The Berlin Crossing (15 page)

As now, with this German-speaking youngster from Ireland, puzzled and despondent and exhausted in an interview room in the
dark building at Fitch-Bellingham’s back. There would be neither a phone call to Ireland nor a meeting with his asthmatic
brother for Roland Feldmann, not just yet anyway, not while Rupert Fitch-Bellingham played with possibilities and permutations.
The vaguest of plans was taking shape in his inventive mind, a ridiculous plan, an absurd notion, the idea quite outrageous
but still . . .

He stepped on the cigarette butt, glanced at his watch. Four fifty a.m. How many cups of tea did it take to keep the ailing
British Empire afloat?

He was about to go looking for them when the back door of the station opened and Ransom stood there in the rectangle of light,
Menton at his shoulder.

‘There you are, sir!’ A forced chumminess in Menton’s voice. ‘You wanted to see us, sir.’

Fitch-Bellingham caught the baleful glance that Ransom threw at Menton.
Good chap, Ransom; knows when to speak and when to keep shtum
.

‘Perhaps you’d be good enough,’ Fitch-Bellingham said, turning to Menton, ‘to phone the hospital and check on the progress
of the victim of the assault,’ a faint smile, ‘or should I perhaps say, of the “alleged” assault?’

‘We’re ahead of you, sir.’ Menton grinned. ‘Just called them, the bugger is A-okay, just a head wound with too much bleeding,
they say, and the black bugger’s already been discharged.’

‘Indeed.’ The single word from Fitch-Bellingham seemed to silence the night.

Menton looked from Ransom to Fitch-Bellingham; he was damned if he could figure out what he’d done wrong.

Ransom cleared his throat.

‘Johnny,’ he said, laying his hand lightly on Menton’s shoulder, ‘I’m not sure if we’ve got everything ready for that robbery
trial coming up on Monday – might be no harm in checking the file and making sure everything’s absolutely shipshape. You know
what a stickler the Super can be.’

Menton mumbled a goodnight and left them hurriedly. Only when the station door had closed behind him did Fitch-Bellingham
speak.

‘Thank you, Ransom.’

‘For nothing, sir.’ He looked back at the closed door. ‘Menton’s a good copper, sir, he’s just a little ahead of himself sometimes.’

‘This fellow in hospital – he’s OK?’

‘Like Menton said, sir, discharged and gone home – gone
somewhere
, anyway.’

‘Is he likely to press charges against . . .?’ He inclined his long head, in the direction of the station.

‘I shouldn’t think so, sir. It seems pretty obvious that he
was
assaulting some girl when our pair of Irishmen decided to lend a hand.’

‘Is there a record of this in the station daybook?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’ Ransom spread his hands apologetically. ‘We just had a couple of Paddies, sir, not your Russkies or
your Poles or Czechmates. The German bit only came out when I questioned the lad – I wasn’t sure if I should even mention
it to you, sir.’

‘I’m grateful that you did, Ransom, extremely grateful.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Here’s what we’re going to do, Ransom.’

Ransom nodded. Instinctively he drew himself up to his full height: somewhere in his mind he caught the echo of his commander’s
night-time briefing before they headed off to bomb the shit out of Dortmund or some other blot on the Jerry map.

‘Firstly,’ Fitch-Bellingham said, ‘there will be no trace of either of these two gentlemen in this station. Neither of them
was ever here. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ A nod is as good as a wink; no order given but a sharp blade would remove the relevant page from the station daybook
and allow Ransom to rewrite all of the entries. With the omission of any details of the two Paddies who had never been there.

‘The hospital,’ Fitch-Bellingham said. ‘Can that be taken care of?’
Can we wipe all trace of one black man delivered bleeding and howling to the casualty department of the Great Western Hospital
?

‘Leave it to me, sir.’ Maybe, Ransom thought, I’ll take Menton along with me to the hospital, introduce him to the alleyways
of the dark map we share with the Service.

‘And we’ll be removing the two young gentlemen from your hospitality as soon as possible, Ransom, certainly before the arrival
of the day shift.’ Another glance at his watch. Five twenty. Just about enough time to organize transport and call Highfield
to let them know a couple of unexpected guests would shortly be arriving. Yearling would have to be called; he’d bitch about
being disturbed but he’d bitch twice as long and loudly if he were not kept informed. Yearling would want to know what he
had in mind; he’d kick into touch on that one, promise a full outline later.

Ransom was looking expectantly at him.

