The Good Liar (24 page)

After the time lapse imposed by the translation, Karovsky waved

Roy’s statement away. ‘Germany’s full of war criminals, minor

and major. Perhaps all Germans who are in denial about their

nation’s crimes are criminals. I don’t know. Why should I choose to help you?’ He spread his hands wide in a gesture of ignorant

supplication.

‘Because you have in front of you a direct order from the Control

Council, perhaps?’

Karovsky grinned. ‘You’ve recently been in Vienna?’ He had

clearly done his homework, despite his apparent casualness. ‘Yes,

I’ve heard things are marvellous there. Order is being restored

quickly so that the Austrians can get back to their blissful ignorance, their waltzes and their
Sachertorte
. Relations between the Powers are marvellous.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘But Berlin is a different

place. Vienna, we don’t really care any more. But don’t imagine you have a free rein in Berlin. As to the Control Council, it comes out daily with its absurd demands and decrees. I ignore them as I see fit.

With the full support of my senior officers. So whether you may

conduct your petty operation is up to me. Not this piece of paper.’

He pushed the order across the desk, waited for the translation,

then grinned. Roy looked at Hans briefly.

‘Well, if that’s your final word . . .’

‘I didn’t say no. But if you do proceed it will be on my terms.

None of your British uniforms. And I will wish to interview the

prisoner myself. Just to double- check that you English aren’t trying to deceive us. Again.’

‘All right,’ said Roy. ‘As long as I’m present. Perhaps if you’ll allow us simply to do a recce of the address today, we can discuss the op tomorrow. We don’t need your help. We’ll just have a look at the

address from the outside.’

‘You think you don’t need our help. But I insist. You can take

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three men with you. They’ll keep out of sight. You’re not carrying

weapons, I take it?’

‘No. Would you care to search us?’ said Roy lightly in response to

the other’s sceptical look. A calculated risk: a body search of an English officer would cause a hullabaloo at the Control Council, and

both men knew it.

‘Thank you. No.’

3

They were grateful for the unseasonable cool, which provided the pretext for their greatcoats with their capacious pockets containing

contraband for smoothing the path and an illicit weapon in case things did not go to plan. Their suits were ridiculous. They had been provided by the Russians, looted no doubt from some low- end tailor’s shop. Courtnay and Taub had travelled from Hannover by train in uniform, carrying only their coats, wash kits and a change of underwear.

The suits were several sizes too small, forcing a rolling gait on them so tight were they around the thighs, and the jacket buttons strained to hold. They looked like clowns. Roy had the sense that this was an

indignity forced on them by Karovsky for his own amusement. He,

with the seniority of rank, had at least been able to bag the blue serge.

Hans’s grey chalk- stripe was a good four inches too short in the leg, showing his boots to bad effect. He looked simply absurd, though in this devastated city the comic was largely absent or unnoticed. They were at least grateful that they had been able to find hats that fitted more or less. And they could now pose as civilian police.

They stood by the cathedral, almost in ruins, its cupola a mere

skeleton, and looked over the Spree, in which debris floated and a

filthy grey scum scudded to the banks. They walked down Unter

den Linden, past mounds of rubble that were being diligently

cleared by German workers wearing close to rags. Russian troops

stood chatting and smoking. Huge hammer and sickle flags flew

triumphantly from the ruins of the imposing buildings that lined

the once great avenue. There was no sign of the linden trees.

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Taub looked distraught. ‘This was my city,’ he said. ‘Look what

these people have done to it. You could stroll down this street before all this. Mind you, as long as I can remember it’s always been in

some kind of crisis. Socialists and fascists. Marches and speeches.

Street fights and sabotage. Prosperity and collapse. Poverty and

wealth. Always clashes. Perhaps it was just my family.’

‘Your father involved you in his politics?’

‘Not really. They were both politically engaged.’ The last word

was spoken with bitter emphasis. ‘But my father took me every-

where with him. Politics. This is what you get.’

‘Perhaps it’ll be a more peaceful place in the future.’

‘You don’t believe that. The Russians and your Western powers

will fight over this city and my country forever.’

Such vehemence was not the norm for Hans Taub.

‘We have a job to do,’ Roy reminded him.

‘Yes,’ said Taub, brightening, ‘and I’ve got plans for this evening.

We might go back to that club . . .’

It was all one could do in the circumstances. Block out the horror

with frantic enjoyment and little regard for the consequences.

They had almost reached the Brandenburg Gate, where a huge

portrait of Uncle Joe Stalin, covering most of the pillared structure, smiled down on them. They turned into Wilhelmstrasse and made

their way to Voss Strasse, just to look at the small conical tower and modest doorway that marked where the final days of that horror

had played out. It was here that the bodies, allegedly, had been

burned. The area was guarded by twitchy Russian soldiers, who

approached them brusquely and began shoving Hans. Roy quickly

produced papers from his pocket and the situation calmed some-

what. They walked quickly back to Alexanderplatz for their

rendezvous with their escort and discussed their tactics.

‘Unless we’re very lucky the troops they give us will be hopeless,’

said Roy. ‘More danger to us than help. We’ll try to ditch them as

soon as possible. Or at least get them into the background. Can you work on them?’

‘Assuming one of them speaks a bit of German or English,’ said

Hans.

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‘Good. Now we know that this Müller character is out during the

daytime.’

‘So his wife said. She receives letters from him each week and

that’s what he says. The Russians know nothing about him?’

‘The Russians have no record of him, or of his landlord. The Rus-

sians have no records at all. Or so they say. Let’s just scout round the property and take it from there.’

