I was not a Catholic until I became a prisoner in Russia. The regime in the camp was so hard that it seemed to me that there was an even chance it would kill me, and, wishing to make my peace with the back of my mind, I had sought out the only churchman among my fellow prisoners, a Polish priest. I had been brought up as a Lutheran, but religious denomination seemed like a matter of small account in that dreadful place.
Becoming a Catholic in the full expectation of death only made me more tenacious of life, and after I’d escaped and returned to Berlin I continued to attend mass and to celebrate the faith that had apparently delivered me.
My newfound Church did not have a good record in its relation to the Nazis, and had now also distanced itself from any imputation of guilt. It followed that if the Catholic Church was not guilty, nor were its members. There was, it seemed, some theological basis for a rejection of German collective guilt. Guilt, said the priests, was really something personal between a man and his God, and its attribution to one nation by another was blasphemy, for this could only be a matter of divine prerogative. After that, all that there remained to do was pray for the dead, for those who had done wrong, and for the whole dreadful and embarrassing epoch to be forgotten as quickly as possible.
There were many who remained uneasy at the way the moral dirt was swept under the carpet. But it is certain that a nation cannot feel collective guilt, that each man must encounter it personally. Only now did I realize the nature of my own guilt — and perhaps it was really not much different from that of many others: it was that I had not said anything, that I had not lifted my hand against the Nazis. I also realized that I had a personal sense of grievance against Heinrich Müller, for as chief of the Gestapo he had done more than any other man to achieve the corruption of the police force of which I had once been a proud member. From that had flowed wholesale terror.
Now it seemed it was not too late to do something after all. It was just possible that, by seeking out Müller, the symbol not just of my own corruption but Becker’s too, and bringing him to justice, I might help to clear my own guilt for what had happened.
Belinsky rang early, almost as if he had already guessed my decision, and I told him that I would help him to find Gestapo Müller not for Crowcass, nor for the United States Army, but for Germany. But mostly, I told him, I would help him to get Müller for myself.
29
First thing that morning, after telephoning König and arranging a meeting to hand over Belinsky’s ostensibly secret material, I went to Liebl’s office in Judengasse in order that he might arrange for me to see Becker at the police prison.
‘I want to show him a photograph,’ I explained.
‘A photograph?’ Liebl sounded hopeful. ‘Is this a photograph that might become an item of evidence?’
I shrugged. ‘That depends on Becker.’
Liebl made a couple of swift telephone calls, trading on the death of Becker’s fiancée, the possibility of new evidence and the proximity of the trial, which gained us almost immediate access to the prison. It was a fine day and we made our way there by foot, with Liebl walking his umbrella like a colour sergeant in an imperial regiment of guards.
‘Did you tell him about Traudl?’ I asked.
‘Last night.’
‘How did he take it?’
The grey brow on the old lawyer’s head shifted uncertainly. ‘Surprisingly well, Herr Gunther. Like you, I had supposed our client would be devastated by the news.’ The brow shifted again, more in consternation this time. ‘But he was not. No, it was his own unfortunate situation that seemed to preoccupy him. As well as your progress, or lack of it. Herr Becker does seem to have an extraordinary amount of faith in your powers of detection. Powers for which, if I may be frank with you, sir, I have seen little or no evidence.’
‘You’re entitled to your opinion, Dr Liebl. I guess you’re like most lawyers I’ve met: if your own sister sent you an invitation to her wedding you’d be happy only if it was signed under seal and in the presence of two witnesses. Perhaps if our client had been a little more forthcoming …’
‘You suspect he’s been holding something back? Yes, I remember you said as much on the telephone yesterday. Without knowing quite what you were talking about I did not feel able to take advantage of Herr Becker’s —’ he hesitated for a second while he debated whether or not he could reasonably use the word, and then decided that he could ‘— grief, to make such an allegation.’
‘Very sensitive of you, I’m sure. But perhaps this photograph will jog his memory.’
‘I do hope so. And perhaps his bereavement will have sunk in, and he will make a better show of his grief.’
It seemed like a very Viennese sort of sentiment.
But when we saw Becker he appeared hardly affected. After a packet of cigarettes had persuaded the guard to leave the three of us alone in the interview room I tried to find out why.
‘I’m sorry about Traudl,’ I said. ‘She was a really lovely girl.’
He nodded expressionlessly, as if he had been listening to some boring point of legal procedure as explained by Liebl.
‘I must say you don’t seem very upset by it,’ I remarked.
‘I’m dealing with it in the best way I know how,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s not a lot I can do here. Chances are they won’t even let me attend the funeral. How do you think I feel?’
I turned to Liebl and asked him if he wouldn’t mind leaving the room for a minute. ‘There’s something I wish to say to Herr Becker in private.’
Liebl glanced at Becker, who nodded curtly back at him. Neither of us spoke until the heavy door had closed behind the lawyer.
‘Spit it out, Bernie,’ Becker said, half-yawning at the same time. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘It was your friends in the Org who killed your girl,’ I said, watching his long thin face closely for some sign of emotion. I wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but I was keen to see what it might make him reveal. But there was nothing. ‘They actually asked me to kill her.’
‘So,’ he said, with his eyes narrowing, ‘you’re in the Org.’ His tone was cautious. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Your friend König recruited me.’
