The Waiting Time by Gerald Seymour Read Free Book Online Page B

Albert Perkins saw it and heard it. Must have been like a satchel of Semtex detonating in the hallowed territory of the mess.
    The manufacturing of images had always been among the talents of Albert Perkins.
    They walked on the main road through the camp, towards the gate and the guardhouse. When the headlights came, powering behind them, Johnson hopped awkwardly off the tarmacadam for the grass but Perkins did not. Perkins made them swerve. The two cars flashed their lights at the gate sentry and the bar lifted for them. It was a rare cocktail that the man, the hangman, had served them, Johnson reflected. Apologies and insults, sweetness and rudeness. In three hours it would be dawn. Then the barracks would stir to life, and the gossip and innuendo would begin again. The target would be himself. By mid-morning coffee break, the barracks would know that Perry Johnson had been a messenger boy through the night for a civilian from London. They went into the guardhouse. The corridor was unlocked for them. He frowned, confused, because the cell door was ajar. They went in.
    ‘Who are you?’
    Christie was pushing himself up from the floor beside the door.
    ‘Ben Christie, Captain Christie.’
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘I thought it best . . . with the prisoner . . . I was with the corporal in case she said—’
    ‘Is this a holding cell or is it a kennel?’
    The dog was on its side, its tail beating a slow drumroll on the tiles. It lay under her feet with its back against the concrete slab of the bed.
    ‘Nowhere else for him to go. Sorry.’
    Perkins shook his head, slow, side to side. Johnson recognized the treatment. The tack was to demean, then to dominate. She sat on the bed. She did not seem to have moved, knees drawn up and arms around her knees. She was awake, she watched. Perkins didn’t look at her. He rapped the questions.
    ‘When she attacked Krause, how was the attack stopped?’ Christie said, ‘One of his escort hit her, one kicked her.’
    ‘Has she been seen by qualified medical staff?’
    Christie shook his head.
    ‘She’s been interrogated — once, twice?’
    Christie nodded.
    ‘You did, of course, caution her first?’
    Christie shook his head.
    ‘She was told her rights, was offered a solicitor?’
    Christie grimaced.
    ‘Before her room was searched, did you have her permission? Did you have the written authorization of the camp commander?’
    Christie’s chin hung on his chest.
    ‘During the interrogations did you use profanities, blasphemies, obscenities? Was she threatened?’
    Christie lifted his hands, the gesture of failure.
    Perkins savaged him. ‘If she had said anything to you, fuck all use it would have been. Oppressive interrogation, denial of rights, refusal to permit medical help. This isn’t Germany, you know. It isn’t Stasi country. Get out.’
    They went. Christie called his dog. Perkins kicked the door with his heel. It slammed. Christie and Johnson stood in the corridor.
    Johnson understood the tactic: Officers rubbished by a civilian in front of a junior rank so junior rank would bond with civilian. Basic stuff. The hatch in the cell door was open. They could hear him. He was brusque.
    ‘Right, Miss Barnes . . . Tracy, isn’t it? I’ll call you Tracy, if you’ve no objection. I’m rather tired. I had a long day, was about to go to bed, and I was called out. I don’t expect you’ve slept, so let’s do this quickly. I deal in facts, right? Fact, ‘eighty-six to ‘eighty-nine, you had lance-corporal rank. Fact, ‘eighty-six to ‘eighty-nine, you were a stenographer with Intelligence Corps working out of Berlin Brigade, room thirty-four in block nine. Fact, in November ‘eighty-eight, Hans Becker from East Berlin was being run as an agent by room thirty-four. Fact, on the twenty-first of November ‘eighty-eight, the agent was lost while carrying out electronic surveillance on the Soviet base at Wustrow, near to Rostock. I’m sure you’re listening