‘So he caught you with the knife. There was nothing more? Nothing to do with an altar boy in Zagreb… ? Or… one in Munich, in 1937?’ Ascher paled, and his eyes narrowed, and he shook his head, but from the surreptitious swallow he made, and the slight twitch from Verhein, somehow Reinhardt knew he was not far from something. He could not help but smile at Ascher. ‘You were had. Becker had you over a barrel.’
42
Ascher flushed, but never responded. The light from the door blacked out as Mamagedov walked backwards into the room. There was a blur of movement, the thud of a blow landing; Mamagedov staggered, one hand held to his head. Claussen slid quickly inside, shutting the door and sliding along the wall, covering the room with an MP 40. Seeing his chance, Reinhardt flicked the baton out and slashed it into the side of Mamagedov’s knee, then back across the other. He fell to one side and, lunging forward, Reinhardt whipped the baton’s tip across Mamagedov’s shins, seeing his broad face dimple up as he hissed with pain.
‘Stop it!’ barked Ascher, his pistol aimed at Reinhardt but his eyes fixed on Claussen. ‘You. What do you think you’re doing?’
Claussen’s eyes ran hard around the room. ‘If he’s your man down there, sir, you tell him to keep still, now.’
‘Damn your impudence, man,’ snarled the colonel.
Claussen glanced at Reinhardt. ‘You all right, sir?’ Reinhardt nodded, then struggled to rise to one knee, then to his feet. ‘Let’s just all of us relax, shall we?’ murmured Claussen. ‘You especially, big man,’ he said, nudging Mamagedov’s head with his boot.
‘Mamagedov, keep still,’ ordered Ascher. ‘You. Drop that stick.’
There was a tense silence in the room. Faintly, now, came the sound of fighting from somewhere on the hill. The three of them stared at each other, Reinhardt at Ascher, Ascher at Claussen, and Claussen back at the colonel. Someone cleared his throat, and they all jumped. ‘Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?’ demanded Verhein. The general seemed frozen to the spot. Whatever authority he normally exercised, he had none here.
‘What’s going on, General, is you’ve been betrayed by your chief of staff, here -’
‘That’s a bloody lie!’
‘- and you’re a marked man. You’re in a bad situation. You look good for Vukic’s murder, even though you didn’t do it. He did it,’ he said, pointing at Ascher.
‘I told you, I did it for you,’ said Ascher, his eyes flashing at the general.
‘Then he killed Hendel…’
‘That was Mamagedov,’ blurted Ascher. Mamagedov shifted where he lay, his flat gaze fastening on the colonel.
‘… and then you wept and prayed on your knees in a church,’ finished Reinhardt, looking at the colonel. ‘You prayed for forgiveness for what you’d done.’ He held Ascher’s gaze, looking past the foreshortened barrel of the pistol, seeing him flush and glance at the general.
‘It was for you, sir. You deserve better. You deserve better than this… this shithole!’
‘Sir, someone in Berlin wants your head,’ said Reinhardt, ‘and it doesn’t matter to him whether you stuck the knife in Vukic or not. Hendel was working for him and had been following you since Russia. This someone’s been watching you, General. Since Chenecourt, July 1940.’ Verhein sucked in a sharp breath. Ascher’s eyes flicked between them, and he knew he was missing something. ‘There’s an SD Stan shy;dartenfuhrer called Varnhorst who has had it in for you ever since that day in France. You know the one. He thinks he’s found a pattern in your life. One involving -’
‘Yes, Captain,’ interrupted Verhein. His face was very white, the line of his jaw etched sharp. From outside came a fresh burst of firing, seemingly closer, the dull thump of explosions and the roll of machine guns.
There was movement outside the door, the squawk of the radio, the light sliced as men moved around outside. The same sergeant knocked at the door. ‘Out! And stay out!’ Ascher shouted over his shoulder. The soldier paused, then left. The colonel kicked the door shut and turned back to face them. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘What?! Tell me.’
‘You’ve been backing the wrong horse, Colonel,’ said Reinhardt. He took a deep breath. He had to end this. He had to break this link between the two of them. The general had not moved, and maybe, thought Reinhardt, he had miscalculated by mentioning that French village. Maybe Verhein now saw him as someone to be got rid of as well. ‘This man you admire and loathe equally, this man you have protected despite himself – despite yourself – is not who you think he is.’ He paused, as Verhein’s eyes had come up, his head as well, his whole bearlike frame straightening.
‘That file is the proof, all the proof that could be found…’ He paused. There was a pleading in Verhein’s eyes, a dumb supplication like that of an animal caught in an agony it could not conceive of ending and was thus eternal. Reinhardt could not imagine what it was like for a man like him. A warrior, the son of one people forced to partake in the butchery of another. A man who gloried, it seemed, in the martial arts, and who ended up flailing against the forces that made him what he was, trying to find a way out, enacting what small acts of rebellion he could. He took a deep breath. ‘All the proof that could be found that General Paul Verhein is a member of the German resistance. Committed to the overthrow of the Fuhrer and the Reich.’ The words felt like acid as they twisted across his tongue. Lies, but leavened with just enough of the truth to hide it. Just words, but enough to galvanise someone into action, to break the back of this confrontation and end it.
‘The what?’ exclaimed Ascher. On the floor, Mamagedov had gone very still, rising slowly up on one elbow.
‘The resistance,’ repeated Reinhardt, staring straight at Verhein. He saw the light in the general’s eyes change, the animal patience fading away, replaced with something more calculating.
‘General. General!’ Verhein’s head swung slowly to Ascher. ‘Is this true? It can’t be true?’
‘It’s true,’ said Reinhardt. The atmosphere in the room was charged, as it sometimes was in a police cell during an interrogation, just before the suspect broke. Unconsciously, he straightened, ignoring the pain in his knee and back. He focused on Ascher, his tone turning resonant, commanding. ‘What better way to disguise his activities than as a brilliant commander? What better way to worm his way into higher confidences than bringing his tactical prowess to the strategic level?’ He put a lash in his voice, taking a small step towards Ascher. The man was once a chaplain. A man of the book. Old Testament, surely. ‘It so nearly worked. And you would have helped him. In covering for him, you would have allowed such a snake as him into the bosom of our people. Such a sin that would have been, Colonel.’
‘No…’ whispered Ascher.
‘They will think you knew. Both of you,’ Reinhardt said, bringing Mamagedov into it too. The Kalmyk glared up at him from the floor.
‘No,’ Ascher whispered again, shaking his head.
‘You think the Gestapo will believe that when they start pulling your fingernails out?’ sneered Reinhardt. ‘Kick in the doors of your family? Put Mamagedov up against a wall? Or hand him back to the Reds?’
‘NO!’ roared Mamagedov. He exploded suddenly into action. He twisted and spun on his backside, his feet slicing into Claussen’s ankles. The sergeant fell backwards, and Mamagedov flung himself off the floor at him. The two men crashed together, feet thumping and scrabbling for purchase. Mamagedov clawed his hands across Claussen’s face, fingers hooked. With the MP 40 caught between them, Claussen tossed his head from side to side, keeping his eyes away from Mamagedov’s fingers. His own fists bunched knuckle-white around Mamagedov’s ears, thumbs digging for his eyes. Ma shy;magedov bellowed like a bull, butting his head forward into Claussen’s face, twisting, ramming, dropping his hands and pounding his fists into the sergeant’s ribs.