The Unquiet Heart Read online

  But my view of the city from the air had been too fatalistic. Sure, whole buildings had been razed or turned into black stumps, and there were more piles of bricks than habitable structures; but there were functioning parts. Kids played at soldiers on the bomb sites, clambering on burnt-out tanks and trucks. Here and there little groups of women in headscarves tugged at the mounds of stones.

  “What are they doing?”

  Vic laughed. “That’s the Trummerfrauen, the rubble-women. They’re reclaiming the bricks. Paid by the number. It’s either that or whoring.”

  Some of the women had hammers and were chipping away at the mortar. Others stacked the cleaned bricks in neat piles by the roadside. Riding in the livery of the victor, I felt embarrassed at witnessing their puny efforts. I shouldn’t have; here was a spark of hope that hadn’t been extinguished. One or two straightened their stiff backs and looked at us as we swept past. I turned my face away.

  Maybe it was the heat of the day that made me conscious of the smell: a pong of drains and brick dust, especially when we rolled to a halt at intersections to let a convoy go by.

  Vic laughed. “You’ll get used to it.” He must have seen my nose twitch.

  “Hardly surprising. Do the sewers work?”

  “Everything works. Sort of. We’ve got the street lamps on again, the underground, some trams and of course the bars. They all work. All rationed, mind. Unless you know where to get it.” His nose got another rub.

  “See over there.” Vic pointed to his right. A big, bashed building stood adrift in a sea of flattened rubble. I could make out giant columns supporting the façade. I’d seen it on a hundred newsreels.

  “The Reichstag. What’s left of it. In the Russian sector now.”

  I stared at it, trying to visualise the little madman at work there, planning to rule the world but in fact wrecking his own country and redrawing Europe. One man. How was it possible?

  It was a short drive. There was little traffic, mostly military. Old men pulled prams piled high with wood – broken floorboards for cooking-fires. Gaunt men in Wehrmacht greatcoats, faces dirty and eyes hollow, hovered at crossroads like the spirits of hanged men. I felt like a tourist gawping at the ruins of an ancient civilisation. Berlin was in worse shape than London, but there was a horrible symmetry of suffering. Maybe this was the war to end wars. Then I thought of the Red Army spread like a rash across East Europe. But surely the Soviets had had enough of war? Hadn’t they lost enough men?

  We dodged and dipped our way round and through potholes caused by our bombs and filled with shattered house bricks. We pulled up outside a three-storey stone building: 233 Kurfurstenstrasse. It looked like an office, insurance or the like. There were no guards or barbed wire to put the spotlight on its new occupants. Vic straightened his tie and pulled down his tunic. He dug out his beret, dusted it down and jammed it on his head.

  “After you, sir.” His eyes met mine. Time to put on our ranks.

  We pushed through the main door and climbed two flights of stairs. Through open doors we could see secretaries and office staff. But it would be wrong to describe the scene as bustling. In fact there was a distinct air of lethargy. A secretary filing her nails here, two others nattering there, and one bloke chatting up another girl. I realised I was hearing German spoken, and understanding most of it. Something stopped me from mentioning my shaky skills. We came to a closed door. Stencilled on the glass were the words OIC MIB. Vic knocked. A voice said, “Come!” and he pushed open the door. Vic stood to one side.

  “Captain McRae, sir!”

  “Thanks, Corporal,” I said, and walked in trying to keep my right arm down by my side.

  “Come in! Come in, McRae. I’m Toby Anstruther.”

  He was bald and bouncy, and his uniform belt hung loose to give his well-fed midriff some lebensraum. I guessed his age at late forties. The pips of a half-colonel sat proud on the uniform of the Lancashire Fusiliers. Probably saw active service in the Great War and was seconded by his regiment to Intelligence for this one. I thought I saw a Military Medal ribbon among a decent collection. I was beginning to feel underdressed.

  We shook hands and he pulled up a couple of easy chairs over a coffee table. I’d barely sat down when the door swung open and a very pretty girl came in bearing a tea tray. Toby caught my eye as it travelled admiringly over her tight pencil skirt.

