Читать книгу Battlefield Berlin - Reginald Rosenfeldt - Страница 6

Michael Herold had his car parked before the familiar facade of the "Bull Tavern Eyes" and yawned. The shopping trip with Elzbieta had lasted the entire afternoon, and now it thirsts him for a refreshing “red barrel”. The mild and sweet strong beer flowed only in a few Berlin pubs and Michael enjoyed it still in one of his familiar taverns. Poured to the brim, and contrary to the usual English practice, served ice cold.

"Cheers!" Michael opened the red-painted door and noticed immediately above the crowd, Bills tangled gray hair. The lanky host stood motionless behind his counter and celebrated the holy procedure of non-foam beer spigot. With a pleased smile, he looked up from the beer glass, which he held at a right angle under the tap, and Herold replied the silent greeting with his raised right hand.

"Good," he sighed. Before he had not ordered two beers, there was no need, to talk earnestly with Bill. All right then, be prepared for a long and hard night! Cheerful, Michael snaked through the crowded room, and in passing, he hit a sergeant against the shoulder. "Everything all right, Peter?"

"Couldn't be better!" The sergeant grinned apologetically with his full mouth and seasoned, without looking up, his portion of fish and ships with a few drops of vinegar. Like most of the professional soldiers who are here, was he stationed in the nearby Brooke barracks, and visited the tavern really just for a quiet game of darts. The colorful plastic arrows whizzed today, accompanied by loud comments, unerringly through the dense tobacco smoke, and the current score quoted an officer of the Royal Air Force on the venerable slate plate next to the toilet door.

Herold admired for a moment the illegible numbers, before he took a step forward, and squeezed himself between two soldiers at the counter. The uniformed man next to his left shoulder moved a little to the side, and Michael grabbed unasked a half-pint of the reddish beer, that stands before the sink.

"Cheers Bill!" The gaunt Scot just arched the right eyebrow and pushed instead of an answer the next empty jug under the beer tap.

Michael Herold smiled amused; it was again a typical reaction of Bill. Unpredictable and contradictory, like his entire biography. According to his own humorous memories, failed he 1945 miserably at the strictly prohibited fraternization with the German "Misses", and he has only the choice between the green hills of Scotland and an emerald-colored pair of eyes. Bill met after a hard night the only right decision, married Edith exactly one month after his discharge from the army, and saw his native Inverness only sporadically on vacation again. Countless professional failures loaded the beginning of the marriage, and only in the late sixties Bill's bad luck changed in one fell swoop.

He took over a run-down bar and changed her within a year in a beautifully decorated pub. Here discovered the nearby stationed soldiers soon a piece of home, and the rest of the neighborhood simply estimate the good beer. The true heart of the "Bull Eyes tavern" but was and remained only Bill. Through his unwavering optimism no ordinary worries seems to touch him, and it was this satisfaction, that light up again on his face, when he asked Michael cheerfully: "Finally leisure, or still on the hunt? Raiders of the missing clue, eh? "

"Is this a try, to scare away a regular customer?” Michael Herold approved himself a long sip and looks searchingly around. "Speaking of it, I miss some of your regular customers. Could it be that the beer is maybe a bit warm tonight?"

"Come on, Mike! You know very well that the boys sweat already in the barracks for the real thing!" Bill paused, when he noticed Michael’s uncomprehending face. “Hey, you're really not informed about the big show. Wake up, Mike, "operation hibernation"! The annual maneuver in Spandau! Properly complete with street fighting, training ammunition and tanks. My God, speak with Peter; he cannot wait, that he runs with blackened face through the old town of Spandau."

Bill pointed with his freshly polished Guinness glass on the sergeant. "For a beer or two, he gives you a copy of the marching orders; assuming you had enough time for this kind of peanuts. I think, Charley's death keep you pretty busy.”

"Honestly, Bill, I have always admired your delicate nose." Michael Herold took Leos photo from his wallet and pushed it with his index finger between the completely purged beer glasses. "This man must have been here about three, four days ago. He spoke broken German with a slight French accent."

“Aye! I knew right away that the guy is not clean!"

A cold glint shone in Bill's gray eyes, as he handed back the photo. "I suppose that's one of Charley's Polish business partners? That would explain at least, why he has dared to make an appointment with the stinkers in my pub."

"What?"

"The G.O.S, Mike! Despite the house ban, the guys came simply through my door and this time even her big boss Glaser was with them. Unmoved, he dealt with your Polish friend and disappeared then again."

Externally completely quiet, seized the Scot a new glass and held it to the light. "So what is it this time? Sell the Poles now duty-free whiskey from the Naafi club?"

Bill looked for a moment in surprise upon Michael, then an incredulous smile light up his distinctive facial features. "You have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, right? Mike, your friend has a connection with the G.O.S!"

"Leo and the German Object Service?" Herold shook his head in surprise. "My God, on this club I would not even bet on in my worst dreams!"

"Yes, the boys are always good for bad news." Bill swapped the stale beer against a fresh draft. Rinse water dripped down from the fluted beer glass and Herold pulled thoughtfully with his finger a wet line over the table.

