by Philip Kerr
I paid a schilling entrance to a grumpy old monk and entered a long, airy corridor that I took to be a part of the monastery. A narrow stairwell led down into the vault.
It was in fact, not one vault, but eight interconnecting vaults and much less gloomy than I had expected. The interior was simple, being in plain white with the walls faced partly in marble, and contrasted strongly with the opulence of its contents.
Here were the remains of over a hundred Habsburgs and their famous jaws, although the guidebook which I had thought to bring with me said that their hearts were pickled in urns located underneath St Stephen’s Cathedral. It was as much evidence for royal mortality as you could have found anywhere north of Cairo. Nobody, it seemed, was missing except the Archduke Ferdinand, who was buried at Graz, no doubt piqued at the rest of them for having insisted that he visit Sarajevo.
The cheaper end of the family, from Tuscany, were stacked in simple lead coffins, one on top of the other like bottles in a wine-rack, at the far end of the longest vault. I half expected to see an old man prising a couple of them open to try out a new mallet and set of stakes. Naturally enough the Habsburgs with the biggest egos rated the grandest sarcophagi. These huge, morbidly ornamented copper caskets seemed to lack nothing but caterpillar tracks and gun turrets for them to have captured Stalingrad. Only the Emperor Joseph II had shown anything like restraint in his choice of box; and only a Viennese guidebook could have described the copper casket as ‘excessively simple’.
I found Colonel Poroshin in the Franz Joseph vault. He smiled warmly when he saw me and clapped me on the shoulder: ‘You see, I was right. You can read Cyrillic, after all.’
‘Maybe you can read my mind as well.’
‘For sure,’ he said. ‘You are wondering what we could possibly have to say to each other, given all that has happened. Least of all in this place. You are thinking that in a different place, you might try to kill me.’
‘You should be on the stage, Palkovnik. You could be another Professor Schaffer.’
‘You are mistaken, I think. Professor Schaffer is a hypnotist, not a mind-reader.’ He slapped his gloves on his open palm with the air of one who had scored a point. ‘I am not a hypnotist, Herr Gunther.’
‘Don’t underestimate yourself. You managed to make me believe that I was a private investigator and that I should come here to Vienna to try and clear Emil Becker of murder. A hypnotic fantasy if ever I heard one.’
‘A powerful suggestion, perhaps,’ said Poroshin, ‘but you were acting under your own free will.’ He sighed. ‘A pity about poor Emil. You’re wrong if you think that I didn’t hope you could prove him innocent. But to borrow a chess term, it was my Vienna gambit: it has a peaceable first appearance, but the sequel is full of subtleties and aggressive possibilities. All that one requires is a strong and valiant knight.’
‘That was me, I suppose.’
‘Tochno (exactly). And now the game is won.’
‘Do you mind explaining how?’
Poroshin pointed to the casket on the right of the more elevated one containing the Emperor Franz Joseph.
‘The Crown Prince Rudolf,’ he said. ‘He committed suicide in the famous hunting lodge at Mayerling. The general story is well-known but the details and the motives remain unclear. Just about the only thing we can be certain of is that he lies in this very tomb. For me, to know this for sure is enough. But not everyone whom we believe to have committed suicide is really quite as dead as poor Rudolf. Take Heinrich Müller. To prove him still alive, now that was something worthwhile. The game was won when we knew that for sure.’
‘But I lied about that,’ I said insouciantly. ‘I never saw Müller. The only reason I signalled to Belinsky was because I wanted him and his men to come and help me save Veronika Zartl, the chocolady from the Oriental.’
‘Yes, I admit that Belinsky’s arrangements with you were less than perfect in their concept. But as it happens I know that you are lying now. You see, Belinsky really was at Grinzing with a team of agents. They were not of course Americans, but my own men. Every vehicle leaving the yellow house in Grinzing was followed including, I may say, your own. When Müller and his friends discovered your escape they were so panic-stricken that they fled almost immediately. We simply tailed them, at a discreet distance, until they thought that they were safe again. Since then we have been able to positively identify Herr Müller for ourselves. So you see? You did not lie.’
