The Violent Century (35 page)

–
Every spook and Übermensch was out on the prowl that night, it seemed, Fogg says. There was a new kind of war in the making, a cold war, and we were all out, for all that we could get.

– Fogg … the Old Man says, warningly.

– Next thing I knew, Fogg says, there was the sound of clapping …

There is a sound of hands clapping. Fogg tenses as he hears footsteps approaching. Three figures resolve out of the fog, and he recognises them with a sinking heart.

Tigerman.

The Green Gunman.

And Whirlwind.

– What a beautiful friendship, Tigerman says.

The Red Sickle and Schneesturm pull slowly apart and look at the newcomers.

Whirlwind points. You are Erich Bühler, alias Schneesturm, she says.

The Green Gunman pulls out his guns. You are under arrest, he says.

The three Americans, lined up, stand facing the others. Tigerman tosses his mane back over his shoulders and grins.

– Who are these people? the Red Sickle says in apparent bewilderment. Yankies?

Fogg steps between Schneesturm and the Americans. Every nerve in his body insists that he run, hide. This man’s with me, he says, with a boldness he does not feel.

– Ah, Fogg, Whirlwind says. And just what is a British agent doing in the company of a known war criminal?

– You are overstepping your authority, Whirlwind, Fogg says; but it only makes her smile.

– Walk away, Fogg, Tigerman says. He is ours now.

– For your Zoo? Fogg says.

– For whatever we fucking say, Tigerman says. Almost pleasantly. Come on, Fogg. Walk away.

– No.

They lock eyes, Tigerman and Fogg. For a moment they seem to Fogg like a frozen tableau; he knows something must break, must happen, and he does not know why: all he knows is that he must continue following Schneesturm, he must protect him, until the German takes him where Fogg most desperately wants to go.

Until he finds Klara again.

– No, he says, again.

– Be very careful, Fogg … Tigerman says.

Fogg weighs his options. But the Red Sickle makes the decision for him. He detaches himself from Schneesturm, suddenly, and glares at the three Übermenschen facing them. Americans? he says again, and then, Yankies!

– Red Sickle … Fogg says, a warning in his voice. Tigerman grins.

– No! The Red Sickle says. He raises the bottle still clutched in his hand and aims it like a missile. This is the Russian quarter! You have no authority here,
Americans
. Leave!

Tigerman loses his grin.

– Make us, you drunk fuck, he says.

The Red Sickle growls with outrage. He smashes the bottle on the ground and the sharp smell of vodka permeates the air. The Red Sickle rises, the broken bottle, shard-sharp, in his hand, and in his other hand something flashes, and a sickle materialises there. He faces the Americans and grins. Tigerman, in response, brings out a handgun.

– Tigerman, no! Fogg says.

But he is ignored. And with a howl of pure rage, the Red Sickle attacks the Americans.

They scatter. But Tigerman is too slow, the gunshot goes wide and the bottle catches him on the shoulder, draws blood, sends him spinning. The gun drops. Tigerman growls, beginning to transform. Claws emerge from his hand and he swipes at the Red Sickle, who laughs and knocks him aside, easily. Tigerman rolls, remains on all fours, grows fur, his long blond hair spreads and expands to cover his body and he opens his mouth wide, showing his teeth. Whirlwind spins. She turns like a dancer and doesn’t stop, moving faster and faster, becomes a hurricane in miniature, the wind howls and sucks into itself leaves, dust, fog and cigarette butts. The wind attacks the Russian, who lashes with his sickle, cleaving the wind in two.

But the wind howls laughter and re-forms, engulfing the Red Sickle, who roars,
Blyadischa!
– whore! – and the sickle flashes again, and then the Red Sickle is airborne, fighting the wind until his fist finds purchase, there is a heavy thud, and the whirlwind transforms, mid-air, into a young woman and drops down.

The Red Sickle remains hovering, underneath him Whirlwind lands hard and groans, holding an injured leg as she lies there. The Green Gunman, coolly holding on to his twin guns, begins firing; and green shoots emerge from his pistols and whip through the air and clasp the Red Sickle in their grasp, tightening, growing flowers and shoots as they imprison him. The sickle flashes again, and again, and the vines drop to the ground but more are fired at him and they are dragging him down, down to the ground where Tigerman waits, fully transformed, and growling.

