The master bedroom was empty, but had recently been occupied by Spiros Reppas; there was a picture of him and Witzel on the bedside table and, on the wall, a small icon and a photograph of the Doris. The bathroom door was open, which left only one other room; that door was closed but, on the other side, I could hear a man snoring as loudly as an angry rhinoceros. So far everything was much as I’d imagined in my mind’s eye; I told myself the Webley would only have slowed me down: With the gun in one hand and the flashlight in the other, I’d have needed a third hand to grab hold of Merten’s Walther before he could use it. Taking a sleeping man alive when you also take a gun has its pitfalls and I hoped he’d had enough schnapps from his bottle to slow him down even more than deep sleep.
I turned the loose doorknob and pushed firmly on through the deafening sound of the creaking hinge and my own heavy breathing, until I could see Merten’s body lying on its side in the bed. How he didn’t wake up I didn’t know. Possibly the racket caused by his own snoring was louder than any commotion I could have made. A Panzer tank would have made less noise. At this point I might have hit him on the head with something hard to stun him while I searched for the gun but I wanted to avoid this if I could, if only because transporting a man with a head injury back to Athens might prove to be difficult. I pointed the beam from the flashlight at the bedside table, where there was a light without a shade, a copy of a novel by Ian Fleming, a pair of spectacles, a glass of something stronger than water, and, ominously, an open box of 9-millimeter ammunition.
Still looking for the gun I bent carefully over Merten’s head; his loud snoring smelled strongly of cigarettes and schnapps, while his rotund body was sour with the smell of sweat. From the way his hand was under the pillow I concluded that it was probably holding the Walther, which also meant that unless he was very nervous indeed, or just foolhardy, the safety catch had to be on. The safety on a Walther was usually stiff and might give me another vital second if we had to wrestle for it. I considered rolling him out of bed unceremoniously, and then rejected the idea, thinking he might still be holding the gun when he hit the floor on the other side of the bed. I was considering my next option when the naked man stirred, let out a loud grunt, and turned onto his other side, and I caught a glimpse of something black under the pillow. As the snoring resumed I reached for the object quickly, and came up with a leather-bound New Testament, as if he’d been reading it before or after reading the copy of Casino Royale. I wondered if perhaps there was a useful text in there for the spiritual guidance of someone who had helped to engineer the deaths of sixty thousand Jews after robbing them blind. My father, an enthusiastic Nazi but all his life a churchgoing man, could probably have told me what it was.
I stepped back from the bed and glanced quickly around the malodorous room and this time I spotted the Walther on a table by the window, next to another bottle of Schladerer and a packet of Finas. With some relief I fetched the gun, checked the safety, and dropped it into my jacket pocket. Sweeping the table with the flashlight I also found Merten’s passport and some ferry tickets as far as Istanbul, and from there, a first-class ticket aboard the Orient Express to Germany. From the dates on the tickets, Merten would have been back home in Munich in just a few days. I pocketed these, too, thinking I might use them myself if things got desperate. Feeling a little more relaxed, I switched on the overhead light, helped myself to a drink and a cigarette, sat down in the room’s only armchair and while I waited for the sleeping man to stir under the glare of the bare bulb, I glanced over his passport; Merten was only forty-six but looked ten years older. Not much of a testament to a complete lack of conscience, I thought. After a minute he groaned a bit, sat up, yawned, belched, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and frowned at me blearily. He looked like a crapulous Buddha.
“Gunther,” he said, scratching his pendulous breasts and large belly. “What the hell are you doing here?”
FORTY-EIGHT
–
“I’m the man Munich RE sent down to Athens to investigate Siegfried Witzel’s insurance claim for the Doris.”
“I see. Well, no, I don’t actually. You’re not a marine-insurance man. You don’t know one end of a ship from another. Why you, Bernie?”
“Neff, the regular marine-claims adjustor, went sick, and Alois Alzheimer asked me to step into his boat shoes. Although frankly I could wish I hadn’t.”
Merten coughed for several seconds, tapped his chest, and then pointed at the packet of Finas. “Cigarettes,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
I tossed them onto the bed, followed by a book of matches.
Merten lit one and smoked it gratefully. “I would say it’s good to see you again, but then again maybe it isn’t. At this hour I get the feeling you’re here to do more than adjust an insurance claim. Come now, Bernie. You have to admit it looks very odd.”
“Look, Max, there’s not much time so you’d better listen carefully. Meanwhile I strongly suggest that you get dressed because we have to leave the island as soon as possible.”
“Leave? You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’ll forgive me if I ask, why? Why would I want to leave?” He exhaled a cloud of smoke and waved his hand at the barely finished room. “I’m on holiday and in spite of any evidence to the contrary I’m enjoying myself here.”
