‘I’m sure my body count’s not as high as yours, but most of the ones I killed could shoot back.’
Stolic snorted. ‘Why have them shoot back? An unfair fight’s a fair fight by me.’ He flipped the knife, caught it by the handle. He grinned, yellow teeth like filthy nails. ‘It’s like a drug. All this.’
‘And I did my killing with a clear head.’
‘What?’
‘How long have you been addicted to Pervitin?’
‘What?’
‘You’re addicted to Pervitin, Stolic. Addicted to speed. I saw the pills in your car. I can see the signs of addiction all over you.’
‘Wha… ?’
‘It takes more than popping pills and butchering unarmed men to make you a brave man, Stolic.’
Stolic’s face creased into a snarl. ‘I don’t need any fucking pills to make me -’
‘You take them because you’re weak, Stolic. Because they make you feel better about yourself. About missing out on all the action in Russia. About not being more like Grbic,’ said Reinhardt, remembering the name of that Croatian Army colonel Stolic seemed to despise so.
‘Grbic? What do you -’
‘Did you kill Marija Vukic?’
A flush crept up Stolic’s neck, the planes of his cheeks going red. ‘You arrogant little shit,’ he hissed. ‘You accuse me… ?’
Reinhardt felt cold and focused, but a part of him gibbered at the risks he was taking. He pushed that part away, the weak part, the part that had cowered in the corner of Meissner’s house all those years ago, the part that had run away from his life as it was then instead of trying, however futilely, to make it right. He forced himself to smile at Stolic and then found that it felt right, and he did not have to force it after all. ‘Vukic was really something.’ Stolic’s face went blank. ‘She’d have got an Iron Cross if she were a man. That drove you mad, didn’t it?’
Stolic made a sound, as if he were gagging. ‘You don’t -’
‘She was more of a man than you’ll ever be,’ Reinhardt slashed across Stolic’s words.
Stolic hefted the knife, holding it out in front of him in his right hand. ‘I don’t care what Becker said,’ he muttered, seeming to talk to himself. ‘I’m going to cut you up, you miserable turd.’ He stopped, frowned. Reinhardt drew his baton and extended it. Stolic sniggered. ‘What the fuck is that? A magic wa -’ Reinhardt flicked the baton at Stolic’s fist. The tip flexed and slashed into Stolic’s knife hand. He squalled in surprise and pain, and the knife flashed and clanged to the floor. Reinhardt whipped the baton up and slashed it down into the junction of Stolic’s neck and shoulder. The Standartenfuhrer slumped to his knees with another cry.
‘You piece of shit,’ Reinhardt snarled, hoarsely, as he smashed the baton into Stolic’s upper arm. ‘I ate people like you’ – he struck him again – ‘for fucking’ – he struck him again, across the ribs – ‘breakfast’ – again, across the thighs, the knees – ‘in the trenches.’ The rage encompassed him, filled him. He was ice all through. Stolic rolled into a ball on the floor, his breath rasping. Reinhardt stood over him, the baton raised in his quivering fist. ‘You prick!’ he rasped. ‘You think I got this Iron Cross by being a fucking choirboy?!’ He beat Stolic again across the back of his thighs.
Stolic whimpered, raised his arms over his head. ‘Stop, please. No more.’
As fast as it came, the anger flowed out of him. He felt it recede, from his fingers, up through his arms. He blinked once, twice, and it was gone. He pulled Stolic’s arm down from where he had wrapped it around his head. Stolic cried out, turned his head down into the ground. Reinhardt grabbed his ear and twisted, turning his head back up towards him. Stolic’s eyes were wild and rolled back like those of a cornered animal, and his breath gusted up, fetid and sour. Reinhardt lifted his fist up, the baton held high. Stolic fastened his eyes on it as if it were some kind of salvation.
‘Don’t look at that, look at me. At me, you shit,’ he hissed. Stolic rolled his eyes on him. ‘Did you kill Marija Vukic?’
Stolic shook his head. ‘No. No, I don’t…’ His eyes turned back to the baton.
‘At me, Stolic. Look at me. That’s right. You don’t what?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘What?!’
‘I don’t know if it was me.’
‘What do you mean, Stolic?’
‘I don’t… blood. There was…’ He trailed off, his eyes folding away. Reinhardt struck him across the side of his thigh, above his knee, on his hip, his ankle. Stolic shuddered with pain, curling up tighter.
‘There’s always blood. Who killed her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ He hit him again on the knee. ‘I know you were there that night. Tell me about it.’
‘Wha… ?’ Reinhardt raised the baton, and Stolic’s eyes fastened onto it. ‘Yes, yes! All right. Yes, I was there.’
‘Where, Stolic?’
‘The hotel. At the hotel. But I didn’t kill her. I didn’t. Please. Tell me I didn’t.’
‘Was it Becker?’
‘I don’t know. Please.’
‘What did you see that night? What did you see?’
‘There was… I saw Becker. We were talking. Outside the hotel. Then… my room. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.’
‘Think, Stolic!’
‘There was someone. I saw someone. I think…’
‘Who, Stolic?’ The Standartenfuhrer’s head dropped, away from the baton, and he seemed to go limp. Whatever fear or tension held him together drained out of him, and he folded against the floor. ‘Was it Verhein? Stolic!’ Reinhardt felt for his pulse. It was there, faint but rapid. He stood up, blinked, and suddenly realised the position he had put himself in. He collapsed the baton, putting it back in his pocket, looking down at an SS Standartenfuhrer lying unconscious on the floor.
It was quiet and he did not know how long he stood there, but the creak of the door and a sudden intake of breath made him turn. One of Stolic’s SS stood there, mouth agape. He seemed to remember himself, fumbling at his rifle and screaming over his shoulder. Reinhardt stood away from Stolic, hands wide at his side. The other SS erupted briefly into the doorway and then left.
‘Are kneeling and staying still,’ yelled the first SS, a Croatian accent thickening his German. ‘Are staying still! Are not moving!’ He called to Stolic once, twice, his eyes darting from the Standartenfuhrer to Reinhardt. He knelt there, hands at his sides, and wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this.
38
He heard voices outside, and Becker stepped inside with a drawn pistol, followed by the two SS. A tight smile stretched across his face but did not meet his eyes. ‘Oh, Reinhardt. Reinhardt, my God, but aren’t you in the shit?’
Reinhardt forced a smile. ‘The questioning got a bit out of hand.’
Becker nodded tightly, his cheeks flushed against the pallor of his face. ‘Get him out of here,’ he said to the two SS, pointing at Stolic. He pushed the door shut behind them as they dragged him out. He waited an instant, listening, then turned to Reinhardt. ‘So?’
‘So what, Becker?’
‘Did he confess?’
Reinhardt smiled. ‘What kind of an idiot do you take me for?’
Becker’s mouth moved. ‘What’ve you done, then?’ he hissed.
‘What you wanted, no?’ Becker’s eyes narrowed. ‘You wanted this. Either for him to kill me, or me to kill him. What was the plan? That before killing me he would get me to confess about the file? Or that before me killing him he would confess to murdering Vukic?’
‘Reinhardt -’
‘Was I supposed to be grateful to you for delivering him to me? Was that it? And then I’d tell you about the file? Is that it?’