Berlin Burning by Damien Seaman Page A

building as Trautmann caught up with Fleischer.
    â€˜What did I tell you?’ Fleischer said. ‘Purpose.’
    He quick-stepped around a middle-aged woman leading a gaggle of children. Trautmann brushed her arm, nodding at her and keeping on, worried now that maybe the girl wasn’t there at all. Maybe Fleischer was just trying to lose him in the crowd.
    A sudden stream of people came up from the U-Bahn platforms on the lower floor as the two men came abreast of a cigarette kiosk.
    â€˜Shit,’ Fleischer hissed. ‘Quick – down here.’
    And the big man pulled Trautmann down the steps to the U-Bahn, the kommissar getting a flash of blue Schupo uniforms at the edge of his vision to tell him why.
    They reached the platform just as another U-Bahn train pulled in. More people got off. Trautmann flexed his fingers, ready to grab Fleischer if he made a dash for the train.
    But he didn’t. Instead he led them to the far end of the platform just as the crowd began to thin out. The train doors rattled shut. The two men mounted the stairs, Fleischer acting cautious now – not wanting to be surprised by more Schupo at this end when they emerged.
    Fleischer’s actions said the girl really was there – but where the hell were the men from Kripo?
    At the top of the stairs, Fleischer doubled back, looking around for cops. Trautmann did the same.
    They arrived at one of the ticket offices, and Fleischer knocked on the door to the side of the small queue of people by the window. A couple of those waiting cast their eyes over the two men, their glances turning to full blown stares.
    The door didn’t open, so Fleischer barged in front of the window and rapped on the glass. The waiting travellers murmured at this breach of etiquette.
    â€˜We’re here for an inspection,’ Trautmann said, flashing them his ID – just long enough for it to sink in.
    The murmurs died away. Honestly, show an official stamp in this town and you could get away with anything.
    The plump ticket seller at the window moved leisurely beneath his peaked cap and grey walrus moustache. Until he saw who had done the knocking. Then his eyes widened and he broke off from issuing the next customer’s ticket. He shouted towards the back of the office.
    The door opened with a rattle of keys and Fleischer pulled Trautmann inside with him.
    The man who had opened the door was dressed in a conductor’s uniform. He looked at his feet as he led them through another small door into a cramped room with the dimensions of a sleeping compartment on a train. It was fiercely hot in there thanks to the pot-bellied stove by the door, lit so the men inside could make coffee. The rest of the room was taken up with two wooden box benches set against the walls, between which was a small table littered with coffee cups, ashtrays and morning papers.
    Two other men – another conductor and another ticket seller – were sitting on the benches. The conductor smoked a cigarette while looking dumbly up at Fleischer. The ticket seller shot to his feet.
    â€˜Clothes. And a gun,’ Fleischer said, to the one who’d stood up.
    The other man he wrenched off the bench with his one good arm. The man fell against the stove and knocked off the coffee pot that had been bubbling away.
    Trautmann kneeled over the conductor, looking to see that he wasn’t coffee-scalded. He freed the whistle from around the man’s neck and sat him upright. He also kicked the coffee pot over to the door, propping it open a crack.
    Fleischer pulled the top off the right hand bench. Inside, curled up around blankets, face drenched in sweat, was Maria. Fleischer gave her his hand and helped her out.
    Trautmann got out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he wrapped the cotton around his hand, hoping it would be thick enough to withstand the heat of the coffee pot handle.
    On the opposite side, the ticket seller had taken off the top of the