A Traitor's Loyalty: A Novel (13 page)

Still no answer. Quinn drew his pistol with his right hand and inserted and turned the room key with his left. The old lock clicked loudly. He pushed the door open less than a centimeter, just enough to free it from the doorframe but not nearly enough to allow any light to appear through a crack. Then he released his hand from the key and gently nudged the door with his left foot. It swung open away from him.

The room beyond appeared deserted. He could see a chest of drawers with a mirror above it, a wooden chair, a window with the blinds up and the rain spattering against it outside, and the foot of the bed. The wallpaper and the bedspread were faded; the carpet looked old.

He took one cautious step inside, then another. Unfortunately the mirror was at too acute an angle to offer him a view of the room.

He froze instantly when he felt the metal muzzle of the gun against the back of his neck at the base of his skull.

“Don’t move.” The command was entirely unnecessary. The voice was masculine; its German was marked by a slight northern accent, Hanoverian or Holsteiner.

The man’s left hand reached from behind him and plucked Quinn’s pistol from his grasp.

“Hands up.”

Quinn obeyed. He heard the door being closed quietly behind him, then felt himself getting patted down. His captor found his ID and his passport and fished them from his pockets. The gun muzzle was removed from the back of his neck, and he felt the other man moving round. The man stepped into Quinn’s field of vision, his gun still kept carefully trained on him, and Quinn saw the face from Garner’s photograph: dark hair, receding hairline, cheeks starting to get jowly with age, thick-rimmed glasses.

Garner held Quinn’s passport, ID and pistol all in his left hand.

He deposited the pistol on the dresser so he could examine the ID. His eyes flicked from the ID to Quinn’s face and back again, comparing Quinn with the photograph. When he was satisfied he tossed the ID aside and flipped through the passport.

Discarding the passport as well, Garner settled himself in the chair. All the while his pistol remained pointedly trained on Quinn. For a while the two men regarded each other silently.

At last Garner broke the silence. “I’m surprised,” he said, “that the SS bothered to send someone in plainclothes after me. Not really your lot’s typical style, eh, Herr Obersturmbannführer? Though I must add, I’m rather flattered that I merited Amt III over simply the Gestapo.”

“Actually, Mr. Garner,” Quinn said in English, “I’m not here from the SS at all.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Garner’s face, but the gun did not waver. “You’re with the Service?”

Quinn nodded.

“Then you’re here to kill me.” It was not a question.

“Those are indeed my orders, Mr. Garner.”

“You’re not out of the Berlin Station,” Garner said. “I’d know you. Are you local? With the Munich consulate, maybe?”

“No. I’m not local.”

“What’s your call sign?”

“I was called Lancelot.”

Garner frowned, then his eyes widened. “My God,” he said. “I thought you were dead. That’s what we assumed, anyway. Lancelot. Christ.
The
Lancelot?”

“I should think so. I’d hope that I wasn’t so unmemorable that they assigned my codename to another operative.”

“Lancelot,” Garner murmured to himself. “They’ve pulled the big guns out for me.” He frowned and peered at Quinn. “What happened to you? Where have you been?”

“How much of my operational history do you know?”

“You were deep cover and run direct through London. The Berlin Station is the best-run MI6 post in the world, and for five years you put us to shame. Every solid piece of intelligence that came through our hands from London was listed as being sourced through Lancelot. Then there was the big one—the last operation. That was, oh, I don’t know—”

“Four years ago,” Quinn supplied.

Garner nodded in acknowledgment. “‘Be ready to accept native operative for asylum,’ we were told. ‘Target may or may not be in immediate jeopardy of apprehension by SS. Target may or may not be carrying vital information. Target’s contact is Lancelot.’”

He paused, remembering. The memories were boiling in Quinn’s head as well.

Garner went on, “I don’t know what went wrong, how Jerry figured it out. But it went bad. Your target was killed. We were given to understand that the ‘vital information’ was gotten out by someone, and that it was what kept us in Greece through the first Croat assault. But we were never notified what happened to Lancelot. We just never heard of him again from that point on.” He leaned forward. “So what
did
happen to you?”

