The Unquiet heart

TWENTY TWO

We left Willi wringing his hands and asking what would become of him. The authorities would tap the phone calls and come looking for him. We had no advice. We walked back in silence through the steaming pine woods, back to the city stewing in the sulphurous heat of late afternoon. The buses seemed to have stopped. Tainted petrol or a hold-up by one of the marauding gangs. It took us four hours to reach the safe house, sweaty and footsore, and out of cigarettes.

Maybe it was time to give them up anyway. I made some tea and we sat glumly at the table and stared into our cups. I should have paid more attention to the sounds outside. I was vaguely aware of truck noises and a motorbike. But nothing prepares you for the sound of your own name being bellowed from the street via a megaphone.

“Daniel McRae! You are surrounded. You and Ava Kaplan cannot escape. Surrender now!”

We shot to our feet, teacups thrown across the table, staring at each other in the hope that we’d both misheard. My breath clenched in my chest. The cry came again. Even with the distortion of amplification I recognised Colonel Toby Anstruther’s voice.

“Shit. We must have been followed.” I realised I was talking in whispers, which was silly given the ruckus outside. I heard shouted orders and the pounding of army boots on the cobbles.

“Is there any way out? Is there a skylight? Where would it lead?” I had hold of her arms and was shaking her.

“Danny, Danny! There’s no place to go. Even if we got on to the roof, we can’t get off the building. We’re trapped.” Her eyes were pleading, telling me the game was up, that it was time to let go. I dropped my hands from her shoulders and let my arms slump by my side. It was over.

The shouts came again, this time with a warning of an attack if we weren’t out in ten seconds. I went to the window and stood by the side, not wanting to make myself a target for any trigger-happy squaddie. I eased the window catch and flung it open. A gust of warm air came in and flapped the curtain round my face.

I cupped my hands and shouted, “All right. We’re coming out. But on one condition.” I waited, wondering if he’d heard me.

“What is it, McRae?”

“We’re out of fags.”

There was silence. No sense of humour. Then, “Come and get them. Slowly. With your hands in the air.”

I walked over to her and without asking, took her in my arms and gave her a squeeze. We clung like shipwrecked sailors for a moment then let go.

“Say nothing about Jerusalem. Got me? They know nothing about any connection to the bomb.”

“But I have to get back to London, Danny. I have to tell the story!”

“The best way is to say nothing. Not yet. They’re bound to throw us on the first train out of here.”

She nodded, reluctantly. We grabbed our meagre possessions and left the flat. In the hall I pulled open the door and led the way, hands in the air. We were ringed by troopers pointing their rifles at our hearts. The Colonel stood directly in front of me. Alongside him was Vic looking sheepish. A small crowd congealed at one end of the street, in which our downstairs neighbour was prominent. He folded his arms and made some sneering remark to one of the others. This city had got into the habit of snitching on its neighbours.

We were marched to the truck and shoved up over the tailgate. Half a dozen red-faced soldiers climbed in after us and squeezed on to the parallel benches.

The familiar smell of wool uniforms and sweaty males filled the tarpaulin-covered truck. They kept their guns on us. As we settled down a packet of fags sailed through the air from outside and landed at my feet.

I looked at the boys in uniform. “All right, lads. I think these are for me.

Steady with those guns.” I slowly reached down and picked up the packet.

Woodbine. Cheapskates. They’d do. I passed round the packet as we set off and we filled the back with smoke before we got to the British sector.

“You’re a bloody fool.”

“I know, Colonel. Sometimes there’s no choice.”

He harrumphed. We were sitting – Eve and me – in his office. There were two guards outside but none in the room. It was the first time we’d been together in two days. She looked puffy and ragged, much as I felt. We’d been grilled separately by Military Special Branch. I imagine Eve got the same round of questions as me. Did you kill Mulder? Why him? On the second day there was a sudden shift in direction and tone: what do you know about the bomb in Jerusalem?

We glanced at each other as we were brought into Toby’s office, trying to read the other’s mind. I hoped she’d kept as shtum as me.

Toby had been on the blower to London twice since we’d been sat there. We were in big trouble. As well as the Mulder assassination and the diplomatic furore that had caused, London – or Berlin, maybe – had intercepted Eve’s fevered phone calls to her Reuters man.

They’d also spotted signals from a radio transmitter in the same area. Whether they’d decoded them or not hardly mattered. They knew someone had been in contact with Palestine from the same area as the phone calls. No one mentioned Willi. I assumed he’d done the sensible thing and legged it. Whatever was known or guessed, London, and now Toby, wanted to know what we knew about the bombing of the King David Hotel.

“It’s on the wireless,” I was saying. “That’s all I know.”