4

As Roy had predicted, the Russian soldiers allocated to them were

surly and taciturn. Hans managed, barely, to communicate with the

corporal and together the five men, a shambolic crew, trudged

towards the address.

Hans fished in his coat for cigarettes and gave the privates one

pack each and the corporal two, before leaving them at the corner

of Blumenstrasse to joke and curse the English.

The small apartment building looked no more shabby than the

others in the street. This was not saying very much.

Klaus Müller had prevailed on an old school friend, Franz König,

to lend him a room. König was a waiter and worked mainly during

the evenings. Müller had found a job under an assumed name at the

Buildings Department of the Russian authorities. They knew all

this from Müller’s wife, who had proved very cooperative when

faced with the prospect of being prosecuted for assisting the flight of a criminal.

They walked past the building, but this told them nothing. The

front door hung off its hinges and they decided to go inside. The

apartment they were looking for was on the first floor. There was a stench of rotting food, or worse, as they climbed the stairs. Before the war this might have been quite a grand address. The stairs were wide and ornately balustraded. Now, however, it was shabby and

showed the signs of looting when the Russians, less than a year

before, had swept through the area like a plague. Apartment doors

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were smashed in and unrepaired. Every step kicked up clouds of

dust.

Eventually they found a door with a piece of paper roughly

pinned to it. Scrawled capital letters declared curtly that this was the apartment of König.

Roy looked at Hans, who raised his eyebrows.

‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ whispered Roy.

They knew the drill. Initially Hans would do all the talking, to

convey the impression that they were the German police. This

would generally gain them access and put the subject at a kind of

ease. They had obtained Berlin police papers that would pass mus-

ter. Then at an appropriate point they would announce themselves

more fully.

At Roy’s nod, Hans knocked loudly. There was silence, then a

scrabbling inside. Shortly the head of a middle- aged man with a

receding hairline appeared around the door, edged open cautiously.

‘Herr König?’ asked Hans politely.

The man stared at him for a moment, wide- eyed. ‘Yes,’ he said

eventually, slowly, having picked the question over. ‘How may I

help?’

‘Simply a routine inquiry,’ said Hans with a smile, flashing his

police documentation. ‘We’re sorry to bother you.’

The man looked at Roy, who raised his hat slightly by way of

greeting. He regretted it the moment he had done so. He and Hans

had been through this before. I can’t explain, Hans had said, but a German would never do it like that. You’re declaring you’re English as clearly as if you said: how do you do? Just nod briefly, if you have to do anything. But reflex had kicked in again. König didn’t seem to register it.

‘May we come in, please, Herr König?’ asked Hans.

‘Of course,’ said the little man hurriedly. ‘Sorry. What was I

thinking?’ He opened the door and they entered a shabby dwelling.

The wide hallway gave on to what had once been a grand drawing

room but which had been ransacked. Plaster cornices hung peril-

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carpet or rugs. The furniture was gathered at one end of the room:

two sofas and a random collection of dining chairs. Everything was

coated in a thick layer of dust.

König was unshaven and collarless in his shirtsleeves. His eyes

carried the bleariness of a night’s drinking. From the smell of stale sweat, he had evidently not bathed for some time. He looked at

them beseechingly, as if lost.

‘It’s about a guest of yours,’ said Hans.

‘A guest?’ asked König.

‘That’s correct. Klaus Müller?’

‘Ah. Klaus. An old school friend. He’s just staying here a couple of nights or so. I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.’

‘No. So we understand. He’s at work?’

‘I’m not sure where he works,’ said König.

‘No, you wouldn’t be,’ said Hans thoughtfully. ‘But it doesn’t

matter. Klaus isn’t due to return shortly?’

‘How should I know? I’m not his mother. But no. I don’t think so.’

‘It’s not important. It was you we wanted to speak to anyway.’

Hans took out a notebook. ‘Can we just begin with one or two

questions about yourself ? You work as a waiter?’

‘That’s right. Zum Goldenen Bären in Karl- Liebknecht Strasse.’

‘And you have a clean criminal record?’

‘You should know that.’

‘We do. But, please.’

‘Yes, a clean criminal record.’

‘No involvement with National Socialism? No work for the Party?

No official work for the National Socialist regime?’

‘Absolutely not. Those scum –’

‘Indeed,’ said Hans sharply. ‘It seems no one ever supported

them. It’s a wonder they ever came to power.’

There was a pause.

‘Coffee, gentlemen?’ said König. ‘I’m afraid all I can get hold of is ersatz.’

Hans softened slightly. ‘I may be able to help.’ He took from his

pocket a small paper packet of real coffee and proffered it to König, who lifted it to his nose and inhaled the aroma with evident

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pleasure. ‘I may be able to find some more in my pockets. Depend-

ing on how things go.’

Roy nodded at him, prompting.

‘And while you’re making the coffee maybe we could have a look

in Herr Müller’s room.’

‘Certainly. This way.’

They were led into a darkened fusty room. Roy clicked the light

switch. There was no power. He drew back the heavy curtains and

sunlight poured through filthy panes. Motes of dust hung in the air like pauses in time. The bed was unmade, the crumpled sheets filthy grey. A small suitcase lay open at its foot.

‘Well then,’ said Hans, and the little man went to the kitchen

with his small bag of coffee.

It was hot in the room. Roy and Hans took off their greatcoats,

piling them on a chair, and surveyed the task ahead. There was little to look at here. The wardrobes had been looted. A quick glance

through the suitcase, under the mattress and under the bed itself.

The sound of a pan clattering came from the kitchen.

‘Keep our friend company,’ said Roy, ‘and carry on pumping

him. This won’t take long. We’ll come back tomorrow with our