by Philip Kerr
‘Getting information out of a snapper is never “as simple as that”,’ I said. ‘It can be like getting a curse out of a nun. Money is the only way to get a party-girl to talk that doesn’t leave a bruise.’ I waited for Nebe to contradict me, but he said nothing. ‘Of course, a bruise is cheaper, and leaves no margin for error.’ I grinned at him as if to say that I had no particular scruples when it came to slapping a chocolady in the interests of efficient investigation. ‘I’d say König wasn’t the type to waste money: am I right?’
To my disappointment, Nebe merely shrugged and then glanced at his watch. ‘You’d better ask him yourself when you see him.’
‘Is he coming to this meeting too?’
‘He’ll be here.’ Nebe consulted his watch again. ‘I’m afraid I have to leave you now. I’ve still one or two things to do before ten. Perhaps it would be better if you stayed in here. Security is tight today, and we wouldn’t want another incident, would we? I’ll have someone bring you some coffee. Build a fire if you like. It’s rather cold in here.’
I tapped my glass. ‘I can’t say that I’m noticing it much now.’
Nebe regarded me patiently. ‘Yes, well, do help yourself to some more brandy, if you think you need it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, reaching for the decanter, ‘I don’t mind if I do.’
‘But stay sharp. You’ll be asked a lot of questions about your Russian friend. I wouldn’t like your opinion of his worth to be doubted merely because you had too much to drink.’ He walked across the creaking floor to the door.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said, surveying the empty shelves, ‘I’ll read a book.’
Nebe’s considerable nose wrinkled with disapproval. ‘Yes, it’s such a pity that the library is gone. Apparently the previous owners left a superb collection, but when the Russians came they used them all as fuel for the boiler.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘What can you do with subhumans like that?’
When Nebe had left the library I did as he had suggested and built a fire in the grate. It helped me to focus my mind on my next course of action. As the flames took hold of the small edifice of logs and sticks I had constructed, I reflected that Nebe’s apparent amusement at the circumstances of Heim’s death seemed to indicate that the Org was satisfied Veronika had told the truth.
It was true, I was no wiser as to where she might be, but I had gained the impression that König was not yet at Grinzing, and without my gun I did not see that I could now leave and look for her elsewhere. With only two hours to go before the Org’s meeting, it appeared that my best course of action was to wait for König to arrive, and hope that he could put my mind at rest. And if he had killed or injured Veronika, I would settle his account personally when Belinsky arrived with his men.
I collected the poker off the hearth and stoked the fire negligently. Nebe’s man arrived with the coffee, but I paid him no attention, and after he had gone again I stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes.
The fire stirred, clapped its hands a couple of times, and warmed my side. Behind my closed lids, bright red turned to deep purple, and then something more restful …
‘Herr Gunther?’
I jerked my head up from the sofa. Sleeping in an awkward position, even for only a few minutes, had made my neck as stiff as new leather. But when I looked at my watch I saw that I had been sleeping for more than an hour. I flexed my neck.
Sitting beside the sofa was a man wearing a grey flannel suit. He leaned forward and held out his hand for me to shake. It was a broad, strong hand and surprisingly firm for such a short man. Gradually I recognized his face, although I had never met him before.
‘I am Dr Moltke,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Herr Gunther.’ You could have blown froth from the top of his accent it was so Bavarian.
I nodded uncertainly. There was something about his gaze I found deeply disconcerting. His were the eyes of a music-hall hypnotist.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Herr Doktor.’ Here was another one who had changed his name. Another one who was supposed to be dead, like Arthur Nebe. And yet this was no ordinary Nazi fugitive from justice, if indeed justice existed anywhere in Europe during 1948. It gave me a strange feeling to consider that I had just shaken hands with a man who, but for the mysterious circumstances surrounding his ‘death’, might well have been the world’s most wanted man. This was ‘Gestapo’ Heinrich Müller, in person.
