The Innocent

  The bearded man was resting his knuckles on the tin-plate counter, waiting for Leonard. It was not right that an employee who was really no more than a porter should be dressed like an admiral. It was important not to be intimidated. Leonard made a show of looking at his watch and picked up his cases. He tried to walk away briskly. He took the only route that would not take him closer to the counter. He was waiting for a shout, for the sound of running. He was in a narrowing corridor at the end of which was a set of double doors. He made it all the way without stopping. He went through the doors backward and found himself in a quiet side street. He put the cases against a wall and sat down on the pavement.

  He had no clear intentions. He needed to rest his sore foot. If the admiral had come after him, he would gladly have given himself up. What was clear, now that he was sitting down, was that he ought to be making a plan. His thoughts were oozing thickly. They were the secretion of an organ that was not under his control. He could judge the product, but he could not initiate it. He could make another attempt to squeeze the cases into the luggage lockers. He could surrender them to the admiral. He could leave them here, on the street. Just walk away from them. Did they really need the whole week’s grace that the luggage lockers allowed? It was now that the pleasant soft thought returned. He could go home. He could lock the door, take a bath, be safe among his own things, sleep for hours in his own bed, and then, once refreshed, make a new plan and implement it—shaved, invigorated, with a clean set of clothes, beyond suspicion.

  He thought about home. The rooms as big as meadows, the excellent plumbing, the solitude. He fantasized and dozed, and at last stood up. The quickest way to a taxi was back through the station, past the admiral. But he set off to walk around the outside. His groin was hurting more than his foot. A layer of skin was coming off his hands. It took twenty minutes to get around. He took long pauses, unwatched. He found his taxi in the rank, another big old Mercedes, and this time made no attempt to help lift the cases in, nor did he offer any explanations. It was surely a sign of guilt to be apologizing for their weight.

  He left one case on the pavement outside No. 26, and carried the other with both hands all the way to the lift shaft. When he went back outside, the case was still there, which surprised him no less than if it had gone. How was he to know any longer what constituted a surprise? The lift bore the weight easily. He opened his front door and set the cases down just inside the hallway. From where he stood he could see that the lights were on in the living room, and there was music playing. He went toward it. He pushed the living room door open and walked into a party. There were drinks, peanuts in bowls, full ashtrays, crumpled cushions and the AFN on the wireless. All the guests had gone. He turned the wireless off, and the silence was abrupt. He sat in the nearest chair. He had been left behind. The friends, the old Leonard and his fiancée in her rustling white skirt, they had all gone, and the cases were too heavy, the lockers too small, the admiral hostile, and his hands, ear, shoulder, testicles and foot throbbed in unison.

  He went to the bathroom and drank from the tap for a long time. Then he was in the bedroom, lying on his back under the covers, staring at the ceiling. With the hall light on and the bedroom door half open, it was as dark as he wanted it. When he closed his eyes a sickening fatigue smothered him. He had to save himself as though from drowning by struggling to see the ceiling again. His eyes were not heavy. As long as they were open he could stay awake. He was trying not to think. He was hurting everywhere. There was no one to look after him. He kept his thoughts empty by concentrating on his breathing. Perhaps an hour passed this way, in a light trance, almost a doze.

  Then the phone rang and he was on his way to it before he had come to fully. He crossed the hallway, glancing to his left to see the cases there by the door, and entered the living room without turning on the light. The phone was on the window ledge. He snatched it up, expecting Maria, or possibly Glass. It was a man whose soft-spoken introductory phrase eluded him. Something about a paper pay packet. Then the voice said, “I’m phoning about the arrangements for May the tenth, sir.”

  It was a wrong number, but Leonard did not want to send the voice away. It was pleasantly accented, and sounded competent and gentle. He said, “Ah yes.”

  “I’ve been told to phone and see what it was you wanted, sir.”

  It was the sir, the unforced, manly respect, that Leonard warmed to. Whoever this man was, he might be able to help. He sounded the sort who might carry the cases and not ask questions. It was important to keep him talking. Leonard said, “Er, what do you suggest?”

  The voice said, “Well, sir, I could start from some way off, right out of the building, when everyone is sitting down, and approach slowly. You get the picture, sir. They’re all talking and drinking, and then one or two with good ears hear me faintly, and then they all hear me, coming closer all the time. Then I come right into the room.”

  “I see,” Leonard said. He thought he might take this man into his confidence. It was a matter of waiting for an opening.

  “And if you’re happy to leave the tunes to me, sir…. Some reels, some laments. When they’ve had a few drinks—if you’ll excuse me, sir—there’s nothing quite like a lament.”

  “That’s true,” Leonard said, seeing his chance. “I sometimes get very sad.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  If the kind voice would only ask why. Leonard said, “Things get on top of me sometimes.”

  The voice hesitated, and then it said, “Berlin’s a long way from home, sir, for us all.” There was another pause, and then, “CSM Steele said you’d need me for an hour, sir. Is that correct?”

