly at the note for a few minutes remembering the golden nectar, then shook himself from his stupor.
Bill wondered about this imagined dog. Maybe it was the red one Errington had warned him about. If such a thing were possible, the Russians were becoming even more of a threat to stability in Berlin lately.
Of course, Bill hadn’t mentioned what he was doing in the city but had told her Jack was around too. She was keen for them to meet up, but it would have to wait for now, as it appeared all three of them were currently operational.
Bill dragged himself from the bed into the chill of the kitchen and prepared some tea. He then hunted around for his clothes, discarded in some hurry the evening before, and got himself dressed. The gold-framed, full-length dress mirror stood inanimate by the door and showed him a moving image of some overly-creased homeless man. He would fit in nicely among the numerous refugees hiding in the ruins throughout the city. He needed to change suits and desperately needed a shave.
Out the window, Bill could see it was trying to snow. The beginnings of the inevitable harsh cold were now blowing in more misery from the east. But, late or not, the winter was now, indeed, here.
After finishing his tea, he pocketed his revolver, collected his coat and hat from the stand, and headed out into the cold Berlin hell.
“Bill, we need to talk about the Hamiltons again.”
“Sure. Just let me know when.”
“Today. I’ve uncovered one heck of a story. But, to be honest with you, I am a little concerned about my safety.”
Bill looked at the dancing flames in the fireplace, and his heart sank a little that he would have to face the weather again today. He had left his shiny new car at Irene’s apartment and taken an S-Bahn train back. They were running pretty efficiently, despite the difficulties with the weather. Berliners sure knew how to overcome adversity. The services were no longer running first class, though. Since the war, it was strictly second and third class only, and neither had any heating.
“Budget is tight, but I’ll get you some protection if necessary, depending on what you have for me. Let’s say, three-ish?”
“Great. See you then.” Albie hung up.
Bill looked down at the sheet of paper at the childish drawing. Violette used to try to work out the best plan of action by drawing out what she called a spidergram. Put all the known facts down and try to draw links between them. It hadn’t worked out for Bill, whose mind worked better when he smoked, eyes shut, whisky in hand. Whilst Violette had drawn elaborate charts and diagrams with perfect handwritten annotations, Bill’s art career had barely stretched further than crudely drawing penises on his friend’s exercise books at school. He screwed up his pitiful attempt and threw it into the fire.
Trailing around Berlin, picking up half-clues, spending a small fortune of the king’s money on fuel and liquor was as elaborate a waste of time you’d find anywhere outside of the Houses in Westminster, but how else would he bring Misselwitz out into the open? All was quiet. The rat had gone to ground, and Bill had to think of a way to dig him out.
Bill numbed his brain with another jazz record, and it crackled its melody through the cloud masquerading as his mind, an extension of the pipe smoke about him. He closed his eyes and tried to draw the links.
All paths he took led to the same destination. An answer that lurked in the darkness. Somewhere among the faceless agents in brown suits, the men in long black leather coats and the topless dancing girls from a cabaret that only existed in the past. Somewhere in the dark. Forged IDs, homosexuals, dangling boots, photographs, scalpels and guns. Somewhere, in that misty dark corner of his mind, there was the answer.
The record ended, and the rhythmic ticking of the run-out continued. Finally, Bill dragged himself back to reality and stood to switch off the gramophone. The attempted mind map had got him nowhere. He carefully placed the record back into its paper sleeve and, in turn, into the wooden box on the floor.
Bill sighed and collected his hat and coat. This was driving him mad. It was like banging a brick against a wall made out of heads.
As he pulled on his leather gloves, he muttered to himself, “Back to the grindstone, Bill.”
The chill wind slithered through a gap in Bill’s cashmere scarf, and he quickly adjusted it to keep the cold, wintery fingers off his neck. He clapped his hands and stamped his feet waiting under the once-grand, now crumbling, stone gate.
Two Russian soldiers in uniform walked past and curtly nodded at him. They each had a woman on his arm. All four wore fur ushankas pulled down to just above the bridge of their noses. The girls had released the ear flaps and tied them under their chins. Locals, Bill assumed. Their Russian cohorts probably gifted them the hats. No proper Russian would have the ear flaps down in anything less than a full blizzard. Strange they may be, but they were a tough sort. It was a different breed that survived the winters out there to the East. No one could accuse a Russian of being frightened of a bit of snow.
