Meissner came across the room, slowly, moving like the old man Reinhardt realised he was. Old, worn down. He sighed, then raised his arms and put his hands on Reinhardt’s shoulders. He patted his hands on Reinhardt’s epaulettes and smoothed down the material. ‘I have something for you,’ he said, giving Reinhardt a small package of soft leather. He began to unwrap it, but Meissner put his hand over his. ‘Look at it later.’ He gave a small smile, then pulled Reinhardt to him. ‘You were the best of them,’ he whispered. He pushed Reinhardt away, gently. ‘Do what you have to do.’
31
Driving through the city’s darkened streets, past blank windows and shadowed doorways, he lost himself once or twice as he tried to find the way back to Jelic’s building. He finally found it, recognising it only because of its new construction, its five floors sticking up and out of the rest of the neighbourhood. He drove past the apartment’s entrance, feeling suddenly wary, and parked a little way down the street in front of a rusty truck that sat atop four flattened tyres, the rubber parched and cracked. He switched off the lights and let the engine clatter into silence. He shifted in his seat, looking back down the street and up at Jelic’s apartment. Slits of light were visible through poorly drawn curtains, but no cars. If the police had been and gone, they’d left the lights on.
He lit a cigarette and waited, his fingers tapping the file where it lay on the seat next to him. The curfew was in its second night and it was quiet. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness and his ears to the silence, the shape of the street seemed to emerge from the night, cautiously, as if wary of men’s notice. It felt empty, but it was not. As form coalesced out of the dark, sounds followed. A clink of china. A snatch of conversation. Someone laughed. He knew he was taking a risk. Despite the curfew, he could not stay here long.
He drew deeply on his cigarette, feeling himself calm a little. He thought back to the revelations of the day. Begovic a Partisan. Verhein a Jew. Meissner and Freilinger in the resistance, himself a pawn in a bigger game, and finding something that reminded him of what and who he once was. Something that felt right but on the cusp of being taken away. For the first time in years, he felt some lifting in the fog that had held him tight. Some clarity of purpose, something to aim at, a direction in which to go. He watched the reflected ember of his cigarette flare in the windshield as he drew on it, behind it the planes of his face welling out of the darkness, then back again. His thoughts faded in and out like the light. Was he too lost to himself, and to others? Too wrapped up in this selfish feeling of rediscovering himself, unable to see the big picture anymore? Not able to take this chance to strike a greater blow than he could ever hope to strike alone?
He stiffened as he heard a car. It came up behind him, its lights folding the lines and angles of the street from the dark. It parked in front of Jelic’s building and three men climbed out. There was a hum of conversation; someone drummed his fingers on the roof of the car. There was a squeal of hinges, a dull smack as a door swung closed, then silence.
Reinhardt hesitated with the file, then slipped it under the spare tyre. If the street had felt quiet before, it was nothing compared to what it was like now. He could practically feel the silence, touch it, hear the thoughts of the people in the street as they hoped and prayed the car was not coming for them. His heart pounding, Reinhardt followed them inside, pulling open the door slowly, softly, so the hinges did not squeal. He paused, listening, then walked quickly up the stairs to the second floor. There were lights under only one of the other apartments besides Jelic’s. He listened at the door, hearing the strong sound of voices, the tone forceful, accusatory. Reinhardt’s heart lurched, and not giving himself any time to think about it, he knocked once on the door, opened it, and stepped inside.
Jelic stood against the big desk, his face white and drawn where it was not already swollen and battered. Facing him was Putkovic, his meaty fist bunched in the other man’s shirt. Padelin stood off to one side, hands on hips. Both the policemen looked at him, Putkovic’s face red and florid, Padelin’s flat and expressionless. Two of them but three had got out of the car…
The door was yanked from his hand and slammed shut, and two huge hands like metal bands came down on his elbows and pinned his arms to his sides. He looked up over his shoulder at Bunda. The man was enormous. Up close, the ursine stink of him was almost over shy;powering.
‘What you doing here, Captain?’ asked Putkovic.
Reinhardt swallowed, then turned away from Bunda and his beady little eyes that shone out from under his cavernous brow. ‘I might ask you the same thing.’
‘I’m asking questions.’
‘Very well. I heard you were coming, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t make any mistakes. Again.’
‘You heard?’ repeated Putkovic. He exchanged a look with Padelin, who gave the smallest shrug of his shoulders. Putkovic looked disgusted and muttered something in Serbo-Croat. Reinhardt frowned as he made out several of the words.
‘Becker! You just said Becker,’ said Reinhardt, moving forward against Bunda’s grip. It was like trying to shift a boulder. Putkovic scowled. ‘What has Becker to do with this?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘No,’ agreed Reinhardt, changing tack, watching Putkovic struggle to reassess. The man was dense. Padelin, on the other hand, just watched. ‘No, what’s important is one of your men has his hands on a German officer.’
Putkovic grunted. ‘Yes. Well, badder things have happened. Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you. You are our ally, yes?’ he finished, with clumsy sarcasm.
‘What do you want with him, then?’ Reinhardt asked, looking at Jelic.
Putkovic looked at the young man with an expressionless face. ‘He knows something about a film,’ he growled, his fist tightening in Jelic’s clothes. Jelic made to say something, but Putkovic shook him, like a man might shake a kitten. ‘Sutjeti,’ he hissed.
‘I already told Padelin, Jelic doesn’t know anything.’
‘Yes, is what you said. But you didn’t give proof.’
‘Proof?!’ scoffed Reinhardt. ‘You haven’t been overly concerned with that until now. Why break such a good habit over someone like him?’
‘Break is good word, Captain Reinhardt. But not word you know well, I think.’
‘What?’
‘I will break this Jelic,’ said Putkovic, ignoring him. ‘Maybe you will tell me what I want to know. Maybe he will tell me what I want to know. I win both times. And, I have some fun with this Jelic,’ he smiled. In a form of repulsive symbiosis, Reinhardt felt Bunda’s grip on his arms tighten in what must have been anticipation.
‘Putkovic, there is no need for any of that.’
‘What is he for you, anyway?’ grunted Putkovic. ‘You fucking him or something?’ A dull glint sparked in his eyes, and he snorted something in Serbo-Croat at the other two policemen. Bunda laughed, Reinhardt feeling the huge man shake through the grip he maintained on his arms. Padelin just kept that basilisk stare, his eyes not leaving Reinhardt. ‘Hey, bum-boy,’ Putkovic laughed at Jelic. ‘This man bothering you? You have something you want to report?’ He carried on, guffawing over his own mirth with Bunda egging him on. From the way Jelic’s face coloured, Reinhardt knew that some of the barbs were striking home.
Putkovic gave a final laugh that trailed into a chuckle, and then he was silent, any trace of humour gone. He looked between Reinhardt and Jelic. ‘What you doing here, Captain?’ he said, again.
‘I came to see if he was in trouble. With you, over what you thought he might know.’