“It’s your neck. Well, to cut a long story short, since arriving in Greece I’ve learned what you and your friends were up to. Spiros Reppas told me about the Jewish gold from Salonika, including the fact that since the Doris went down off the Peloponnesian coast he and you had been lying low here, on this island.”
“Now why would Spiros say something as fanciful as that?”
“Because his boss, Siegfried Witzel, is dead and I guess Spiros felt he had nothing much to lose in telling me. Someone put a bullet through each of Witzel’s eyes.”
“Oh.”
“For a while a local cop thought I did it—me being a fellow German and all. Cops like things to be tidy that way—one German murders another German. They were almost right; however, it was your old pal Alois Brunner who shot Witzel, but only after torturing him for several hours. You won’t believe what a man’s feet smell like after they’ve been held to the fire, like Cortés did to that poor Aztec king, Cuauhtémoc. It’s amazing how cruel a man can be when there’s a lot of gold involved.”
I was laying it on a bit to try to scare Merten.
“I was on my way to see Spiros again—we were planning to come here last night, as a matter of fact; I’d agreed to help you out for old time’s sake, but luckily for me, I saw Brunner and a couple of his thugs arriving at the house near the Acropolis and so I made a hasty withdrawal before they saw me. Of course, that wasn’t so lucky for Spiros and I expect Brunner’s not far behind now.”
“I see. When was this?”
“Three or four hours ago.”
Merten glanced at his wristwatch and nodded thoughtfully. Then he got up slowly, fetched his trousers off the floor, and put them on. He nodded at my sling. “It seems as if you’ve been in the wars yourself, Bernie. What’s wrong with your arm?”
“A three-headed dog bit me on my way here. But it’s nothing compared to what Brunner will do to us both, probably. That lawyer whose office in Glyfada you had burgled—Samuel Frizis—Brunner murdered him, too. Look, Max, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you just how dangerous Brunner can be. The man’s a killer and a sadist. So we need to get a move on.”
Merten remained cool, however, and continued to move at a snail’s pace. “He does have a most violent temper.”
“I can’t say that I blame him where you’re concerned. Spiros told me the whole story. I’m here for old times’ sake, to get you safely off this island. After that I figure your best chance of staying alive is to seek the protection of the Athens police. Luckily for you I have a good contact there, a Lieutenant Leventis. He’s
the cop I told you about, the one who fancied me for Siegfried Witzel’s murder. Those handcuffs will still fit me if he can’t find anyone else for it, however, it’s Brunner he wants for those two murders, if he can get him. I think it would be a real bonus for Leventis if he were to arrive here on Spetses and catch Brunner red-handed, so to speak. The red being your blood, Max. That kind of forensic evidence is a lot easier to stand up in court than some old war crimes. Finding witnesses to what Brunner did to some Jews in Salonika fourteen years ago wouldn’t be so easy. Of course, we’ll have to find a better reason for you seeking the protection of the Greek police than the fact that Alois Brunner is trying to kill you. That would draw attention to what you’ve been doing here.”
“What kind of reason? I don’t understand. Even supposing I wanted protection from Brunner—and I’m not saying I do—how could I get protection without telling this cop exactly why he’s trying to kill me?”
“It occurred to me that you might offer to be a witness yourself, on behalf of Arthur Meissner, the translator who’s currently on trial in Athens for all the things Brunner and Eichmann probably did. You can tell Leventis that you were so moved by the plight of your old colleague Meissner that you came to Athens to give evidence on his behalf, but that you were also concerned that doing so might expose you to some danger from Greeks who don’t like Germans, and there are certainly plenty of those.”
“Is everything all right?” said Elli.
“Who’s that?” asked Merten.
“A friend. The girl who drove me here. My left arm isn’t equal to much driving now.”
I went to the top of the stair and found her looking up at me anxiously.
“Yes, everything’s fine. We’ll be down in just a few moments.”
FORTY-NINE
–
Back in the bedroom Merten was shaking his head.
“Walk into a Greek court of my own free will?” he said. “I don’t know. Lawyers hate going into court, you should know that. Suppose they find some pretext to arrest me? Never can tell with the Greeks. Look at the way they screwed Socrates.”
“Why would they? You’re not wanted by the Greek police for anything that happened in 1943. I already checked. You’re in the clear. It’s those bastards Brunner and Eichmann they want, not you. And what better proof of your innocence than making yourself a volunteer witness in Meissner’s defense?”
“Yes, I do see that.” Merten extinguished his cigarette in an ashtray and lit another. “By the way, whatever rubbish Spiros Reppas might have told you, Bernie, I had nothing to do with what happened to those Jews. Just for the record, it was all Brunner’s idea. To trick them into giving up their wealth. By the time I heard about that gold, it was already too late for those people. They were on the trains to Auschwitz and Treblinka.” He sighed. “Brunner—I never met a man who was so set on getting Jews deported.”
“Like I said, it was a long time ago. And none of my business.”