  It was in this way that the Scots Greys piper, Piper McTaggart, was identified. Leonard concluded the business as rapidly as possible. He left the phone off the hook and returned to bed. He turned the hall light out on the way. The conversation had revived him. The edge of his tiredness was dulled, and it was easier to sleep.

  He woke some hours later, completely refreshed. From the silence he guessed it to be between two and three o’clock. He sat up. He felt better, he realized, because he had woken with a simple solution. He had let the matter overwhelm him when in fact all that was required was clear thinking and purposeful action. He could get to work while it was all fresh in his mind. Then he could sleep again and wake to a resolved situation.

  He stepped out of the bedroom into the hall. He had never known it so quiet. He did not bother with the light. There was just enough of a moon to give a colorless light, although he was not sure quite how moonlight was penetrating here. He went to the kitchen and found a sharp knife. He went back in the hall and knelt by the cases and unfastened the straps on both. Then he opened one of them. The parts were neatly in place, just as Maria had packed them. He lifted out a piece and cut away the waterproof material and laid an arm gently down on the carpet. There was no unpleasant smell; he was not too late. He pushed the wrapping well away to one side, and then he set about freeing a leg, a thigh, and the chest. There was surprisingly little blood, and besides, the carpet was red. He set the pieces down on the hall carpet in their correct positions. The human shape was resuming. He opened the second case and unwrapped the lower body and the limbs. It was there before him, a headless body lying on its back. He had the head in his hands now. He turned it and saw through the material the outline of the nose and the imprecise features of a face.

  It was while he was using the point of the knife to prize away the glued seam that he saw something that caught his attention. He was holding the heavy head down on the floor, but he could no longer move the knife. It was not the prospect of seeing Otto’s face. Nor was it the completed figure lying on the carpet next to him. What he had seen was the bedroom wall and his bed. He had forced his eyes open a fraction and seen the shape of his own body under the blankets. For two seconds he had heard the traffic in the street outside, still late-night traffic, and he had seen his own immovable body. Then his eyes shut and he was bac
k here, with the knife in his hand, picking away again at the fabric.

  It worried him to know that what seemed so real was a dream. It meant that anything could happen. There were no rules. He was putting Otto back together, undoing the day’s work. He was peeling away a layer of rubberized cloth, and here was the side of the head, with the top of an ear visible. He ought to stop himself, he thought, he ought to wake before Otto came to life. With an effort he opened his eyes again. He saw a part of his hand and the impression of his feet under the blanket. If he could move just one part of himself, or make a sound, the tiniest of sounds, he could bring himself back. But the body he occupied was inert. He was trying to move his toe. He could hear a motorbike in the street outside. If someone would come into the room and touch him. He was trying to shout. He could not part his lips or fill his lungs. His eyes were weighing down, and he was in the hall once more.

  Why was the material sticking to the side of Otto’s face? It was the bite, of course; the blood from Otto’s cheek had congealed on the cloth. That was only one reason why Otto was going to punish him. He pulled the cloth and it came away with a rasping sound. The rest was easy. It fell away and the bare head was in his hands. The eyes with the drunk’s red rims were watching him, waiting. It was simply a matter of lifting the head onto the torn neck; then it could begin again. He should have been kept divided up, but now it was too late. Even before the head was properly in place, the hands were reaching for the knife. Otto was sitting up. He could see the empty cases, and the knife was in his hand. Leonard knelt in front of him and tipped back his head to offer up his throat. Otto would do the job swiftly. He would have to pack the cases himself. He would carry Leonard to the Zoo station. Otto was a Berliner, he was an old drinking friend of the admiral. Here was the bedroom wall again, the blanket, the edge of the sheet, the pillow. His body was lead. Otto would never carry him alone. Piper McTaggart would help. Leonard tried halfheartedly for a scream. It was better that it should happen. He heard the air pass between his teeth. He tried to bend his leg. His eyes were closing again and he was going to die. His head moved, it turned an inch or so to one side. His cheek touched the pillow, and the touch unlocked all touch and he felt the weight of the blanket on his foot. His eyes were open and he could move his hand. He could shout. He was sitting up and reaching for the light switch.

  Even with the light on, the dream was still there, waiting for him to return. He slapped his face and stood. His legs were weak; his eyes still wanted to close. He went into the bathroom and splashed water over his face. When he came out he turned on the hall light. The unopened cases were by the door.

  He could not trust himself to sleep. For the rest of the night he sat in bed with his knees drawn up and the overhead light on and smoked a pack of cigarettes. At three-thirty he went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Toward five o’clock he shaved. The water stung the broken skin on his hands. He dressed and went back to the kitchen to drink more coffee. His plan was simple and good. He would lug the cases to the U-Bahn and ride out to the end of the line. He would find a lonely spot, put the cases down and walk away.

