A Young Man's Game Read online

  In front of it was the waiter, holding a phone to his ear. Alec couldn’t see his face, but he could hear part of the conversation, in German, with a Slavic accent:

  ‘… No, he got away. Come pick me up, before the Police get here,’ the waiter turned and looked the other way; shadows obscured his face in the night light.

  Come on, step closer to the streetlight, Alec willed, let me see your face, you bastard. To Alec’s immense frustration the waiter stayed where he was. Alec could hear sirens in the far distance, a stream of people left the bar, they must have discovered Jaromir, not wanting the rest of their evening spent talking to the Police, and they quickly dispersed.

  A car drove up to the bar, headlights blazing, a silver Mercedes C-Class with tinted side windows, Alec tried to see the driver, but from his vantage point, the driver was on the opposite side of the car. The glare of the headlights momentarily exposed the waiter, but too quickly for Alec to register. The car stopped, and the waiter walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. The interior light came on, and this time Alec could clearly see both the driver and the waiter as he got in the car. The driver was looking in Alec’s direction when the door opened, he had a wide neck, supporting a large square head, a rough scar leading from his left eyebrow to his hairline, his hair shaved close, in short, dark bristles. Alec hoped his tramp disguise held. The waiter was in profile; he was smaller than the driver, less physically imposing, medium brown wavy hair, swept back by a hair band, a distinctive bump on his long nose, drying blood trailing out of one nostril. The waiter slammed the door shut, the light went off, and the car sped away. Alec tried to read the license plate, but dirt obscured it.

  Alec closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, his hands shaking and his heart still playing a drum solo to its audience of one. He heard the distinctive two-tone siren of the Berlin Polizei getting closer. Come on Alec; sort yourself out, north or south? The nearest underground station is Schönhauser Allee, to the north, Alec thought, about ten minutes away, fifteen if I don’t head straight there. You must move. He struggled to his feet using his hands against the wall for support, his legs were like lead, from the cold, concrete floor and the unfamiliar exertion he had put them through. He left the alcove and headed north-east along Pappelallee, hugging the wall as he went to keep away from the glare of the streetlights. He reached Stargarder Strauss, a wide crossroads, and watched as a Police car, siren wailing, blue lights flashing turn into Pappelallee and head towards the bar. As he waited for the lights to change so he could cross, he thought about which way to go. Left into Stargarder was the quickest and more direct way to the underground, but the Police car had come from that direction and when they radio for assistance at the bar, more will come. They may recognise me from any descriptions given by staff. Caution is better than boldness here, maybe I should go to the next station out, Vinetastraße, it’ll be even further, but it's less likely to be being watched. Alec shook his head, this is ridiculous, I was never this indecisive in the field. Choose a course and stick with it, none of this dithering, I’m liable to get myself arrested or killed, got to get safe and figure out what the hell just happened. He decided to go to Vinetastraße station, which was further, but safer. The lights changed, and he moved on to Stahlheimer Straße, leaving the Police, the bar and Jaromir behind.

  ◆◆◆

  Alec was walking briskly down Neumannstraße, trying to warm himself up, the street was a lot more residential than previous streets, large, grey, four-storey maisonettes flanked him on either side, neatly trimmed, thigh high, hedgerows ran alongside marking the boundary of the properties and the pavement. Alec had settled himself down and was thinking over what had happened. The waiter’s accent fits with what Jaromir said about an Englishman trying to recruit Eastern-European help. Can it be possible? Why would an Englishman be looking to murder a Government Minister in Berlin? Surely, it’d be easier back in England, make it look like an accident or suicide. Mind you, Jaromir didn’t say it was an English Minister; it could be a German... Arthur and I will have to figure it out when… Alec was woken from his thoughts by a silver sedan car in the distance, turning onto Neumannstraße from Eschengraben, slowly coming towards him. That looks like a Mercedes, he thought. His stomach flipped, and he looked around for somewhere to hide. There were tall trees in the pavement, every ten to twenty metres, with long, slim trunks providing little cover; there were no alcoves he could hide in this time. By the time he thought about the hedgerow beside him, he could see two male occupants in the car looking at either side of the street. Without further hesitation, he rolled himself over the hedge.

