‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you want it all for yourself. You’ve tasted blood. Of the original fifteen, only two remain. You and me.’
‘I didn’t kill Wosniak! That was Engel.’
‘Why should I believe you, and why didn’t you tell me straight away?’
‘I’m sorry, Friedrich, but right now… the book’s just come out, and you wouldn’t believe how draining it’s all been.’
‘You’re so drained you have to pretend not to be there when an old comrade calls.’
Roddeck smiled his uncertain, false smile. ‘We’re both here, so why don’t we talk now?’
‘First we need to work out what to do with Engel. When he appears in…’ He looked at his watch. ‘…three minutes’ time. Any thoughts?’
Roddeck shrugged. ‘I thought I’d do the same with him as… with you.’
Grimberg saw the flash and felt himself swept backwards off his feet, heard the deafening bang, amplified a hundred times and accompanied by an echo louder than any of the explosions he had triggered and with a stronger shock wave. It was stronger even than the one from the trench all those years ago, which had likewise knocked him off his feet. Back then he had landed on soft, muddy ground, but now he found himself lying on his back on hard concrete, in a cold puddle, legs straddling the tram rails. He felt no pain, registering only how badly he was struggling for air. Try as he might, he couldn’t get enough oxygen in his lungs.
For a moment he thought there had been a stray explosion, but then saw Achim von Roddeck above him, a smoking Luger in his hand. He wanted to say something but all that came from his lungs was a torrent of blood.
Roddeck wasn’t smiling anymore. ‘Something on your mind, Grimberg? Save your breath.’
Friedrich Grimberg wanted to speak but couldn’t. Achim von Roddeck raised his pistol and he gazed into the dark barrel. There was another flash, then everything went black.
108
Roddeck had hated the man from his first posting to the front, almost twenty years ago, when Staff Sergeant Friedrich Grimberg saw him piss his pants in a shell crater. Another barrage began and he panicked. At first he hadn’t noticed anything. Only when the shooting ended did he feel the wetness between his legs, along with a bottomless shame.
Grimberg and he crawled across the muddy ground and returned to camp looking like a pair of pigs. They had no choice but to clean their uniforms, and no one else noticed, but from that day Grimberg, two ranks his junior, had him over a barrel, later even managing to wangle his best friend Heinrich Wosniak a job as Roddeck’s orderly. Roddeck had caught himself marvelling at Grimberg’s vigour, growing ever more dependent on the man, and hating himself for it at the same time, and there was no respite after March 1917, thanks to the secret that bound them and many others.
Most were killed before the conflict ended, Grimberg’s idea to send them on a series of suicide missions. Only Meifert and Wibeau had survived, and Wosniak, of course, but he was untouchable and they planned to share the gold with him. The others would be eliminated as soon as it was recovered.
The gold! When in 1924 they returned from France empty-handed, Roddeck had truly believed it was cursed. Grimberg had laughed, but he wasn’t laughing now. He would never again be dependent on Grimberg or his sinister friend, Wosniak. If his ‘faithful Heinrich’ hadn’t killed those two French children in cold blood, Wegener wouldn’t have lost his nerve and Roddeck wouldn’t have shot him. Or Grimberg. They would never humiliate him again.
Had it really been Engel’s intention that they kill each other? Well, with Grimberg down the next on the list would be Benjamin Engel himself. Perhaps Grimberg was right, and Engel wouldn’t show. Even so he remained watchful, listening for sounds from the tunnel entrance. The captain wouldn’t expect trouble, assuming the gold held the importance it always had, but he would be mistaken. Grimberg had wanted the gold, yes, as Roddeck had until a few weeks ago, but with his novel’s growing popularity it had become less important. A place in the new Germany beckoned, and money couldn’t buy it. The new Reich was waiting for his voice, his work, and no way was he going to risk that for something as base as French gold.
‘Hands in the air!’
A voice he hadn’t heard in sixteen years came from behind him. He turned, and from the darkness of the decommissioned tunnel a man carrying a pistol stepped into the light. Not a world-war pistol, but a modern Walther PP. He had been here the whole time, and wore a captain’s uniform which couldn’t be the one he’d been buried in. His face was divided in two. One half was doll-like somehow, too perfect, while the other was covered in scars. Both, unmistakably, had the features of Benjamin Engel.
He went weak at the knees, felt panic rising, just like in the crater where his dreams of a noble war, and a return home as an admired and decorated military hero, had been shattered. Was he going to die here, in this hole?
‘Hands in the air!’ Engel barked.
Slowly Achim von Roddeck raised his hands, Luger in the right, flashlight in the left.
109
Rath’s thinking had allowed for a corpse, so he felt no remorse. Grimberg killing Roddeck would have thrown a spanner in the works, but it had happened the other way around. Achim von Roddeck had murdered his old comrade just as ruthlessly as he had gunned down Wegener. It was fear that drove him, plain and simple, the same fear now showing in his eyes.
Achim von Roddeck was petrified, facing a Walther PP and an army captain apparently risen from the dead. ‘It’s not what you think, Sir. I had nothing to do with the attempt on your life.’ He sounded as if he were about to cry. ‘It was Grimberg’s idea, all of it. He hated you from the start.’
Rath would have liked to see Roddeck squirm for longer but that would be asking too much of his accomplice. Before he could break cover, darkness descended. Roddeck must have switched off his flashlight. There was a muzzle flash and a shot, the sound of running feet. He didn’t know which man had fired, but it didn’t matter. He had to move and set off at pace.
‘Don’t shoot, Engel,’ he shouted, almost tripping over Grimberg’s body. He had to keep further to the left, away from the wall. ‘Stay where you are, Roddeck. CID! There’s no escape.’
There was another flash. Roddeck fired two rounds, missing both times. He couldn’t be far away. A silhouette appeared in the dim light at the end of the tunnel. Now or never!
Accelerating, Rath made a full-length dive, grabbing Roddeck’s ankles and taking him to ground. Roddeck’s head crashed against a tram rail where he lay dazed. Rath snatched away his pistol, pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed him. The flashlight must have slipped out of Roddeck’s hand as he fell. Rath found it in a puddle and switched it on.
Roddeck looked up at him. ‘You?’ he said.
Rath pulled him up and pushed him back inside the decommissioned tunnel. ‘Where’s Engel? I hope for your sake he isn’t injured.’
They walked in silence back to Grimberg’s corpse. There was no sign of the captain. ‘I’d have settled for a confession, but now you’ve shown what you’re capable of, things should be a lot easier.’
‘I can’t imagine this operation was approved by the commissioner.’ Roddeck’s voice was steady again, almost as arrogant as before.
‘Of course not. You think the commissioner’s capable of blackmail?’
‘What are you up to, Rath? Are you threatening me?’
‘I want to make you an offer. That’s what blackmail is, after all, an exchange.’