Emerald Decision

Therefore, if this reaches you, and you have the time, come to me and we shall go over some very old times together. I doubt you have ever known what happened to your father, and perhaps it is time you did.

* * *

It was as bald and provoking as the trailer to a mystery film. McBride was amused, intrigued and disturbed in a complex moment of emotion. Instinctively, as soon as he had read the signature he moved away from the window and laid the letter carefully on the writing-table. Gilliatt had deliberately constructed his story with a novelist's sense of having to grab his reader. Half a dozen mysteries were hinted at, and strangers moved at the edges of the page, concealed in shadow. McBride felt himself enmeshed, as it was intended he should be.

The room darkened as he revolved the last paragraphs in his mind, and sipped the last of the drink. When the telephone rang, it startled him out of his reverie, but with the shock of cold water, or a threat. He shrugged, smiling away the insidious effect of the letter.

'McBride.'

The voice was distant, official, clipped.

'Herr Professor Thomas McBride?'

'Yes, who is that?'

'The Embassy of the Deutsches Democratisches Republik.' McBride felt an irrational chill, an aftermath of his day-dreaming, then recollected his hoped-for outcome of the call. Yet now he was impatient not to go to East Berlin, just as over the past weeks he had pestered the DDR authorities for a 'scholar's visa' for the chance to inspect archives on the other side of the Wall. He tried to shake off Gilliatt's unspecified claims on his time.

'Yes?'

'Your permission to visit Berlin to consult certain historical records has been granted, Herr Professor.' A pause into which McBride should have dropped his gratitude like a silver collection.

'Thank you, but I'm afraid I'm very busy right now—'

'Herr Professor, the visa and the other papers are valid only for a few days. Besides, the importance of the papers you wish to see—'

'Yes, I see—'

'You wish to refuse this excellent, unique opportunity, Herr McBride?' There was academic demotion in the mode of address. 'Herr Professor Goessler of the University, our leading expert on these documents returned to the Democratisches Republik by our Soviet friends — and one of our leading authorities on the Fascist period—' A slight pause, as if the sentence had escaped him in its own complexity, then: 'He has agreed to place himself at your disposal—' It was not an inducement; rather, quiet outrage.

'I see—' Gilliatt's letter was indecipherable on the table in the darkness of the room. Smaragdenhakkette. Who could tell?

Why in hell should Menschler get the last laugh? It was as if the writing on the pages of the letter were in secret ink, and the warmth applied to its revelation had now gone, and the symbols were disappearing once more. He shrugged.

'Sure — and thanks. Thanks. I'll drive up to Bonn tomorrow and collect the papers.'

'Good. But that is not necessary — they have been put in the post to you today. You may book a flight for tomorrow afternoon. Good hunting, Herr Professor.'

The official broke the connection. McBride was left with the return of an older and more powerful scent than the fate of a father he had never known. He did not for one moment consider why the East German embassy should be concerned with his unimportant documents at eight in the evening.

CHAPTER TWO Arrivals

November 1940

Don't freeze, don't freeze—

Awareness running through his body, concentrating for split-seconds in the soles of his feet, his hands, the centre of his back where the rifle or machine-pistol would be aimed, the back of his head. The moment of silence after the soldier had given his order, and McBride listened for the first step back, the adjustment the German would make to let him drop at a safe distance. No scuffle of boots—

Drop!

His hands seemed to come unstuck from the icy guttering very, very slowly, and his body drop through the air much too unaffected by gravity — he was floating, it wouldn't work — and his body could see the gun, the white upturned face backing away — then his boots hit the soldier a glancing blow, his fall was broken, he struck the concrete heavily, winded, rolled over, tried to get up and knew he was moving as awkwardly as if his legs were under water, then saw the German down on one knee, trying even more slowly to bring the machine-pistol to bear. He'd been caught by McBride's lack of delay, but he was recovering. McBride's arm and shoulder hurt from impact with the ground as he thrust up into a crouch, and hurled himself against the German, felt the rough serge of the field-grey against his cheek, the cold metal of collar-tabs, the edge of the helmet against his head — heaved rather than cannoned against the soldier, knocking him backwards. He heard the explosion of breath, the sharp clatter of the machine-pistol, as he rolled over the German, raised his upper torso and looked down into the young, scared face, its mouth opening much too slowly to yell. McBride pulled at the helmet strap, and jerked the head back. The mouth contorted, remained silent except for a gurgle, then McBride struck the German with his fist, below the ear. The head lolled when he let it free.

Immediately, he climbed to his feet, aware of the shadows alongside the shed, sensing the rain-blown night, aware of the silence beyond the muffled noises from inside. Then he dragged the unconscious — possibly dead — soldier up against the corrugated wall and left him, moving away immediately towards the pier-end of the shed. When he reached it, he paused. There was another hour and a half before the shifts changed, and he could not wait. The German would be unaccounted for within five minutes.

He was surprised at the manner in which his mind sought the amusing, the unexpected, solution, even as he looked at his watch and some more urgent part of the organism collected swiftly the few sensory impressions along the pier. A radio, muffled hammering, the spit of welding equipment, the patter of the sleet against the wall of the shed. He turned round with deliberate calm, and walked back to the unconscious German.

He bent over him. There was breathing, tired and quiet. He lifted the head like an easily bruised fruit, and removed the helmet. Then he tugged the German out of his greatcoat, the back of which was sodden, and removed his boots. He removed his own donkey-jacket and boots, became in seconds a German soldier. He buttoned the greatcoat right to the throat, picked up the machine-pistol, and returned to the pier. He paused only for a moment, as if patting mental pockets for required and necessary equipment, then began walking with a tired, bored shuffle towards the warehouse and the barrier.

And with each step the nerves increased, as he knew they would however much he attempted to disguise them in confidence, in indifference. He was aware of his heart-rate increasing, of his body-temperature rising; employed deep-breathing to calm himself, gripped more tightly the stubby barrel of the machine-pistol.

He was past the warehouse, and the barrier at the end of the pier was the only thing in his vision, when someone spoke in German, and he knew the voice was addressing him. The man he appeared to be. But he caught the note of uncertainty, too, just as clearly as he heard the footsteps coming from the side of the warehouse, closing on him.

'Friedrich, where the devil have you been? Friedrich—?'

The puzzled tone hung on the air like frost. McBride was a hundred yards or so from the barrier, and a man he could not turn to see was coming from behind him. Each footstep separated in time, almost to the rhythm of the dance-music he could hear from a radio. He half-turned, and slipped, sliding onto his back, his greatcoat billowing like a skirt. The soldier behind him burst into laughter.

'Friedrich, you're pissed, you bastard! Where is it, where's the drink, you selfish little—?'

McBride rolled onto his side, propped on one elbow, the machine-pistol pointing up into the German's