The Folks at Fifty-Eight (14 page)

“And if I choose not to do that?”

“That would be a mistake, Comrade. I have no desire to kill you, but I assure you I will if you do not do exactly as I say.”

Reznikov slowly turned his head to see the HDM and assess the man holding it. He shrugged and nodded, and allowed the Walther to fall from his grasp.

“It seems you have the advantage of me.”

“And the second gun, Commissar.”

“I do not have a second gun.”

“Of course you do, Commissar. It is the one that makes an even bigger bulge in your left pocket than the Walther did in your right. Take it out, very carefully and very slowly, and drop it to the ground.”

Moments later, the bulkier Tokarev had followed the pocket-sized Walther to the ground. Hammond glanced to where a bewildered Franz Bonhoeffer stood,  claw-hammer still in hand.

“Herr Bonhoeffer. Would you mind picking up the commissar’s guns for me?”

Franz Bonhoeffer let the hammer slide from his hand. When he shuffled over to collect the automatics, Reznikov sneered at him.

“Comrade Bonhoeffer, if you help this killer in any way, I promise you that when I have dealt with him, as I surely will, I will then deal with you and your wife and child.”

Bonhoeffer collected the automatics and then levelled the Tokarev.

“You will not touch my son. Do you hear me, Reznikov? And you will never touch my wife again. If you ever do, I will kill you.”

Marat Reznikov studied the levelled automatic and answered disdainfully.

“I think not. You see, you are not a killer, Comrade Bonhoeffer. I know this, because I am a killer, and I can tell the difference.” He gestured behind him, to where Hammond stood quietly watching. “Now, he is different. Look at him, Comrade. He is a killer, and he is a good one, but you. . .” Reznikov shook his head, slowly and exaggeratedly, as he continued to goad. “You are a coward, and a cuckold, and a poor excuse for a man, but you are not a killer.” He paused again, before adding, “You are also a fool if you think the beautiful Hedda does not yearn for the feel of my cock, throbbing inside her, whenever she is required to accommodate yours.”

Whatever else Marat Reznikov might be, he was certainly not a coward. He watched the rage build in Franz Bonhoeffer and sneered again.

“The safety catch is still on, Comrade. If you want to shoot me you will have to release it first. But you do not want to shoot me, do you, Comrade? You do not want to shoot me, because you do not have the courage.”

Gerald Hammond watched the rage in Franz Bonhoeffer, and saw him scrambling to release the safety. He didn’t believe Bonhoeffer would fire, but couldn’t take the risk. He stepped forward and brought the HDM down hard on the side of Reznikov’s neck. The commissar slumped to the ground and lay unmoving.

Bonhoeffer’s shaking hands stopped trying to release the safety and allowed the weapon to slip to the ground. Then he looked back at Hammond and confessed.

“He is right. I do not have the courage. I never did. Even in the war, I would aim high.”

Hammond bent down to collect the fallen automatics and smiled benevolently at Franz Bonhoeffer as he picked them up.

“So did most soldiers, Herr Bonhoeffer, but do not tell the generals. It would break their hearts. You are not alone in not wanting to kill. Very few wanted to kill, other than in self-defence, but never think that you do not have courage. Yours is a different kind of courage. It is the courage that raises a family and puts their welfare ahead of selfish pride and revenge. You must be proud of that, Herr Bonhoeffer; it is a more worthy courage. Never be ashamed that you do not want to kill.”

Gerald Hammond sat quietly in the back of the Fiat while he waited for Marat Reznikov to fully regain consciousness. He had placed the commissar in the driver’s seat and left the key in the ignition, then doused him with cold water and slapped him back to semi-consciousness.

Earlier, he had told Bonhoeffer to go inside and comfort his wife, explaining that he would deal with Reznikov, and they shouldn’t worry. If anyone asked, Bonhoeffer was to tell them that Reznikov had left that morning. Bonhoeffer had listened intently, then nodded and hurried inside.

Reznikov groaned a little and rubbed at his head, as full consciousness returned. A sixth sense must have told him, because he turned around to look at Hammond. From there, his eyes looked down. He studied the HDM and nodded sagely.

“I knew you were a killer. What is it you want?”

