The Redbreast(166)

selfishness (which he called love!) was an affront

to the innermost essence of love. Couldn’t he see

the love that drove him was the absolute

antithesis of the love that drove her? Now I had

to sacrifice my dream of sharing a life with

Helena to give her a life, if not one of happiness,

then at least of decency, free of the degradation

that Brockhard would force her into.

The thoughts raced through my mind as I sped

along roads which were as tortuous as life itself.

But Daniel was in command of my hands and feet.

. . . discovered I was sitting on the edge of his

bed and gave me a look of disbelief.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Christopher Brockhard, you are a traitor,’ I

whispered. ‘And I sentence you to death. Are you

ready?’

I don’t think he was ready. People are never

ready to die; they think they will live for ever. I

hope he got to see the fountain of blood

stretching up towards the ceiling, I hope he got

to hear the splash on the bedding as it came

down again, but above all I hope he realised he

was dying.

In the wardrobe I found a suit, a pair of shoes

and a shirt which I hurriedly rolled up and

carried out under my arm. Then I ran out to the

car, started it . . .

. . . still asleep. I was soaked and cold from the

sudden downpour and crept under the sheets

towards her. She was as warm as an oven and

groaned in her sleep as I pressed myself up

against her. I tried to cover every centimetre of

her skin with mine, tried to delude myself into

thinking it was for ever, tried to avoid looking at

the clock. There were just two hours until my

train left. And just two hours until I would be a

hunted murderer over all of Austria. They didn’t

know when I would leave or which route I would

take, but they knew where I would go – and they

would be ready for me when I arrived in Oslo. I

tried to hold her tight enough to last me a

lifetime.

Harry heard the bell. Had it rung before? He found

the intercom and buzzed Weber in.

‘Right after sport on TV, this is what I hate most,’

Weber said as he stamped in fuming, and slammed

a flightcase the size of a suitcase down on the

ground. ‘Independence Day, the whole country off

their heads with national fervour, roads closed so

you have to drive all the way round the centre to

get anywhere. Holy Jesus! Where shall I begin?’

‘There are bound to be some good prints on the

coffee pot in the kitchen,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been

talking to a colleague in Vienna who is busy

looking for a set of prints from 1944. You brought

a scanner and a computer, did you?’

Weber patted the flightcase.

‘Great. When you’ve finished scanning in the

prints, you can connect my mobile to the computer

and send them to the email address listed under

“Fritz, Vienna”. He is sitting ready to compare

them with his set of prints and let us know

immediately. That’s basically it. I just have to read

through a few papers in the sitting room.’

‘What’s the . . . ?’

‘POT stuff,’ Harry said. ‘Need-to-know basis

only.’

‘Is that so?’ Weber bit his lip and gave Harry a

searching stare. Harry looked him in the eye and

waited.

‘Do you know what, Hole?’ he said finally. ‘It’s

good that someone in this country still behaves like

a professional.’

96

Oslo. 17 May 2000.

Hamburg. 30 June 1944.

After writing the letter to Helena, I opened my

canteen, shook out Sindre Fauke’s rolled-up ID

papers and replaced them with the letter. Then I

carved her name and address on it with the

bayonet and went out into the night. As soon as I

was outside the door I could feel the heat. The

wind tore at my uniform, the sky above me was a

dirty yellow vault and the only thing to be heard

above the distant roar of flames was cracking

glass and the screams of those who no longer had

anywhere to flee. It was more or less how I

imagined hell to be. The bombs had stopped

falling. I went along a street that was a street no

more, just a strip of tarmac running through an

open area with heaps of ruins. The only thing left

standing in the ‘street’ was a blackened tree

pointing up at the sky with witches’ fingers. And

a house in flames. That was where the screams

were coming from. When I was so close that my

lungs were scorched by every breath, I turned

and began to walk towards the harbour. That was

where she was, the little girl with the terror-

stricken black eyes. She pulled at my jacket,

screaming her heart out as I passed.

‘Meine Mutter! Meine Mutter!’

I continued on my way, there was nothing else I