Crate of Lies, page 10
"Shhhh. My dear Max," said Liebermann, sitting on the corner of the desk and looking down on him. "You've lost your edge. You passed me in the street a few minutes ago and didn't recognise me but I remembered you. Aren't you pleased?"
Max momentarily closed his eyes and stifled a sob.
"How long has it been, Max? Nearly twenty-five years…yes it must have been. Do you remember you worked in that boring records office? I always felt a little sorry for you after that stupid mix-up. We couldn't make up our minds about you and Alexis. Of course, as soon as he took a walk out of the window we knew we had our man."
Max began to shake uncontrollably. He looked up into Liebermann's smiling face.
"Tell me, was the convalescence a long one? The department posted me to training just before you went away. Of course, by the time I came back to Berlin, things had changed." He placed a hand on Max's shoulder. "Did Harry recruit you before or after Alexis died?" Max winced as Liebermann tightened his grip. "It's a very funny thing…instinct that is. I was sure you were the guilty party. What was it? New railway terminals especially built to transport missiles to our silos in Siberia and on the Baltic. Your friends even found out about the new rail terminal in Vladivostok."
"No, Heinrich, it wasn't me," sobbed Max, "it was Alexis, I swear. I had nothing to do with it. I'd never do anything to hurt the motherland." He was ringing his hands, pleading.
"Fuck the motherland." Liebermann struck Engels across the side of the face with force. "Do you think I care about all that crap? What did the bastards in the Kremlin ever do for me? Nothing." He released his grip and sneered. "Anyway, that's all over now. You are enjoying the same old boring job. In a way, we are both the same kind of people. Creatures of habit. Everything must be precise, correct and in its place, yes? So, tell me, how long have you known Harry?"
"I don't know a Harry," protested Max. "I don't know him." He shuddered and closed his eyes as Liebermann grabbed the hair at the back of his head and yanked it back. When he opened his eyes again, he shrieked in terror. "No, oh my God, no! Not that, please for pity's sake not that."
Liebermann had the stiletto in his hand. With bared teeth, he said softly, "You remember the pain, Max. That's good. Do you also remember seeing your toe in the bottle?"
Max remembered. Liebermann cut off one of his toes during the interrogation, more in frustration at not hearing a confession. They left him lying in his cell in great pain; a bottle containing the toe immersed in a preserving liquid placed in one corner of the cell on the floor. Liebermann had shouted at him through the small hatch in the door that there was plenty of room in the bottle for the rest of his toes. Max remembered crying all night from the pain. The wound was dressed but there were no painkillers.
The following morning it was Alexis's turn. Max heard later that after having one ear sliced off Alexis remained silent, apart from shaking uncontrollably. When the guard undid the restraining straps on the arms of the chair, Alexis rushed to the open window and threw himself out. From that moment on, the investigation ended.
Liebermann looked into Max's frightened eyes. "I know it was you, Max, but I don't care. Don't you see?" He let go of the handful of hair. "Now tell me, how long have you known Harry Cohen?"
"I -" He looked away for an instant, hesitant. "I…Arghhhh." He screamed and grabbed at Liebermann's hand as the stiletto pierced his cheek.
Liebermann held his hand over Max's mouth again and hissed, "If you make another noise, I'll kill you." He released his hand and saw he had blood on it. Wiping it on Max's shirt, he said, "Now, how long have you known Cohen? Think very carefully before you answer." Their noses were almost touching and Liebermann could feel his prey's short breath across his face.
"I've known him for some time now." Max sank back in the chair.
"Since when, Max?"
"The sixties." His mouth remained open as he swallowed.
"It was you, wasn't it, Max?"
"Yes," he whispered, barely audible even in the quiet of the office.
Liebermann stood up and looked at a planner on the wall. "What did Harry's assistant want? What records did he want to see? What was it you found and got all excited about?"
He sat back down and held the blade against the side of Max's nose, just under the eye. A small trickle of blood had curved under the man's jaw and down his neck. It was beginning to stain his collar.