“I want you to drive, Commissar, very carefully to the road and then turn left. You will not drive too quickly or too slowly. When you reach the guard outside the old guesthouse at the end of the road, you will stop on the opposite side of the road and call to him. You will tell him the papers belonging to the girl are in order, and she is not the one they are looking for. You will then tell him that you are going to Rosslau, and he must return to headquarters immediately.

“If you do exactly as I tell you, Commissar, I will let you live. If you do anything else, or say anything else, or try to warn the guard in any way, I will kill him, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

Hammond watched the eyes suddenly widen into understanding.

“Ah, of course, the girl at the guesthouse. I should have known she was the one.”

“Time to go, Commissar.”

Reznikov shook his head and sat unmoving.

“You think I am a fool. When I have dispatched the guard you will kill me. You ; you have no choice. If you do not, the moment I am free I will deal with the Bonhoeffers and the old woman. You have to realize that?”

It was Hammond’s turn to shake his head.

“Not if you understand that I will make it known to Comrade Colonel Paslov and Comrade Deputy Premier Beria how your incompetence and lust allowed us to escape. Not only allowed us to escape, but also provided us with this vehicle, safe passage and weapons.”

The laughter in his voice fell away.

“And I will tell them, Comrade, if any harm comes to the Bonhoeffers or the old woman.” He watched Reznikov frown. “You were wrong when you called me a killer, Comrade. I only kill when it is necessary, when there is no other way. Fortunately, for you, there is another way. Now drive, and if you want to live you will remember what I have said.”

Despite his predicament, the familiar sneer had returned to Marat Reznikov’s face.

“I will never understand the squeamishness of you Americans. That is what will ultimately defeat you, and all your money, not your decadence, or even your imperialist ambition. You will fail because you value life too highly.”

Hammond shrugged.

“I think that is enough of the speeches, Commissar. Now drive.”

As they passed the back of the cottage, Hammond looked up at the window. Bonhoeffer had draped a blanket around his wife’s shoulders. Both stood at the window looking down. Bonhoeffer nodded his gratitude. Hedda Bonhoeffer showed no emotion of any kind; no joy or relief, no hatred, no fear. She looked back at Hammond with hollow eyes that showed nothing of whatever trauma lay within.

Hammond and Reznikov left the cottage and headed towards the guesthouse, with Hammond holding the HDM, and Reznikov driving. On nearing the guesthouse, Hammond left the seat, crouched low in the foot well, and cautioned him again.

“Do not let the guard approach the car. Tell him there is no further need to stay here. You have checked the girl’s papers, and they are in order. Tell him to get back to barracks. Say you are going to Rosslau and will be some time. And remember, Commissar: no signals, no coded messages. Just tell him exactly what I have told you and then drive on.”

“And I have your word that if I do that I will live?”

“Yes.”

The meeting with the guard proved anticlimactic. Reznikov recited the words. The guard simply nodded and saluted, and then wandered off down the road and back to barracks. Reznikov drove on, heading farther north, toward Rosslau and the main crossing of the river Elbe. As they neared the bridge, Hammond told him to stop.

Reznikov drew the car to a halt, on the up-ramp. He turned off the ignition, looked apprehensively down at the steep slope to the river below, and sneered at Hammond.

“The end of our journey together, I presume.”

Hammond looked back at him.

“You knew?” Reznikov slowly nodded. Hammond had to ask the question. “If you knew, why did you do as I ordered?”

Marat Reznikov turned to look at him.

“You are undoubtedly a killer, Comrade, no matter how much you might protest the description. You see, as I said to Bonhoeffer, I can tell these things. And, when we meet again in hell, you will know I was right.”

“You have not answered my question.”

Reznikov gave a cynical smile, and then turned back to look at the road ahead as he spoke.

“There was always a chance that you might also be stupid. . . Unfortunately for me, you are obviously not.” He placed two hands on the steering wheel and braced himself for the impact. “Well, come along, Comrade. Am I not also worthy of a single bullet?”

Hammond hit him, hard across the back of the neck, and then spoke quietly as Reznikov slumped against the steering wheel.

“No, Comrade Commissar Reznikov. You were worthy of much more.”