Yob tvoyu mat!
the Red Sickle swears, and Fogg, breaking at last from a trance, grabs an equally dazed Schneesturm and says, Run!

Behind them, the Red Sickle slashes his way from the vines and pulls, bringing the Green Gunman violently to his knees. The Red Sickle kicks him in the face and laughs. Then he turns to face Tigerman, sickle in hand, and the tiger roars as it attacks him.

Fogg and Schneesturm run.

149.
THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE
the present

– The Americans did not share this information with me, the Old Man says, somewhat huffily, Fogg thinks. He shrugs. I suspect they never even made a report, he says. After all, they failed to get what they wanted.

Oblivion stirs; stretches his long legs in front of him mutely. Oblivion, you remember what it was like, don’t you? Fogg says. Elaborates for the Old Man: It wasn’t the only time we ran into each other like this. The city was swarming with head-hunters. If I recall correctly, Tigerman even bought me a drink the next night, at Der Zirkus. To show there were no hard feelings.

– What happened to him? Fogg asks. After Vietnam?

– Went into oil, the Old Man says. Shrugs. That’s where the money is. He was never a fool, was Tigerman.

Oblivion smiles. And the Green Gunman became a hippie, he says. Protesting against the war while Tigerman was hunting in the jungle.

– The Green
Gunman
? Fogg says.

– Yes, I remember seeing him at Woodstock in sixty-nine. He was something of a symbol for the anti-war movement. And then the whole Green thing took off.

– You went to
Woodstock
? Fogg says.

Oblivion looks embarrassed. No, no, he says. I saw a documentary about it a while ago, on the BBC. They had footage of the Green Gunman on stage. He was quite a good speaker, you know.

Fogg shakes his head.

– I don’t know what happened to Whirlwind, Oblivion says; trying to change the subject, perhaps.

– Last I heard she was running guns somewhere in Africa, the Old Man says, stirring. Went private, same as most of them did after the Cold War.

Something cosy about the three of them. Gossiping about old colleagues, adversaries, what everyone is doing now. No one mentions what Fogg’s been doing the past God knows how many years. Burying himself in the Hole in the Wall, or elsewhere, a ghost, a shadow man. While everyone else’s still busy being heroes.

The Old Man turns to Fogg. Places his hands on the tabletop, leans forward, says, So?

Fogg takes a deep breath. So, he says. We left the Americans behind, and …

150.
BERLIN. THE SOVIET ZONE
1946

–
The night was suddenly quiet, and very cold, Fogg says
. We watch him: sitting facing the Old Man, deep underground in the Bureau’s hidden offices; and we watch him walking through the streets of this post-war Berlin, Schneesturm leading the way.

–
I found myself missing the smell of pine cones, Fogg says. The touch of sunlight on my skin. The smell of the sea. Berlin after the war was Hell made incarnate. It was the heart of winter, and I wanted – needed – summer.

– Stop, Schneesturm says. They pause outside a dilapidated building, no different from any other building in this part of town, remarkable only for the fact that it is still standing. A worn wooden door, with all the paint flaked off it, no lights in the windows, a sinister quietude in the street, a hungry, anticipatory silence.

– Here? Fogg says; whispers. The fog thickens around them, responding to him; trying to mask their presence, the anticipation of what might be lying behind that door.

– Shhh, Schneesturm says. Looks nervously left and right, right and left, but there is nothing to see, the fog is all but impenetrable. Schneesturm nods, then reaches for the door. He knocks, softly, once, twice, again, drumming a code onto the old splintered wood. Waits.

Fogg, tense, beside him. Nothing changes. Then: In there, Schneesturm says.

Fogg looks at him. Questions behind his eyes. Is it a trap? Some sort of trick?

– Well, go on, Schneesturm says, a little impatient. Fogg stares at the door. Reaches, slowly, for the handle, a rusted metal thing jutting out of the old wood. The touch of it is a shocking cold against his skin. He presses it down.

Presses further. Slowly the handle turns. Fogg hesitates. Lets out a breath of cold air. It hangs like mist in front of his face. Come on! Schneesturm says. Stamps his feet on the ground as if, for the first time, he too feels the cold. Fogg shoots him a glance and, as if Schneesturm can read the contents of his mind, he shakes his head and says, No. Only you. I have never … and holds himself close, shivering. Snow rises around Schneesturm, as if it could hide him from Fogg, from that door, from what’s inside. Go, he says, and Fogg, with a burst of fear and courage, pushes the door open and it gives under his hand and, as he opens it, bright summer sunlight pours out of the door and the smell of cut grass and the humming of bees, spilling out onto the cold dark Berlin street.