"The G.O.S! That's not Charley's weight class, not even his league. And anyway…” After a side glance at the faces of his uninvolved neighbors, Michael lowered precautionary his voice. "Don't get me wrong, but I just can't understand, why a low-paid German security service guarded the allied facilities. This makes only bad blood on both sides!"

"Why do you ask me? The G.O.S. people are so hated by the soldiers, that they have demolished my pub last year alone twice. Since then, they have a house ban."

"Nevertheless, they have arranged a meeting with Leo." Herold took the carefully filled to the brim glass, and took a sip. "This G.O.S. Chief, Glaser, where is he actually stationed?"

"Paul Vincent Glaser protects the supermarket on the site of the old prison for war criminals and has always unrestricted access to all storehouses."

"Well fantastic; then the goat is once again the gardener."

"Rather, the hungry wolf is now the shepherd! As far as I was able to follow the discussions, Glaser seeks a customer for its freshly slaughtered lambs, and he found him now in Poland."

"Leopold Oblonsky is a fucking boaster, which would not have come far, without Charley's relationships." Herold looked angrily to Bills uninterested face."These two gullible idiots! They probably do not even know, what the damned deal really includes, and then something went horribly wrong!"

Bill nodded sagely. Concentrated, he filled twelve shot glasses with Irish cream and handed the service tray to a red-haired student, who was waiting in front of the bar counter. Michael replied the fugitive smile of the girl and turned back to the Scots.

"Was Glaser before the ban your regular customer?"

"His visits in recent years, you can count at one hand. I gained not much from him, because the guy has never drunk more than two bitters. But then, he plays the strong leader with all the usual trimmings: Short trimmed hair, sharp clothing, and loud commands."

Bill paused and surveyed for a moment the like a second skin fitting jeans of the waitress. Without averting his eyes from the girl, that bent over the table, in a very hot position, he uncorked a malt whiskey decanter and poured two glasses.

"Cheers!" Thoughtful, the Scot dabbed his lips dry. "I know, you do not give much at unproved rumors, but last year a welsh drank away with this gorgeous fabric most of his salary. The Major was one of the buddies, which everybody likes, and after the first round of drinks, he owned the undivided attention of his audience. Clever as he was, he amused them with funny stories about his previous deployments, and I have listened in the beginning with only half an ear. But then, I heard a certain name, and I felt how my stomach clenched. Jesus, I thought; finally has someone requests information on Glaser's past!"

"I see, Glaser own your full attention."

“Some people I never let out of my eyes, as a preventive measure. For the Benefit!”

Contrary to his usual practice, Bill approved himself a second drink, and stared then thoughtfully into the empty tumbler.

"Anyway, the Major swears, that he hit upon Glaser about eight years ago. Somewhere near Mittenwald. In these days, Glaser flew a large transport helicopter, and that was the way, he smuggled drugs from the magazines of the German Bundeswehr. Through some unfortunate coincidence, over which the Major did not want talk, Glaser unexpectedly finished the drug traffic. Virtually overnight, he ended his career as a professional soldier and disappeared from Bavaria. The Major had forgotten the history, if not Glaser had checked him at Gatow airfield, some years later. You can imagine his face, when he realized, that this loser sat again at the trigger."

With two experienced handles, Bill collected the empty whiskey glasses, and looked on the hands of the big wall clock. "It is now just before ten. If you hurry a little bit, you still can see the big man personally."

"Sometimes you're talking fucking obscure."

"Glaser and his crew play, almost every night, snooker, in a barrel house, called “Siedlereck”. This is her favorite pub and is located just around the corner. With a little luck, you can meet them there tonight."

"Sounds quite interesting; and where can I find the friendly pub?"

"I'll call a cab."

"That's not necessary. Only a last drive to the “Settlers corner”; trust my word."

"You should not underestimate the malt" The Scotsman put the phone back on the fork and shook his head disapprovingly. "All right, you have to know for yourself, what you're doing. So then, you cannot miss the pub. Bending simply left in the Johanna-Street and cross the next two intersections; then you see the “Settlers corner” already. Drive possible no faster than thirty, the streets are still paved with the old pre-war cobblestones. And Michael, visited me not first in four weeks. I want to experience your adventure with Glaser as soon as possible!”

"No problem, I call you." Michael Herold gave the waitress a harmless smile and strolled out into the street. Not quite sober, sat he in his car, started the engine, and drove a few minutes later into the sleepy Johanna-Street. A cat scurried through the headlights, and Michael narrowed his tired eyes for a moment. A little bit blurred, recognized he a red neon sign at the facades of a two-story house and a faint light illuminated the irresistible offer: "FOOD AS GOOD AS BY MOTHER."

The delicious message seems to be accepted, because before the building stood even too this time five cars. Herold rolled slowly past them and parked in the gleam of the next gas lantern. With a brief gesture, he turned the ignition key, and looked critically at the nocturnal street. Dark detached houses loomed like silhouettes against the cloudy sky and right next to him blocked a high wall the view. PAUL'S COAL BUNKER stood on the crumbling plaster and the faded letters remind Michael at his long past childhood.

