The Samurai Inheritance (9 page)

‘So if we can discover which delegations visited Berlin between November nineteen thirty-six and January ’thirty-seven, it would give us a potential target for the next step forward.’

‘That was my understanding.’

‘But how do we go about that?’

The smile she gave him could only be called enigmatic. ‘I believe I have an idea.’

X

When he’d paid the bill, Jamie offered to call Max, but Magda insisted she needed some fresh air. ‘Why don’t we walk to the U-Bahn instead?’ she suggested. ‘That lovely wine has gone to my head.’

As they made their way south down the endless shoplined canyon of Friedrichstrasse, she unselfconsciously slipped her arm through his. The unexpected physical contact gave Jamie a moment of guilty panic, but he quickly relaxed to enjoy the sensation of being with a beautiful woman who made men’s heads turn even in a city filled with beautiful women. It occurred to him that for a self-confessed wanderer she seemed utterly at home and he could sense her smiling as they walked.

When they reached the underground station Magda stepped forward to buy the tickets and led the way unerringly down to the platform. It wasn’t until they were sitting together on the half-empty train that she gave a hint of their destination.

‘In nineteen thirty-six Goebbels would have hailed every visit by a foreign delegation as an affirmation of Nazi culture.’ She raised her voice to be heard above the clatter as the swaying carriage picked up speed and thundered through the tunnel. ‘By that point every news outlet in the city was under his control or, at the very least, his malign influence, so it’s probable there would have been some sort of newspaper coverage of the events. Does that sound plausible to you?’

‘It seems likely enough,’ Jamie conceded. ‘I get the feeling Goebbels would have insisted on a full page with pictures on everything from Franco inviting Hitler over for a beach party to a visit of the Buenos Aires ladies free-style crochet champions. But doesn’t that make it more difficult for us? If they trumpeted the arrival of every overseas visitor it could run into dozens, even hundreds, and that’s if we could find any records.’

Magda’s reply was lost as they rattled into a station and the train slewed to a halt. Jamie saw her frown and it was only then he noticed the platform was filled with hundreds of young men wearing various combinations of blue, black and white. When the doors opened they were deafened by a wall of chanting as a group of twenty or thirty forced their way into the carriage.

Magda leaned across so her lips were against his ear. ‘Perhaps the U-Bahn wasn’t such a great idea after all.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and they sat back, trying to ignore the jostling mass that thankfully took station at the far end of the carriage to the sound of beer bottles being opened.

‘
Schwarz-weiss-blau. Haa-ess-fau. Schwarz-weiss-blau. Haa-ess-fau
.’

‘Hamburg fans,’ Magda shouted above the racket. ‘There must be a Bundesliga game tonight.’

Jamie nodded and glanced towards the chanting supporters. The instant his eyes locked on the teenager with close-cropped hair he knew he’d made a mistake. It was no surprise that every male in the carriage would be drawn to Magda Ross, but these eyes burned with hatred. As he watched, a snarl of feral savagery distorted the young man’s features before he turned back to his friends. He must have been giving instructions because other faces turned towards them and Jamie saw one or two of the Hamburg supporters nod.

‘Trouble,’ he said, pulling Magda to her feet.

The chanting faded as if his movement had triggered an off-switch and the phalanx of blue-and-white-clad men began to move purposefully towards them. In the hush that followed it seemed the entire carriage held its breath.

‘Get behind me and stay there.’ Jamie didn’t wait for an acknowledgement and he was thankful that Magda Ross wasn’t the kind of woman to argue or hesitate in a tight situation. He had no idea what had caused the young man’s reaction, but he knew they were in danger. The other passengers were the usual mix of young and old, tourists and backpackers, but unfortunately not any gun-toting Berlin cops. A middle-aged couple looked up, the man’s face twisted with frustration and anger. Jamie could tell he wanted to intervene, but wouldn’t risk putting his wife in any danger. The others kept their heads down as if, because they didn’t see what was about to happen, it was none of their business.