“Can I put my hands down?” Garner waved his assent with his pistol, and Quinn slowly and deliberately lowered his hands. He took a slight step to the side, repositioning his feet. He moved cautiously, but Garner did not react, just kept his eyes on him. Quinn realized he could now see himself in the hotel room mirror: dark hair, dark eyes, hawk-like nose. He stared into his own eyes for a moment, then he went on, “It was that last operation. Everything went sour. Left a bad taste. I was sick of it. I wanted out.”

Garner pondered this. “The man who was killed,” he said. “He was your friend?”

Quinn hesitated, then nodded.

“Mm,” Garner murmured, nodding to himself and looking away. “Always bad, getting close with your operatives.” He looked up, meeting Quinn’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The ensuing silence felt uncomfortable and Quinn spoke to break it. “I’m given to understand that you were part of that operation.”

Garner nodded reluctantly. “I was.”

“How so?”

He considered. “I’m not terribly proud to admit this, considering that I’m probably about to have to kill you.” He took a deep breath. “I gave the order to fire.”

Quinn frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I was the spotter on the embassy rooftop. I gave the order to shoot when your man’s apprehension became imminent.”

“Karl? Karl Mundt?”

Garner clearly felt discomfited at having to prolong the discussion on the topic. “If that was his name. Look, I’m sorry.”

Quinn didn’t say anything for several moments, merely stared off into space, a deep frown creasing his brow. “Mundt wasn’t shot by ours,” he said at last. “He was shot by the Gestapo. He made a run for the British embassy gate, and he was shot by the Gestapo.”

Garner’s eyes widened, and he lowered his gun. “Is that what they told you?”

Quinn looked at him and nodded. “When I was being debriefed at the Lisbon consulate. Why? What really happened?”

Garner hesitated. “The Gestapo shot him,” he said, “but they hit him in the leg. He was wounded and couldn’t make it to the embassy gate. I gave the order to shoot, or the Gestapo would have got him alive.”

Quinn felt the floor shift beneath his feet. Truth and deception. The bastards had lied to him. No, they hadn’t lied. His debriefer’s words came back to him now, giving him the news.
“Shot by the Gestapo and killed while attempting to reach the British embassy.”
The Gestapo
had shot
Karl. But they hadn’t told him the rest. Truth and deception mixed, till the two were indistinguishable.

“My God,” Garner said, “you had no idea. Terribly sorry. Wouldn’t have wanted to be the one to tell you.”

They lapsed into another uncomfortable silence as Quinn tried to assimilate what he had just been told. This time it was Garner that broke it. “It seems to me, however, that we still have quite a problem.” He held up his pistol to illustrate his point. “You see, one of us still has to kill the other.”

“And I have to recover the file,” Quinn said. “The information you removed with you from the embassy.”

“Ah,” Garner said. “Yes, forgetful of me. You know what it contains, I suppose?”

“Actually I don’t,” Quinn admitted. “I was rather hoping it would have something about Columbia-Haus.”

Garner’s eyes narrowed. “They didn’t brief you on Columbia-Haus?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know of it?”

“I’ve come across it while searching for you. You attended those meetings at Prinz Albrechtstrasse.” He hesitated; this was not how the encounter was supposed to go. He continued. “What were they about?”

Garner seemed to mull something over for several minutes. Quinn dared not interrupt him for fear of upsetting whatever conclusion he was, evidently reluctantly, bringing himself to. At last, Garner rose. Quinn tensed, but the other man merely placed his gun on the dresser, opened one of the drawers and pulled out a large manila envelope. He turned to Quinn.

“I think we’re on the same side,” he said. “I don’t think I have anything to fear from you. In fact,” he continued, holding out the envelope, “I rather get the feeling that this would probably be safer in your possession than in mine. You
are
Lancelot, after all.”

Quinn hesitated, then accepted the envelope. “This is the file you took from the embassy?”

“It’s all there,” Garner confirmed. “What you hold in your hand
is
Columbia-Haus.”

Quinn stared at the envelope. Garner picked up Quinn’s ID and passport, then handed both documents back to him. When Quinn had slipped them into his pocket, he also handed back his Luger, which Quinn replaced in its holster.