Bill checked his wristwatch. Five minutes to three. He had been standing for a full quarter of an hour. His nose was running, and his toes felt like they were freezing inside his shoes. He decided right there to get better socks and decent boots at the first available opportunity. He briefly missed the army boots he used to have to wear. What he wouldn’t give to be wearing them right now. Bill tipped his hat forward to keep the wind from his eyes and tried to forget the icicles where his toes used to be.
Albie swept into view out of the haze, dragging his heels with every step, leaving strange skid marks in the gathering thin white veil on the ground.
“I’m not late, am I? Have you been here long?”
“Bang on time, Albie. Don’t worry about me. I thrive in the cold.” Bill flashed him a smile, then added, “Now let’s get back into the British sector, out of this bloody awful cold and into a bar.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
The bar of the Grand Hotel was nice and quiet. It was only just past three p.m., after all. They picked a table in the back corner and, removing their various outer garments, handed them to the waiter, who placed them as carefully as if they were the crown jewels onto the faux-gold hat stand by the wide entrance to the bar. Bill needed Albie to be comfortable, happy and willing to talk. The five-star service here might just give him the edge he needed.
Bill pulled out a packet of Lucky Strikes and placed them on the table next to a large glass ashtray. Albie nodded and smiled, then helped himself to a cigarette. Noticing this, the waiter darted to the long art deco, emerald-coloured bar, retrieved a cartoonishly large amber table lighter, and looked back towards their table. Bill just frowned and shook his head as he struck a Swan Vesta to life with his thumbnail and held it aloft for Albie. The waiter clicked his heels together and bowed his head, returning the ridiculous object from whence it came.
“What do you have for me, Albie?”
“Well, out of curiosity, I did a little digging into the victims of the Jeep crash. I might have disturbed something big here, Bill.”
The waiter appeared. He was about fifty, with slicked-back grey hair and a small moustache that still held some black pigment. He was a handsome man and, in another life, could easily have been in the movies. He stood silently, with a small pencil poised to take their order.
“I’ll take a large beer. Anything dark,” said Bill.
“We have lovely local Dunkel, sir, on tap.”
“Perfect, thanks.”
“And a Weissbier for me, thanks.”
“Would you care to sample our snack platter, gentlemen?”
“Sure.”
The waiter drifted effortlessly back to the bar and placed the little ticket on a giant metal spike.
“Look, Albie, whatever it is, I’ll do my best to keep you protected.”
“Alright, fair enough. I told myself I wouldn’t, but I looked into the crash, and it turns out that the two US airmen were killed, not injured. The lieutenant was straightforward enough. Failed the cadet program to be aircrew, delayed entry, missed the war by a few months, and ended up a glorified Jeep jockey, moving around prisoners.”
“Prisoners? So, the sergeant was a prisoner?”
“I don’t know. The sergeant has no records at all. He appeared in the files barely three days before the crash. I have a contact in the US Army Air Force that guards the perimeter at Tempelhof Airport. He said he wants to talk to you directly. The Jeep had come up from Wannsee headed for a flight out, bound for Wiesbaden in the American-controlled region in Bavaria.”
The waiter returned with their drinks and a large silver platter with little dividers for the four sections. It had all kinds of sliced sausage and dainty small pieces of rye bread. Bill ate a piece of sausage and took a long swig of his beer.
Albie continued, “This is where it starts to get strange. I also managed to get an off-the-record chat with the local coroner who looked over the body. When the Americans turned up and requisitioned the corpse, they made him sign some non-disclosure contract. When he refused, they held a gun to his head and told him they’d help him to sign it with his brains.”
Bill packed his pipe as he listened intently. Albie had stopped and noticed he was busying himself.
“Please, Albie, continue. I was hanging on your every word. Smoking helps me think.”
“Well, after that performance, my guy held back the negatives of the initial photographs he took of the cadaver and stashed them away. He didn’t know what to do with them until I came calling. I had to put a few dollars his way, which I’d appreciate if you would cover.”
“Of course. We’ll come to an arrangement.”
The Americans, again. Bill let it filter through the colander of his mind. The brown suits were meddling everywhere in this case, it seemed.
The prominent figure of Jack appeared in the lobby of the hotel, and as he removed his lightly frosted hat, he smiled and raised his eyebrows at Bill, then made his way into the bar. He removed his coat as he walked, throwing both it and his hat carelessly at the stand as he passed. The astonished waiter rushed to the stand to rearrange it. Jack ignored him.
“Albie, this is my friend and colleague, Jack.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Albie stood and shook Jack’s hand.
