Berlin Red (27 page)

When Fegelein arrived at the boarding house on Eckertstrasse, where Lilya Simonova rented a room, he found the night watchman asleep, head resting on his folded arms.

It was a dingy place, its walls badly in need of repainting, and the floorboards scuffed to splinters.

Without waking the old man at the front desk, Fegelein made his way up to the third floor. Although he had never actually set foot inside the building before, he knew exactly where she lived. He even knew which room was hers by looking from the street. Many times, he had driven past this boarding house, sometimes with Elsa in the car, and glanced up at Lilya’s window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

In sharp contrast to the luxurious surroundings of Elsa’s apartment on Bleibtreustrasse, he found the hallway cluttered with pieces of broken furniture and there were brown stains on the ceiling where water had seeped through from leaking pipes. It smelled of sour milk and cigarettes.

Fegelein felt a sudden stab of guilt that Lilya had been forced to live this way. Of course, she would not have been able to afford anything better on her salary, but he could easily have requisitioned her a better place. To do so, however, would have sent her the wrong message. He did not want to simply buy her off. Nor did he want her for his mistress. He already had one of those and one was quite enough. What he had wanted for a long time now, as much as could ever be possible, was to know her on equal terms.

And now he would, if only he could persuade her to come with him.

With one knuckle jutting from his fist, Fegelein rapped softly on the door. He waited, and then he knocked again.

A light came on, splashing its glow like a liquid underneath the door and out on to the landing, just touching the tips of his boots.

‘Who is it?’ Lilya asked, her voice gritty with sleep.

‘It’s Hermann,’ he said quietly. It was the first time he had ever used his Christian name with her.

A deadbolt lock clunked back and Lilya opened the door. She wore a blue wool dressing gown, held against her body by her folded arms. Blonde hair straggled down in front of her face. Her bare feet were cold upon the floor and she stood with the toes of one foot balanced upon the arch of the other, like a long-legged water bird.

To Fegelein, she had never looked more beautiful.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘May I come in?’ he asked, suddenly nervous in a way he’d never felt in front of her.

‘What’s going on?’ she persisted.

‘I’ll tell you everything,’ said Fegelein, ‘but I don’t want to do it out here.’

She stood back to let him pass. ‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ she said.

But there was no mess, at least as far as he could tell. A few books lay scattered on a coffee table and two mismatched chairs flanked a little fireplace which did not look as if it had been used in quite some time.

Lilya gestured at one of the chairs and sat down in the other.

Fegelein took his seat. ‘I am sorry to come to you in the middle of the night,’ he said, ‘but there is something I have to tell you. Something which cannot wait.’

Still hugging her arms against her chest, Lilya waited for him to explain.

‘The war is almost over,’ said Fegelein, ‘and you and I both know how it will end.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.

‘Because the time has come when we must begin fending for ourselves. We must look to the future. Whatever loyalties we’ve had until now belong to the past. Do you understand what I am saying, Lilya?’

‘I think so,’ she replied cautiously.

Fegelein rubbed his hand across his forehead. This was already more difficult than he had been expecting. ‘We need to leave,’ he said.

‘We?’

Now he looked her in the eye. ‘Yes. We.’

‘But what about . . . ?’

He held his hand up sharply, commanding her to silence, as if he could not bear to hear her speak the names of those other women. ‘I have made my choice,’ he said, ‘and it is you.’

‘But leave for where?’ she asked.

‘Switzerland,’ he told her, ‘at least to begin with. After that, maybe South America. But none of this can happen if we just sit back and wait for events to unfold. Any delay, and it might be too late. Then all the plans I’ve made . . .’

Now it was she who cut him off. ‘What plans?’ she asked.

‘Passports. Transit papers. Money. You must not worry. I have thought of everything.’ Tentatively, Fegelein reached out to take her hands in his.

But her arms remained folded.

‘I have great affection for you, Lilya,’ Fegelein began, but he could scarcely draw the breath into his lungs to go on speaking. ‘Surely you must know that by now,’ he gasped. ‘I am trying to save you.’

‘And why do I need saving?’ she demanded.

‘If you stay here in this city,’ he replied, ‘you’ll almost certainly be killed, by the Russians when they get here and if not by them, then by our own secret police.’

‘The secret police?’ she asked. ‘What would they want with me?

‘It won’t be long before they are looking for anyone who has had dealings with me.’

‘But why?’

‘Because of the things that I have done,’ he said flatly, ‘and what they are it’s better you don’t know for now. I’ll be happy to discuss all this with you as soon as we are safely in Geneva, but right now you need to realise that I’m the only chance you’ve got.’

‘When are you planning to go?’ she asked.

At least, thought Fegelein, she isn’t trying to talk me out of leaving. He grasped at this as a sign that she might actually go with him. ‘First thing in the morning,’ he told her. ‘We will travel by car to the Charlottenburg Station. Then we board a train, whatever one is there, just as long as it’s leaving Berlin. One way or another, we will make our way to Switzerland. I have money. More than enough. And I have documents which will guarantee we are not stopped.’

She opened her mouth to speak.

But Fegelein couldn’t wait. ‘For the love of God, say yes!’ he blurted out.