  Her dark blue eyes smiled at me. “Do you have everything, sir? Can I get you something to eat? A sandwich?” She pushed back her pitch-dark hair and I only just bit my tongue from making a smart-arse reply. I smiled at her. Who wouldn’t?

  “Thank you. I have everything.”

  When she had sashayed out the door, Toby grinned at me. “A perk of the job. All the girls here are bilingual of course. Some of the units have German lassies but it’s a tad early for that in Mil Int, don’t you agree?” He poured the tea and continued.

  “You’re one of Gerry Cassells’ old team, then? Did good work. Hardest job of them all. Behind the lines, no one to talk to, and if caught…” He mimicked a noose tightening.

  “Something like that. I have to say, I felt a lot safer being shelled by Rommel than interrogated by the Gestapo.”

  “Quite.” Anstruther looked me up and down. Behind his piggy little eyes was a shrewdness; not your born leader but nothing much would get past him. “So, you’re out here looking for a girl, I’m told. A German agent. Copeland or Kaplan, take your pick. Funny, I used to read her column. Hardly seems likely.”

  “No, it doesn’t. That’s why I’m here. It doesn’t add up.”

  There was the same long look from him, as though he was drilling into my head. “Cassells seemed quite clear.” He reached out to his tray and pulled the slim folder off the pile. He opened it and scanned the papers. He knew every line. And could read between them.

  “Says they caught her in flagrante? Transmitter under bed, code book, the lot. Seems fairly conclusive…”

  “Two men looking at a piece of metal sticking out of the ground. One sees the fin of a bomb, the other an old cooker.”

  “But a transmitter, Danny?”

  “Ham wireless operator?”

  He put on a wry smile. “Whoever she is, you both want the girl. I’m here to help.”

  “I appreciate that, Toby. But where to start? This isn’t my patch.”

  “It would help to know why she was here.”

  “If we knew that…”

  “Quite. But let’s assume she is a German spy. She could be trying to make contact with her old team. The man or woman who was running her. Agreed?”

  I nodded. He went on. “If that’s the case, what I can say is she’s probably not in our sector. We keep a pretty close eye on who’s seeing who round here. So do the Yanks. The French? Well… the French do their own thing, but we’re on pretty good terms with them.” He tapped the file. “When I got wind of this I put some calls out. We asked them to keep an eye out for ripples. Anyone asking questions.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing so far. But that was only a couple of days ago. My hunch is that she’d go where the climate is a little warmer for ex-Nazis. The Russians got here two months before us and had the run of the place. After raping every woman over ten and under ninety they installed their own tame Krauts in charge of each district, running them along the same lines as the old SS. We’re beginning to push things back in our own sectors but the Germans seem more comfortable under… how shall we put it?… strong leaders. The Russians are happier to make use of the former Nazi top men than we are. If I were her, looking for my old playmates, that’s where I’d look first.”

  “Can I travel into the Russian sector?”

  “Ye-e-s. They have plenty of patrols, but that’s mainly to keep their own soldiers out of trouble. It’s not as if there’s a fence or anything. Yet.”

  “Do I need a pass?”

  “We’ll fix that. But for god’s sake be careful. The place is a thieves’ kitchen. Roaming in gangs. The
y’d murder their grandmother for a packet of fags. All nationalities. Poles, Czechs, Russians… the flotsam of war, Danny.”

  “Can I get a map? Can you show me where to start?”

  “I can do better than that. I’ll lend you Corporal Vic for a few days. He speaks the lingo and knows his way around, particularly the shadier spots, I’m afraid. Don’t let him corrupt you.”

  FIFTEEN

  Vic was smirking as we left Toby’s den. The mission obviously agreed with him. We hopped into his jeep and he whizzed me round to the Tiergarten Mess, a block of flats requisitioned by the British Army, and left me to sort myself out. Luxury. I had two small rooms to myself. The sitting room had a wireless and a couple of sagging chairs, with a little fold-up table by the dirty window. The walls were in a heavy patterned wallpaper with vivid rectangles where the previous occupants had hung their framed photos of Kaiser Bill or Goebbels.