"He wanted information regarding a load of freight that was shipped from here to Warsaw in 1952. He didn't tell me why they wanted the information." He wiped the blood from his jaw.
"Show me the records, Max."
Engels pulled a file from the shelf above his desk. "This is what he was looking for."
Liebermann looked through it until he noticed the list of numbered crates. He showed no emotion. "And what is it you were so excited about? What were you going to tell him?"
"I found another file that showed the same freight being forwarded to Moscow. It was highly unusual." He looked up at Liebermann, frightened.
"I think you're lying to me."
"No, I'm not. I'm not."
"You did before, Max. Poor Alexis."
"Please, I'm not lying. I don't know anything."
"Where had you been just before I saw you earlier?"
"I went to buy some cigarettes and lunch." He picked up a packet of Lucky Strike from the desk, his hands trembling.
Liebermann bent forward and whispered in Engels ear. "Max, where had you been?" The tip of the stiletto rested on the bottom edge of the ear orifice.
"I just…I just went to get some cigarettes and lunch as well as some, some…"
The point cut into his skin.
"Oh, oh, I just…I mean I went to get some postage."
"You went to post a letter to our dear friend Harry?"
"Yes, yes, I did but it was only what you now know." He winced as the point scratched the inside of his ear. "Please, Heinrich, I've told you all I know."
Liebermann looked into Engels eyes. "Max, I believe you."
Max smiled nervously before his body jolted with shock as the stiletto was pushed swiftly through his ear and into his brain. He made no sound. His eyes closed slowly and he slumped forward. Liebermann withdrew the blade and wiped it before returning it to the small holster beneath his jacket.
***
Lightfoot sat in his usual position on the sofa, one leg crooked over an arm and his head tilted back, eyes closed. A small desk fan blew warm air over his face without doing anything to alleviate the hot, muggy atmosphere in the confines of the small office. The open windows only served to allow the noise of the traffic to invade the usually quiet office.
Raithe sat opposite, trying to stay as still as possible. He felt exhausted after walking the crowded pavements. With no fan on his face small beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. Occasionally, he swiped irritably at a buzzing fly landing on his head or neck.
"Right, well as expected," said Lightfoot, opening his eyes, "Liebermann has once again vanished into thin air but my guess is he isn't going to be far away if he's involved in this business."
"He's involved," replied Raithe in a tired voice. "As you say, he'll turn up again. Did you find anything out about STS other than what we already have?"
"Not a lot but I did find one or two interesting things about recent shipments of aid to Syria. There have been two flights direct from Vienna in the last six months, one six months ago and the last was three weeks ago."
"Is that unusual?"
"Vienna? Only that these flights were the first of their kind and direct into Damascus. They were also the last two consignments that left Europe."
Raithe tried to think. He was still feeling disappointed that the Amber Room went back to Moscow in '52. Max was digging around some more but he doubted the man would find anything else worth knowing. After all the high expectations of the past few weeks, looking for smugglers seemed an anti-climax.
"You think that's how the arms are getting through?" Raithe swiped at another fly.
"Maybe. We know that the terrorists have been supplied during the last few months with a lot of arms and that would tie up with the flights from Vienna."
"But how would they be getting to Vienna from the US?"
Lightfoot shrugged. "Beats me but that's all I could find."
"What about Damascus? The cargoes need searching. Aren't the Syrians supposed to be co-operating now? They want the terrorists out of their hair."
"They're supposed to and have said so. We bought their agreement, after all. None the less, as far as the airport security and customs checks are concerned, forget it. Under a UN agreement, aid arrives wherever needed in the world under the flag of humanitarian causes. No-one ever gives that sort of cargo more than a cursory glance. You've given me an idea though, Raithe. Perhaps you could run it past Harry seeing as this is your op?"
Raithe shifted uncomfortably, his shirt stuck to the back of the chair. "What's that?"
