A Man Without Breath

The Mauser – minus the shoulder-stock which, split in two, now lay on the ground either side of my body – was still in my hand, and seeing this demanded that he ought to have pumped another shot into me just to make sure. Instead he shouldered his rifle on a strap and walked over to me, paused for a moment and lit a cigarette with a lighter. I didn’t see his face but I had an excellent view of his jackboots. Like his expensive notepaper and cigarettes the man was German. He inhaled loudly and then kicked at the gun in my hand with the toecap of a polished German jackboot. That was my cue. The next moment I was on my knee, ignoring the pain in my sternum and levelling the long barrel of the broom-handle at the man with the rifle and pulling the trigger without much thought for where the shot would hit him as long as it took him down. He cursed and reached for the carrying-strap and dropped his cigarette, but it was all too late. The shot spun him sharply to one side and I knew for sure that I had hit him in the left shoulder.

He was wearing an officer’s leather coat and a Stahlhelm; a pair of goggles sat up on the front of the helmet and a pair of thick motorcyclist’s gauntlets were tucked under his belt. He looked like a German but the beard was unmistakable. It was or had been Alok Dyakov, whom I now knew a little better as Major Krivyenko. He bit his lip and writhed on the ground from side to side as if trying to get comfortable. I ought to have shot him again, but I didn’t. Something stopped me from pulling the trigger a second time, although I badly wanted to.

This was just enough hesitation for him to come back at me with a bayonet in his hand.

I was up on my toes in a second and twisting around in an almost complete circle to avoid the sharp point of the blade. If I’d been the great Juan Belmonte with a cape in my hand I couldn’t have done it better. Then I shot him again. The second shot was as lucky for him as it was for me: the bullet went through the back of the hand holding the bayonet and this time he went down, clutching his hand and looking altogether incapable of mounting a third attack, but I kicked the side of his head anyway, just for good measure. I get upset when people try to shoot and then stab me within the space of a few minutes.

I let out a breath and gulped down some air.

After that the only problem I had was how to get Krivyenko to the prison in Kiewerstrasse. I didn’t have any manacles, the Tatra didn’t have a trunk I could throw him in, and the field radio that had been in the back of the car was now back at the castle. Kicking him in the head hadn’t helped much either, since that had merely rendered him unconscious – I was already regretting that. After a while I removed the leather shoulder-strap from his rifle and used it and my necktie to bind his arms together behind his back. Then I smoked a cigarette while I waited for him to come round. I decided it was best to question him before I took him into custody, and to do that properly I needed to have him to myself for a while.

Finally he sat up and groaned. I lit another cigarette, puffed it gratefully and then pushed it between his bloodied lips.

‘That was a good shot,’ I said. ‘Dead centre. In case you were wondering, the bullet hit the Mauser’s shoulder-stock. This is the same Mauser you used to shoot Dr Berruguete.’

‘I was wondering how you survived that, pizda zhopo glazaya.’

‘I’m just a lucky man, I guess.’

‘Pozhi vyom uvidim,’ he muttered. ‘If you say so. You know, you should thank me, Gunther. I could have killed you before and didn’t. At Krasny Bor.’

‘Yes, I can’t figure that. You must have had me plumb in your sights. Like tonight.’

‘At the time I just wanted you out of the way, not dead. Big mistake, huh?’ He puffed hard on the cigarette and nodded. ‘Thanks for the smoke but I’m done with it now.’

I took it out of his mouth and flicked it away.

‘The quality notepaper was a nice touch,’ I said. ‘I was ready to believe the author was a German. I presume it’s the field marshal’s personal notepaper you used. And asking for fifty marks. That was good, too. You don’t expect a man who’s asked you for money really just wants to shoot you.’ I glanced around. ‘I have to hand it to you. This place – it’s inspired. Quiet, out of the way, nobody to hear the shot. I walk in, like a rat into a trap, and you’re up there in the tower, with an excellent field of fire. Well, mostly. Tell me, what would have happened if I’d gone behind the church?’

‘You’d never have got that far,’ he said. ‘I don’t usually need a second shot.’

‘No, I guess not.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a drink on you, comrade?’

‘Matter of fact, I have.’ I took out a little hip flask – it was full of schnapps I’d stolen from the mess – and let him take a bite of it before taking one myself. I needed it almost as much as him; my chest felt like an elephant had stamped on it.