“May I get you anything, sir?” The film-star waiter had interrupted yet again.
“What’s that?” Jack asked as he jabbed a finger towards the table.
“That’s our famous snack platter, sir.”
“Alright, I’ll have two more of those and a couple of beers. Surprise me.”
“Very good, sir.” The fawning waiter scurried off.
Jack sat, brushed down his black suit, and adjusted his tie. He grabbed a fistful of the sausage slices from the platter and dumped them unceremoniously onto the small plate in front of him. Ever the gentleman.
“I’m starving,” he said to no one in particular and shoved two pieces into his mouth.
Bill smirked, shook his head and then said to Albie, “So, these photos?”
“Right. I got the negatives processed at the lab at the Post’s office. They didn’t mean anything to me, but I showed them around, not mentioning where I got them, and another journalist recognised his face. He was sure it was an ex-SS officer he had the misfortune of coming across when he was on the Eastern Front. I told him you might want to speak to him. That’s all I know so far. I thought you’d like to hear about it as soon as possible.”
“Fantastic work, Albie.”
Bill turned to Jack, who had hungrily cleared the platter and was now nodding in appreciation, still chewing. Bill wondered if it was the food or the story that had him so pleased. Much to Jack’s delight, the waiter set down the other two platters and Jack’s beers, one of which he swiftly emptied, then asked for another. Bill nodded at the waiter’s silent tip of his head, a confirmation to order another round.
“How does this tie in with your guy? Ernst Wizer? Just a coincidence?”
“There are no coincidences. The universe is never that lazy,” Jack spluttered, his mouth full.
“I do wish you wouldn’t do that, you uncouth oaf,” Bill scolded as Jack had a large slurp of his second beer.
“That’s better. I hadn’t eaten at all today.”
Turning back to Albie, Bill said, “I’m sure there must be a link, but I’m yet to make it.”
“So, who is he? Another ex-Nazi?”
“I’m afraid, as I told you when we first met, I can’t tell you that.”
“You’re right. Sorry, Bill. Here are the details for my guy at the Post. He knows to expect your call.”
“What about this USAAF guard? Do you think he saw anything regarding the crash?” Jack interrupted.
“He was present on the day. I can give you his name, but you won’t be able to talk to him by telephone or at the airport. The military strictly forbids the men from talking to the press. However, he hangs out at the Victory Club, nearby, most nights.”
“I know it well. It’s near the airstrip, not far from my apartment.”
“You have been a great help, Albie. The BBC want to show their appreciation for your efforts.” Bill slid a little stack of green bills across the table to him. “Jack here will stay with you this evening. Head back to the office and see if you can persuade your colleague to meet you there and see if he can remember a name. Best stay the night together until I can arrange some proper protection for you. You have been asking a lot of questions, so it won’t take long for the Amis to realise something is afoot.”
The short walk to the tram stop was interrupted only to rewrap his scarf and occasionally wipe his nose, which was now running like a tap. The investigation had been stalling, but now he might just have a lead.
The streets were quiet. The light was fading out, but the blanket of snow reflected what little there was, giving the surroundings a lacklustre glow. It would not get truly dark with this thin white carpet all around. He passed by the Brandenburg Gate, out of the British sector and back into the city’s red zone.
The streetcars in Berlin were run down and dirty. They buzzed and clattered their way through the city like the rattling of a half-empty matchbox. But they were only twenty pfennigs, and Bill could suffer the discomfort this once. He hadn’t fancied driving in the snow, and the trains would go too far out of his way. As he crunched through the snow, his shoes getting heavier under the weight of the acquired mass, he could distinctly hear an echo of his steps somewhere behind him.
Bill stopped and pulled out another pack of Luckies from his coat pocket. He didn’t know how many he needed to keep Albie talking back at the hotel, so he had brought backups. He had swapped a full wax carton of the awful things with an American soldier he’d met while hanging out in the Castle Club near his apartment.
It paid to familiarise yourself with the local drinking establishments in the city and their selection of American whiskeys, especially ones in your neighbourhood, particularly when the US military and undercover agents frequent those bars. You never know when you might need to squeeze someone for information or swap some pipe tobacco for US cigarettes.
He needed an excuse to stop and take a surreptitious glance back. He hated cigarettes. The Berliners called them coffin nails. Bill would sooner drive a nail through his tongue than smoke a whole one. He dragged one of the white sticks from the pack and held up his coat collar. Tucking his head down behind it, Bill struck a match and paused to light it. The slightest of peeks back in the direction he had come from confirmed he had a shadow. A stocky man hesitated, then suddenly diverted into the dull light spilling from one of the bars.