"If I'm…we're right, that these rocket launchers are for the Syrian rebels, then there's a good chance they are going to find their way to Vienna. Supposing someone was able to get access to the freight, say as a warehouse handler at the airport. Vienna isn't Damascus. I'm sure the freight could be checked, whether it gets there by air or road. If we can find the launchers then allow them to reach Damascus…" He paused. "Once we know they're on the way we can-"
"Wait," cut in Raithe. "We'd wait and follow the launchers until they were picked up by the terrorists. There's no way Jerusalem will settle for anything less. We find the launchers then America's finest can mount a clandestine operation and go get the bastards."
"Okay, well at least run it past Harry, yes?"
Raithe nodded. There was something else he had to run past Harry.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Shortly after he left the embassy in a hire car, Raithe saw the taxi taking up station behind him. Fifteen miles from Schoenfeld Airport, he was wary of using the U-Bahn. It would mean catching a shuttle to the terminal. At least his pursuer was out in the open where he could easily be seen and hopefully lost, rather than hidden in a crowded carriage or bus.
He hardly gave the taxi a second glance as it appeared from nowhere behind him. He eased to the inside lane, without signalling his intention to turn right. At the junction he turned right against the light and accelerated away. Passing a park to his right, he looked in the driving mirror. The taxi was some twenty metres behind him, catching up. His pulse quickened.
He gripped the wheel and decided not to slow or stop at the next intersection. A sign read he was heading for the Nikolai Quarter, popular with tourists. He pushed the accelerator to the floor. Reaching the intersection, he gasped as one car shot across his front and another braked and swerved, narrowly missing the rear. Heart pounding, he neared the end of the road and realised he faced a T-junction.
The road he wanted was on the other side of a duel carriageway. The only way to reach it was to turn right and cross the River Spree before coming back on himself or left and take a chance there was another intersection where he could cross over.
The taxi gained on him as he slowed. He spun the wheel and swerved to the right, his rear slewing across the road as he tried to keep control. There was a blare of horns. A large truck pulled across the road to avoid him. The car straightened and Raithe caught sight of the taxi in his mirror as it shot out into the road behind the lorry.
Gunning the car forward, he noticed that the central reservation came to an end just before the bridge; replaced by a crash barrier. The car raced over the bridge, its engine screaming. At the far end, the barrier stopped just short of an intersection.
Raithe reacted immediately, swerving to the inside lane. At the last moment, he spun the wheel left and pulled on the hand brake. The car juddered in an arc and ended up facing the other way on the other side of the road. Keeping his foot hard down on the accelerator, the wheels spun, trying to gain grip. Amid clouds of smoke, the car sped forward again. He watched nervously in the mirror and counted to six before he saw the taxi appear from behind the barrier. Eyes scanning the road ahead, he reached for his jacket and felt the familiar outline of the Beretta.
Stralaur Strasse was up ahead but two cars and a bus were already turning right into it. Raithe glanced quickly in the mirror. The taxi was still some way behind. He had no option but to take the risk. As he came up fast behind them, the bus was already turning the corner and the first car was right behind it.
Raithe pulled into the outside lane and braked as he drew abreast of the last car. They turned the corner together, facing the oncoming traffic lane. A car came towards him, its lights flashing wildly. At the last moment, the car braked and mounted the pavement as Raithe accelerated past the startled drivers of the two cars.
The bus was a different problem. It pulled out into the middle of the road, indicating it was turning left. Raithe braked sharply to avoid a collision and skidded to a halt amid a cloud of smoke, his bonnet dipping. He swung back to the inside lane, forcing the leading car coming up behind him to screech to a halt. There was a loud crash. Raithe momentarily caught sight of the two cars shedding broken glass and scattering debris across the road. Of the taxi, there was no sign.
The car sped forward again. At the start of Holzmarkt there was a small hump in the middle of the road. The car's front wheels left the ground and the engine screamed.