‘That’s about it for now,’ Fitch-Bellingham said. ‘I need to make some phone calls. In the meantime, it might be a good idea
to remove our friend,’ he nodded in the direction of the station, ‘from the scene of operations.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Ransom allowed himself a smile. ‘I’ll tell George to knock off early, sir.’

‘It’s awfully good of you, Ransom, I know it’s not your job.’ Fitch-Bellingham waved away Ransom’s protests. ‘Perhaps your
colleague could keep an eye on things – you’ll have other matters to attend to.’

‘Menton, sir? Good idea, sir.’ Let him cool his heels a while in George’s chair, see what that did to his ardour for the shop
girl in Putney.

‘Good man, let’s do it then.’ Fitch-Bellingham looked at the sky. ‘Be daylight soon.’

‘You’ll be using the station commander’s office, sir?’

Fitch-Bellingham nodded.

‘Top of the staircase, sir – but you know that, of course.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ Fitch-Bellingham said. It wouldn’t be the first time he had used the station commander’s secure telephone
to make his urgent and secret calls.

The vans eased into the station backyard just before six thirty. Both black, both with blacked-out windows on their rear doors.
They drew up together alongside the steps; almost in unison, their engines were switched off. Steam rose from their bonnets
like mist in the dawn air.

Fitch-Bellingham spoke quietly and urgently to the two men who got out of the first van, then led them into the station and
through the descending corridors that led to the interview rooms. Nobody saw them, nobody bumped into them in the narrow passageways,
Ransom had seen to that.

When they stopped outside the first interview room, Fitch-Bellingham took from his pocket the large metal key he had been
given by Ransom. He laid a finger to his lips; the driver half smiled in acknowledgement – it wasn’t the first time they had
played this game of pass the parcel.

Fitch-Bellingham put his ear to the closed door. Silence – or was that the sound of soft sobbing? He pushed the key into the
lock, tried to turn it, gently, but the old metal grated loudly.

‘Roland?’ A half-whisper from within. ‘Roland!’ Louder now. ‘Roland! Where are you?’

Fitch-Bellingham swore. Speed, not silence, would be the way now. He turned the key violently, pushed the door open and stood
aside as his two parcel men rushed past him.

Terry’s face, grimy with dried tears, was a mask of terror.

‘Roland!’ A scream now, a wound in the quietness of the station.

‘Shut him up, for Christ’s sake!’ Fitch-Bellingham ordered.

Terry backed away from them, cowered in a corner of the small room. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came from him.

‘Terry! I’m here, answer me!’ Shouting now from the interview room next door, and Fitch-Bellingham knew that Roland would
not be so easy to handle.

‘Quickly!’ he ordered. ‘We don’t want a fucking circus on our hands.’

Terry managed to scream once more, no name, no word, just a long howl of fear and horror.

‘Gag him. Now.’ Fitch-Bellingham’s voice was lower, more urgent: Roland was still calling his brother’s name.

‘Please, please, no.’ Terry was crumpled in the corner, wide-eyed at the roll of wide tape being brandished by the driver.
‘Not my mouth, no, I’ll die, I can’t breathe, I have asthma . . .’

Baker, the driver, dragged him to his feet, twisted the boy’s arm hard behind his back.

‘Gag the fucker!’ he told his mate. ‘What the fuck are you waiting for!’

From Terry’s mouth came a stuttering series of gulping, gasping noises.

Christ, he’s hyperventilating
. Fitch-Bellingham was dismayed.
We could have a corpse on our hands here
.

‘Wait!’

The boy’s inhaler: it was in the bag of effects Ransom had handed over, the bag Fitch-Bellingham was holding in his hand.

He rummaged in the canvas bag, held out the metal inhaler to Terry.

The boy grabbed it and immediately began to suck on it. Fitch-Bellingham watched, stone-faced, as Terry slowly brought the
attack under control. His thin shoulders ceased to heave, he took the inhaler from his mouth and he sat slumped in one of
the room’s grey, plastic chairs. His breathing was still loud, still laboured, but at least, Fitch-Bellingham thought, there
seemed to be some regularity to it.

From the next room came the sound of Roland’s voice once more.

‘Terry! Terry! Answer me, Terry!’

Fitch-Bellingham thrust a long, bony finger under Terry’s chin, tilting his head upwards.

‘Another word,’ he said quietly, ‘just one more word and you’ll be gagged. Understood?’

The boy’s eyes wide, his chin nodding against the nicotine-stained finger. He started to speak but Fitch-Bellingham laid his
finger across Terry’s lips.