‘I’ll need to pack a few things,’ Lilya told him.

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Fegelein, overwhelmed that she had finally agreed. ‘One suitcase, though. That’s all. You understand?’

She nodded.

They walked to the door.

‘I’ll be back for you at 9 a.m.,’ said Fegelein. ‘You must be ready.’

Her lips twitched, in what Fegelein took for a smile.

He leaned across, gently taking hold of her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you very soon,’ he said.

As soon as Fegelein was gone, Lilya unfolded her arms, which were now so cramped that at first she could barely move them. Tucked up the sleeve of her dressing gown was the stiletto knife she always carried with her and which she had almost used on Fegelein in the moment she saw him at the door.

Now Lilya put on her clothes and hurriedly began to pack a suitcase. She threw in an assortment of undergarments, a pair of shoes, a hairbrush, and a clunky dynamo torch made by a company called Electro-Automate, which she had brought with her from Paris. The dynamo operated by repeatedly squeezing a lever attached to the side of the torch, removing the need for expensive and increasingly hard-to-find batteries. The wheezy grinding of these dynamos was a common sound as people made their way about in the dark. Almost everyone carried torches of one kind or another, since no street lights were illuminated in the city at night in case they could be seen by bombers overhead.

Of all the things she crammed into the case, only the torch was important, but this had nothing to do with the light it cast upon the cracked paving stones of Berlin.

The torch housed a roll of film, containing images of the Diamond Stream schematics. Lilya had photographed the blueprints on the same day Fegelein had borrowed them from General Hagemann, having left them in the car while he paid a visit to his mistress.

To hold the film, the dynamo contained within the torch had been replaced by technicians at Beaulieu House, where Lilya had undergone her training in England. The new dynamo was only half the size of the original, allowing the film to be stored in the remaining space.

She had carried the Electro-Automate with her when she returned to France, back in the summer of 1940. Although her bags had been searched many times since then, in France as well as in Germany, the fact that the torch still worked had always been enough to satisfy the inspectors.

By the time Lilya had finished, a little over six hours remained before Fegelein was due to return. By then, she knew that she would have to be long gone from here. Although Lilya was not scheduled to arrive until noon at the safe house where she would rendezvous with Allied agents sent to evacuate her from Berlin, she had no choice but to make her way there now and hope that her contacts would be there.

Slowly, Hunyadi opened his eyes.

A deep, numbing pain pulsed rhythmically against his right temple.

Struggling to focus, he realised he was in his flat and that a handkerchief had been stuffed in his mouth.

Hunyadi went to remove it, but his hands had been tied with the laces of his own shoes to the arms of the chair in which he sat. His trouser belt had also been used to bind his legs together at the ankles.

The last thing he recalled was opening the door to his apartment.

Everything between that moment and this was a blank.

And now a man appeared in front of him. His hair was greying at the temples and old scars creased his weathered skin. From Frau Greipel’s description, Hunyadi realised that this must be the man who had come looking for him at the station.

Although he was helpless, Hunyadi was not terrified. If this stranger had intended to kill him, he would certainly have done so by now.

‘Are you going to be quiet?’ asked the man.

Hunyadi nodded slowly.

The handkerchief was removed from his mouth.

‘You are Pekkala,’ said Hunyadi.

‘That’s right,’ replied the man.

Hunyadi listened to the stranger’s voice, trying to place his accent. Although he spoke German well, this man was not a native speaker. His first guess was Russian, but the accent was layered with something else, clipped and sharp, which he could not immediately place. ‘Frau Greipel said you wanted to talk to me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must understand that there are easier ways than this.’

‘Under the circumstances,’ replied Pekkala, ‘I am inclined to disagree.’

Who are you? thought Hunyadi. Why would you take the risk of coming here? But he kept his questions to himself.

‘You are searching for someone,’ said Pekkala.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Hunyadi. ‘That’s how I make my living, more or less.’

‘And have you found who you are looking for?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Hunyadi.

‘But close, perhaps.’

‘If you will walk with me back to the Pankow station, I would be happy to share with you the results of my investigation.’

‘I told you this wasn’t going to work,’ said a voice standing directly behind him.

Hunyadi was startled, not only to discover that there was another person in the room but to hear the man speaking in Russian. Until this moment, Hunyadi had remained relatively calm, but now his pulse began thumping in his neck.

The Russian stepped around from behind Hunyadi. He was holding a Hungarian-made pistol and staring intently at Hunyadi. ‘You understood me, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ answered Hunyadi. There was no point in denying it.

Kirov bent down, so that the two men were looking each other directly in the eye. ‘Listen,’ he said, quietly. ‘This person you are looking for, we are looking for them, too, and we think you might know where they are.’

‘What gives you that idea?’ replied Hunyadi, speaking in the stranger’s tongue, although it had been many years since he’d been able to practise his Russian.

Now it was Pekkala who spoke. ‘Because you are Leopold Hunyadi, and you would not have been chosen for this work if you weren’t the best man for the job.’

‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ said Hunyadi, ‘but I have not found them yet. And even if I had, what on earth makes you think that I would help you?’

‘Because it might save your life,’ answered Kirov, ‘and not helping us certainly won’t.’