Involuntarily, he saw the rickety horse-drawn carriages before his inner eye, where he interchanged potato peelings for firewood. Soot was on the crusted snow and the air smelled of the smoke from the millions of chimneys. Even for a moment felt Herold under his hands the warm tiles of the parental furnace, and returned then slowly back into the present time.

Pedantic, he completed his car, and walked along the stone wall to the “Settlers corner”. From the half opened windows echoed a mélange of hysterical laughter and German pop, and suddenly pulsated again the old, familiar hunting fever through Michael veins. Now there was no turning back, with both hands he ruffled his hair, and opened with the tried-friendly face of a professional drinker, the door.

Immediately, enveloped him a cloud of tobacco smoke and stale air, which was so narcotic, that he stopped a moment astride on the threshold. Desperately fighting for his balance, he looked like a reveler, who had run into the wrong pub. Slightly confused, he stared into the long room, and probed unobtrusively the terrain.

"Really fantastic; a dilapidated, and for years no longer renovated tavern." The “Settlers corner” had like the overdriven music, experiencing her best time in the late sixties. On the walls pasted flower-patterned wallpapers, and several dusted glass slides presented the proud faces of a cone team. Between the photographs dangled two rat medals and on a poster smiled a child out a foamy beer mug.

"Cheers, old boy!" Michael crossed the room and stood then in front of the counter. "A beer and a schnapps!"

Behind the bar, the host slowly lowered a motorcycle newspaper, and Michael grinned him cheekily in the face. "A half pint, of course!"

Slowly pushed the man with the greasy leather vest a glass under the beer tap and put a nondescript bottle on the table.

"No big business today?" Michael regarded the unintelligible growl as an answer and nodded sagely. "Well, is just not every day Sunday. That’s the way, life goes."

Further conversation did not seem to be necessarily desirable, and so Michael leaned against the counter, and stared unabashedly at the shabby surroundings. To his right, led a round archway in a dimly lit side room, and right by the window perched the guests, which he had heard in the street. The four old people babbled their incomprehensible disputes in such a volume, that Michael almost had ignored the sound of billiard balls. Click, click, click, came it like a distant Morse signal from the next room, and Michael smiled grimly. The secret message had reached him, but this was not the right moment, to follow the siren call.

"So Chief, a little blonde, and brandy. Cheers! "Herold turned around and dumped the contents of the small glass in a gulp. The cheap alcohol tastes as disgusting, as he had expected, and the beer has not enough carbonation.

"A second couple?"

"Rather not. I still must drive back to the other side of Berlin, and that was not the first beer on this beautiful day."

Michael grinned sheepishly and looked again to the table at the window. The heated debate apparently had just reached its peak, because the older of the two men shoved back his chair. Visibly upset, he pulled the waistband of his worn corduroy trousers over the considerable paunch, and staggered to the blaring jukebox. Breathing heavily, he stopped at the illuminated menu, and studied the coins in his palm. What for a sight! Michael could almost read the thoughts of the drunkard. "Shit, what I just press? Rex or maybe Roy? Which, of the two German Pop-kings had the honor?"

Herold nodded sympathetically and put down his half-full glass. With a pained expression, he looked questioningly at the host.

"Straight through and then just the door to the right!" The man flipped his magazine, without a further look at Michael, and studied further the glossy photo of a Harley, including the obligatory blonde on the saddle.

"Very sharp shape!" Herold left open, whether he mean the motor bike or the naked model. Leaning slightly forward, he stalked toward the toilet, while he was eyeing the restless shadows behind the archway.

In the dim light, the men were not clearly visible, because the low hanging lamp illuminated only the pool table. On its soft green, waited colored balls like precious relics, and Michael strolled with the face of an avid drinker past them. A goofy grin played across his lips, as he watches the momentary player. The man paused in his movement and looked slowly up from his billiard queue. With a suspicious glance his eyes followed the passing man, and let him not out of focus. Herold shook his left hand in an annoying gesture, and was hoping he plays it right. Okay, he was nothing more than a harmless habitual drunkard, a flabby philistine that wants no big trouble.

Burping, Michael stumbled past the men that lurk in the shadows, and from the corners of his eyes, he registered now the close-cropped skulls and tight leather jackets. Heavy combat boots and black jeans completed the deliberately military looking clothes, and at this sight, his stomach clenched involuntarily.

"Tricked" he muttered in a burst of grim gallows humor, and decided now, to finish the research for the evening. For him, the boys exuded such a suspicious aura into the room that any normal conversation was out of mind. Michael scolds indistinctly to himself to emphasize his innocent appearance, and grabbed the toilet door, when they was violently opened. For a few seconds a muscular figure blocked his view, and before Michael could even react, a wide shoulder rammed him recklessly out of the way.

"Hey buddy, watch your manners!" By the protesting words the man immediately stopped his stride and slowly turned around. He probably wants only give a threatening look to the drunken fellow, but then a jolt went through his body, and he narrowed alarmed his eyes.

"Crap!" Michael Herold cursed silently. "Very big crap!" Before him stood the bald-headed G.O.S. pig from Leos Sex Shop, and the guy had him immediately recognized.