  He landed, hard, on his back with a smack, causing his diaphragm to spasm, Alec’s eyes bulged as he realised he couldn’t breathe, he forgot about the car, the men and their guns, and fought the urge to panic. The memory of prep school: playing pirates among the ancient oak trees in the school grounds, surfaced in his mind. The times he and his friends would fall while climbing the tallest tree, or in their minds, the rigging of the highest mast of a ship, the wind being knocked out of them, lying in agony among the fallen leaves and scattered acorns. It helped him remember that this feeling was temporary and would pass. He calmed himself down and waited for the block of ice in his chest to melt, the paralysis to fade, and the pain to recede. Eventually, it went, like it always had, leaving a dull ache across his shoulders, and a twinge in his spine when he moved. He struggled to his knees, slightly sinking in the damp flowerbed behind the hedge. He listened before raising his head, trying to hear a car, to make out whether they were still there or not. There were no discernible sounds, so he decided to risk a glance. He lifted his head, slowly, over the hedge, being careful not to overbalance and fall forwards into it, looking left and right he could not see any vehicles moving or any people walking down the street. I suppose it’s nearly eleven; most people are in bed by now, as they have work in the morning. At least the U-bahn is still running, it closes at one thirty. I’ll be back at the embassy well before then. With that thought and a loud exhalation he got to his feet, with his soles slipping slightly on the slick grass, he made it to the pavement and continued up Neumannstraße, this time walking a lot closer to the hedge, ready to dive behind it at a moment’s notice.

  Alec passed the Netto supermarket on his right, with its car park reassuringly empty of silver Mercedes’, the building’s normal light-yellow façade, a dull grey in the shadows. He continued until he passed a bright pink apartment block and knew he was at the junction with Vinetastraße. His knees and feet were hurting him now, each step felt like needles jabbing away at the soles of his feet. He was sure there was a blister forming. The walk after the shooting, combined with the earlier saunter through the city, was by far the most he had walked in a very long time, and he was suffering for it. Too many years sat behind a desk, old man, the station is not far, and then you’ll be able to sit down. You should have listened to Sara when she visited last year. She said you should have dumped your antique phone and upgraded to a smartphone, you could have got an UberTaxi back on Stahlheimer and been at the embassy, brandy in your hand, warming yourself by Arthur’s fire. Alec pictured Sara’s face, the disgust evident as he pulled out his phone to answer a call, then the fireplace in Newbury’s office, dark wrought iron, with its blazing logs, their comforting occasional pop and crackle, and the inviting, sweet smell of the burning wood. He shook his head and turned his internal castigation off and concentrated on his surroundings. He had survived this long by being cautious and wasn’t going to change now to satisfy that nagging voice. He continued down Vinetastraße, slightly limping now, past apartment blocks in varying hues of grey. He resisted the urge to quicken his pace, physically holding himself back, as he saw the end of the road in the distance, the intersection with Berliner Straße. Knowing that the Vinetastraße U-bahn station was just around the corner, that just past the Tchibo coffee shop on the corner, were the subway steps to cross the busy street to reach the underground platform.
/>   A figure stepped out from behind one of the tall trees lining the pavement, approximately four metres separated them. Alec recognised the man by the hair band and the silenced gun he was holding.

  ‘I think that’s far enough,’ the waiter said in accented English. ‘You will come with us now.’

  Alec didn’t have time to react; the driver of the Mercedes had come up behind him, silently for such a big man, and landed a heavy punch to Alec’s back. Alec’s knees buckled, and he fell forward towards the waiter, a loud gasp escaped his mouth. He folded up into a ball shape, his head tucked down for protection, anticipating the beating to come.

