The Man from Berlin by Luke McCallin Page A

Freilinger’s spartan office, where the major was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out the window. Reinhardt came to attention.
    â€˜Sit down, Captain,’ Freilinger rasped, turning back and moving to sit down behind his desk. He shook a mint from his tin and leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me what has happened in this case. Just the facts, fornow.’
    Reinhardt kept his report simple, especially as there was not much to report on. He told of the interviews with Frau Hofler and with Vukić’s mother. He told of the failed attempt to elicit information from the Feldgendarmerie. Freilinger listened in silence, his clear blue eyes rarely blinking. When Reinhardt had finished, he sat silently for a moment, then folded one hand within the other under his chin. ‘Now, tell me of your impressions, your feelings about this case.’ He twisted and flexed his hands, dry-washing them together.
    â€˜Well, sir. I have an infamous Croatian journalist who worked hard and, apparently, partied harder. Influential. Well connected. Politically active. Who seemed to like soldiers, experienced ones. Older ones. To have some kind of fixation on them, judging by the photographs in her house.’ He paused, going over what he had just said. It seemed to make sense, to fit with the nascent feelings he had about the investigation, about her. The dull rasp of Freilinger’s hands did not change. ‘I have an unhappy and recalcitrant police officer for a partner and liaison with the local force.’ An officer steeped, he did not say, in ideology and trained in police techniques that Reinhardt despised. That assigned crime and criminal impulses to people based on social and racial background, rather than motive and opportunity. ‘The Sarajevo police’s methods seem a bit… dated’ was all he said. ‘Because of the increasing political pressure that they are coming under to find someone to take the blame for Vukić’s murder, I am concerned the Sarajevo police are not interested in finding the real culprit, only someone to blame it on. They are experiencing high-level pressure from Zagreb. Putković will want this wrapped up soon, I’m sure.’
    â€˜Is it too early for a suspect of your own, Captain?’
    Reinhardt looked back at Freilinger, at the shift and slither of his hands. ‘Yes, sir. Too early.’
    â€˜The most likely, in your opinion?’
    â€˜Sir, respectfully, I must decline to be drawn on that.’
    â€˜Oh?’ Freilinger’s hands paused in their movements, fingers interlinking and falling still. ‘Your next steps, Captain,’ he said, dropping the subject.
    â€˜Sir, I have an appointment with Inspector Padelin tomorrow to speak with members of Vukić’s production team. I will also speak with Major Gord. He is in the propaganda companies and was mentioned by Vukić’s mother as being friends with her daughter. I will be visiting a nightclub tonight that Hendel and Vukić apparently frequented. I also hope I may have greater success with the Feldgendarmerie in reviewing their traffic records.’
    â€˜Yes, that you should have,’ rasped Freilinger. ‘I do not know what happened with my request, but I made it in good time and order. Becker may be playing games with you, and I’m sure not much I could say would change your mind about that. But someone over there is not treating this with the urgency I requested. If you do not have what you need tomorrow morning, I will personally intervene.’
    â€˜Sir, in addition to their traffic records, I would like to see a list of attendees at the planning conference for Operation Schwarz.’ He did not mention he had completely forgotten about it. He opened his notebook to the page he had marked. ‘We were briefed about it last week, on Tuesday,’ he said, scanning his notes. ‘Final preparations for Operation Schwarz.