  A tiny scullery ran off it, with a sink, a gas cooker and a wall cupboard. With a fine sense of British priorities the cupboard held a little caddy of tea and some sugar, along with a kettle, two cups and saucers and a couple of plates. In the bedroom I found a single bed and a wardrobe. The floor had worn but clean carpets over the lino. I took my shoes off, lay down on the bed and lit up. All hunky-dory.

  Vic called again at six pm in civvies, hair glistening, and looking like he was born to wear silk ties and white socks. He was chewing a large wad of gum. I felt like a bank manager alongside him.

  “Got cash?” he asked.

  “I’ve got these.” I showed him a handful of dollars, surprising gifts from Cassells. You’re sort of on the payroll, Daniel. “And these.” I pulled out a packet of cigarettes and patted my pockets to show the rest of my supply.

  “What about one of these?” He slid his hand round the back of his trousers and pulled out a gun. It was a 9mm Belgian Browning High Power automatic. Used 9mm bullets. Thirteen to the cartridge and one up the spout. A nice weapon and a good crowd stopper.

  “Do we need them?”

  “Where do you think you are? Finchley? We’re averaging two hundred robberies and five murders a day. And that’s just the official numbers.”

  I walked over to the wardrobe where I’d hung my coat and few belongings. I lifted my socks and pants and retrieved the heavy Luger I’d purloined from my altercation with Gambatti’s boys. God knows how the Navy version had turned up in the East End. The extra length gave it greater accuracy over Vic’s Browning, but it needed to be kept spotless and oiled if it wasn’t to foul up.

  “This do?”

  Vic whistled. I made sure the safety was on and tucked it into my waistband in the small of my back. I hoped there were no real cowboys out there. By the time I withdrew the long barrel from my trousers, flipped the safety and aimed the thing, I could have been outdrawn by a girl guide.

  “Any idea where to look, Danny?”

  I thought about the tangled words in Eve’s notebook. I’d found some references to Berlin but nothing that made sense. Not without some context.

  “What’s the layout? I mean how’s this place set up?”

  “Simple. Draw a line north to south, splitting the city in two. The Ruskies have everything east of the line. We share the west with the Yanks and the Froggies. We’re in the middle, the French above us and the Americans in the south.”

  “Where would you go if you wanted to lie low?”

  Vic laughed. “This whole sodding place is an escape hole.”

  “Toby said old Nazis hang out in the Russian sector. Make sense?”

  “Maybe. Let’s take a look.”

  I saw the expression on his face. He knew this was hopeless. But I had to try. We left the flat, pockets bulging with fags, cash and guns, and headed for the wild side of town. Vic left his British-marked jeep in the safety of the courtyard behind the HQ. We strolled along the edge of Tiergarten. It had probably once been a great green landscape like Hyde Park, full of trees and pleasant walks. Now the trees had been scalped by shrapnel, and the open grassy areas were gouged and pitted by bombs. Expired tanks and smashed small aircraft littered the park. It would take a very long time to turn it into a lovers’ haunt again.

  My stomach flipped; ahead of us loomed the very symbol of the Third Reich: the great outline of the Brandenburg Gate, looking remarkably unscathed. Vic nudged me and pointed to our left, at a series of new arches standing apart from the rubble.

  “What’s that?” I asked, staring.

  “It’s the Russian Monument to their dead. Opened last week. Bags of big hats and red flags.”

  “Didn’t take them long. Why here? Why in our sector?”

  “They didn’t expect to give up any of Berlin.”

  We walked on towards the Gate. Now I could see the damage: great lumps chewed out of the stonework and one side demolished. But it still dominated the central crossroads, and framed the Unter den Linden beyond. We walked through the central arch and found ourselves gaping at a massive picture of Joe Stalin guarded by some bored Russians sweating in greatcoats. They glanced at our cards and we walked on down the avenue. They would have to change the street name or find themselves some new Linden; all that remained was stumps amid the rubble. Vic pointed us down some side streets and we began to sink into old Berlin. The smell of bad drains increased.

  We started in the few bars that were open. I had a couple of Eve’s newspaper photos pasted on to card and wherever we went, I discreetly showed it to the barman and some of his regulars. Sometimes I bought their interest with a cigarette. We had to be careful; there were usually some Russian NCOs or officers having a drink. No squaddies – they were kept leashed in their barracks. There were also quiet men sitting alone, supping coffee and watching the room over the top of a paper.