‘Arthur Nebe has been telling me about you,’ he said. ‘You know, you and I are quite alike it seems. I was a police detective, like yourself. I began on the beat and I learnt my profession in the hard school of ordinary police work. Like you I also specialized: while you worked for the murder commission, I was led to the surveillance of Communist Party functionaries. I even made a special study of Soviet Russian police methods. I found much there to admire. As a policeman yourself, you would surely appreciate their professionalism. The MVD, which used to be the NKVD, is probably the finest secret police force anywhere in the world. Better even than the Gestapo. For the simple reason, I think, that National Socialism was never able to offer a faith capable of commanding such a consistent attitude towards life. And do you know why?’
I shook my head. His broad Bavarian speech seemed to suggest a natural geniality which I knew the man himself could not possibly have possessed.
‘Because, Herr Gunther, unlike Communism, we never really appealed to the intellectuals as well as to the working classes. You know, I myself did not join the Party until 1939. Stalin does these things better. Today I see him in quite a different light than I did of old.’
I frowned, wondering whether this was Müller’s idea of a test, or a joke. But he seemed to be perfectly serious. Pompously so.
‘You admire Stalin?’ I asked, almost incredulously.
‘He stands head and shoulders above any of our Western leaders. Even Hitler was a small man by comparison. Just think what Stalin and his Party have stood up to. You were in one of their camps. You know what they’re like. Why, you even speak Russian. You always know where you are with the Ivans. They put you up against a wall and shoot you, or they give you the Order of Lenin. Not like the Americans or the British.’ Müller’s face suddenly took on an expression of intense dislike. ‘They talk about morality and justice and yet they allow Germany to starve. They write about ethics and yet they hang old comrades one day, and recruit them for their own security services the next. You can’t trust people like that, Herr Gunther.’
‘Forgive me, Herr Doktor, but I was under the impression that we were working for the Americans.’
‘That is wrong. We work with the Americans. But in the end we are working for Germany. For a new Fatherland.’
Looking more thoughtful now, he got up and went over to the window. His manner of expressing deliberation was a silent rhapsody more characteristic of a peasant priest wrestling with his conscience. He folded his thick hands thoughtfully, unclasped them again and finally pressed his temples between both fists.
‘There is nothing to admire in America. Not like Russia. But the Amis do have power. And what gives them this power is the dollar. That is the only reason why we must oppose Russia. We need the American dollars. All that the Soviet Union can give us is an example: an example of just what loyalty and dedication can achieve, even without money. So then, think what Germans might do with similar devotion and American cash.’
I tried and failed to stifle a yawn. ‘Why are you telling me this Herr — Herr Doktor?’ For one ghastly second I had almost called him Herr Müller. Did anyone but Arthur Nebe, and perhaps von Bolschwing, who had interrogated me, know who Moltke really was?
‘We are working for a new tomorrow, Herr Gunther. Germany may be divided between them now. But there will come a time when we are a great power again. A great economic power. So long as our Organization works alongside the Amis to oppose Communism, they will be persuaded to allow Germany to rebuild herself. And with our industry and our technology we shall
achieve what Hitler could never have achieved. And what Stalin — yes, even Stalin with his massive five-year plans — what he can still only dream of. The German may never rule militarily, but he can do it economically. It is the mark, not the swastika, that will conquer Europe. You doubt what I say?’
If I looked surprised it was only because the idea of German industry being on top of anything but a scrapheap seemed perfectly ludicrous.
‘It’s just that I wonder if everyone in the Org thinks the same way as you?’
He shrugged. ‘Not precisely, no. There are a variety of opinions as to the worth of our allies, and the evil of our enemies. But all are agreed on one thing, and that is the new Germany. Whether it takes five years, or fifty-five years.’
Absently, Müller started to pick his nose. It occupied him for several seconds, after which he inspected his thumb and forefinger and then wiped them on Nebe’s curtains. It was, I considered, a poor indicator of the new Germany he had been speaking of.
