‘He was your killer, Reinhardt, you arse.’
‘I admit he was perfect.’
‘He is perfect! He even has the knife!’
‘How would you know that?’
Becker went still, white, said nothing.
‘The knife’s a big part of it. The Bowie, left in Stolic’s hotel room. All covered in blood. Except I spoke to the maid. There was blood on the knife. But nowhere else. Not on his hands. Not on his uniform. Not in the bathroom. He’s been torturing prisoners here, and he’s covered in it. Vukic was stabbed twenty times, and he was spotless?’
‘He’s a killer, Reinhardt.’
‘But not mine. His knife killed her. He didn’t. You just wanted me to think that. You and whoever you’re working with. How did you know about the knife?’ Becker’s jaw clenched, and he said nothing. ‘This can’t go on, Becker. Who is it?’
There was a commotion outside. ‘I can’t keep the Ustase away,’ said Becker, looking over his shoulder. ‘Ljubcic will go berserk. I can only help you if you help me.’ There was a fury of voices, the sound of blows. ‘For God’s sake, Reinhardt.’
Reinhardt shook his head. Becker’s face twisted, warped, and he stood back with the pistol aimed at Reinhardt’s head as the door crashed open and Ljubcic thrust his way in. Three of the Ustase grabbed Reinhardt, slamming him up against the wall. ‘No more playing around, Reinhardt,’ Becker snarled, his eyes wide. ‘You give me what I want, and I let you live.’
Reinhardt had to think his way out of this one, think around his fear. Becker could not stay here forever. He was too exposed and taking too many risks. He could not hope to control the Ustase, but looking into Becker’s eyes, he could see that any pretence had been dropped. There was no more acting or posing here. Becker was desperate. ‘I don’t have anything to give you.’
‘You’re lying. You’re lying!’ screamed Becker. He seemed to check himself, took a lurching step over to Reinhardt, and put the pistol to his head. The Ustase seemed to tighten, leaning their weight into him. ‘Give me what I want!’
Reinhardt looked at him, up past the pistol, up the shortened length of Becker’s arm. He felt calm, suddenly. ‘No.’
‘I’ll kill you, Reinhardt, I swear I will,’ snarled Becker, but there was a twist to his voice, a hitch like that of a sulky child. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’ Reinhardt said nothing. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Don’t fucking look at me like that!’ Becker hit Reinhardt across the mouth with his pistol. Reinhardt’s head exploded in pain at the blow, and he fell sideways, the Ustase hauling him back up. He felt a blow to his ribs, then his stomach, and his knees gave way.
The Ustase’s feet slithered and shifted as they fought his weight. They let him fall to the floor, twisting his arms up behind him, and one of them knelt on his back. Reinhardt writhed and heaved against the weight of him and the burn of frustration he felt. Becker ground his face into the floor, and he choked and coughed at the blood and dust that filled his mouth. He could not breathe. ‘Fucking stubborn son of a bitch! Tell me, Reinhardt,’ grated Becker, grinding the pistol into the back of his neck. Reinhardt groaned under his weight, turning his head away from the pistol. He felt a hand grabbing at his collar, and he was hauled back and up, where he slumped forward on his hands and knees. Becker’s hand wormed into his hair and yanked his head back, and the pistol went back against his forehead. ‘Just fucking tell me.’
‘You can’t do anything to me I haven’t thought of doing myself,’ slurred Reinhardt, swallowing against the scum of blood in his mouth. All those nights he had lain alone in his bed, alone with his memories and regrets, letting it all spiral down into the gunmetal circle of a pistol’s muzzle. ‘A thousand times I’ve put a gun to my own head and been too weak to finish it. So finish it for me, Becker.’ He leaned forward against the pistol. ‘Do it.’
‘You think that’s the worst I can do. It’s not. I can do worse.’ shy;Reinhardt said nothing. ‘I’ll do it,’ panted Becker. ‘I’ll let them do it.’
‘I know you will,’ Reinhardt replied. He looked at Becker, who looked at the Ustase and nodded. Reinhardt was yanked back to his feet. Two of them held his arms as Ljubcic put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes, like he was measuring him. He had those eyes, like the priest’s, blank and shiny atop the pasty pale slump of his cheeks. Whatever was there, whatever looked out on the world, it was different. As if it moved sideways from reality. He raised his other hand, and he held Stolic’s knife. He put it close beneath Reinhardt’s eye, twisted it, the light smearing down its bloodied length. Ljubcic smiled, stepped back, switched the knife to his other hand and slammed his fist into Reinhardt’s stomach once, twice. As Reinhardt’s head came down over the blows, the Ustasa punched up. Reinhardt’s head pitched back, then down. He felt another blow, then a harsh mutter of words. What little breath there was burst from him as he was flung to the ground. He coughed on the dust, then felt a stab of pain in his hand. He was stretched on the floor, held down by the two Ustase, Ljubcic’s foot on his left wrist. Their eyes met, and then Ljubcic dug the point of the Bowie under Reinhardt’s fingernail. Reinhardt screamed, tried to pull away, heaved his head around, scraping his cheeks raw on the boards. The pain stopped. He caught his breath. It started again, the same finger, the knife sliding and probing, and he felt himself slipping away into unconsciousness…
… and sliding over the top of a trench into a British redoubt. Peering around a corner and seeing a file of Tommies slipping round- shy;shouldered through the smoke with bayonets on the end of their snub-nosed rifles. Striking a grenade and tossing it around the bend. An explosion, agonised cries, charging on across a splintered ruin of wood and flesh, his Bergmann blazing away until it was empty, his feet sliding on muddy duckboards, hurdling khaki-clad bodies, reloading, tossing more grenades down dugouts and around every corner. On and on, not stopping. He crashed into an Englishman who flung him against the trench wall and hacked a sharpened spade into his knee. He fired the Bergmann into him as he collapsed, leaving the Tommy quivering around the sodden ruin of his belly. They fell together, lying broken beside each other, the Englishman with a big watch gripped against his bloodied mouth, whispering, ‘Father, Father, it hurts.’ Reinhardt dragged his eyes from the mangled gash of his knee, looked up and around for help and saw them there. Brothers, twins perhaps, standing small and lost in each shy;other’s arms at the end of the trench. He saw them, and they him, and he had but to reach out to them and he could take them, take them away from here. He knew it, they knew it, he saw himself doing it – he felt himself doing it – but then the boys were gone, taken away. The moment was past, a fading outline of possibilities…
… He felt a sting of smoke and came to himself, those two memories clashing apart, his heart pumping what felt like ice. Ljubcic had his fingers in Reinhardt’s hair, wrenching his head back, but he was not looking at him.
The men in the room were frozen, heads cocked as if they listened to something. Ljubcic was following something with his eyes, sliding over to the window. There was a suggestion of movement, a ripple of light through the slats of the walls. The Ustasa hauled his pistol out, snapping something at his men. He smashed a pane of glass and fired out. Two others grabbed their rifles and fired through the walls. The din was incredible, the silence deafening when they ceased fire. There was a thump from outside, the sound of something choking.
‘What’s going on?’ hissed Becker. The Ustasa ignored him, peering out, straining for sound. ‘What? What?!’
‘Partisans,’ snapped Ljubcic without looking around.
‘Here?! How is that possible?’