Bill risked a glance back. He had lost them, for now. He couldn’t risk heading home, as he had no idea who he was running from and whether they might head there.
As he reemerged and headed along Bernauer Strasse, he stopped to check his watch. It was one o’clock in the morning. The familiar city took on a menacing appearance. The large sash windows in the once-grand facades eyed him warily. Bill paused in a doorway and backed into the darkness.
He checked his pipe pouch, then the tin, and found he had run out of tobacco. Remembering the spilt flakes on the floor of Irene’s apartment filled him with dread. It wouldn’t take a particularly experienced British agent to recognise the tobacco. There were few pipe smokers among the British agents and even fewer who smoked St. Bruno. Most preferred a more expensive blend, like Dunhill. None of the French or Americans would even know where to obtain it, and the stuff the Russians smoked could hardly be described as tobacco at all. St. Bruno was made with a small amount of vinegar as a preservative, making it smell distinctly unique. The conclusion was obvious that it could only have come from Bill.
They were already looking for a Soviet double agent, and now that one of their own had wound up dead, Bill would be the most obvious suspect.
He looked up and spotted a small group of French soldiers walking his way—five or six of them, shining torches illuminating the various alleyways and doorways. Bill waited until they were distracted, then slipped out of his hiding spot and made the long walk, cautiously, down towards Unter den Linden. An hour later, he crossed to the city’s southside and worked his way through the back streets into the American sector.
He felt safer already. The alert had evidently not gone out here, as there were no patrols. Only the usual lax attitude to security Bill had grown to rely upon. Heading home in the early hours of the morning, you could always count on the Americans to not be particularly observant. The cold was biting, but Bill kept moving to keep warm.
He began to wonder if he should ditch his gun. Police and patrols always checked permits with a call to the relevant sector’s office. He might be able to survive a random stop with his identity papers, but a call to the British to check his gun permit would be a definite compromise. Ultimately, he decided he’d rather have it in case his life depended on it.
As he arrived at the large house on Dorfstrasse, he briefly checked the street behind him and then knocked on the solid door. A light was on inside, and Bill knew that Chester was usually still awake until daybreak anyway. He had stayed up late drinking with the old man more than once. Bill heard footsteps approach the door, a rattle of bolts, and the door opened a few inches. He was then greeted by Chester’s wrinkled face, which appeared in the gap, along with the business end of a Colt 1911 pistol.
“What the hell you doin’ here?” he exclaimed as he de-cocked the gun and placed it back on the table by the door, opening it to allow Bill to enter.
“Chester, I need somewhere to lay low for a few hours.”
“Well, get in here, and quit letting the heat out.”
The old musty hallway had bare plank floorboards covered with a long runner-style patterned rug. It was almost threadbare from the constant footfall up the centre. The ceiling was high, with an ornate plaster rose from which a bare lightbulb dangled. The bracket remained from the long-gone chandelier.
Chester shuffled ahead down the hall. In front was the kitchen, with its door propped open with an old ammo tin, but instead, he turned left through the panelled door into the sitting room that doubled up for dining too. Chester cursed as his trouser pocket caught on the bakelite doorknob, then continued through and offered Bill a chair at the large dining table.
Much like most of the houses in Berlin, the decor was minimal, the possessions almost non-existent. It was a home which even a Trappist monk would call bare. The closest thing to possessions Chester owned was an extensive collection of empty wine bottles he kept against the back wall, too lazy to dispose of them properly. The only thing of worth the old man owned was his 1911 and a battered trumpet.
“What’s happening, Billy-boy?”
“I had a bit of a problem with the police and can’t go home.”
“Gotcha, say no more. Wine?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Chester grabbed a chipped china mug and then filled it to the top from his open bottle.
“Well, you are welcome to crash here, my friend. I don’t normally sleep until about six myself. Too many years of touring with the bands.”
“It’s just nice to get in the warm.”
“Listen, I’ve been hoping to see you. Our boy, James? Ain’t no one seen him since he spoke to you that night. Even his guys said his locker is cleared out, and he hasn’t been back. What did you talk to him about anyways?”
Bill told Chester all about the Jeep crash and the passenger’s identity.
Chester listened intently, then asked, “So, why are they moving Nazis around in secret?”
“I don’t know, but I guess he was a prisoner.”
“Sounds like Sergeant Pheonix might be in trouble for talking to the press.”
“Certainly the most obvious scenario.”
“Well, I’ll keep asking around. Most of the boys come to the club. They look after me down here, too. They are good boys, looking after this old drunk.”
“I don’t think you are quite as helpless as you like everyone to think.”
“Well, if they like to help, who am I to refuse? I like it here. That’s why I never went back to the States. I played most of the bases after the war, but Tempelhof feels like home.”
“I can’t wait to get out. The history and the hypocrisy stick in my throat.”
“Ain’t no getting away from the hypocrisy wherever you go, and you tell me any place that ain’t got history.”
“True enough,” Bill replied in exasperation as he took a gulp of the cheap white wine. It was awful and sweet-tasting. “How do you drink this stuff?”
“Boy, I’ll drink anything. Got this locally, you know how it is.” He winked. “Cheap if you buy in bulk.”
“If you don’t drink it, you could probably clean the drains with it. What is it called?”
“Damned if I can pronounce it. I just call it leaping frog’s milk.”
Bill picked up the bottle and looked at the label. It rather hopefully called itself quality wine. It was Liebfraumilch, although Bill couldn’t help but think frog’s milk probably tasted nicer.
It was only a short walk to the dull grey house. It looked remarkably like every other dull grey house on the street. This early in the morning, the area was also full of dull, grey people.
Bill walked up to the front of the plain, nondescript building and, after checking around for possible witnesses, pulled out his pistol and knocked on the door. There was no answer at first. Banging on the door once more finally disturbed the occupant, who could be heard tramping down the stairs, cursing audibly.
As the door was finally swung open, an American voice said, “What the hell sort of time do …”
“Make another sound, and I’ll blow your head off,” Bill said through gritted teeth as he stuck the Colt under Malone’s chin. “Now step back inside and keep your hands where I can see them. Where’s your piece?” The American agent gestured towards the coat hanging on a hook from the wall by the front door. “Good, leave it there. Do you have anything else around you could hurt me with?”
“I could call you nasty names.”
“Yes, very clever,” replied Bill, closing the door behind them with his foot.
Bill dropped his gun down but kept it pointed at Malone, who, in turn, let his arms drop to his side.
“How’d you find me?”
“I checked your ID while you were out cold. I have an excellent memory.”
“Well, it’s just as well. It saves me looking for you. Coffee?”
“Looking for me? What?”
“I need to talk to you. That’s why I was tailing you before. I had too many eyes on me, so I had to play along with orders, but I was hoping to get you alone. I had no idea you were so jumpy then. Some journalist you turned out to be!”
“I don’t take kindly to being followed.”
“I’m not keen on being pushed into my own house at gunpoint, so I guess we’re even.”
“But, you were tailing me to find out what I was up to?”
Malone laughed as he made his way under Bill’s suspicious gaze. “We know exactly what you are up to. I wanted to help you, you stupid bastard!”