Bill put the pack and matches back into his pocket and continued on his way. He walked unhurriedly along and then crossed the broad avenue. As he reached the opposite curb, he threw away the disgusting cigarette, looked down the street, and caught the shadow in the corner of his eye, further back now, following him once again.
Bill turned left down a narrow alleyway. Even down here, the snow had laid down a thin veil of white. He passed a narrow doorway entrance to some apartments. He continued another fifteen yards, then veered left down an off-shoot alleyway. He quickly walked backwards, retracing his footsteps back to the entranceway, and jumped sideways into it, hiding in the shadows. He hadn’t had time to be too precise and had missed his old footprints ever-so-slightly, leaving a double print in places, but he hoped the shadow would be in too much of a hurry trying to catch up to notice.
He waited in the dark cover of the doorway, collar up, hat tipped down. His leather glove gripped his gun in his coat pocket. The stocky man passed by, following Bill’s footprints in the snow. He was wearing a brown fedora, lightweight brown trench coat with an ivory-coloured scarf wrapped around his neck, snow-splattered brown brogues and brown trousers.
Could this guy look any more like an American agent if he tried?
As he continued out of sight, Bill stepped quietly from the doorway and pointed his revolver at the back of the sepia shadow.
“Hold it right there,” said Bill in English.
The shadow stopped and sighed. It had confirmed his suspicion. Bill had chosen his words carefully. Most locals, Russians and even the French would know the word stop. He had contemplated freeze, just for the ironic comedy, but had decided it wasn’t the time or place.
“Now turn around slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”
The stocky man turned to face him. His face was almost obscured, but Bill could see his bushy eyebrows perched above his eyes like a couple of hairy caterpillars. Yes, of course, his eyes were brown, too.
“Why are you following me?”
“Can’t a man just take a walk?” he said arrogantly.
“Into the Russian sector in the middle of a snow flurry? I’m afraid I do not believe even an American would be quite so stupid.”
Bill approached the man, then circled him and kept his gun barrel pointed at the man’s back. Then, swapping hands, he snaked his right arm around him, unbuttoned his coat and reached around to retrieve the gun he had spotted under the man’s left arm. He pulled it gently out of the shoulder holster with his thumb and index finger.
“A Colt,” Bill said, inspecting the gun. “Detective special, a man of good taste. Or a man who had no choice in the matter and was issued it by Uncle Sam.”
“I have a permit for that.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do.”
Bill checked the man’s pockets and found the permit and a United States Army ID card.
“Lieutenant Frank Malone. US Strategic Services Unit. I wonder what Americans want with a journalist from the free British press? Especially one dressed in such a strange uniform.”
“Look, I don’t know anything. I was supposed to tail you and report back to the office,” said Malone.
“Keep talking.”
“Seriously, that’s it. I don’t know shit.”
“I sincerely doubt the US government would send an agent who doesn’t know shit to tail a mark into the Soviet sector of Berlin.”
At the far end of the alleyway, a pair of armed Russian soldiers patrolled by, chatting and smoking. Malone looked back over his shoulder at Bill. Bill held his breath.
Malone got as far as forming the start of the first syllable of “Help” before Bill smacked him on the back of the head with his revolver. His brown hat fell onto the cold ground, followed by a tumbling Malone shortly afterwards. Bill checked him over for a pulse and found he was still alive and breathing. He dragged him into the dark alleyway, out of the wind and weather, and propped him up against the wall.
Checking the unconscious man’s pockets, Bill found a couple of hundred dollars, some Occupation Marks, and a fancy Zippo branded petrol lighter. Leaving him the money, ID card and gun permit, he carefully placed his hat back on his head. Bill noticed some blood dripping down onto Malone’s collar. The red made a nice change from all the brown, Bill noted.
Bill reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a half-bottle of whisky he had forgotten to give to Albie earlier, and placed it carefully into Malone’s inside pocket. The bloke would need it when he woke up with the headache Bill had left him with. In any case, he was now heading to the Victory Club, anyway.
Bill emptied the chambers of Malone’s gun, pocketed the extra rounds, and dropped it back into his holster. He then crept back to the alleyway and checked for the Russian soldiers, who were nowhere to be seen. He needed to get as far away as possible, fast. Bill had well and truly shaken up the brown hornets’ nest.