The Pathfinder (37 page)

He recognized the unsavoury type who opened the door and immediately tried to shut it again. Harrison stuck his foot in the closing gap. He said pleasantly in English, ‘I'm looking for Nico Kocharian? Is he here?'

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.'

‘I'll see for myself, then, shall I?' He shoved the man aside and made his way into the cellar, through the thick fug of cigarette smoke and beer, past the crowded tables, the flickering candles, the heads turning to stare. The Armenian was sitting alone at a table at the far side, under one of the archways. He glanced up from his drink.

‘Michael, my dear chap! Good gracious, I didn't think you liked this place.'

‘I don't. I thought I might find you here.'

‘And here I am.
Me voici
! as the French say. What will you have to drink? It's on me.'

He dragged a chair away from the next-door table without asking and sat down. The three-piece band was pumping out some jolly German tune by the rickety stage. ‘Schnapps, and I'm paying, thank you.' He signalled a waiter and gave him the order. People were staring. He ignored them all.

‘Cigarette?' Nico said. ‘No, of course, you prefer Player's. Well, at least I can light it for you. I'm still rather curious, Michael, I must admit. What did you want to find me for?'

He drew hard on the cigarette before he answered. ‘Lili and I were to be married tomorrow. I went to the apartment in Albrecht Strasse to collect her and found some old man waiting for me instead, a Dr Meier.'

‘Oh yes, I know him. A pathetic old soul who lives just down the street. Lili takes him soup from time to time, so Dirk told me. She's very kind-hearted.'

‘He gave me a message from Lili.'

‘Did he?'

‘She's called off the wedding. Changed her mind, apparently.'

‘Oh dear. I thought you were looking rather upset, old chap.'

The waiter brought the schnapps and set it in front of him. He paid for it on the spot and drank half in one go. ‘What I want to know is, did you have anything to do with it?'

‘With Lili changing her mind?
Me?
Absolutely not. She would never ask my opinion or confide in me. She doesn't like me, you see.'

‘She went to you for help when Dirk was arrested.'

‘She was obliged to. There was nobody else. You were far away in England, Michael – not that you could have done anything, actually. Even
I
had a sticky time getting him out of that camp.'

‘I'm interested. How
did
you manage that, exactly?'

‘You have to know how to deal with the Russians, you see. Speak their language in more ways than one. Fortunately I do – as you'll remember from that time when you got into a spot of bother with them yourself.'

He waited a moment, smoking his cigarette. ‘Why is Lili so afraid of marrying me?'

‘Afraid?'

‘Is it because of something in her past? Something she doesn't want me to find out?'

‘Every Berliner has things in their past that they would prefer to forget. Every single one of them.'

‘I don't give a bugger about her past. I was going to give her a future.'

Nico spread his hands. ‘Of course you were. You were going to rescue her from the ruins. Ruins you had unfortunately helped to create. Very romantic. Very chivalrous. Only it wasn't quite that simple, as it turned out, was it? Things very seldom are in this city. I blame myself for taking you to the Leichts' apartment in the first place, only you needed a watch. But I should have warned you.'

‘Warned me?' he said sharply. ‘What about?'

‘About Berlin.'

The orchestra had finished its folksy German tune and began a long roll of drums. A spotlight flicked on, trained on to the makeshift stage. People began clapping. ‘You're in luck, old chap,' Nico said, smiling at him and clapping too. ‘Helene's about to start her act.'

The transvestite, dressed in Dietrich garb, materialized from the shadows into the spotlight's glare and stood before the microphone. The husky voice began.

He had forgotten how good she was. Almost as good as the real thing. After a while she left the stage to move among the tables, smiling, touching, teasing . . . He knew long before she came to their table that she had already spotted his uniform from the stage and singled him out. He went on smoking and waiting while she came closer and closer, table by table, reached them and stopped in front.

She draped herself across his lap, lying back to look up into his face, the long legs in black fishnet stockings provocatively displayed.
What am I to do, I can't help it
 . . . He could smell strong perfume, mixed with sweat and greasepaint; see the grotesque mask of make-up, the malicious eyes, the glistening, parted lips; hear the salacious laughter from the other tables. Her hand caressed his cheek, and the long, red nails dug into his skin; he felt her draw blood. She leaned closer until her mouth nibbled at his ear. She whispered something disgustingly obscene in English.

He thrust her off his lap, so hard that she fell backwards onto the floor. As he elbowed a way out through the tables there were angry cries, fists shaken; a hand grabbed hold of his arm and he shook it off savagely.

Outside, the street was dark and silent. He stood for a moment, breathing in clean, cold, sobering air, before he walked on towards the Gate.

‘I'm afraid I have to disturb you again, Fräulein Leicht.' She stood aside to let the Russian, Silogov, go past her into the living room, and he sat down in Grandfather's armchair and struck a match to light a cigarette. He gestured to her politely. ‘Sit down, Fräulein. We may as well be comfortable.' She did so, at a distance, at the table. ‘I understand that you and Squadron Leader Harrison are not to be married, after all. No wedding bells. No comfortable home in England. You changed your mind.'

‘How do you know?'

‘We have informants everywhere. They tell us the things we wish to know.' He replaced the spent match in its box and poked the lid shut. ‘Why did you change your mind?'

‘I decided that I would not be happy in England.'

‘I see. And the squadron leader accepted your decision?'

‘Yes. You can tell him anything you like about me. It won't matter any more.'

‘And the gown? What about the beautiful gown?'

‘He wanted me to keep it.'

‘And the English tea set?'

‘That, too.'

‘The spoils of war.' He smoked his cigarette, considering her. ‘Did you keep the ring as well?'

‘No, he took it back.'

‘He was upset, no doubt?'