“I don’t know what the next step is,” Garner said. “If I did, you wouldn’t have found me still sitting around in a second-rate hostel in Munich. But whatever that step is, you have a decision to make before we take it. I should remember, though, that we don’t have terribly much time. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Quinn nodded, not quite sure what had just happened. He slid the envelope under one arm, turned round
and opened the door. He stepped back out into the hallway. His hand was on the doorknob, ready to pull the door shut, when Garner spoke again.

“It must have been the old man who brought you back for this. There’s no one else it could have been.”

Quinn looked back at the other man over his shoulder and nodded. “Talleyrand. Yes.”

“I wonder. Why you? I mean, if he wasn’t going to even brief you on Columbia-Haus. That man has a reason for every choice he makes.”

Quinn pondered, then shook his head. “I don’t know. But you’re right. He does.”

He pulled the door shut behind him.

IT WAS still raining, a little more heavily than before, as Quinn emerged from the Hotel Udet into the car park. He paused in the rain, turned, looked up and counted the windows over to Garner’s room. Garner was sitting at his window, staring down at him.

After a long moment Quinn turned away and headed towards the car. Ellie leaned over and unlocked the passenger door at his approach.

“What happened?” she asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

He slammed the door shut. “I’m not sure,” he said. He held the envelope in his hands and stared at it.

Ellie glanced down at the envelope and frowned. “Did you find Garner?” He nodded. “And? Where is he?” Her eyes widened. “Is he dead?”

He looked up at her. “No. Nothing like that. He’s fine. He’s still in his room.” He ran his thumb contemplatively along the envelope’s seal.

“You just left him?” He nodded again. “Is he defecting?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

She gestured to the envelope. “
What
is in there?”

“I think . . . I think answers. But I’m not sure I want to know them.” This was not why he was here. He was here to do a job. Neutralize Garner, destroy the file. He did not want to know what was in the envelope, because he knew it would change everything. Whatever was in this envelope had made Garner turn, and Garner believed it would make Quinn turn too. The look on Garner’s face had unsettled him. If he opened the envelope, everything would change, and he would not be able to change it back.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind, and stuffed the envelope into his coat’s inside pocket. “We should get going.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know. But we should get going.”

She frowned at him, but nevertheless put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking space and into the street.

Quinn checked his watch. Five to six. “Are you hungry? We should probably get something to eat.”

She shrugged. “I’m all right. But we can eat.”

They stopped at a tavern a few blocks from the Hotel Udet. They ate in silence. Quinn brooded. Ellie was confused as to what was going on, and that made her angry and a little sullen. For the first time Quinn regretted that she had become involved. He deliberately ordered himself a large meal so that he could delay dinner as long as possible. The longer he spent here, the longer it would be before he had to decide what do next. They both drank several tankards of beer during the meal.

“Did you leave the documents in the car?” Ellie asked.

Quinn shook his head and patted his coat, feeling the outline of the envelope underneath. “I have them here.”

“And you haven’t read them?”

His throat went dry at the thought. “Not right now,” he said. “In so public a place.” It was a perfectly valid objection—it just wasn’t the real reason he hadn’t opened the envelope.

At the next table a pair of tourists, a middle aged American couple, were arguing; their voices grew steadily louder as the argument progressed. “Well it’s not
my
fault,” the man declared. “What do you want
me
to do about the weather?”

“Oh, it’s not just the weather,” the woman said. “The whole damn country’s shut down because of their dead goddamn Führer. Only thing left to do is take pictures of the sights. And even
those
are packed now with Germans. Goddamn Jew-killing Germans.”

“Would you keep your voice down?” the man demanded. “A lotta these Fritzes can understand English, you know.”

“What do I care if they understand me? They know they killed the Jews. They’re goddamn proud of it, for God’s sake! I can’t believe you dragged me round that
disgusting
museum in Berlin.”

“What are they arguing about?” Ellie whispered.

Quinn turned back to her reluctantly; the woman’s mention of the Purification museum had reminded him of his own visit there yesterday. “The weather,” he said after a moment.