151.
THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE
the present

– I … see, the Old Man says.

But Fogg knows he will never truly see. Not what Fogg saw, what Fogg knew. The Old Man, like Schneesturm, can only
imagine
. Which is a wholly different thing.

– I went back to our side the same night, Fogg says. Back to Der Zirkus. The Americans weren’t there. I needed to find a way to get her out of Germany. Sommertag. Klara. She wasn’t safe but then, none of us were.

152.
BERLIN
1946

To Fogg’s surprise Corporal King is still waiting for him by the jeep when he gets back from the Soviet zone. Fogg gets into the passenger seat without speaking. The corporal is smoking a cigarette when Fogg approaches. He seems neither surprised nor startled when Fogg appears. Nor does he comment on Fogg’s somewhat ramshackle appearance. They drive in silence through the streets, away from the Soviet zone, until at last Fogg sees the lights ahead, of the bars and clubs and Der Zirkus, where he motions for the corporal to stop.

Fogg gets off and acknowledges the corporal with a curt nod before he goes into the club. It is late, and even in Der Zirkus things are winding down; the Americans, Fogg notices without surprise, are missing, their table vacant, and Spit, too, is gone. On stage Machentraum is singing, a slow, sad song: ‘When I Grow Too Old To Dream’, a Vera Lynn number. As Fogg enters, a shadow detaches itself from the walls and approaches him. Fogg turns, startled. It’s Franz.

– Herr Schleier, he says, I must speak with you.

– Not here, Franz.

– I must speak with you! He seems agitated, his hands move nervously, tracing wide arcs through the air. Fogg puts his hand on Franz’s shoulder, Be quiet! he says.

They confer in low voices. At last Franz nods. They disengage. Franz goes to the doors, disappears to the outside. Fogg goes to where Oblivion is sitting. Oblivion turns his head. Fogg leans his head close to Oblivion’s. Whispers in his ear. For a moment they are as close as lovers. Oblivion nods, their shadows part.

They get up together; walk away – Oblivion outside, Fogg into the shadows, behind the stage.

153.
THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE
the present

– Out of curiosity, the Old Man says, which one of you was it who killed the informer, Franz?

Oblivion, startled, half rises from his chair. Sir, I must protest, he says.

– Settle down, Oblivion, the Old Man says.

– Sir, I—

Oblivion and the Old Man lock eyes. The Old Man wears a mocking grin. After a moment Oblivion sighs, and sits back down.

– I assume Fogg asked you to do it when he returned, the Old Man says.

154.
DER ZIRKUS NIGHTCLUB, BERLIN
1946

– Fräulein Machentraum.

– You startled me!

She comes off stage after the last song; comes into the shadows where Fogg waits. There is no one else around. It is late and Machentraum is the club’s only performer. Even the musicians are long gone.

– I apologise, Fogg says. She looks at him, recognises him and sighs, as though knowing nothing good will come of this meeting. Without the stage light she just looks tired; the makeup sits heavily on her face. Herr Fogg, she says, in acknowledgement. What do you want?

– I want your help, Fogg says.

– Oh?

– They call you Dream Maker, Fogg says. Speaking quickly. Machentraum.

– Yes …

– I need you to weave an illusion for me.

But Machentraum is already shaking her head. Herr Fogg, please! she says. I will get into trouble. I cannot do it.

Fogg opens his mouth to speak but she silences him with a gesture. They only let me stay here for my singing, Machentraum says. The Americans promised me a visa if I cooperate. I am wanted for war crimes! I have never harmed anyone, Herr Fogg, she says, pleading. The change was not my fault.

– None of us were responsible for the change, Fogg says. She pushes past him, goes to the mirror. Begins to wipe makeup from her face. Fogg says, Please. Will you help me?

Her face softens, for just a moment. She steals a glance at him. To do … to do what? she says.

– To give someone a new face, Fogg says.

155.
OUTSIDE DER ZIRKUS, BERLIN
1946