“I just wanted you to know, since you’re trying to help me. For which I am very grateful.” He took a puff of his cigarette and shrugged. “Why are you helping me? I’m still not a hundred percent clear about that either.”
“You helped me, didn’t you? Got me the job with MRE. Now that I’m down here it would seem ungrateful not to help you, Max.”
“Well, when you put it like that. I always did like you, Bernie.” Merten nodded; he put on an undershirt, glanced around the room, and frowned. “Now where did I leave that clean shirt?”
“It’s outside. On the washing line.” I looked at my watch as if Brunner really was on our tail. I’d almost managed to convince myself that he really had captured Spiros Reppas and was squeezing him for information back at the house beside the Acropolis. My plan was to drive Merten back to Athens and, once there, to persuade Lieutenant Leventis that while Max Merten wasn’t Alois Brunner he was the next best thing; betraying Merten seemed to be my best option for getting my passport back and, along the way, delivering up a criminal to well-deserved justice. It was the right thing to do and yet—and yet there was something about this deception that left a sour taste in my mouth. “You need to hurry, Max. The sooner we’re off this island, the better. There’s a boat waiting for us on the quayside, to take us to Kosta, where I have a car.”
“Yes, of course.” Merten sat down to put on his stinky socks and then his shoes. “You say we have a three- or four-hour start on Brunner? Since he got hold of Spiros?”
“That’s right.”
“That might be a lot less if Spiros talks right away. Think about it. Why would he stay silent if Brunner puts his feet to the fire, like that poor Aztec, Cuauhtémoc.”
“While poor Spiros might easily say where you’ve been hiding, Max, he can hardly tell him what Brunner probably wants to know most of all, which is the true location of the Epeius, and the gold. Spiros told me that only you knew where it was—that you kept the location a secret even from him and Witzel—but I can’t imagine a man like Brunner will believe that story, not for a minute. Which, like I say, and unfortunately for Spiros, ought to slow Brunner down just long enough for us to put some distance between him and us.”
“Yes, that makes sense. Bad enough to be tortured, but to be tortured for something you don’t actually know. Jesus.” Merten pulled a face. “It doesn’t bear thinking of, does it?”
“Then don’t think about it. That should be easy for you, Max. You don’t strike me as a man much troubled by conscience. But there’s no time for any more delay. I’d hate it if my theory about Spiros proved to be wrong. Being here now I’m in as much danger as you are. And so is the friend I have who’s waiting downstairs. She’s going to drive us straight to Athens. Her name is Elli.”
“Short for Elisabeth, no doubt. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“So finish dressing and come downstairs.”
“You know, I really appreciate you helping me like this. You were always a good man in a tight spot. Especially now that you have my gun, not to mention my tickets home. If you need a ticket home, Bernie, you only have to ask. I’ve more than enough money to buy you a ticket, too. In gratitude for saving my neck. Again.”
“That would be the money you and Schramma stole from General Heinkel in Munich, wouldn’t it? Money you needed to fund this expedition.”
“That money was given to the general by the communists, with the intention of compromising West German politics. Money that was probably stolen from the proletariat they purport to represent. So I’m not much troubled about the origins of that money. Anyway, what do you care?”
“What I care about was the way you let me talk you into keeping it, Max. The way I was supposed to be the stooge meant to take the blame. Did you plan that, too?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Bernie. Of course not. And I certainly didn’t ask Schramma to kill the general and the other Fritz who was with him. That was his own stupid idea. You know if only we’d met again sooner I could have cut you in on this instead of Christian Schramma. I never did feel comfortable with that man. There’s something about Bavarians I realize I just don’t like, especially now I live there. I sometimes wonder if any of us will ever get back to Berlin.”
“Not while the Russians are drinking our beer.”
“But look, let’s forget all that unpleasantness. Munich and its complacent, middle-class Catholic values are a long way away. You and I, Bernie—we’re both Berliners, you and I, and that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? We’re old comrades, Bolle boys, right? So we should be straight with each other. So why don’t we just forget all this nonsense about Arthur Meissner and this Lieutenant Leventis and let’s talk about the real reason you came here to help me. Let’s talk about that, shall we?”
Merten was wagging his finger at me with a grin on his face that made me want to slap it onto the floor.
“You want a share, don’t you? Of the gold
. Of course you do. And why not? Have you any idea how much is down there, in just fifteen fathoms of water? Hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth. Spiros and Witzel couldn’t have told you how much, because even they had no conception of even half of what’s there. Not in their wildest dreams. There’s enough gold to keep us in tax-free, mink-lined luxury for the rest of our lives. Think of it. More gold than Cortés and his conquistadors could even dream of. Free of income tax, Bernie, free of any tax. And it’s ours. All we have to do is go and get it. After which we can go and live on an island in the Caribbean. Buy one, perhaps. One each. Or go our separate ways, as you prefer.”