39
Reinhardt unclipped the MP 40s and brought them in front, looking at the forest now with new eyes. They moved steadily south, and Reinhardt found his mind caught between what had happened to him at that village and what might happen to him ahead. He knew he ought to feel something – a fear that official sanction might catch up with him, and a fear of what he had committed himself to. Stolic and Becker had to have been acting outside their authority, though, and there was no proof Reinhardt had ever been there. When he realised that, he breathed easier. For the rest of it, the implications of that fork in the road he had just taken, he put it aside.
The road wound on down the gorge, undulating above the Drina as it flowed torpidly north. They came up on the tail end of a convoy and stayed there, pulling their goggles down and wrapping scarves around their mouths to breathe through the dust. The miles fell away and they began to pass through lines of soldiers and trucks drawn up by the side of the road. There was an air of expectation that was palpable. Reinhardt could see it in the faces of the men around him, the imminence of action. The convoy slowed, lurching to the side under the directions of a pair of Feldgendarmes. Reinhardt’s breath caught at the sight of them, but they simply made to pass by, banging on the kubelwagen’s hood to pull over and park.
Up ahead, Reinhardt could see a pair of half-tracks with tall radio antennae, and a staff car. He figured they had to be controlling movements and might know of Verhein’s whereabouts. Telling Claussen to wait, he stepped out and straightened his uniform. Reinhardt felt somewhat self-conscious as he walked past the waiting troops, remembering how it used to feel before an attack and, here, feeling only a distant echo of it. ‘Afternoon,’ he said to a captain, who nodded back, not moving from where he leaned against a truck, his eyes taking Reinhardt in from his bandaged hand to his face. He looked tough and competent, the red slash of the Winter Campaign medal bright against his tunic. Shifting his MP 40 on its straps, Reinhardt lit an Atikah, then offered one to the captain.
‘Reinhardt, Abwehr,’ he said, lighting the captain’s cigarette.
‘Tiel,’ the officer replied, nodding his thanks, drawing deeply. ‘121st.’ He looked Reinhardt up and down. ‘Had some trouble?’
‘Been in worse. Mind telling me what’s going on?’
‘We’re going up that hill any minute now,’ Tiel said, motioning backwards with his head. A rutted track headed steeply into dense woods. There were soldiers on the track, beginning to make their way uphill. ‘Partisan brigade up there, somewhere. We dislodged them yesterday, and they’re trying to move northwest.’
Up where the path began to merge into the trees, it looked like there was something of a commotion, a vague sense of shifting forms. ‘Is there something going on up there?’
‘General’s inspecting the boys.’ He gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘Like he always does,’ as if anticipating a question Reinhardt might ask.
Reinhardt gave a tight smile and hoped it did not show. ‘My lucky day.’
‘You want the general?’
Reinhardt nodded. He felt Tiel’s eyes harder on him, suddenly, as if Verhein were something to be protected. ‘Actually, I want his IIIa,’ he said.
‘Intelligence?’
‘Colonel Gartner,’ said Reinhardt.
It seemed to satisfy the captain. Tiel nodded towards the half-tracks. ‘Over there.’
‘Wouldn’t mind introducing me, would you? A friendly face’d go a long way to getting me some attention.’
‘Of course,’ Tiel answered. Together they walked over to one of the half-tracks. The captain put his head inside, then extended an arm as Reinhardt joined him, pulling him into conversation with a colonel who was standing hunched over a fold-down map table in the vehicle’s load bed.
‘Fine,’ the colonel was saying. ‘Just a few minutes. Your men ready, Captain? You’re up next.’
‘Ready, yes, sir. And here he is.’ Tiel nodded, then stepped away.
Colonel Gartner’s attention was fixed on a radio technician sitting just beyond him. ‘What do you want, Captain?’
‘I would ideally like to speak with the general, sir,’ replied shy;Reinhardt.
‘The general. Really?’ said Gartner, with a faintly disbelieving drawl, looking at his map. He looked up, frowning at the state Reinhardt was in. ‘Bloody hell, man, what happened to you?’