‘But why didn’t you just arrest him? What good is he to you if he’s left at liberty?’
Poroshin made his face look shrewd.
‘In my business, it is not necessarily politic always to arrest a man who is my enemy. Sometimes he can be many times more valuable if he is allowed to remain at large. From as early as the beginning of the war, Müller was a double agent. Towards the end of 1944 he was naturally anxious to disappear from Berlin altogether and come to Moscow. Well, can you imagine it, Herr Gunther? The head of the fascist Gestapo living and working in the capital of democratic socialism? If the British or American intelligence agencies were to have discovered such a thing they would undoubtedly have leaked this information to the world’s press at some politically opportune moment. Then they would have sat back and watched us squirm with embarrassment. So, it was decided that Müller could not come.
‘The only problem was that he knew so much about us. Not to mention the whereabouts of dozens of Gestapo and Abwehr spies throughout the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. He had first to be neutralized before we could turn him away from our door. So we tricked him into giving us the names of all these agents, and at the same time started to feed him with new information which, while of no help to the German war-effort, might prove of considerable interest to the Americans. It goes without saying that this information was also false.
‘Anyway, all this time we continued to put off Müller’s defection, telling him to wait just a little longer, and that he had nothing to worry about. But when we were ready we allowed him to discover that for various political reasons his defection could not be sanctioned. We hoped that this would now persuade him to offer his services to the Americans, as others had done. General Gehlen for example. Baron von Bolschwing. Even Himmler — although he was simply too well known for the British to accept his offer. And too crazy, yes?
‘Perhaps we miscalculated. Perhaps Müller left it too late and was unable to escape the eye of Martin Bormann and the SS who guarded the Führerbunker. Who knows? Anyway, Müller apparently committed suicide. This he faked, but it was quite a while before we could prove this to our own satisfaction. Müller is a very clever man.
‘When we learned about the Org we thought that it wouldn’t be long before Müller turned up again. But he stayed persistently in the shadows. There was the occasional, unconfirmed sighting, but nothing for certain. And then when Captain Linden was shot, we noticed from the reports that the serial number of the murder weapon was one which had been originally issued to Müller. But this part you already know, I think.’
I nodded. ‘Belinsky told me.’
‘A most resourceful man. The family is Siberian, you know. They returned to Russia after the Revolution, when Belinsky was still a boy. But by then he was all-American, as they say. The whole family were soon working for NKVD. It was Belinsky’s idea to pose as a Crowcass agent. Not only do Crowcass and CIC often work at cross purposes, but Crowcass is often staffed with CIC personnel. And it is quite common for the American military police to be left in ignorance of CIC/Crowcass operations. The Americans are even more Byzantine in their organizational structures than we are ourselves. Belinsky was plausible to you; but he was also plausible, as an idea, to Müller: enough to scare him out into the open when you told him that a Crowcass agent was on his trail; but not enough to scare him as far as South America, where he could be of no use to us. After all, there are others in CIC, less fastidious about employing war-criminals than the people in Crowcass, whose protection Müller could seek out.
‘And so it has proved. Even as we speak Müller is exactly where we want him: with his American friends in Pullach. Being useful to them. Giving them the benefit of his massive knowledge of Soviet intelligence structures and secret police methods. Boasting about the network of loyal agents he still believes are in place. This was the first stage of our plan — to disinform the Americans.’
‘Very clever,’ I said, with genuine admiration, ‘and the second?’
Poroshin’s face adopted a more philosophical expression. ‘When the time is right, it is we who shall leak some information to the world’s press: that Gestapo Müller is a tool of American Intelligence. It is we who will sit back and watch them squirm with embarrassment. It may be in ten years’ time, or even twenty. But, provided Müller stays alive, it will happen.’
