Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (novels to read .txt) 📕

nose, sniffed it. Nothing. Just a faint mustiness, the fug of the bookshop, the scent of a thousand stories.

His gesture made the old man smile.

‘She’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You want to stay the night here?’

‘No.’ Nehmann shook his head. ‘One favour? Do you mind?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Please tell her I love her.’

‘Just that?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ he smiled. ‘Is there anything else?’

*

Outside, in the tiny courtyard, Nehmann could make out the shapes of three bicycles propped against the back wall. He still had the letter, but he’d left the book with the old man. He slipped the letter into the breast pocket of his jacket. There was a wooden door beside the bicycles. The bottom bolt was stiff beneath his fingers and it took a moment or two to wrestle it free.

His hand found the handle and latch and he half turned to take a final look at the back of the terrace before he left. One of those windows, he told himself, belongs to Maria’s room. Her world. Her bed. Her smell. He half closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it might have been like if he hadn’t put her in harm’s way, if she hadn’t played like an angel, if she hadn’t been taken hostage by the little dwarf out at Bodensee. Then he shook his head, knowing that what-if games like this were the shortest cut to madness, and he pulled the back gate open to make his escape.

For a split second the bulky shape of the waiting bodyguard confused him. Then he realised that this little movie had arrived at its final reel.

‘Komm, Nehmann,’the bodyguard grunted.

Nehmann nodded, said nothing, feeling the huge hand tighten around his upper arm. Game, set and match, he thought vaguely. ‘Happy fucking Christmas. So much for Der Überlebende.’

*

The bodyguard took him along the narrow lane that ran the length of the terrace. Back in Kopernikusstrasse, the Mercedes was still waiting, the rear door already open. Nehmann paused on the kerbside. He thought he could see the paleness of a watching face in the darkness of the bookshop, but he couldn’t be certain.

‘Get in, please.’ The bodyguard was losing patience.

Nehmann felt pressure in the small of his back. He glanced up and down the street, tempted to make a run for it, but then the bodyguard pushed him into the back of the car and the opportunity had gone. The driver half turned behind the wheel. They were to drive him to the airfield at Tempelhof. There, said the driver, he would be put on an aircraft and returned to Stalingrad.

‘To do what?’

‘I have no idea, HerrNehmann. Hasn’t the Minister told you?’

Nehmann didn’t answer the question. Instead he said he wanted to go first to Wannsee.

‘Why?’

‘I need to see somebody. I have something for them. Call it a gift.’

‘A Christmas present?’

‘Yes.’

The driver had turned back to check his watch. Now he was staring out at the street. Nehmann could see his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

‘He’s close, this friend?’ he asked.

‘She.’

‘Ja? Someone important to you?’

‘Very.’

‘OK.’ He nodded and reached for the ignition key. ‘Five minutes only. You give me directions, ja?’

*

The drive out to Wannsee took less than half an hour. Nehmann was trying to remember the exact location of Messner’s house and, once they’d found the road that skirted the lake, he asked the driver to slow down and give him a good look at each property as it slipped past. The tree in the corner of the front garden, he told himself. Where the pet rabbit had been buried.

Finally, he recognised the house and told the driver to stop. The property was in darkness but that meant nothing because the blackout rules applied out here, too.

‘It’s late,’ the driver muttered. ‘And it’s Christmas Day. What kind of time is this to pay a visit?’

‘You want to bring me back tomorrow? The next day?’ Nehmann was searching deep in his kitbag. ‘I’d be very happy with that.’

‘Ja.And pigs might fly.’ The driver tapped his watch. ‘Five minutes. And Hans goes with you.’

‘Lucky Hans.’

The driver ignored the comment. Nehmann’s fingers had closed over his present for Beata. He pulled it out. Hans was the bodyguard beside him. He got out and circled the car, holding the door open for Nehmann. Nehmann stepped out and stood motionless for a moment on the icy pavement, enjoying the chill of the wind. He was past mere hunger, now. Far out on the lake he could hear the throaty chatter of what sounded like ducks.

‘You still want to do this?’ It was Hans.

Nehmann nodded. Hans followed him down the path to the front door. Nehmann rapped twice, then again. Stepping back and looking up, he caught a twitch in the blackout curtain and the brief hint of a face. Then came footsteps from inside and a male voice.

‘Ja?’

‘My name’s Werner Nehmann. I’m a friend of Georg Messner.’

‘You are?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, where is he? Tell me something about him. What does he look like?’

Nehmann realised his story was being put to the test. Very sensible.

‘He’s tall. He flies airplanes. His face is a mess. Was.’

‘Was?’

‘Please open the door. I need to talk to his wife.’

There was a brief pause. The door opened.

‘You mean my wife. Her name’s Beata.’

‘Werner Nehmann.’ Nehmann extended a hand. ‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Dieter Merz. What’s that in your hand?’

Nehmann wouldn’t say. Merz was as small as he was. He was wearing pyjamas under a dressing gown that was several sizes too big. His feet were bare and when Nehmann asked whether he was cold he nodded.

‘Of course, I’m cold,’ he said. ‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s difficult. Can I talk to your wife?’

‘She’s in bed.’

‘Can you get her down? It’s important.’

Merz was frowning. He wanted to know about the other figure at his front door.

‘He’s a friend of mine,’ Nehmann said. ‘He’s doing me a favour.’

‘You said “was” just now. What does that mean? Has something happened to Georg? Something bad?’

Nehmann was beginning to lose patience. Five minutes was nothing. Then another face appeared, and he recognised Messner’s