‘Not a single word. Are we clear?’ A faint smile on his lips as Terry nodded more vigorously. ‘Now stand up and walk out of
here with these two gentlemen – and not so much as a whisper out of you.’ He smiled as Terry stood up, laid a bony hand on
the
young man’s shoulder in a gesture that might have meant menace or friendship. ‘There’s a good chap – and take good care of
that inhaler of yours, you never know when it might be taken away from you.’

Fitch-Bellingham watched thoughtfully as Terry was led away along the stone-floored corridor between the two men. How did
two peas from the same pod differ so much? How could this timid, wheezing youngster be blood brother to the competent, confident
young man who even now was hammering on the locked door of the interview room and demanding to see his brother at once and
if he didn’t somebody was going to answer personally to him, Roland Feldmann—

And yet, when Fitch-Bellingham pushed open the door of the interview room, it was in German that Roland lashed out.

‘
Wo ist mein Bruder
?’ he demanded angrily. ‘
Wo ist er
?’ Where is my brother? Where is he?

The German words pleased Fitch-Bellingham but he chose to reply in English, in his most languid tones.

‘Your little brother will come to no harm,’ he drawled, ‘provided you behave yourself.’

Roland’s look was baleful; for a moment Fitch-Bellingham feared he’d have to employ a little brute force on the fellow. The
young Irishman’s grip upon himself was impressive, Fitch-Bellingham thought, observing the way Roland brought his breathing
under control, the measured pause before he spoke again.

‘Terry has his inhaler?’ In English now.

‘Yes.’

‘And you haven’t harmed him?’

‘No.’

‘And you want me to do something for you?’

The boy was quick, Fitch-Bellingham thought, straight to the point.

‘Yes.’ He permitted himself a thin smile.

‘Something that involves my command of German?’

The Englishman nodded.

‘Is it legal?’

‘More legal than what your brother did to that fellow in Kensington High Street tonight.’

‘What happened to him? I mean, is he OK?’

‘He’s dead,’ Fitch-Bellingham said. ‘He died about an hour ago.’ How easily we lie, he thought, to protect our sleeping commonwealth,
but the whiteness spreading across Roland’s face was satisfaction enough for him.

Roland swallowed, bit his lip. When he spoke, his voice was edgy.

‘It was an accident.’

‘That’s for a court to decide,’ Fitch-Bellingham said.

The silence deepened in the small interview room as the two men stared at each other across a void. I’ve been here before,
Fitch-Bellingham thought, in this timeless moment of decision, where a man decides his own destiny. His life was a continuum
of betrayal that stretched from Britain to the Balkans and beyond. Now he waited for this young Irishman to decide his own
destiny.

‘And if I agree to do what you want,’ Roland asked finally, ‘my brother can go home?’

‘Yes.’
Eventually
, Fitch-Bellingham thought, when all the dust has settled.

‘I have your word on that?’

‘You have my word.’

‘OK, then, I’ll do it, whatever it is.’

‘Good man.’ Fitch-Bellingham held out his hand, felt the reserve in Roland’s eyes.

‘I’m only doing this for my brother.’

‘That’s understood.’ Fitch-Bellingham’s hand was still out-stretched.

Roland took it then and was astonished by the hint of strength in the bony, skinny hand. This Englishman, he thought, was
like this peculiar night; even stranger underneath than the weird exterior suggested. At least, he told himself, Terry would
get to go home and he himself would be spared the recriminations of his parents for not taking proper care of his younger
brother.

There was no sign of Terry as Roland was led along the narrow corridor by Fitch-Bellingham and a pair of silent, muscular
henchmen. There was no sign of anybody: the entire police station seemed deserted and Roland sensed that this, too, was a
sign of the authority of the stork-like Englishman who said his name was Ingham. And my real name is Elvis Presley, Roland
thought, or Donald Duck.

But at least Terry would be going home, he reminded himself, as he was shepherded into the back of the black van by Ingham’s
two accomplices. The door slammed shut and he was enclosed in the darkness of the windowless interior. He heard the murmur
of voices from the sealed-off driving compartment; the engine purred smoothly into life and he hung on to the straps above
the hard seat as the van moved off. Although he could see nothing, he could sense the great city outside, the rumble of a
truck, the glassy rattling of a milk float, the sound of early-morning cars and, once, the unexpected jangle of a bicycle
bell. The sounds and the stops became less frequent and he knew that they had left the city and its traffic lights behind.