‘Suppose the world’s press don’t believe you?’
‘The proof will not be so hard to obtain. The Americans are great ones for keeping files and records. Look at that Documents Centre of theirs. And we have other agents. Provided that they know where and what to look for, it will not be too difficult to find the evidence.’
‘You seem to have thought of everything.’
‘More than you will ever know. And now that I have answered your question, I have one for you, Herr Gunther. Will you answer it, please?’
‘I can’t imagine what I can tell you, Palkovnik. You’re the player, not me. I’m just a knight in your Vienna gambit, remember?’
‘Nevertheless, there is something.’
I shrugged. ‘Fire away.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘to return to the chess board for a moment. One expects to make sacrifices. Becker, for example. And you of course. But sometimes one encounters the unexpected loss of material.’
‘Your queen?’
He frowned for a moment. ‘If you like. Belinsky told me that it was you who killed Traudl Braunsteiner. But he was a very determined man in this whole affair. The fact that I had a personal interest in Traudl was of no special account to him. I know this to be true. He would have killed her without a second thought. But you —
‘I had one of my people in Berlin check you out at the US Documents Centre. You told the truth. You were never a Party member. And the rest of it is there too. How you asked for a transfer out of the SS. That could have got you shot. So a sentimental fool, maybe. But a killer? I will tell you straight, Herr Gunther: my intellect says that you did not kill her. But I must know it here too.’ He slapped his stomach. ‘Perhaps here most of all.’
He fixed me with his pale blue eyes, but I did not flinch or look away.
‘Did you kill her?’
‘No.’
‘Did you run her down?’
‘Belinsky had a car, not me.’
‘Say that you had no part in her murder.’
‘I was going to warn her.’
Poroshin nodded. ‘Da,’ he said, ‘dagavareelees (that’s agreed). You are speaking the truth.’
‘Slava bogu (Thank God).’
‘You are right to thank him.’ He slapped his stomach once again. ‘If I had not felt it, I would have had to kill you as well.’
‘As well?’ I frowned. Who else was dead? ‘Belinsky?’
‘Yes, most unfortunate. It was smoking that infernal pipe of his. Such a dangerous habit, smoking. You should give it up.’
‘How?’
‘It’s an old Cheka way. A small quantity of tetryl in the mouthpiece attached to a fuse which leads to a point below the bowl. When the pipe is lit, so is the fuse. Quite simple, but also quite deadly. It blew his head off.’ Poroshin’s tone was almost indifferent. ‘You see? My mind told me that it was not you who killed her. I merely wanted to be sure that I would not have to kill you as well.’
‘And now you are sure?’
‘For sure,’ he said. ‘Not only will you walk out of here alive —’
‘You would have killed me down here?’
‘It is a suitable enough place, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, very poetic. What were you going to do? Bite my neck? Or had you wired one of the caskets?’
‘There are many poisons, Herr Gunther.’ He held out a small flick-knife in his palm. ‘Tetrodotoxin on the blade. Even the smallest scratch, and bye-bye.’ He pocketed the knife in his tunic and gave a sheepish little shrug. ‘I was about to say that not only may you now walk out of here alive, but that if you go to the Café Mozart now, you will find someone waiting there for you.’
My look of puzzlement seemed to amuse him. ‘Can you not guess?’ he said delightedly.
‘My wife? You got her out of Berlin?’
‘Kanyeshna (Of course). I don’t know how else she would have got out. Berlin is surrounded by our tanks.’
‘Kirsten is waiting at the Mozart Café now?’
He looked at his watch and nodded. ‘For fifteen minutes already,’ he said. ‘You’d best not keep her waiting much longer. An attractive woman like that, on her own in a city like Vienna? One must be so careful nowadays. These are difficult times.’
