There was a clear printed sign in the police car. It forbade the smoking of cigarette, cigar or pipe tobacco.
Sometimes, on the night shift, when they were parked up and waiting for a call on the radio, if he was with a friend, the policeman could wind down the windows and smoke in the car. Not with her, not with the bitch fresh out of the training school at Dummerstorf-Waldeck. She sat in the driver’s seat and pecked a plastic spoon into a carton of yoghurt, and he stood outside the car in the shadow beneath the block on Plater Strasse, and smoked a Dutch-made cigarillo. The wind brought the sleet shower off the Unterwarnow and across the Am Strande, funnelled it up the narrow road and gusted it into Plater Strasse. He cupped the cigarillo in his hand. He sheltered in the doorway of a shuttered restaurant. His arm was tugged. He had been watching her in the car, finishing the goddamn yoghurt, starting on the cholesterol-free sandwich filled with low-fat cheese and tomato. What she needed was a good smoke and a good drink and a good sausage and a good fuck. The recruits today were shit…
A street map was held in front of him. There was no light nearby. He shone his torch on the map and tried to hold it and his cigarillo and the map that blew in the wet wind. He strained to find the road he was asked for. The sleet came onto his spectacles. The knee came into his testicles. He gasped. The breath spurted from his throat. He was jack-knifed by the pain, head going down towards his knees, spectacles flying towards the paving. A hand chopped down on the back of his exposed neck, the hard heel of a hand. He was in the shadow behind the car, and the bitch ate her sandwich. He sagged to his knees and clutched at his stomach, fell. Hands tore at the pistol holster on his belt, ripped at the pouch for the handcuffs and their key. The sick pain squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the brush whisper of feet receding, running.
He crawled, gasping, heaving, towards the door of the police car where she ate her sandwich.
He had drunk the whisky, Scotch and Irish, from the room’s cocktail cupboard and now he opened the bourbon miniature.
It was always a long night for Albert Perkins before an operation was launched the following day. After the Jack Daniel’s there was gin, which he detested, and vodka, which he thought of as a woman’s drink, but he would not take out the champagne quarter-bottle, not when the result of the mission was undecided.
He had rung home four times, first at ten o’clock and then again on each hour. She should have been back by midnight. Certainly, by one o’clock she should have been home to complain that she was asleep and that he had woken her. He had not rung again after one o’clock. The ice was finished. It was always in hotel bedrooms, with the ice finished and the whisky, that he spent the nights before an operation went to its end.
The missions that mattered were those in which men such as Albert Perkins were powerless to intervene in the last crucial hours. They didn’t accept that powerlessness, those back home, those who commanded from the bunkers of the old Century House or the new Vauxhall Bridge Cross; of course they did not accept limit on their omnipotence. Albert Perkins knew it. He had once before, unusually consumed by his own frailty, drunk himself to oblivion on the night before the crucial hours.
There was a hotel at Luchow, south east on Route 216 from Luneburg, and across the minefields, fences and past the watch- towers was Salzwedel. It had taken eight months of Albert Perkins’s life, and a quarter of a million DMs, to get to the point where he had drunk a hotel cabinet dry and waited for a man to come through the checkpoint on the Luchow to Salzwedel road. The summer of ‘85, the trees along the road pretty on both sides of the minefields and the fences, the fields yellow with ripe crops either side of the watch-towers. No power, no influence. In his binoculars he had seen the car stopped at their checkpoint. All so dreary and mute through the magnification of the binoculars, a man taken out of a car and escorted into a building and then driven away until the car that carried him was lost among the fields and trees behind the minefields, the fences, the watch- towers. Nothing he could have done to intervene on the side of the NationalVolksArmee officer bringing over the Soviet battle order, defensive strategy.
He let the miniature bottle, the Jack Daniel’s, slip through his fingers and fall to the carpet. There was no tonic and no ice. He made a mix of orange juice and gin.
There were no minefields in Rostock, no death strips, no fences, no watch-towers and no dogs, but eating him was the same sensation of helplessness, of impotence, he had known too well. In three, four hours it would be dawn. With the dawn would come the start, the ticking clock, of the critical hours, and he would not be able to intervene. He reached, groped with a wavering hand, for the miniature of vodka, and he heard beyond the window the howl of police sirens in the night.
The great mouth of the hippopotamus crunched on the man, and he screamed. The scream filled his mind. He crabbed with his knees and the blankets would have slipped, and the cold would have settled on him. The scream… Josh woke.
He heard the scream of a siren going by the pension.
He shook, tried to scrape from his mind the intensity of the dream. Another siren was blasting further in the distance, and another coming closer. He glanced down at his watch, at the luminous markings, past three o’clock, and he looked across at her to see if she slept. He could see the shape of her in the bed, couldn’t hear her breathing, could hear only the sirens, as though they were cats chorusing. He settled. He turned his back to the window and her bed, and pulled the blankets close around him.
He shivered.
The draught blew on his back. Josh, so slowly, so carefully, turned over again and saw that the curtain, beyond the silhouette shape of her in the bed, blustered out into the room. Behind the curtain was the grinding sound of the window being forced upwards.
He tensed. He was naked under the blankets.
The curtains parted. It was hard for him to see. The leg edged between the curtains. He strained to see better. The window was half a dozen feet from the bed. The second leg came through the curtains, and Josh saw the bulk of the body looming above the bed where she slept, still, silent. The body shape, big against the curtain, moved towards the bed.
He had no weapon. Of course they’d found the fucking place. They’d had enough bloody days to find it.
He coiled his strength.
He erupted off his mattress.
The blankets caught in his legs and he thrashed them clear. He went over the bed, over her, groped for the shape. Waiting for the blow with a cosh or the flash hammer of a shot. Scrabbling to get his fingers into the bastard.
They were down.
They were beside the bed. Trying to get at the throat. He found the throat.
The gasped voice: ‘For fuck’s sake… Josh… leave it, leave it out…’
He was frozen rigid.
The coughing voice: ‘Christ, Josh… pack it… daft bugger, get off me!’
He knelt above her. He sighed into his lungs great draughts of chill air. He loosed his hands and they shook: he could not control them. He could have wept. She came from under him, wriggled clear of him. She crawled towards the bed and reached for the light switch. He knelt in his nakedness. She slammed down the window and fastened it. He saw the shape in the bed, a bolster and a pillow. She was dressed for the cold of the night and she rubbed gloved hands on her throat. He felt a great and savage bitterness. He stood, naked, in front of her, and he trembled.
‘You stupid bloody woman. I could have killed you. One punch, one kick, you were dead.’
There was a small gleam of wonderment on her face. Her face was bright flushed from the night wind, the sleet water sparked in her hair, and her eyes were wide in awe. ‘You’d have killed for me, Josh? For me?’