Hunyadi coughed out a laugh. ‘I don’t think you understand the situation,’ he told the two men. ‘Hitler himself assigned me to this case. If I don’t solve it, he’ll do worse than anything you boys can throw at me. So go ahead and shoot, you Bolshevik gangster.’

Kirov glanced at Pekkala. ‘We’re just wasting our time here, Inspector.’ He set the gun against the base of Hunyadi’s skull.

‘Inspector?’ said Hunyadi.

‘That’s right,’ said Pekkala, raising his hand to show Kirov he should wait before pulling the trigger. ‘I am Inspector Pekkala, of the Bureau of Special Operations in Moscow. The man with the gun against your head is Major Kirov.’

‘By any chance are you related to the man they called the Emerald Eye?’ asked Hunyadi.

‘Related?’ Now it was Kirov’s turn to laugh. ‘He
is
the Emerald Eye!’

Hunyadi blinked in confusion. ‘But I heard that he was dead.’

‘I heard those same rumours,’ said Pekkala, ‘and there were times when they almost came true.’ Now he turned up the collar of his coat, revealing the badge the Tsar had given him long ago.

Astonished, Hunyadi stared at the emerald. As it caught the light, the jewel appeared to flicker, as if to mirror the blinking of his eyes.

‘We did not come here to end your life,’ Pekkala told him. ‘We came here to save someone else’s. If what you know and what we know could be combined, such a thing might still be possible. And in exchange, I offer you a guarantee of help in escaping the battleground this city is about to become.’

‘This city is my home,’ replied Hunyadi, ‘and there’s no point asking me to leave it, even if that means my dying here.’

‘I understand that you might not value your existence enough to tell us anything at all,’ continued Pekkala, ‘and as for why you would assist in saving someone who has conspired against your master, I cannot even conjure up a reason.’ Now Pekkala pointed at the picture of Hunyadi and the woman. ‘But what about her life?’ he asked. ‘Have you considered what might happen to her when the Red Army arrives?’

‘Of course I have considered it!’ shouted Hunyadi. ‘You think I’m doing this for Hitler? He sentenced me to death at Flossenburg for marrying the woman in that picture.’

‘Then why are you still alive?’ asked Kirov.

‘So that I can find the source of the leak of information from headquarters,’ answered Hunyadi. ‘There is no other reason.’

‘Where is your wife now?’ asked Pekkala.

‘In Spain,’ replied Hunyadi, ‘where I was foolish enough to think she would be safe. But even as we speak, she is being held as ransom, to make sure I do as Hitler has commanded.’

‘And when you appear before him empty-handed, what then?’ demanded Pekkala.

‘I may yet succeed.’

‘You might,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘but is that still a chance you are prepared to take?’

‘I have no choice.’

‘You do now,’ Pekkala told him. ‘We, too, have people in Spain and I can see to it that both of you are saved.’

‘Even if that’s true,’ said Hunyadi, ‘why should I trust you any more than I trust him?’

‘Because I am also being held to ransom,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I did not come to Berlin out of loyalty to any cause, any more than you are here because of one.’ Reaching into his coat pocket, he removed the crumpled photo of himself with Lilya and held it out for Hunyadi to see. ‘The woman in that picture is the one I’m trying to save, and she means every bit as much to me as your wife does to you.’

‘Now will you help us or not?’ demanded Kirov.

For a while, Hunyadi said nothing. He just stared at the floor, breathing slowly in and out. Finally, he spoke. ‘Untie me,’ he said quietly.

‘Do as he says,’ ordered Pekkala.

‘Inspector,’ Kirov muttered nervously.

‘Now.’

Kirov sighed. Then he holstered the pistol and loosed Hunyadi from his bindings.

Slowly, Hunyadi rose to his feet. ‘Two days ago,’ he told them, ‘I located a transmitter at the house of a Hungarian diplomat. I think it has something to do with the leak of information from the bunker.’

‘A Hungarian, you say?’ asked Kirov.

‘That’s right,’ said Hunyadi. ‘He was just about to transmit a message when I burst into the room.’

‘And you recovered this message?’

‘I did, but it was encrypted.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘I gave it to someone who offered to help me decode it without letting the authorities know. You see, this leak could be coming from anywhere, and I don’t know who to trust.’

‘But you trust this person?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Hunyadi, ‘but I had no one else to turn to.’

‘And has it been done?’

‘Not yet. Not as far as I know. The man said he would contact me as soon as he had anything, but I haven’t heard from him.’

‘And the Hungarian?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the morgue at the Köpenick police barracks,’ answered Hunyadi. ‘He killed himself before I had a chance to question him.’

‘And who is at the Hungarian’s place now?’

‘Nobody. It’s empty.’

‘Can you take us there?’

Hunyadi looked around the room. He seemed to be making an inventory in his head of all of his meagre possessions. Then he stepped over to the bedside table and picked up the cheap wooden frame which held the photograph of his wife. Grasping the flap which helped it stand upon the table, he tore away the cardboard backing of the frame. Then he removed the photo and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. At last, he turned to Kirov and Pekkala. ‘Follow me,’ he said.