A railway bridge carrying the line to Lichtenberg and the East lay ahead, straddling the road at an angle. Just beyond it was the slip road leading to the station. Quickly wiping his face, Raithe looked in the mirror. He counted, glancing in the driving mirror. By the time he counted ten he was at the bridge and still no taxi.
He braked, turned left into the slip road, and drove down it into the front car park. He pulled up in front of the main entrance and jumped out of the car with his jacket. Pulling an overnight bag from the back seat, he ran to the taxi rank at the other end of the short concourse. As he jumped into the nearest taxi, he noticed the chasing taxi stop suddenly outside on the road. It reversed back at speed towards the slip road entrance.
"Sprechen sie Englisch?" said Raithe breathlessly. He slammed the door shut and threw a bundle of euros over the astonished drivers shoulder.
"You are obviously in a hurry. Where to?" The driver started the engine.
Raithe kept low in the seat and looked through the rear window. The other taxi came roaring into view. "Just wait a second," he said. Two men jumped out of the taxi and ran inside the station. "Okay, now…Schoenfeld Airport."
They pulled away from the station and turned left onto the main road leading to the airport.
The driver took a long hard look at his passenger. "You running from those men, yeah?"
"There's a lot of money on your seat," said Raithe, turning around again. "Just get me to the airport and make sure you remember nothing."
"Fine, but you're English. Why you going to Schoenfeld. You only get to Moscow or Warsaw or Entebbe or fucking Ho Chi Min from there. You can go to Tegel and go anywhere."
"I don't want Tegel, I want Schoenfeld," replied Raithe irritably. He couldn't see anyone following. "Can't you go any faster, for Christ's sake?"
"Like you were at the station? Maybe you thought you were already at the airport? You nearly landed on platform two." The driver laughed.
Raithe ignored the last remark but the man did make him think. It wouldn't take Liebermann a second to realise the direction he was going. Schoenfeld only operated flights to east Europe and the Far East. Nothing went west. The trains from south-east Berlin also travelled east into Poland. Liebermann would have men watching for him in Moscow, his most likely destination.
"You need to check if we're being followed?"
"There's no-one following us. Just speed up a bit, will you?"
The driver carried on talking. "We will shortly be going across the Spree bridge. It's the longest bridge across the river and carries the U-Bahn trains as well, above the road. It was closed in 1961, of course, but reopened in '94."
"I don't want a guided tour. I want to get to the airport." Raithe looked behind them again.
"At the other side of the bridge there are several narrow side roads where we can pull in and observe. I used to use them myself."
"Look I don't- what do you mean, you used to use them yourself?"
Raithe looked at a perfect row of white teeth in the mirror as the driver grinned. "That area was part of my nightly patrol."
"Tell me something," asked Raithe, "did anyone in this half of the city ever do anything except spy on each other or stamp up and down in a green uniform?"
"Ah, you watch too many American movies."
They reached the bridge and turned right onto it. A train trundled over the top of them as they reached halfway across.
"When we reach the end of the bridge there is a slip road that will take us onto the main road out of the city. Five side streets up on our right is a small park. I'll pull into that street and park facing the main road. From there it will be easy to see if anyone is following."
Raithe nodded. "Okay. By the way, I'm Raithe and I'm an American."
"And I'm Klause and I'm Chinese. Nice to know you, Raithe."
It was Raithe's turn to grin. "Accent's wrong, isn't it? Anyway, I've got an American passport."
"So have I. In fact I've got several if you know anyone else who wants one."
"Not at this precise moment but you can leave me your mobile number. I have a friend who has a bad habit of making some very strange friends."
They laughed as the taxi reached the end of the bridge.
"By the way," said Klause, eyeing Raithe in the mirror, "I hope you are going to get rid of the gun before you enter the airport."
Raithe remained silent.
"It's not too big because it fits in your inside jacket pocket. Perhaps a Walther or Beretta, yes?"
There wasn't any point in denying it. The man was an expert. "Do you like caviar or hamburgers?" asked Raithe.