The young man with the burning eyes took the lead. He wore a dark blue replica football shirt with the words ‘Fly Emirates’ on the front and a curious badge of a black and white diamond on a blue background. Gym-toned muscles rippled beneath the material of the shirt and he approached with the steady, measured pace of a man with a job to do. His right hand hung over his jeans pocket like a gunfighter about to draw and Jamie tensed as he understood what the pose meant. Behind him, one or two of his supporters carried beer bottles by the neck. They were smiling.

As Jamie backed away he searched his memory for a reason. This was no spontaneous attack. The supporters had been boisterous and intimidating when they boarded, but any violence was being kept for their rival fans. No, it had all started when the young man had recognized him. The last time he’d been in Berlin he’d been kidnapped by neo-Nazis from a group called the Vril Society, but there’d been a reason for that and the reason was long gone, tortured to death in the shower room of Jamie’s Kensington flat. A shiver ran through him. He felt fear, but he wasn’t frightened. In some men, fear slowed the reactions and froze the brain. Others – and Jamie was one – learned to channel that fear and turn it into energy and speed.

He reached the point where the narrow corridor between the seats widened into the open area at the doors. ‘Magda?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice came from next to his right ear and the determination in her tone lifted his spirits.

‘This is as far as we go. Get to the door and stay there. How far to the next stop?’

‘A minute, maybe two.’

He looked up at the wall of blue and white less than five paces away now. All he had to do was survive for a hundred and twenty seconds and pray that they could get out of this death trap. He dropped into the classic self-defence crouch, hands bunched into fists and ready to react. Jamie Saintclair had learned his gutter fighting from an expert, a Royal Marine commando instructor who could kill you with a single finger but advocated tearing your opponent’s throat out with your teeth if that got the job done more quickly.

Jamie grinned at the memory, and there was a momentary hesitation in the blue and white ranks.

‘
Holen Sie ihn!
’

‘Look out, Jamie!’

Jamie expected the young man at the front to lead the attack. He was fairly certain his opponent had a knife, but he’d fought knives before. If he could get a block in he might be able to disable the knifeman and use him as a barrier against his followers. But they had other ideas. At the command, the leader stepped into the space between two seats and the others surged past him to overwhelm Jamie. The Englishman got in a couple of good, solid punches, but the weight of the attack was too much and he was down before he knew it, curled up in a ball to avoid the fists and boots that sought him out.

‘Get him up,’ a voice ordered in German. Jamie was dragged to his feet and he found himself pinioned between two of the big Hamburg fans. Helpless.

‘Hold him steady.’ The young man produced a flick knife that opened with a sharp snick to reveal a four-inch blade of polished blue steel. Jamie struggled and kicked, aiming for the knife hand. The thug dodged the flailing feet and pulled his arm back, ready to plunge the blade into his victim’s unprotected body. ‘Hold the bastard still,’ he snarled. ‘This is for Berndt Hartmann.’

‘What?’ The name was so unexpected Jamie did nothing to protect himself. His disbelieving reaction made the knifeman hesitate – but only for a split second. Jamie saw the moment his eyes went cold and cried out in anticipation of that wicked blue spike piercing his body.

‘No!’

The shout came from the angry passenger as he launched himself at the knifeman regardless of the thugs who stood back to watch Jamie’s murder. As he struggled with the bewildered teenager his partner rose in her seat, lashing out with a handbag that must have been filled with rocks if its effect on the football supporters was anything to go by.

The thugs backed away under the onslaught and Jamie heard a shriek of pain. He looked up to see long fingers with scarlet nails clawing at the eyes of his right-hand captor. Momentarily, the pressure eased, and he tore himself clear, pivoting to bring his fist in a scything, roundhouse punch that sank into his remaining detainer’s groin. The impact was accompanied by a satisfying oomph of agony and he found himself free. Some instinct told him the U-Bahn train had arrived at the station and he scrabbled past the writhing man towards the doors. A hand dragged him upright and hauled him past more blue-and-white-clad football fans where he collapsed on to the station platform. He looked up and found Magda Ross studying him with a puzzled look in her eyes.

She was about to say something when someone reached down and helped Jamie to his feet. His anonymous saviour from the train dusted him down and nodded approvingly. The man’s wife stood to one side, smiling sheepishly and still holding the handbag as if she expected to need it again.

‘
Danke
.’ Jamie couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The man nodded.