‘It’s nothing, sir, thank you.’
‘Nothing?’
‘The general, sir?’
‘About what?’
‘All due respect, sir, that is business best discussed with the shy;general.’
‘I’m his IIIa, Captain. You’re Abwehr. We’re both in intelligence. If it’s something affecting the division, you’d better tell me now.’
‘No, sir. Nothing affecting the division.’
‘Very well,’ said the colonel, his attention going back to his maps. ‘I suppose you can wait, but no promises.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And try and clean yourself up, would you?’
Reinhardt felt alone, all of a sudden, flicking his finished cigarette into the bushes. His hand stole into his pocket, fingers running over the Williamson and its inscription. He calmed down a little, becoming aware of movement and activity around him. He saw Tiel heading up into the woods with his men spread out in a line on either side of him. Officers were clustered around Gartner’s half-track, and then the colonel stepped down out of the vehicle, talking to an officer with his back to Reinhardt. He had a bald patch on the back of his head, rather like a tonsure. Gartner spotted Reinhardt over the other officer’s shoulder and said something. The other officer turned.
It was Ascher. He looked at Reinhardt, and his eyes went wide, then flat. He turned back to Gartner, the line of his shoulders stark with his anger. Gartner’s face creased in incomprehension as he listened, and then he straightened, looking accusingly at Reinhardt, then back at Ascher. He shook his head, backing away. ‘No, no,’ Reinhardt heard him say. ‘He’s your problem now, Clemens. You deal with him.’
Ascher walked over to Reinhardt, his jaw clenched, and then looked around, as if searching for someone. ‘You?’ Reinhardt had the presence of mind to come to attention. Not that he was surprised to see Ascher. It was the man’s tone, the way his eyes kept searching behind Reinhardt, then focused on his injuries. He was aware of danger, as if a chasm had opened up right before him. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His eyes strayed away again, as if he could not help himself.
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I’m here to speak with General Verhein.’
‘About what?’
Reinhardt paused. He had no idea of this man. No idea what made him tick. He only knew he had been one of the officers who had complained to Freilinger about Reinhardt’s behaviour that afternoon in the mess. ‘I’m sure you must know, sir. It’s about the investigation.’
‘What?’
He took a risk. ‘About that woman.’
Ascher’s nose wrinkled. ‘Woman?’
He was buying time, Reinhardt could feel it. ‘Vukic.’
‘Her?! You were supposed to have dropped this, Captain. As I recall, your superior was given specific instructions.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Reinhardt said, retreating behind a facade of dumb shy;obedience.
‘And… ?’
‘Rescinded, sir,’ lied Reinhardt. ‘I was ordered to proceed.’
‘You cannot be serious, Captain. You wish to persist with this here? Now?’
‘If I must, sir,’ replied Reinhardt.
‘This is ridiculous, do you hear? We’re about to go into action and this is the moment you choose to come asking your questions about that woman?’
‘I would not say it’s a moment I choose…’
‘Don’t be impertinent, man!’ snarled Ascher.
‘Impertinence?’ came a deep voice behind him. ‘You know what I always say about impertinence, Clemens.’ Reinhardt turned and snapped to attention. Standing there, tall and broad-chested, shock of white hair like a biblical patriarch’s, was General Paul Verhein. He had glittering brown eyes, round and open under bushy white brows, framed and creased in a fine web of wrinkles like laugh lines. He wore a simple uniform, sleeves rolled up over his thick forearms, only his red collar flashes and epaulettes showing his rank. He appraised shy;Reinhardt openly, his eyes flickering over his Iron Cross, his hand, back up to his face. Verhein’s Knight’s Cross hung at his neck, and the Winter Campaign ribbon cut across the front of his tunic next to the black-and-silver badge of the Pour le Merite. A gold close-combat clasp was fixed to his left breast. Somewhat incongruously, hanging at his side, he carried a Russian PPSh submachine gun, its wooden stock burnished to a rich shine.