‘Anyway, I just wanted this opportunity to thank you personally for your initiative. I’ve had a good look at the documents that your friend has provided, and there’s no doubt in my mind — it’s first-class material. The Americans will be beside themselves with excitement when they see it.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
Müller strolled back to his chair by my sofa and sat down again. ‘How confident are you that he can carry on providing this sort of high-grade material?’
‘Very confident, Herr Doktor.’
‘Excellent. You know, this couldn’t have come along at a better time. The South German Industries Utilization Company is applying to the American State Department for increased funding. Your man’s information will be an important part of that case. At this morning’s meeting I shall be recommending that the exploitation of this new source be given top priority here in Vienna.’
He collected the poker off the hearth and jabbed violently at the glowing embers of the fire. It wasn’t too difficult to imagine him doing the same to some human subject. Staring into the flames, he added: ‘With a matter of such personal interest to me, I have a favour to ask, Herr Gunther.’
‘I’m listening, Herr Doktor.’
‘I must confess I had hoped to persuade you to let me run this informer myself.’
I thought for a minute. ‘Naturally I should have to ask his opinion. He trusts me. It might take a little time.’
‘Of course.’
‘And as I told Nebe, he’ll want money. Lots of it.’
‘You can tell him I’ll organize everything. A Swiss bank account. Whatever he wants.’
‘Right now what he wants most is a Swiss watch,’ I said, improvising. ‘A Doxas.’
‘No problem,’ Müller grinned. ‘You see what I mean about the Russian? He knows exactly what he wants. A nice watch. Well, leave that to me.’ Müller replaced the poker on its stand and sat back contentedly. ‘Then I can assume you have no objections to my proposal? Naturally you will be well-rewarded for bringing us such an important informer.’
‘Since you mention it, I do have a figure in mind,’ I said.
Müller raised his hands and beckoned me to name it.
‘You may or may not know that I suffered a heavy loss at cards quite recently. I lost most of my money, about 4,000 schillings. I thought that you might like to make that up to 5,000.’
He pursed his lips and started nodding slowly. ‘That sounds not unreasonable. In the circumstances.’
I smiled. It amused me that Müller was so concerned to protect his area of expertise within the Org that he was willing to buy me out of my involvement with Belinsky’s Russian. It was easy to see that in this way the reputation of Gestapo Müller as the authority on all matters relating to the MVD would be ensured. He slapped both his knees decisively.
‘Good. I’m glad that’s settled. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. We’ll talk again after this morning’s meeting.’
We certainly will, I said to myself. Only it would probably be at the Stiftskaserne, or wherever the Crowcass people were likely to interrogate Müller.
‘Of course we’ll have to discuss the procedure for contacting your source. Arthur tells me you already have a dead-letter arrangement.’
‘It’s all written down,’ I said to him. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everything is in order.’ I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already past ten o’clock. I got up and straightened my tie.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Müller said, clapping me on the shoulder. He seemed almost jovial now that he had got what he wanted. ‘They will wait for us, I can assure you.’
But almost at the same moment the library door opened and the slightly irritated face of the Baron von Bolschwing peered into the room. He raised his wristwatch significantly and said, ‘Herr Doktor, we really must get on now.’
‘It’s all right,’ Müller boomed, ‘we’ve finished. You can tell everyone to come in now.’
‘Thank you very much.’ But the Baron’s voice was peevish.
‘Meetings,’ sneered Müller. ‘One after another in this organization. There’s no end to the pain of it. Like wiping your arse with a car tyre. It’s as if Himmler were still alive.’
I smiled. ‘That reminds me. I have to hit the spot.’
‘It’s just along the corridor,’ he said.
I went to the door, excusing myself first to the Baron and then to Arthur Nebe as I shouldered past the men coming into the library. These were Old Comrades all right. Men with hard eyes, flabby smiles, well-fed stomachs and a certain arrogance, as if none of them had ever lost a war or done anything for which they ought to have been in any way ashamed. This was the collective face of the new Germany that Müller had droned on about.