‘You’re welcome,’ the man said in heavily-accented English. ‘Perhaps next time you should take the bus?’

XI

They emerged from Kochstrasse station, close to what had once been the most notorious location on the Berlin Wall, a place of high-risk spy swaps, hair’s-breadth escapes and tragic failures, which seemed appropriate in Jamie’s view. Everything was a bit of a blur. He dazedly noted that Checkpoint Charlie had been turned into a tourist attraction: a hut surrounded by sandbags, a few warning signs and an opportunity to have your photograph taken with a grim-faced actor in a DDR border guard’s grey uniform. It seemed a demeaning end for such an iconic piece of history, and he couldn’t help thinking it would have been better if it had been swept away with the rest of the Wall.

‘Who is Berndt Hartmann?’ Magda asked. ‘The boy with the knife said “This is for Berndt Hartmann” when he was going to … going to stab you.’

A grinning goblin face swam into view and Jamie remembered the awkward hump of a hunched back that didn’t seem to slow the owner when they’d been running for their lives. ‘Just someone I knew.’

‘Come on, Jamie.’ The words exploded from Magda, revealing a new and formidable dimension to her character. He realized then that he’d gravely underestimated the steel that lay beneath the designer couture. ‘Somebody just tried to kill you. I deserve more than that.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s … He was a former SS man, part of a team who stole art treasures and … other things … for Heinrich Himmler.’

‘Did you kill him?’

Jamie remembered Bernie Hartmann’s irresistible grin. ‘No.’ He smiled wearily. ‘I tried to save his life. He died in a plane crash, but if I read the situation correctly no one told his former comrades. There was a Hamburg connection. I think it must have been a coincidence and the leader recognized me.’

‘I thought you were just a jumped-up errand boy,’ her tone took the edge off the words. ‘But there was a moment on the train when you were enjoying yourself. I think you might be a dangerous man to be around, Jamie Saintclair.’

There didn’t seem to be an answer to that, so they walked on in silence for a while. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you use your SAS trick on him?’

She had to think for a moment before she came up with a reply. ‘I didn’t feel like killing anybody today.’

They emerged into a square dominated by an enormous modern office block thirty or forty storeys high with the word
Morgenpost
emblazoned across the roof in neon letters ten feet tall. Above the doorway a slightly more modest display announced that this was the Axel Springer building. Jamie knew Springer had been the German equivalent of Rupert Murdoch, a media mogul who had monopolized German newspapers for four decades until his death in the Eighties.

They checked in at the front desk where a receptionist telephoned Magda’s contact to confirm the meeting and issued them with temporary badges authorizing their presence in the building. A few minutes later a blond-haired girl in a smart business suit appeared at the entrance barrier and greeted Magda with an exclamation of delight.

‘This is my friend Uli.’ Magda smiled as the other woman used a swipe card to open the barrier. ‘She’s a feature writer on the
Berliner Morgenpost
and quite the famous one, aren’t you, darling?’

Uli blushed, but Jamie could see she was pleased by the praise. ‘As you know very well, Magda, a byline does not make you famous. I’m only as good as my next story. Herr … Saintclair, isn’t it?’ She held out her hand and Jamie shook it. ‘That is the way it is in newspapers. Please.’

She led the way to the rear of the building and a brightly lit cafe, where a number of the tables were occupied by groups of three or four, mainly older men and young women. The women were dressed universally in jeans and T-shirts and the men looked as if they’d emerged from a Seventies time warp when beards and moustaches were still in fashion. ‘Our sub-editors are on a lunch break,’ Uli whispered with an indulgent smile. ‘Geniuses with words most of them, but their dress sense? Ugh!’

She left them sitting at a table with a scarred top and returned a few moments later juggling three china mugs filled with steaming black coffee and a handful of sachets of sugar and milk. When they’d sorted the drinks out to individual preference she turned to Jamie. ‘Magda said you are interested in the newspaper’s records?’

‘That’s correct. For a certain period in nineteen thirty-six and ’thirty-seven.’

Uli frowned. ‘Before I came to meet you I checked our computer system, but there are no comprehensive computerized archives available to us for the period before nineteen forty-five …’