‘You’re full of surprises, Colonel,’ I told him. ‘Five minutes ago you were ready to kill me on nothing more tangible than your indigestion. And now you’re telling me that you’ve brought my wife from Berlin. Why are you helping me like this? Ya nye paneemayoo (I don’t understand).’
‘Let us just say that it was part of the whole futile romance of Communism, vot i vsyo (that’s all).’ He clicked his heels like a good Prussian. ‘Goodbye, Herr Gunther. Who knows? After this Berlin thing, we may meet again.’
‘I hope not.’
‘That is too bad. A man of your talents —’ Then he turned and strode off.
I left the Imperial Crypt with as much spring in my step as Lazarus. Outside, on Neuer Markt, there were still more people watching the strange little Café-terrace that had no Café. Then I saw the camera and the lights, and at the same time I spotted Willy Reichmann, the little red-haired production manager from Sievering Film Studios. He was speaking English to another man who was holding a megaphone. This was surely the English film that Willy had told me about: the one for which Vienna’s increasingly rare ruins had been a prerequisite. The film in which Lotte Hartmann, the girl who had given me a well-deserved dose of drip, had been given a part.
I stopped to watch for a few moments, wondering if I might catch sight of König’s girlfriend, but there was no sign of her. I thought it unlikely that she would have left Vienna with him and passed up her first screen role.
One of the onlookers around me said, ‘What on earth are they doing?’ and another answered saying, ‘It’s supposed to be a Café — the Mozart Café.’ Laughter rippled through the crowd. ‘What, here?’ said another voice. ‘Apparently they like the view better here,’ replied a fourth. ‘It’s what they call poetic licence.’
The man with the megaphone asked for quiet, ordered the cameras to roll and then called for action. Two men, one of them carrying a book as if it was some kind of religious icon, shook hands and sat down at one of the tables.
Leaving the crowd to watch what happened next, I walked quickly south, towards the real Mozart Café and the wife who was waiting there for me.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1988 Ian Sayer and Douglas Botting, who were compiling a history of the American Counter-Intelligence Corps entitled America’s Secret Army: The Untold Story of the Counter-Intelligence Corps, were asked by a US government investigative agency to verify a file consisting of documents signed by CIC agents in Berlin towards the end of 1948 in connection with the employment of Heinrich Müller as a CIC advisor. The file indicated that Soviet agents had concluded that Müller had not been killed in 1945 and that he was possibly being used by Western Intelligence agencies. Sayer and Botting rejected the material as a forgery ‘counterfeited by a skilful but rather confused person’. This view was corroborated by Colonel E. Browning, who was CIC Operations Chief in Frankfurt at the time the documents were supposed to have been produced. Bro
wning indicated that the whole idea of something as sensitive as the employment of Müller as a CIC advisor was ludicrous. ‘Regretfully,’ wrote the two authors, ‘we have to conclude that the fate of the chief of the Gestapo in the Third Reich remains shrouded in mystery and speculation, as it has always been, and probably always will be.’
Attempts by a leading British newspaper and an American news magazine to investigate the story in detail have so far come to nothing.
Also by Philip Kerr
Hitler’s Peace
Drawing on the rich historical knowledge he brought to his Berlin Noir trilogy, Philip Kerr constructs his most ambitious novel to date. In 1943, Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin met in Teheran to plot the end-game of the war and set the terms of a German surrender. But what if Hitler were canny enough to realize that he could no longer win the war and was putting out peace feelers? And what if his offer threatened to destroy the alliance against him? With its time-bomb of a plot and magisterial command of atmosphere, Hitler’s Peace takes the historical thriller into new territory.
“A scandalous yet plausible scenario … a thriller [in which] the historical dice are well-shaken … [and] the magical rhythm of fiction, of seamless storytelling.”
—Los Angeles Times
“[Kerr] quantum leaps the limitations of genre fiction. Most thrillers insult your intelligence; Kerr assaults your ignorance.”
—Esquire
ISBN 0-14-303695-5