He sat back, drumming his fingers quietly on the desktop, not sure what to make of that absence. He lifted the case files one by one, glancing at the titles as he went. A couple were for operations he knew of, mostly targeting the Croatian Army for Partisan infiltrators or leaks. Unlike the Ustase, the Croatian Army – the Domobranstvo – was not what anyone would call ideologically inclined or committed and suffered high rates of desertion and low levels of morale, particularly among its Bosnian Muslim conscripts. Most of the Croats in its ranks were from Croatia proper, far from home and desperately homesick. At the command level there was a sustained level of mutual loathing and distrust between the Domobrantsvo’s officers and the Ustase. In that, they were not too different from the way many German officers felt about the SS. Some of the files had the names and ranks of soldiers on them, mostly Germans, none of whom he knew, and none above the rank of major, with the exception of one file belonging to a colonel of the Domobranstvo, one Tihomir Grbic.
Out of interest more than anything else, Reinhardt opened the file, which, from the date stamped on the cover, was one of the last files that Hendel opened before his death. The case against Grbic seemed to be one of cowardice in the face of the enemy. He scanned down the front page, and the name of Standartenfuhrer Mladen Stolic leaped out at him. Reinhardt flipped to the after-action report, which stated that Grbic’s men had failed to press home an attack against the Partisans made in conjunction with units from the 7th SS. It was not the first time Grbic’s men had failed in action, but from reading over a summary of Grbic’s service record, it was clear the man himself was anything but a coward. He had served with the Croatian Army in the USSR until he was seriously wounded in the fighting around Stalingrad. The man was a veteran, thought Reinhardt. It was his troops, all new and mostly conscripts, who were probably unwilling. That seemed to be the emerging gist of Hendel’s investigation, such as it was recorded in the file.
Reinhardt sat back, not knowing what, if anything, to make of this. There was a clear connection from Hendel to Stolic, and from them both to Vukic. It was clear Stolic knew of, and disliked, Hendel. What was wrong here? Too obvious, perhaps? Too clear a link? For a moment, he seemed to hear his old probationary officer’s voice. It’s the little things, Gregor. Always the little things. Where was the little thing in this, he wondered, seeing Claussen appear at the door.
‘What do you have, Sergeant?’ Reinhardt asked, shaking an Atikah loose from a packet.
‘Lieutenant Peter Krause, sir,’ said Claussen, stepping into the room and reading from the page. He passed through the beam of light, the light snapping and dividing around him, sending the motes of dust into a new frenzy of movement. ‘Works in transportation. Movement supply officer. Been posted here since June last year.’ He passed the paper across Reinhardt’s desk.
Reinhardt scanned down the handwritten notes. ‘They’ve reported him missing?’ he asked as he lit his cigarette.
‘Reported missing to the Feldgendarmerie yesterday morning.’
‘And yet we know Becker’s been looking for him since Sunday.’ Reinhardt snapped back in his chair, staring hard at Claussen. He clicked his fingers and pulled his cigarette from his mouth, pointing his fingers at the sergeant. ‘That’s where I know Krause’s name from. The list of deserters and wanted men. He was on that list I saw in the Feldgendarmerie’s HQ while I was waiting to see Becker yesterday afternoon.’ He twisted his mouth in an ironic smile. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. He took a long drag on the cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs.
‘One interesting thing, sir,’ said Claussen. He leaned over the desk and pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘Krause is Volksdeutsche. His mother was Slovenian. He speaks the language.’
Reinhardt nodded. ‘So if he’s gone to ground, he’ll get by a lot easier than we would.’ He trailed off, twisting around to look at the map again, imagining where someone like Krause might run to from Ilidza. Not only where, but to whom. He glanced back at the files on his desk. What would Hendel, an Abwehr officer on post here less than five months, be doing with a lieutenant of transportation troops? What was the link between them? There had to be one, beyond the fact that the pair of them seemed to like to drink and chase skirts together.
‘Captain Reinhardt?’ A corporal stood in the door at attention. ‘Major Freilinger’s compliments, sir, and you are requested to report to him immediately.’
‘Inform the major I will be there directly.’ Reinhardt stood, tugging his uniform into place, and breathed out heavily through pursed lips as he stubbed his cigarette out. He exchanged a glance with Claussen, who looked back at him expressionlessly. ‘Wish me luck,’ Reinhardt muttered, walking out.
15
Freilinger’s offices were one floor up, in the corner looking west along King Aleksander Street. The sun was low, barely over Mount Igman, and the light was short and bright. Freilinger was standing at his window again. He looked around, moved his mouth around as if there were something in it, then motioned Reinhardt to take the seat in front of the desk and turned to look back out.
‘There’s something about this city. In the evenings,’ Freilinger said, the rasp in his voice low and leathery. ‘Sometimes it seems like a labyrinth. No way out. And then, there’s times like this when it seems there’s openness and light.’ Reinhardt looked at Freilinger, hearing the echo of thoughts he had had himself, so often, since he first came here. Freilinger was looking out the window, into the light. His eyes, always so pale, were almost invisible, and with a lurch Reinhardt saw Freilinger’s face as he saw it in his nightmares, awash in the blaze from the fire, and he stiffened in his seat as he imagined the acrid stench of smoke. He looked down, breathing slow and deep to cover his fear, and when he looked up Freilinger was staring hard at him.
‘Reinhardt, was I not clear enough last night?’
‘Sir?’
Freilinger walked back to his desk, never shifting his gaze. ‘Do not “sir” me like some damned sergeant,’ he snapped. ‘Was I not clear enough last night?’
‘You were, sir,’ said Reinhardt.
‘Remind me, what was it I was clear about?’
‘That I was not to go pestering officers about this investigation.’
‘Correct,’ said Freilinger. ‘And so why,’ he shouted, with a hoarse roar, slamming his hand on the desktop, ‘do I find myself dealing with a half dozen complaints about your inappropriate behaviour this afternoon in the officers’ mess? Accusations. Insinuations.’ He picked up a piece of paper by its corner. ‘Alibis? For Christ’s sake.’
‘Sir, if I may explain?’
‘It was a rhetorical question, Reinhardt,’ replied Freilinger. ‘I’m not interested in explanations. I’m only interested in dealing with the consequences, which so far,’ he said, fingering through some of the pages on his desk, ‘have involved me talking to four colonels, an SS Standartenfuhrer, and a general. Put up to the task by his chief of staff, Colonel Forster. A civilised sort of dressing-down. Nevertheless, dressing-down and complaint it was. From a general.’
He stopped, screwing up his mouth and swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat. Reinhardt sat as still as he could, feeling the cold sweat in the small of his back and the flush he knew was colouring his cheeks.
‘Reinhardt, I gave you this investigation for several reasons. The first is that Hendel was one of ours. The second was that I am not blind to what you are going through here.’ Reinhardt locked eyes with the major. ‘You are not happy.’ He paused. ‘None of us is. We have all seen, and done, things that might make lesser men weep. I thought, perhaps wrongly, that work similar to what you did in the past, and did well, might be of some help. The third… well, Reinhardt, have you forgotten so quickly the consequences to the local population for the death of a German soldier? Have you?’