She said dully, ‘I imagine so.'

‘I'm sure he was. Extremely. You hurt his heart as well as his pride.' She said nothing. ‘So, what will you do now, Fräulein?'

‘Go on, the way I was before.'

‘Living here, all alone.'

‘There's nowhere else.'

‘Toiling away as a
trummerfrau
?'

‘There's no other work.'

‘Not much of a future.'

She was silent while he continued to stare at her for a moment.

He said, ‘We know that you speak excellent English. Also very good French. That you are intelligent and well educated and very presentable. We know everything about you. Your talents are quite wasted at the moment and I have been considering the problem. I feel responsible, you see.'

She remained silent. They knew everything about her. Nico had told them things, certainly. Perhaps even Dr Meier?
We have informants everywhere
. She could never trust anybody again.

He went on smoothly, ‘A number of the old Berlin industrial companies in the British and American sectors are beginning to start up again – to find their feet and expand. They will be needing more staff – clerks, secretaries, translators. It would be quite a simple matter to find you a post with one of them. Can you type? Do shorthand?'

She shook her head.

‘But you can learn. It can be arranged. An intensive course. It could also be arranged for you to move from here into something much pleasanter. An apartment in one of the fine new buildings that are going up in this sector. Central heating, a kitchen, a bathroom with running water – hot and cold. All the modern amenities. New furniture. And extra rations.'

‘My grandfather and brother will be coming back when the winter is over.'

‘The apartment will have room for them too.'

She hesitated. ‘And extra rations for them?'

‘Of course.'

‘And in return?'

‘A little information from time to time. To keep us up to date with things on that side of Berlin. That's all. We like to know what's happening in any industry over there.'

‘And if I choose not to do this?'

He shrugged. ‘It's not a disaster. We can always find alternative employment for you, Frälulein. You could be directed by the state into some kind of rather less agreeable work – compulsory employment, you understand. Mining, for instance. In Russia women are regularly used for heavy labour.' He paused and flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor. ‘And then, of course, there are the camps.'

She felt so tired. Too tired to go on with the struggle. She had run out of strength and out of courage. She no longer cared what happened to herself – whether she lived or died – but there was still Grandfather and Rudi.
Take Rudi. Look after him, whatever happens.
The sacred trust.

Seventeen

The Russians lifted the blockade at one o'clock in the morning of the twelfth of May. Railways and highways to Berlin across the Soviet zone of Germany reopened and the first trucks and trains, draped with banners and garlands, began the hundred-mile journey to and from the city. At a meeting of the City Assembly in the Rathaus, people stood in tribute as the names of the fifty-four men – American, British and German – who had died in the airlift were read out, and huge crowds began to gather in the square and the neighbouring streets outside to celebrate.

A deputation of Berliners arrived at RAF Gatow to make speeches of thanks, give presents and flowers, sing songs and embrace every blushing airlift pilot or crew member they could find, and many others as well. Tubby, who had been hugged and kissed by several
Berlinerinnen
, appeared in the Mess dishevelled and greatly touched. ‘Considering we reduced them to dust not so very long ago, it's jolly moving to see how grateful they are now, don't you think?'

Harrison said, ‘They can thank themselves – for not giving up.'

‘
Their
finest hour,' Tubby agreed. ‘And the dawn of a brave new era. No more being beastly to the Germans. We stand shoulder to shoulder from this day forward. And have you heard the best news of all, dear boy? No more bloody Pom.
Fresh
potatoes from now on. Hallelujah!'

He said slowly, ‘The only trouble is, Berlin's still an island set in a Soviet sea. That hasn't changed and we can't change it. Their troubles aren't over yet, Tubby – not by a long chalk. I have a feeling the Russians aren't going to stop playing silly buggers.'

He was proved right. The petty interference in road and rail and barge travel continued and so, in consequence, did the airlift – though without quite the same grim intensity. There had been an amazing victory. A triumph against all the odds. And the winter was over, the weather warm. Some street markets appeared, selling fresh vegetables and fruit unseen for months or years – lemons and oranges, cucumbers – and fresh fish.

People sat in the sunshine outside cafés and some of the coffee they drank was real, not ersatz.

He had been out to the apartment in Albrecht Strasse in the hope of finding Lili there and talking to her. He had rung the bell again and again and hammered with both fists on the doors until, at last, he heard the sound of somebody the other side. For a moment, he had expected that it would be Lili who opened it to him. Instead, it had been an old woman. A hag out of Grimm, dressed in black with a knitted scarf tied round her head. She had spoken no English and he had floundered with his few words of German.

‘Is Fräulein Leicht at home? May I speak with her?
Ich möchte si gerne sprechen, bitte
.'

‘
Nein, nein
.' She had shaken her head emphatically at him. ‘
Sie ist ausgezogen. Ich wohne jetzt hier
.'

Ausgezogen
meant gone away. And he had understood, I live here now. When he had started to ask where Lili had gone, she had slammed the door shut in his face. He had rung the bell several more times and hammered on the door some more, but the old woman had refused to open it again.

He had gone from there to Nico Kocharian's office, where the door was open and he had walked straight in. He had found the inner room empty. No desk, no chair, no telephone and bare bookshelves. No clue of any kind as to what had happened or where the Armenian had gone. The only evidence of his occupation the lingering smell of Turkish cigarettes, hair oil and exotic cologne. He thought of his father's comment:
I rather gathered they thought pretty highly of him all round.
The Intelligence chaps generally knew their stuff. The whole truth about Kocharian, he realized, would probably never be known.

In early June he learned that he was to be posted back to England. Tubby, occupying his usual chair in the Officers' Mess bar, sighed when he heard the news. ‘I'll miss you, dear boy. When are you off?'