Bernard tapped the cylindrical iron stove with his heavy boot and was startled when the door flipped open and red-hot cinders fell out upon the hearth. For a few moments there was a flare of golden light as the draught fed the fire. He could see the wads of brown-edged newspaper packed into the cracks around the door frame and a chipped enamel wash-basin and the ruck-sacks that had been positioned near the door in case they had to leave in a hurry. And he could see Max as white as a sheet and looking… well, looking like any old man would look who'd lost so much blood and who should be in an intensive-care ward but was trudging across northern Germany in winter. Then it went dull again and the room darkened.
'Two hours then?' Bernard asked.
'I won't argue.' Max was carefully chewing the final mouthful of rye bread. It was delicious but he had to chew carefully and swallow it bit by bit. They grew the best rye in the world in Mecklenburg, and made the finest bread with it. But that was the last of it and both men were hungry.
'That makes a change,' said Bernard good-naturedly. They seldom truly argued. Max liked the younger man to feel he had a say in what happened. Especially now.
'I'll not make an enemy with the guy who's going to get the German Desk,' said Max very softly, and twisted one end of his moustache. He tried not to think of his pain.
'Is that what you think?'
'Don't kid around, Bernard. Who else is there?'
'Dicky Cruyer.'
Max said, 'Oh, so that's it. You really resent Dicky, don't you?' Bernard always rose to such bait and Max liked to tease him.
'He could do it.'
'Well, he hasn't got a ghost of a chance. He's too young and too inexperienced. You're in line; and after this one you'll get anything you ask for.'
Bernard didn't reply. It was a welcome thought. He was in his middle thirties and, despite his contempt for desk men, he didn't want to end up like poor old Max. Max was neither one thing nor the other. He was too old for shooting matches, climbing into other people's houses and running away from frontier guards, but there was nothing else that he could do. Nothing, that is, that would pay him anything like a living wage. Bernard's attempts to persuade his father to get Max a job in the training school had been met with spiteful derision. He'd made enemies in all the wrong places. Bernard's father never got along with him. Poor Max, Bernard admired him immensely, and Bernard had seen Max doing the job as no one else could do it. But heaven only knew how he'd end his days. Yes, a job behind a desk in London would come at exactly the right stage of Bernard's career.
Neither man spoke for a little while after that. For the last few miles Bernard had been carrying everything. They were both exhausted, and like combat soldiers they had learned never to miss an opportunity for rest. They both dozed into a controlled half sleep. That was ail they would allow themselves until they were back across the border and out of danger.
It was about thirty minutes later that the thump thump thump of a helicopter brought them back to wide-eyed awakening. It was a medium-sized chopper, not transport size, and it was flying slowly and at no more than a thousand feet, judging from the sound it made. It all added up to bad news. The German Democratic Republic was not rich enough to supply such expensive gas-guzzling machines for anything but serious business.
'Shit!' said Max. 'The bastards are looking for us.' Despite the urgency in his voice he spoke quietly, as if the men in the chopper might hear him.
The two men sat in the dark room neither moving nor speaking: they were listening. The tension was almost unbearable as they concentrated. The helicopter was not flying in a straight line and that was an especially bad sign: it meant it had reached its search area. Its course meandered as if it was pin-pointing the neighbouring villages. It was looking for movement: any kind of movement. Outside the snow was deep. When daylight came nothing could move without leaving a conspicuous trail.
In this part of the world, to go outdoors was enough to excite suspicion. There was nowhere to visit after dark, the local residents were simple people, peasants-in fact. They didn't eat the sort of elaborate evening meal that provides an excuse for dinner parties and they had no money for restaurants. As to hotels, who would want to spend even one night here when they had the means to move on?
The sound of the helicopter was abruptly muted as it passed behind the forested hills, and for the time being the night was silent.
'Let's get out of here,' said Max. Such a sudden departure would be going against everything they had planned but Max, even more than Bernard, was a creature of impulse. He had his 'hunches'. He wrapped folded newspaper round his arm in case the blood came through the towel. Then he put string round the arm of the overcoat and Bernard tied it very tight.
'Okay.' Bernard had long ago decided that Max – notwithstanding his inability to find domestic happiness or turn his professional skills into anything resembling a success story – had an uncanny instinct for the approach of danger. Without hesitation and without getting up from his chair, Bernard leaned forward and picked up the big kettle. Opening the stove ring with the metal lifting tool, he poured water into the fire. He did it very carefully and gently, but even so there was a lot of steam.
Max was about to stop him but the kid was right. Better to do it now. At least that lousy chopper was out of sight of the chimney. When the fire was out Bernard put some dead ashes into the stove. It wouldn't help much if they got here. They'd see the blood on the floorboards, and it would require many gallons of water to cool the stove, but it might make it seem as if they'd left earlier and save them if they had to hide nearby.
'Let's go.' Max took out his pistol. It was a Sauer Model 38, a small automatic dating from the Nazi period, when they were used by high-ranking army officers. It was a lovely gun, obtained by Bernard from some underworld acquaintance in London, where Bernard's array of shady friends rivalled those he knew in Berlin.
Bernard watched Max as he tried to move the slide back to inject a round into the chamber. He had to change hands to do it and his face was contorted with pain. It was distressing to watch him but Bernard said nothing. Once done, Max pressed on the exposed cocking lever to lower the hammer so the gun was ready for instant use but with little risk of accident. Max pushed the gun into his inside breast pocket. 'Have you got a gun?' he asked.
'We left it at the house. You said Siggi might need it.' Bernard swung the rucksack over his shoulder. It was heavy, containing the contents of both packs. There was a grappling hook and nylon rope as well as a small digging implement and a formidable bolt-cutter.
'So I did. Damn. Well, you take the glasses.' Bernard took them from round Max's neck, careful not to jar his arm. 'Stare them to death, Bernard. You can do it!' A grim little laugh. Silently Bernard took the field-glasses – rubber-clad Zeiss 7x40s, like the ones the Grenzpolizei used – and put his head and arm through the strap. It made them uncomfortably tight, but if they had to run for it he didn't want the glasses floating around and banging him in the face.
Max tapped the snuffer that extinguished the flame of the oil-lamp. Everything was pitch black until he opened the door and let in a trace of blue starlight and the bitterly cold night air. 'Attaboy!'
Max was expecting trouble and Bernard did not find the prospect cheering. Bernard had never learned to face the occasional violent episodes that his job provided in the way that the old-timers like Max accepted them even when injured. Was it, he wondered, something to do with the army or the war, or both?