He had no trouble hearing their conversation — the trunk’s inner wall was much thinner than the outer. He wondered if they realised he could hear them, and whether they would care.
They’d been silent for several minutes when Shrill Voice came out with a question: ‘When are you going to do it — when we get to the factory?’
Scarred Man’s laugh was derisive. ‘We’d have to carry the body, wouldn’t we? I’ll wait until Kyritz Wood.’
‘I see what you mean.’
So did Russell, who suddenly felt cold all over. And his bowels were feeling loose — it was Ypres all over again.
They were going to kill him. Why? It had to be Rudolf Geruschke, but why? All he’d done was take an interest in an old friend. He hadn’t even kicked up a real fuss. Not yet anyway, and certainly not with Geruschke. So why?
And then he realised. He had turned up at the man’s nightclub. He hadn’t even heard of Geruschke until that evening, let alone known of his connection with Kuzorra. But Geruschke didn’t know that. And someone — Irma most likely — must have told him that Russell was a journalist.
Even so.
How had they known where to find him? Had someone at Camp Cyclop put in a call, and told them he was heading back into town?
But what the hell did that matter? They had found him, and now they were going to kill him. In Kyritz Wood, wherever the hell that was. But first they would stop at a factory. He might get a chance there. If they ever let him out of the trunk.
He had a sudden memory of the Saint in similar circumstances. The Saint in New York was the book, one of Paul’s childhood favourites. Two of Dutch Kuhlmann’s hoodlums had driven the Saint to a wood in New Jersey — it was amazing how much he remembered of the story. The Saint got away of course, but only because the love interest showed up in the nick of time to distract his would-be killers.
That wouldn’t happen this time. No one else knew where was. No one except Geruschke.
How far had they gone? He couldn’t see his watch, but reckoned they’d been driving about twenty-five minutes. They were still in the city.
He’d been dicing with disaster for six years now, but the thought of surviving the best that Hitler and Stalin could throw at him, and then falling victim to some jumped-up profiteer, was more than a little galling.
And they would bury him in the wood, he realised. From Effi’s point of view, he would simply have vanished. She might guess who was responsible for his disappearance, but she could never be sure, of either his death or his probable killer. At the very least, he had to find some way of reporting his own demise. A message of some sort.
Searching his pockets he realised how much of a rush he’d left in that morning. His pen was still on Thomas’s desk. Some reporter.
His abductors were conversing again. He could hardly credit it — they were not only talking football, but both seemed to be fellow-Hertha supporters.
The car made another turn, and was suddenly bumping over less even ground. Had they reached the factory?
He told himself he had to be ready, to take a chance if it came, to make himself one if none did. Easy words. The phrase ‘hanging by a thread’ had never carried more weight. He needed some sort of plan, but his mind was a raging blank.
The car stopped, bouncing a little as the two men got out. The lid of the trunk lifted up, revealing a row of far-away skylights. ‘Raus,’ the gunman said. ‘Out,’ he added in translation, looking pleased with himself.
They had no idea he spoke German, Russell realised — they’d been ordered to kill an American, and had made the assumption that he only spoke English. Was there any way of using the mistake against them? He couldn’t think of one.
Back on his feet, he felt more than a little unsteady. If he tried to run he’d only get about two metres. Not that there was anywhere to run to. Shrill Voice was sliding shut the door they’d come through, and there was no other obvious exit.
The car had drawn up in one of four loading docks, and a lorry with US Army markings occupied another. Crates and other containers were stacked along the side walls of the platform, and a long, glassed-in office space lined the back.
Scarred Man gestured him towards the open rear of the lorry.
‘I need a piss before we go,’ Shrill Voice told his partner.
‘Okay.’
Shrill Voice was halfway to the office when a telephone started to ring. ‘Should I answer it?’ he shouted back.
Scarface grimaced. ‘I suppose so.’
Russell could hear the high-pitched voice from thirty metres away, but not what was being said. Was this the moment to throw himself at the other man? If the bastard had any reflexes at all, he would empty the gun before Russell reached him, but would there be a better chance?
There might.
There might not.
And Shrill Voice was on his way back. ‘Change of plan,’ he told his partner, three short words that almost caused Russell’s heart to explode. ‘We’ve got to take him back to town.’
‘And do what with him?’
‘Let him go.’
‘What! Why for fuck’s sake? That’s another hour’s driving. We won’t get back from Rostock until God knows when.’
‘He didn’t give me his reasons,’ Shrill Voice said sarcastically.
‘Why didn’t you say we’d already killed him?’
‘I didn’t think of it.’
Scarred Man looked angrily at Russell. ‘Well, it’s too late now.’ He waved the gun towards the Mercedes. ‘I thought the fucking phone was out of order,’ he added, apparently to himself.
‘What’s happening?’ Russell asked in English, as if he had no idea.
Scarred Man lifted his gun, and for a second Russell thought he might use it. But the man just shook his head. ‘You one lucky bozo,’ he said in English, a quote no doubt from a Hollywood movie.
Russell climbed back into the trunk, trying to look bemused. Once the lid was down it was all he could do not to cry out with joy. He felt almost hysterical. If the phone had rung ten minutes later — or if some sweetheart of a Telefunken engineer hadn’t got their line working — he’d been halfway to Kyritz Wood. Some day he’d have to drive out there. The place he hadn’t been shot and buried.
He couldn’t remember a nicer trip in a trunk.
The return journey seemed shorter, but that didn’t surprise him. When the car eventually stopped, there was a long wait before the trunk was opened. Clambering out, he discovered why — they were parked at the side of the Chaussee, in the middle of the Tiergarten. His abductors had been waiting for an empty road.
He thought he should say something, but couldn’t think what, so he just started walking. He heard the slam of the door, and the purr of the motor as the Mercedes pulled away. He felt like falling to his knees and kissing the bare earth, but wasn’t sure how he’d ever get back to his feet.
A last game of chess
Russell was still wondering why as he worked his way round the flak towers and down past the Zoo. Why had Geruschke — or someone else — decided he needed killing? And what had changed his mind?
He was waiting for a bus on the Ku’damm when he remembered Fritsche’s young colleague. Luders might have useful things to say about the way these people operated, and Fritsche should have his address. The cafe he used as an office was only a short walk away.
Fritsche was sitting in his usual seat, hands resting intertwined on the table, staring into space. He looked up with a jerk when Russell loomed over him, and the momentary flash of fear was hard to miss.
‘Has something happened?’ Russell asked.
‘It’s Luders. He was beaten up in the street last night. Badly. An arm and a leg broken. He’s in the hospital.’
‘Christ. Does he know who it was?’
‘No, but he can guess.’
‘Has he — has anyone — brought the police in?’
Fritsche managed a wan smile. ‘The hospital doctor insisted, but he needn’t have bothered. There’s nothing to go on, and even if there was…’ He shrugged.