‘Was there no one who believed you?’ asked Carter.
Ritter laughed in a single, humourless bark. ‘There were plenty,’ he replied, ‘but none who were prepared to risk their lives by saying so. It didn’t matter. Most them died, anyway. In July of that year the attack went ahead, and the German forces encountered an intricately constructed series of defensive lines stretching back hundreds of kilometres, each one of which had to be assaulted and overcome at the cost of so much German manpower and machinery that, in the end, the Battle of Kursk turned into one of the most expensive defeats of the entire war. More than half a million men were killed and twelve thousand heavy tanks were lost. After the loss of the 6th Army at Stalingrad earlier in the year, Germany had reached a point where our losses could not be replaced.’
Although Ritter was staring intently through the windshield, he did not appear to see the road ahead. It was as if his eyes had rolled back into his skull and he was witnessing again not just the loss of a battle, but the crumbling of his entire world.
‘I found out later that this was all due to the work of a single Russian spy. His name was Nikolai Ivanovich Kuznetsov, but he called himself Paul Siebert. There actually was a Paul Siebert. That was the brilliance of his disguise. Siebert, a German Army lieutenant, had been captured earlier in the war and he had been interrogated in much the same way as I interrogated those Russian officers◦– without violence, using only the relentlessness of courtesy, patience and seemingly harmless enquiry. After learning everything there was to learn about Lieutenant Siebert, down to the tiniest eccentricities and details of his life, he was taken out and shot. And then Kuznetsov, armed with every detail of Siebert’s life, was smuggled back behind German lines.’
Carter had heard of this man from Wilby, who spoke the name Kuznetsov with fear as well as admiration. That the Russians could engineer a human weapon so perfectly adapted for its purpose had sent a pulse of dread through their British and American counterparts from which they had yet to recover.
‘He not only gathered information,’ continued Ritter, ‘but also carried out assassinations and sabotage. On one of these missions, he had gone to murder the military governor of East Prussia, a man named Erich Koch. He gained access to Koch’s office and began a conversation with him. During this conversation, Koch told Siebert that the war would soon be over, thanks to a massive attack soon to take place in the Kursk region. That fragment of information saved Koch’s life, temporarily at least, and Siebert alerted his Russian masters about the planned assault. And unlike my own masters, the Russians actually listened. One man did all that. One perfectly placed spy destroyed an army. So if I seem overly cautious to you, it is only because of the fact that, if someone had actually taken my advice, you might be driving me about, instead of the other way around.’
Arriving at the rendezvous point, Carter directed Ritter to a spot just down the road, where they had a view of all the streets feeding into the intersection.
Galton’s van was already there.
Carter could see the shadow of somebody sitting in the passenger seat. He unbuckled the leather straps on the canvas bag and looked inside. It was filled with bank notes, bundled into stacks as thick as his fist.
‘It’s all there,’ said Ritter. ‘I counted it myself.’
‘Given how little you trust me,’ said Carter, ‘you won’t mind if I return the favour. If this is even a little bit short, this guy will never work with us again.’
‘It is correct!’ snapped Ritter. ‘Now go! The man is waiting.’
Carter was staring at the van. A sense of uneasiness was crackling like static in his mind, but he did not know why.
‘What are you waiting for?’ demanded Ritter.
‘Cut the engine,’ said Carter.
‘Why?’ demanded Ritter.
‘Because the only people who would leave a parked car running in this town are either the police or the army. They’re the only ones with enough fuel not to run out of gas while they’re waiting.’
Ritter sighed. ‘I can’t guarantee this thing will even start again.’
‘Do it now,’ said Carter.
Ritter turned the key and the car shuddered into silence. ‘Now what?’ he demanded.
‘We wait,’ Carter told him.
‘Wait for what?’
‘Just wait.’ Carter stared at the blue van, trying to understand why something didn’t feel right. He looked for the old woman knitting on her balcony, but the place was empty except for a chair with a cushion. The blind accordion player had also disappeared. The street was entirely empty except for Galton’s van.
‘Would you mind telling me what this is about?’ asked Ritter. ‘I don’t see anyone.’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Carter.
‘It’s time. If you don’t move soon, he’s going to leave.’
‘Then let him leave.’
‘Dasch won’t like that.’
‘There are things he would like a hell of a lot less. Now shut up and let me do my job.’
Ritter sighed and folded his arms. But he kept quiet from then on.
Carter searched the street, hunting for some definite sign that his instincts were telling the truth. He could feel sweat beading on his face. The time for the meeting came and went. Minutes passed. Just when Carter had begun to wonder if his fears had got the better of him, he caught sight of a faint grey haze as a puff of exhaled cigarette smoke drifted through a half-open doorway in the shell of a building next to the hospital. A moment later, the door swung wide open and a man wearing an unbuttoned trench coat walked out into the middle of the road. He put his hands on his hips, revealing a gun in a shoulder holster. The man looked up and down the street, then threw up his arms and swore. Now the man who had been sitting in the passenger seat climbed out of the van. It was not Galton. He joined the man already standing in the street.
‘Police,’ whispered Carter. ‘They’re plainclothes, but that’s who they are.’
‘My God, I think you’re right,’ said Ritter.
Now two more men appeared through the doorway, one of them shoving the other, who fell to his knees in the road.
Carter recognised the person on the ground.
It was Galton. He struggled to get up, but one of the policemen kicked him over again. This time Galton stayed down, cowering with his arms around his head.
A car pulled out of an alley.
Galton was hoisted to his feet and thrown into the back seat along with the man who had kicked him. The car sped away, passing by Ritter and Carter. Two remaining men piled into the van and that, too, drove away.
Then the street was empty once again.
Ever since the first policeman had walked into the street, Ritter had not moved. It seemed he had not even breathed. Slowly he put one hand on the steering wheel and took hold of the gearstick with the other.
‘You’ll want to start it first,’ Carter told him quietly.
Flustered, Ritter got the engine going. Then he slammed the Wanderer into gear and they drove back the way they had come, moving carefully through the narrow streets, as if Ritter had only just learned how to drive. Neither of them spoke. They headed straight for Dasch’s compound on the outskirts of the city and Ritter would have driven straight through the gate if the guard had not opened it in time.