Hammond replaced the pistols in Reznikov’s pockets, and then slipped the Fiat’s handbrake. He pushed and steered the car over the edge of the ramp, then stood back and watched it rolling towards the water, lurching and creaking and gathering speed as it hurtled down the slope. Seconds later, the rusted Torpedo hit the swollen river with a crash. It floated downstream for a few meters, before slowly disappearing beneath the surface.

He reasoned that, when and if the Soviets found the car, they would assume Reznikov had lost control and drowned, or at least before an autopsy proved otherwise. If they somehow found the car early on, the lack of any obvious foul play would allow Hammond the time he needed. With Soviet troops still combing the countryside, the more time he could buy, the longer they could stay hidden, and the better their chances of reaching the American sector.

He stood watching the river for a while longer, confirming that his lethal skills were still as lethal, and there had been no miraculous last-minute reprieve for Marat Reznikov.

The river remained cold and dark, its terrible secret hidden below the surface.

As Hammond watched the water flowing by, he again found himself thinking about Rouen. He wondered why it was always Rouen that haunted him, more than any other mission. Perhaps it was the obscene number of lives he had taken that night. Perhaps it was the cold-bloodedness and sheer savagery of the taking. Perhaps it was the faces of the victims; so many faces. . . slumbering faces, bewildered faces, disoriented faces,; faces with unseeing eyes and minds dulled by sleep, faces of alarm, faces of panic, faces of entreatment, faces of dread.

His mind wandered on, as it so often did, to all the other violent deaths he had occasioned in the name of freedom or patriotism or duty.

Then he thought about Marat Reznikov’s words, and knew the truth of them.

When Hammond finally turned away and began making his way back to the guesthouse, he also thought about the man he had just killed.

Comrade Commissar Marat Reznikov had been a bully and a hypocrite, a rapist, a sadist, and a cold-blooded killer, but he had also been one of the bravest men Hammond had ever known.

Davis Carpenter had been on his way to work. He was standing at the corner of Massachusetts and 18
^th
Street, about to thread his way through the jostling Washington rush-hour traffic, when the sudden enquiry disturbed his concentration. He stopped and turned in bland anticipation, but made no effort to disguise his disappointment as he surveyed the frail and dishevelled figure of an elderly man.

Dressed in a shabby raincoat, the old man was unshaven and unkempt. Brown corduroy trousers hung heavy on spindly legs, before slumping into further unkemptness over the top of scuffed brown leather brogues. He stared back at Carpenter through blue-grey eyes that offered little relief to nondescript features, and less to a grey complexion. Skeletal fingers suddenly appeared from the raincoat’s right-hand pocket. They politely tipped the brim of a spotless black homburg, an item of apparel that appeared entirely incongruous.

“Yes?”

Carpenter had snapped the syllable. The elderly man answered politely.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been waiting to see you for over a week now. You’re always so busy. I thought I would try to gain a few moments of your time before work. My name is Schulman, Alfred Schulman. I work with a man called Wiesenthal, in Linz. Simon Wiesenthal? Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“No.”

“That surprises me, Mr Carpenter, because we are working closely with members of your U.S. Army in Linz, gathering evidence on Nazi war criminals. Are you sure you’ve not heard of him?”

Davis Carpenter made no effort to disguise his hostility.

“No, I can’t say I have, but I do recall my secretary mentioning your name. I also recall telling her to tell you that if you and Mr Wiesenthal are looking for Nazi fugitives in the United States, you should be talking to the FBI. It was my understanding that she subsequently passed that message to you?”

The old man smiled ruefully.

“Oh, she did indeed, but somehow I did not believe her then, any more than I believe you now. Oh no, Mr Carpenter, something tells me I’m talking to the right man.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You see, Mr Carpenter, if for some reason I wanted to find communist agents hiding in Washington suburbs, I would go and talk to Mr Hoover’s men, but I am not. I am looking for ex-Nazis, hiding right here in the Washington government, and so I have come to you.”

“But I can’t help you, Mr Schulman. All I can suggest is that you do as I first encouraged you to do, and talk to the FBI.”

Davis Carpenter turned, and hurried across the busy street. He dodged two cars and a speeding taxi before reaching the other side, then turned back to see Schulman wearing a sardonic smile and watching him from the safety of the opposite sidewalk. The smile faded as the old man said something, but Carpenter couldn’t hear what.