  3

  ‘Come on, get up,’ said the waiter, an impatient tone in his voice.

  Alec stayed on the ground, trying to recover from the blow, not understanding why they hadn’t taken it further.

  ‘Get up, you old bastard.’ the driver said, his voice much deeper than his companion. ‘This is the guy who got past you in the bar?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting him to throw the glass,’ the waiter replied. ‘Who would? Look at him.’

  ‘Pathetic.’ Alec wasn’t sure if the driver was talking about the waiter or him; he hoped it was the latter. If he was underestimated, he could possibly use that to his advantage.

  The driver reached down and grabbed Alec’s arm, and pulled. Alec lifted off the floor and his legs scrabbled against the ground to gain purchase and relieve the pressure on his arm and shoulder caused by his own body weight. He sorted out his footing and stood, slightly hunched. The driver let go of his arm.

  ‘Don’t make us repeat ourselves again,’ the driver said. ‘Do as we say and this will be easier on you.’

  ‘You’re going to kill me,’ Alec said, his teeth gritted together. ‘How much harder can it get?’

  ‘Shut up and move!’

  Alec held up his hands in surrender and started shuffling forward, following the waiter, who was moving backwards, maintaining the initial distance, the gun still pointed at Alec. The driver followed behind; Alec didn’t look to see how far back he was, the deep, nasal breathing behind him told him all he needed to know. Alec recognised this from martial art lectures he had attended as warrior breathing, a practice used by US Navy Seals. It is supposed to be more effective in times of stress promoting recovery from adrenaline rush and increasing sharpness. He had always scoffed at the idea during the lectures and had never carried out the exercises to build up his lung capacity. He regretted that decision now. He tried to copy the driver’s breathing subtly, but exhale more slowly and silently, increasing the oxygen to his muscles and brain.

  ‘Hurry up; you’re too slow,’ the driver said. He pushed Alec forwards. He stumbled but retained his footing; he noted that the waiter did not try to maintain the gap this time, reducing it to two and a half, maybe three metres, not close enough for Alec to do anything. Alec continued his slow shuffling pace and waited for another frustrated shove. He could see the silver Mercedes now, twenty-five metres away, parked at the junction of Vinetastraße and Berliner; outside the Bartels Apotheke on the corner the shutters down, a large red ‘A’ sign protruding out from the wall above the shop.

  Still walking backwards, the waiter glanced over his shoulder to make sure there were no obstacles in his way, as he did so, the driver pushed Alec again.

  ‘Come on, old man,’ he mocked.

  Alec used the momentum of the shove to close the gap on the distracted waiter; the gun had dropped slightly, Alec sprang forward and grabbed the waiter’s gun hand and pushed it away from his body. He spun his body round to face the driver, and as he did so, he bent his free arm and launched the elbow at the side of the waiter’s head; upon contact, the waiter involuntary squeezed the gun’s trigger. Alec felt the bullet pass him, a blast of hot gas following it. He saw the driver stagger and reach for his thigh. The waiter fell to the ground clumsily and did not move, Alec let go of the waiter’s arm, and it dropped to the ground limply, the gun left his grip and slid under a parked car. The driver cursed loudly and started towards Alec.

  Run! Alec thought and turned and ran. He crossed over the road and ran past the café; he reached the U-bahn subway steps and stumbled down them. He reached the southbound platform and walked to the end; he leaned next to a red, steel pillar and waited for the train to come. His breathing was rapid, he was taking a deep lungful of oxygen with each breath, his heart jackhammered in his chest, and he felt lightheaded and giddy. Please don’t faint, he pleaded with himself, or have a heart attack. He looked around him; the platform was empty.

