‘That’s correct,’ replied Reinhardt.
The Feldgendarme looked at him, up and then down. ‘What for, if I may ask?’
‘You may.’ Reinhardt watched the blood rise to the major’s face, the clench of his jaw, and saw the glaze come over the orderly’s face as he wished himself away from this clash of officers, and was that the ghost of a smile on Kessler’s face… ? Reinhardt wondered if they knew of the history between the two of them, history that went back to Berlin when they were in Kripo together. ‘I am investigating the murder of a serving officer in the Abwehr,’ he said, judging he had left it just long enough. ‘The officer was found dead at the house of a Croatian journalist in Ilidza. I have reason to believe he went out there late on Saturday night. I would like to examine the traffic records for any indication of his killer’s movements.’
‘Who has assigned you to this investigation?’
‘Major Freilinger. Abwehr.’
Becker nodded. ‘I see.’ He frowned. It was a frown for show, the sort a lawyer would use in court. Or a parent, knowing a child had been disobedient but wanting to play through the pantomime of question- shy;and-answer to its end. Becker was playing to an audience. He always did when he could. ‘This city has a police force, no? Why are they not investigating this case?’
‘Major Freilinger implemented the standard protocol with the Sarajevo police that in the event of a criminal investigation involving German intelligence personnel, we would have the lead or equal role in the inquiries.’
Reinhardt could see Becker debating with himself whether to make things personal, but the bureaucrat won. He unfolded his glasses and put them back on. ‘I see,’ he repeated. ‘I am aware of the protocols. I am also surprised. I find the police in Sarajevo to be a thoroughly professional force. We work closely with them.’
‘As you say, sir,’ replied Reinhardt. Such a painfully transparent man, he thought, not even needing to guess the next question. Interesting, though, that Becker would play the bureaucratic card like this. Normally, he would string things out, play word games, try to humiliate Reinhardt. Usually, he would manage to bring up the disparity in their ranks now as opposed to back in Kripo, when Reinhardt outranked him.
‘Indeed. But if Major Freilinger has activated the protocols, would not such an investigation be better conducted by the Feldgendarmerie?’
‘Sir, that is a question I respectfully suggest that you address to Major Freilinger.’
‘I intend to. Or rather, I shall wait until he, or someone, explains to me why the Feldgendarmerie should merely assist, and not lead.’ He took a folder from his in tray and folded his hands atop it. ‘There are rules. Procedures to be adhered to. I should like to see some formal request to this unit before I release any information. When I have seen a written request, I will be more than happy to provide whatever assistance I can. Please be so kind as to inform Major Freilinger of that.’
‘Sir, I was made to understand by Major Freilinger that the Feldgendarmerie had been consulted on the handling of this investigation and it would be left in the hands of the Abwehr.’
‘I have seen nothing to that effect. Until I do, your involvement in a murder investigation is an anomaly to me.’
Reinhardt sat still, clamping down around the anger that he always felt in the face of such bureaucracy. ‘There is no way that you might see fit to assist me pending such a notification?’
‘None.’ Becker’s nostrils quivered and narrowed, and his mouth straightened. As if he were clamping it shut around what he really wanted to say. Or holding back a smile.
‘Sir, I must respectfully point out to you that time is of the essence in such an inquiry. The longer -’
‘I am a policeman, Captain,’ Becker said, coldly, but his eyes glittered brightly, daring Reinhardt to contradict him. ‘I also am someone who believes no good ever came of bending rules.’ His eyes glittered even brighter. ‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ he said as he opened the folder and pulled a sheet of paper towards him. ‘Orderly, please see Captain Reinhardt on his way.’
7
The orderly came back to sudden life, moving back past Reinhardt to hold the door open for him. Good survival instincts, observed Reinhardt, sourly, although he was sure the man had heard every word and stored it away for gossip in the NCOs’ mess. Reinhardt saluted and left, pulling Claussen in his wake as he went back outside to the kubelwagen. Reinhardt slumped against the side and held his hand out to Claussen. ‘Give me a cigarette, would you?’
Claussen shook a Mokri into his fingers. ‘No luck with those lists, then?’ asked the sergeant after a moment.
‘Nothing gets past you, Sergeant, does it?’ Reinhardt quipped, then shook his head at the self-serving tone of his irony. Claussen just stood there, imperturbable. ‘“Written authorisation” and all that crap. Freilinger said he would clear our way with the Feldgendarmerie. Maybe he has, but it hasn’t filtered down to Becker yet.’
‘There’s a bit of history there, isn’t there?’
Reinhardt frowned at Claussen. ‘What?’
‘You and the major.’
Reinhardt knew of Becker before he met him. The night they finally met, he and Brauer had followed him across the nighttime city, the air sodden and chill, back up to the same second-floor apartment. They paused, listening at the door to the low mutter of voices. Moving carefully, Reinhardt tried the handle. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open and stepped quickly inside.
Two men sat at a table across the room looking at papers. Official- shy;looking documents, with photographs and stamps and seals all half spilled out of a leather satchel. Passports. IDs. One of the men was Becker, thin red hair and little steel spectacles. The second was a bulky man, elderly, a fringe of grey hair seemingly painted onto his brick of a skull. Two more men, big and heavy, sat off to one side, counting piles of money. All of them went still as Reinhardt and Brauer stepped quietly inside.
The two big men began to get to their feet until Brauer pulled a Bergmann submachine gun out from under his coat. ‘Let’s all just sit still, shall we?’ he said, quietly. Its stubby little barrel pointed at the two men, who sat down slowly. ‘Hands where I can see them, gents.’
Reinhardt said nothing, only locked eyes with Becker. ‘Do I know you?’ Becker asked, after a moment.
‘You were a useless detective in the Kripo post in Wilhelms shy;haven,’ Reinhardt said, watching Becker flush, then go pale. ‘You transferred into Gestapo in 1934. Apparently, you were too useless even for them, and they dumped you back in Kripo here. You’re keeping company with Hannes Lemke, Gestapo border control in Bremerhaven,’ he said, looking at the man sitting with him, ‘and two crooks from the Hamburg mob. Missing are Walter Fischer from the Foreign Ministry, and Gerhard Cordt, from the Gestapo property seizure division. Stop me if I’m wrong, or going too fast.’
The silence was thick, tense. Becker’s eyes flashed back and forth between him and Brauer, back to him, to the other men. Becker swallowed, a little smile flickering across his face. ‘Go on.’
‘You’re ripping off people trying to get out of Germany. Jews, mostly. But not exclusively. Fischer provides papers. Lemke facilitates exits, Cordt disposes of properties. You invest the proceeds with the Hamburg mob, who also provide a little muscle when needed. With me so far?’