But of König there was still no sign.
In the sour-smelling toilet I bolted the door carefully, checked my watch and stood at the window trying to see the road beyond the trees at the side of the house. With the wind stirring the leaves it was difficult to distinguish anything very clearly, but in the distance I thought that I could just about make out the fender of a big black car.
I reached for the cord of the blind and, hoping that the thing was attached to the wall rather more firmly than the blind in my own bathroom back in Berlin, I pulled it gently down for five seconds, then let it roll up again for another five seconds. When I had done this three times as arranged, I waited for Belinsky’s signal and felt very relieved when I heard three blasts of a car horn from far away. Then I flushed the toilet, and opened the door.
Halfway back along the corridor leading back to the library I saw König’s dog. He stood in the middle of the corridor sniffing the air and regarding me with something like recognition. Then he turned away and trotted downstairs. I didn’t think there was a quicker way of finding König than by letting his crapper do it for me. So I followed.
At a door on the ground floor the dog stopped and whined a little bark. As soon as I opened it, he was off again, scampering along another corridor towards the back of the house. He stopped once more and made a show of trying to burrow under another door, to what looked like the cellar. For several seconds I hesitated to open it, but when the dog barked I decided that it was wiser to let him through rather than risk that the noise would summon König. I turned the handle, pushed, and, when the door didn’t budge, pulled. It came towards me with only a gentle creak, largely concealed by what sounded at first like a cat mewing somewhere down in the cellar. Cool air and the horrible realization that this was no cat touched my face, and I felt myself shiver involuntarily. Then the dog twisted round the edge of the door and disappeared down the bare wooden stairs.
Even before I had tiptoed to the bottom of the flight, where a large rack of wine concealed me from immediate discovery, I had recognized the painful voice as belonging to Veronika. The scene required very little analysis. She was sitting in a chair, stripped to the waist, her face deathly pale. A man sat immediately in front of her; his sleeves were rolled
up and he was torturing her knee with some bloodstained metal object. König stood behind her, steadying the chair and periodically stifling her screams with a length of rag.
There was no time to worry about my lack of a gun, and it was fortunate that König was momentarily distracted by the arrival of his dog. ‘Lingo,’ he said looking down at the brute, ‘how did you get down here? I thought I locked you out.’ He bent down to pick the dog up and in the same moment I stepped smartly round the wine rack and ran forwards.
The man in the chair was still in his seat as I clapped both his ears with my cupped hands as hard as I could. He screamed and fell on to the floor, clutching both sides of his head and writhing desperately as he tried to contain the pain of what were almost certainly burst eardrums. It was then that I saw what he had been doing to Veronika. Sticking out of her knee joint at a right angle was a corkscrew.
König’s gun was even now halfway out of his shoulder-holster. I leaped at him, punched hard at his exposed armpit and then chopped him across the upper lip with the edge of my hand. The two blows together were enough to disable him. He staggered back from Veronika’s chair, blood pouring from his nose. I needn’t have hit him again, but now that his hand no longer covered her mouth, her loud cries of excruciating pain persuaded me to deliver a third, more vicious blow with my forearm, aimed at the centre of his sternum. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. Immediately the dog stopped its furious barking and set about trying to revive him with its tongue.
I picked König’s gun off the floor, slipped it into my trouser pocket and quickly started untying Veronika. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘we’re getting out of here. Belinsky will be here any minute with the police.’
I tried not to look at the mess they had made of her knee. She moaned pitiably as I pulled the last of the cords away from her bloodstained legs. Her skin was cold and she was shaking all over, clearly going into shock. But when I took off my jacket and put it about her shoulders, she held my hand firmly and said through gritted teeth, ‘Get it out, for God’s sake get it out of my knee.’