  The bright-yellow train pulled into the platform and squealed to a stop. It was one of the older style trains, boxy in appearance. The green ‘open door’ button lit up, and Alec waited for the doors to open. The doors hissed apart, and he stepped inside. The carriage was empty, and he sat down eagerly. The doors closed, and the train started moving. Through the carriage window, Alec saw the Mercedes driver hobble down the stairs to the platform, stare at the train pulling away, shout an expletive and punch the stairwell wall.

  ◆◆◆

  Safely on the train, and still shaken from his experiences, Alec closed his eyes and tried to calm down; his mind whirled, firing questions at him: How did they know where to find me? Why did they kill Jaromir and try to kill me? How the hell did I get out of that? Will they get me before I reach the embassy, they must know that is where I’m headed? He tried to think of the last one first as it was the question with the most straightforward answer. He thought about the journey ahead. He usually chose the Becketts Kopf Bar to meet people as it was on the direct U2 U-bahn line to Mohrenstraße station, just south of the embassy, the journey should take under twenty minutes, the walk to the embassy a further six minutes or so after that. The same journey by car was usually a couple of minutes less, depending on traffic, however, the Mercedes driver may not be able to drive properly with a hole in his leg, and the waiter may have concussion, that may slow them down, he thought optimistically, especially if there’s traffic on the roads.

  The train stopped at Schönhauser Allee station, the few people on the platform entered other carriages, leaving Alec still alone. His phone rang, he looked at the display and saw Newbury’s name showing. Alec flipped open the phone and pressed the button to answer the call.

  ‘Hi Arthur,’ he said, his voice calmer than he felt.

  ‘Alec, what the hell is happening?’ Newbury said loudly. ‘I’ve just had the Russian SVR call me; they say Polyakov is dead and they’re looking for you.’

  ‘Arthur, this line isn’t secure,’ Alec reminded. ‘I know I’m in the shit; I’m coming in, I should be there soon. Did they give the name of the investigating officer?’

  ‘I’ve got it written down here somewhere, some captain, I didn’t recognise the name…here it is… Captain Lukin Olegovich, mean anything to you?’

  ‘Never heard of him, I would have thought this would warrant a higher rank than a captain—’

  Newbury cut him off, ‘Alec, I’ve had the ambassador in here for the past twenty minutes, he hit the roof when we said we didn’t know where you were. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m on the U-bahn, I’ll be there soon.’ Alec repeated.

  ‘Alec.’ Newbury said, stressing the name, elongating the letters.

  ‘Arthur, you know me, this isn’t anything I’ve done. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. Jaromir was right; it is very serious.’

  ‘Do you need me to send anyone to meet you? Help you get home?’

  Alec knew Arthur meant sending out the embassy guards to escort him back to the embassy. ‘No, that’s not necessary. They’ll only draw attention. A single middle-aged man walking down the street is a lot more anonymous.’

  ‘Ok, then, make sure you come straight to my office when you get here. Speak to no one.’

  ‘Will do, have a brandy waiting for me, I need it.’

  ‘Will do,’ Newbury echoed. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘See you soon.’
<
br />   Alec ended the call, he paused and looked at his phone, something was nagging at the back of his mind, he tried, but couldn’t retrieve it. It’ll come to me, he thought. He placed the phone inside his coat pocket. The interior of the carriage was stifling, especially as Alec had been exposed to the frigid air outside for almost five hours. He stood up and removed his coat. He remembered when he bought it: he had been speaking to Newbury the day before and had remarked that he needed to buy a new coat and had said he had seen a smart looking grey, classic style trenchcoat in the Gant store on Friedrichstraße.

  ‘That’s a great idea, George Smiley,’ Newbury quipped. ‘Don’t you think that would be too obvious?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alec had said.

  ‘Are you going to get a fedora and a tatty-looking briefcase too?’

  ‘Oh yes, I see, very funny. People already call me Leamas, you know, from—’

  ‘The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, yes, Alec, you may have told me that a few times over the years.’ Newbury said, interrupting Alec.

  Alec held his hands up in mock surrender, ‘I get your point, Arthur, I’ll get a different style.’