  We entered one bar down a set of steps and through a leather curtain. We left the daylight outside. Inside was all gloom and dank with only dim light from some paper lanterns illuminating the dark corners. It reeked of stale beer and fags, and a faint residue of vomit. The clientele fitted in well; shabby and grey, with lifeless eyes that tracked us to the bar. My neck hairs rose.

  Vic ordered me a beer. It tasted of stale water. We surveyed the room and its handful of drinkers. They looked sorry that Hitler hadn’t conquered the world. Maybe next time.

  The murmured conversations were restarting at the tables around us. I was just about to walk Vic out of this rat hole when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I whirled. He was thin and intense, wearing a coat and hat despite the warm evening. “Papers, please,” he asked in German.

  The bar had quietened. The barman moved into the shadows.

  “Who might you be?” I answered in English, knowing full well who he was.

  His face tightened, but he stuck to German. “English? Show me your papers.”

  “I say again, pal. What do you want?”

  I felt Vic squeeze my arm. “Don’t, Danny. Just show him our papers.”

  The man slid his hand into his coat, and I waited for the gun. I could feel the weight of the Luger against my spine but not even Roy Rogers could draw in time. He pulled out a folded card. He opened it and I could see Cyrillic script and his ugly mug. It looked important. I assumed he was NKVD, the Russian security boys.

  Vic interrupted. “Of course, sir. Danny, show him your papers.” Vic handed his over and I followed suit.

  “What are you doing here?” He wanted a fight and I was tempted. Jumped-up little bureaucrats have that effect on me. Vic must have seen my look. He interceded again in German.

  “We’re just having a quiet drink, sir. No trouble. This is my friend’s first time in Berlin. I’m showing him how well the reconstruction is going, especially in the eastern sector.” He smiled. The little prick didn’t return the smile.

  “Perhaps it is better to continue drinking in your own sector.” It wasn’t a question. We finished our beers and left. But we didn’t head back, not immediately. We went from bar to bar, café to club down the darkening streets. None
of them lived down to my expectations of Berlin as the fun capital of Europe. There were one or two lamps working but not enough to join up the pools of light. I became conscious that the number of Russian two-man patrols was increasing. Sometimes they stopped us and asked for papers. Vic’s papers and his fractured German seemed to satisfy them. They reminded us of curfew at ten pm and left us with a shrug.

  I tried to picture Eve in one of these dives but couldn’t. I no longer felt I knew her, far less where I might find her. Some of the bars were little more than knocking shops that Mama Mary would have been embarrassed to be seen in. The atmosphere was a cloying mix of stale booze, fags and gallons of cheap perfume to drown out the smell of unwashed females. It wasn’t through choice I’m sure; shampoo and bath salts were as hard to find as a virgin over twelve anywhere in the Russian-occupied zone.

  By nine-thirty my feet were killing me, and I’d drunk too much watered-down beer. Vic was ready for more but I needed some shuteye. I planned to strike out on my own tomorrow during daylight to see what I could see. The underground had stopped running for the night. Rather than face another walk past a line of good-time girls all hoping to pass as Marlene Dietrich in the moonlight, we found a taxi. I crawled to my room, slumped into bed and was out like a candle.

  I woke with a bad head and a weak stomach. I dealt with both over a massive fry-up in the mess. We seemed to be looking after our boys out here. The locals might be starving in the street, but in here we could eat all the bacon and eggs we could manage. I noticed some of the blokes filling their pockets with hunks of bread and pats of butter, even wrapping the odd sausage in newspaper. I asked one of the other diners what was going on: saving something for a mid-morning snack? He laughed. They were feeding their girlfriends on the sly. Food and fags, and a roof over your head could buy the plainest British squaddie the most bewitching product of Hitler’s selective breeding programme.

  I’d been thinking about how to find her. It didn’t seem likely that she frequented the dumps we visited last night, unless she hoped to find who she was looking for there. Maybe if I could imagine her target I could get on her wave length? Let’s assume she was a spy and let’s assume she’s looking for her spymaster, where would a senior spy locate after the spying stopped? There were several possible answers.