Bill eyed Malone through the smoke from his pipe. He had managed to liberate a half-tin of Prince Albert from Chester. It burned too hot for Bill’s full enjoyment, and the Burley tobacco had more than a hint of American cigarettes about it, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The house could probably be best described as minimalist. The pale walls were decorated throughout with clean square patches of phantom paintings or picture frames, long since removed. The discoloured yellowing walls only emphasised their conspicuous absence.
After half an hour of clattering his way around the tiny kitchen, Malone finally sat down and presented Bill with an abominable-looking plate of food. It looked like an explosion in a pie factory. Somewhere under the meaty mess was a damp-looking bread roll, and above, what appeared to be luminous vomit. Malone picked up a handful of the disgusting-looking concoction and thrust it into his mouth.
Still chewing, he grinned and said, “Philly cheesesteak, my ma’s recipe.” His lips were smeared with grease.
“Has anyone ever survived it?” Bill asked, prodding the mound of molten cheese.
Malone laughed. “Everything the growing body needs.”
Bill helped himself to a fork from the kitchen drawer and then returned to the table. He scooped up some of the steak pieces and tentatively put them in his mouth. To his surprise, it was delicious.
“Not bad. Although I hasten to add, I haven’t eaten for almost twenty-four hours.”
“We’ll make an American out of you yet, Hoffmann.”
Bill glared at him. “You can call me Bill, William, Mr Fuchs or just plain old sir, but do not assume to use my real name again.”
“Sorry, Bill. You’re right.”
“Alright, forget it, we’re clear. What do you need to tell me?”
“That Jeep crash you’ve been investigating? I assume you’ve worked out by now the occupant was an ex-Nazi, right?” Bill nodded, and then Malone continued, “Well, he was recruited as an agent by the State Department. I don’t know all the details, but something very dirty is going on here, and I don’t like it one bit. They are picking and choosing who to prosecute and parade in courtrooms for the world’s cameras and who to recruit instead. It’s like they’ve forgotten the horror of the past eight years. Have you ever seen one of those camps, Bill? Smelt the stink and seen the bodies? Do you think those Germans are just soldiers like you and me?”
“I have seen enough of it, yes. I don’t think I could share a uniform with them. I think there might be some that were almost normal, but quite where they misplaced their humanity since 1933 is beyond me. So why are you coming to me?”
“I was assigned to tail you. The department knows you are getting close to uncovering the truth, and to be honest, I want the truth to be known. I will not stay silent while my country gets into bed with the Nazis. They think a few classes where they tell them they were bad and show them some old newsreels filmed at the camps will somehow cure them.”
“I see your point.”
“Well, it seems the US government has no qualms about recruiting Nazis for the new secret war against the Russians. That wasn’t the first one, either. I’ve been back in Germany for a year and have seen quite a few of these covert transfers going on. Sometimes they move them down and onto a train out of Wannsee, sometimes on a plane at Tempelhof. There is one, though, that they kept in Berlin.”
“Klaus Barbie,” Bill said out loud, under his breath.
“Exactly.”
“You know they sprung him from British custody then?”
“I heard. It wasn’t me, but I know the guys that had to go and collect him.”
“So, what was his mission in the city, and where is he now?”
“He was meant to be reporting back the activities of some of his ex-colleagues who are working as Russian agents, but from what I hear, he hasn’t given us a thing of any value to the Intelligence boys.”
“Russian agents?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Where is he now?”
“Since he has now been severely compromised in Berlin, the word is he has been shipped out to Bavaria somewhere.”
“When?”
“The same day they liberated him from Spandau.”
“Do you know why American agents have been operating in the French sector? They’ve been leaning on the police chief there. His name is Müller.”
“No idea, I’m afraid. Maybe investigating the commie connections within the Berlin Police?”
“Our governments would have us believe there are Soviet spies everywhere. Perhaps a smokescreen while they secretly recruit some of our old enemies. So, with all they know about him, the US isn’t even concerned Barbie’s just committed murder?” Bill inquired.
“That bastard’s always been a murderer. I doubt that one will make much difference.”
It felt a lot like returning to the scene of the crime. It had been a cold, long few hours. Jack finally appeared at around eleven o’clock, just as Apolonia had promised. The chill of the morning had numbed Bill’s face and toes, and he cursed himself for leaving so early. Old habits die hard.
The courtyard looked much larger in the daylight, and Bill had walked around enough times that he had to check to make sure he hadn’t eroded the cobbles. The dark stain remained where the body had laid out. They needn’t have bothered to remove it to take to the mortuary. The body would have remained frozen solid here anyway, like a giant human ice cube with a scarf and moustache.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m in trouble. Or rather, we both probably are. They might try to find you, to get to me.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Let’s head somewhere quiet, and I will fill you in on the details.”
“Who’s after us?”
“Our people, Misselwitz, the police, the Americans. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Great.”
“I feel like we are under threat from all sides.”
Jack smiled, jokingly tipped his hat forward, then said, “We’re spies, brother. We’re supposed to be surrounded.”
“So, what next?” Jack asked as he mopped up the last of his egg yolk with a small piece of bread.
“I have no idea. I think I’d better go and see what’s taking Albie so long. We need to know how the two victims fit into this picture. I don’t think Malone is suspicious about the crash. I didn’t mention Misselwitz to him. He seemed far more perturbed about the Americans recruiting Nazis in the first place.”
A waiter was busy wiping up tables and smiled at them from across the room. The main morning rush over, all the staff were busying themselves with preparing for lunch.
“So, who do you think shot Irene?”
“There’s the rub. Most obvious would be the spy with Orson Welles’ face, whoever he is.”
“Errington will know. But, if it was him, then Errington is the one who ordered the hit.”
“Why, though? Do you think I was the real target?”
“Probably, but then why would he have evaded you in the dark to head up to Irene? And who was in the car?”
“More questions. Let’s stick to the trails we can follow for now. We’ll go and see Albie at The Post and see if he has anything on our two dead Nazis. I feel like a trip to confession is in order, too, so we’ll go and shake down Father Lardy after that.”
“If it was Errington, we are in a very precarious position. Stuck in Berlin without funds, shelter or help.”
“But, we can’t risk it yet. What if he simply presses his little button? We’ll be surrounded and under arrest before we could say, traitor. Even if we find out it was him, what do we do without evidence? We’d be up shit creek without a paddle.”
The leggy blonde waitress returned with their two cups of coffee. As she picked up Jack’s plate, she narrowed her eyes at him and pouted her lips into a seductive smile. Jack grinned back just before she spun around and marched the plate back to the kitchen. Jack watched her all the way.
“There’s no time for that, either,” Bill said through a chuckle, then mimicking his friend’s usual pessimism, added, “Besides, she’s probably more interested in the marks, not the man.”