  He had gone through his tiredness to a new clarity. He drank his coffee and smoked and passed the time polishing his shoes and putting adhesive strips on his hands. He whistled and hummed “Heartbreak Hotel.” For the moment it was enough to be free of his dream. At seven o’clock he straightened his tie, brushed his hair again and put on his jacket. Before opening the front door he lifted the cases experimentally. It was more than weight. There was a pull, an elemental, purposeful earthward pull. Otto wanted to be buried, he thought. But not yet.

  He carried the cases one at a time to the lift shaft. When the lift came, he blocked the door with one case while he shoved the other in with his knee. He pressed E for Etage but he traveled only one floor down before coming to a halt. The door slid open to admit Blake. He was wearing a blue blazer with silver buttons and he carried an attaché case. The lift compartment filled with the scent of his cologne. The descent continued.

  Blake nodded coolly. “Pleasant party. Thank you.”

  “We were glad you could come,” Leonard said.

  The lift stopped and the doors opened. Blake was looking at the cases. “Aren’t they Ministry of Defense bags?” Leonard picked one up, but Blake beat him to the other and lifted it out into the lobby. “Good Lord. What have you got in here? It’s certainly not a tape recorder.”

  The question was not rhetorical. They were standing by the open lift and Blake seemed to think he was owed an answer. Leonard fumbled. He had been going to say they were tape recorders.

  Blake said, “You’re taking them out to Altglienicke. It’s all right, you can talk to me. I know Bill Harvey. I’m cleared for Gold.”

  “It’s decoding equipment,” Leonard said. And then, because he had an image of Blake coming out to the warehouse to look at it, he added, “It’s on loan from Washington. We’re using it in the tunnel, then it goes back tomorrow.”

  Blake was looking at his watch. “Well, I hope you’ve got secure transport laid on. I’ve got to dash.” And he was off across the lobby without another word, and out to where his car was parked in the street.

  Leonard waited for him to drive away before he set about dragging the cases outside. The hardest part of his day, the journey to the Neu-Westend U-Bahn station at the far end of the street, was about to begin, and the encounter with Blake had used up his reserves. He had the cases out on the pavement now. His eyes were stinging in the daylight, and the old pains were starting up. There was a commotion across the road, which he thought it better to ignore. It was a car with a particularly noisy engine, and there was a voice. Then the car engine was cut and he heard the voice alone.

  “Hey! Leonard. Godammit, Leonard!”

  Glass was climbing out of his Beetle and was striding across Platanenallee toward him. His beard shone glossy black with early morning energy.

  “Where the hell have you been? I was trying to reach you all day yesterday. I need to talk about—” Then he saw the cases. “Wait a minute. Those are ours. Leonard, what in God’s name have you got in there?”

  “Equipment,” Leonard said.

  Glass already had his hand around one of the straps. “What the hell are you doing with it here?”

  “I’ve been working on it. All night, in fact.”

  Glass grappled the case to his chest. He was preparing to cross the road with it. A car was coming and he had to wait. He shouted over his shoulder, “We’ve been through all this, Marnham. You know the rules. This is madness. What do you think you’re doing?”

  He did not wait for an answer. He bounded across the road, put the case down and opened the Beetle’s hood. There was just room inside. Leonard had no choice but to follow with the other case. Glass helped him heave it into the back. They climbed into their seats, and Glass slammed his door hard. The unsilenced engine started with a roar.

  As they juddered forward Glass shouted again, “Godammit, Leonard! How can you do this to me? I won’t feel safe until this stuff is back where it belongs!”

  Twenty

  All the way to the warehouse Leonard wanted to think about the sentries, who would be obliged to search the cases, while Glass, having exhausted his indignation, wanted to talk about the anniversary celebration. There was very little time. Glass had found a clever route, and they were through Schöneberg within ten minutes and round the edge of the Tempelhof airfield.

  “I left a note on your door yesterday,” Glass said. “You weren’t answering your phone, and then it was busy all night.”

  Leonard was staring into the hole in the floor at his feet. The asphalt blur was mesmeric. His cases were about to be opened. He was so tired he could welcome that. A process would begin—arrest, interviews and the rest—and he would abandon himself to it. He would offer no explanations until he had had a decent sleep. That would be his one condition.

  He said, “I took it off the hook. I was working.”

/>   They were in fourth gear and traveling well under twenty miles an hour. The speedometer needle was shaking.

  Glass said, “I need to speak to you. I’ll be straight with you, Leonard. I’m not happy.”

  Leonard saw a clean white cell, a single bed with cotton sheets, and silence, and a man outside the door to guard him.

  He said, “Oh?”

  “On several counts,” Glass said. “One, you had more than a hundred and twenty dollars to spend on entertainment for our evening. I gather you’ve blown it all on one act. One hour.”

  Perhaps it would be one of the friendly ones on the gate, Jake, or Lee or Howie. They would lift one of the pieces out. Sir, this isn’t electronic equipment, this is a human arm. Someone might be sick. Glass, perhaps, who was moving to his second point.