“We believe that you – or at least the woman here – were in touch with known terrorists in Palestine. You, Miss, were sending them instructions. We want to know what these were, and how you are involved in this… this outrage!” Toby thumped his desk for emphasis. It didn’t work; he was too round to do a convincing hard man. His act made me think that they didn’t have the evidence to tie us to either Mulder or the bomb. All we needed to do was say nothing.

Clearly not easy for Eve.

“The outrage is the British blockading a ship of refugees from finding a safe haven in the land of their birth!”

Eve’s accusations were growing ever more melodramatic. Toby looked weary. We’d been going round this topic for an hour, getting nowhere. Suddenly Toby stood up. “I’ve had enough. It’s time I handed you to the professionals. Corporal!”

The door burst open. Vic leapt in and stood quivering at attention. A faithful dog. I wondered if he’d mentioned my sudden language skills when the explosion was announced on the radio cafй? “Sir!”

“Get on to London. Tell them we’re sending this pair back. Fix a flight for the morning. Should be room on the post run. Take them away and lock them up overnight. Separate cells.”

He turned to me. “Goodbye, McRae. I won’t pretend it’s been a pleasure.”

He stood with his hands behind his back. No last handshake for me. We left under heavy escort and were deposited in the cells used for military prisoners. Vic had the decency to stop at the Tiergarten mess and pick up my suitcase and spare clothes. A WAAF was sent out to get some army-issue underwear and a skirt and blouse for Eve. At the cells – the largely unscathed civilian nick in the centre – we were given a chance to wash, and I had a shave. Funny how hot water and a smooth chin can perk up your day. I suppose it was reaction to the last few days, but I crashed on to the bare board of my cell, drew the rough blanket round me, and was asleep before lights out.

I jolted awake to the sound of a rifle butt banging on my cell door. I cowered under my blanket waiting for the dogs to be let loose. The SS trained their giant Alsatians and Rottweilers well. The guards would pick a prisoner – usually wearing the pink triangle of a queer – and string him up naked by his hands three feet off the ground. When the hounds learnt to rip off the poor bastard’s balls they were showered with praise. The dogs learnt fast.

“C’mon, McRae. Wakey, wakey.”

I blinked and woke properly. Daylight was filtering through the dirty window into my cell. It was five o’clock and already warm. By six I’d cleaned up, dressed, and stowed away some eggs, bacon and sweet tea.

I met up with Eve in the back of the waiting truck. She looked as though she hadn’t slept much. We exchanged tired smiles. Vic saw us off. His parting act was to slip a pair of handcuffs on my left wrist and Eve’s right. Not quite how I hoped to be hitched to her.

“Is this necessary?” I asked.

“Boss’s orders. My balls or yours.”

“Fair enough. And Vic – thanks for everything. Sorry about the car.”

He avoided my eyes. “Yeah. Right. See you, Danny.”

By eight we were sitting in the front seats of the Avro York at Templehof airfield. Apart from the crew and our honour guard of Redcaps sitting behind us, the plane was empty. Two of the huge propellers started up, then the other two, and we taxied out on to the runway. I wouldn’t be sad to see the back of Berlin.

It had been a madcap few days in a city of nightmares. The dark alleys of Hallesches Tor with its Nazi slogans still on the walls left me chilled to the marrow. We might have destroyed the Fascist infestation but I wondered if we’d really pulled out the roots.

On the other hand I didn’t relish our return to Blighty. I couldn’t imagine this was what Cassells had in mind when he sent me over. And Wilson would be waiting.

He’d like nothing more than a second round with me in one of his cells. Eve seemed more upbeat. Her face had some colour without the hectic hue of the past few days. She was on a mission.

“I’ll get word to Jim Hutcheson when we land. He’ll come to visit. I can still get the message out.”

It was no good talking her down. Her enthusiasm and the conviction that she could reverse the negative news pouring out across the world was keeping her aloft. But I wasn’t so sanguine about the reception she’d get. It’s hard to change an image, and the poor bloody Jew has had a bad press since Shakespeare.

I grew aware that we were taking our time getting airborne. Air traffic on a go-slow. But there were agitated noises in the cockpit. I leaned out into the passage and tried to see what was happening. There was a lot of squawking between the pilot and the control tower. Suddenly the pilot unbuckled his straps, stood up and came back to us. The Redcap police behind us got up to hear him above the sound of the engines.

“We have a problem,” said the RAF bloke. “Someone doesn’t want us to leave.” He stood aside to let the Redcap see through the windscreen in the cockpit.

“Christ! Ruskies?”

The pilot nodded. I hauled myself up alongside them straining on the cuffs that bound me to Eve. I now had a view of the runway. Facing us, with gun barrels aimed straight at our nose, were two Russian tanks with a squadron of infantry on their wings. We weren’t going anywhere any time soon. And neither was Eve’s message to the world.