His face seemed to relax a little. ‘Well, I guessed it was only a matter of time. To be honest, I wasn’t at all sure whether or not you were in the Org when you first came to Vienna. With your background you’re the kind of man they’re quick to recruit. If you’re in now, you have been busy. I’m impressed. Did König say why he wanted you to kill Traudl?’
‘He told me she was an MVD spy. He showed me a photograph of her talking to Colonel Poroshin.’
Becker smiled sadly. ‘She was no spy,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘and she was not my girlfriend. She was Poroshin’s girl. Originally she posed as my fiancée so that I could stay in contact with Poroshin while I was in prison. Liebl knew nothing about it. Poroshin said that you hadn’t been all that keen to come to Vienna. Said you didn’t seem to have a very good opinion of me. He wondered if you would stay very long when you did come. So he thought it would be a good idea if Traudl worked on you a little and persuaded you that there was someone who loved me on the outside, someone who needed me. He’s a shrewd judge of character, Bernie. Go on, admit it, she’s half the reason why you’ve stuck to my case. Because you thought that mother and baby deserved the benefit of the doubt, even if I didn’t.’
It was Becker who was watching me now, looking for some reaction. Oddly enough, I found I wasn’t angry at all. I was used to discovering that at any one time I only ever had half the truth.
‘So I don’t suppose she was a nurse at all.’
‘Oh, she was a nurse all right. She used to steal penicillin for me to sell on the black market. It was me who introduced her to Poroshin.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know about the two of them for a while. But I wasn’t surprised. Traudl liked a good time, like most of the women in this city. She and I were even lovers for a brief whi
le, but nothing like that lasts for very long in Vienna.’
‘Your wife said that you got Poroshin some penicillin for a dose of drip? Was that true?’
‘I got him some penicillin, sure, but it wasn’t for him. It was for his son. He had cerebro-spinal fever. There’s quite an epidemic of it, I believe. And a shortage of antibiotics, especially in Russia. There’s a shortage of everything but manpower in the Soviet Union.
‘After that, Poroshin did me one or two favours. Fixed papers, gave me a cigarette concession, that sort of thing. We became quite friendly. And when the Org’s people got round to recruiting me, I told him all about it. Why not? I thought König and his friends were a bunch of spinners. But I was happy to make money from them, and frankly I wasn’t much involved with the Org beyond that odd bit of courier-work to Berlin. Poroshin was keen that I get closer to them however, and when he offered me a lot of money, I agreed to try. But they’re absurdly suspicious, Bernie, and when I expressed some interest in doing more work for them they insisted that I subject myself to an interrogation about my service with the SS and my imprisonment in a Soviet POW camp. It bothered them a lot that I was released. They didn’t say anything about it at the time, but in view of what has happened since, I guess they must have decided that they couldn’t trust me, and put me out of the way.’ Becker lit one of his cigarettes and leaned back on the hard chair.
‘Why didn’t you tell this to the police?’
He laughed. ‘You think I didn’t? When I told them about the Org those stupid bastards thought I was telling them about the Werewolf Underground. You know, that shit about a Nazi terrorist group.’
‘So that’s where Shields got the idea.’
‘Shields?’ Becker snorted. ‘He’s a fucking idiot.’
‘All right, why didn’t you tell me about the Org?’
‘Like I said, Bernie, I wasn’t sure if they hadn’t already recruited you in Berlin. Ex-Kripo, ex-Abwehr, you’d have been exactly what they were looking for. But if you hadn’t been in the Org and I’d told you, you might well have gone round Vienna asking questions about it, in which case you would have ended up dead, like my two business partners. And if you were in the Org I thought that maybe that would just be in Berlin. Here in Vienna you’d be just another detective, albeit one I knew and trusted. Do you see?’
I grunted an affirmative and found my own cigarettes.
‘You still should have told me.’
‘Perhaps.’ He drew fiercely on his cigarette. ‘Listen, Bernie. My original offer still stands. Thirty thousand dollars if you can dig me out of this hole. So if you’ve got anything up your sleeve …’
‘There’s this,’ I said, cutting across him. I produced Müller’s photograph, the one that was passport-sized. ‘Do you recognize him?’
‘I don’t think so. But I’ve seen this picture before, Bernie. At least I think I have. Traudl showed it to me before you came to Vienna.’
‘Oh? Did she say how she came by it?’
‘Poroshin, I guess.’ He studied the picture more carefully. ‘Oak-leaf collar patches, silver braid on the shoulders. An SS-Brigadeführer by the look of him. Who is it, anyway?’
‘Heinrich Müller.’
‘Gestapo Müller?’
‘Officially he’s dead, so I’d like you to keep quiet about all this for the moment. I’ve teamed up with this American agent from the War Crimes Commission who is interested in the Linden case. He worked for the same department. Apparently the gun that was used to kill Linden belonged to Müller, and was used to kill the man who was supposed to be Müller. Which might leave Müller still alive. Naturally the War Crimes people are anxious to get hold of Müller at any price. Which leaves you firmly on the spot I’m afraid, at least for the moment.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if it was firmly. But the particular spot they have in mind has hinges on it. Do you mind explaining what this means exactly?’
‘It means they’re not prepared to do anything that might scare Müller out of Vienna.’
‘Assuming he’s here.’
‘That’s right. Because this is an intelligence operation, they’re not prepared to let the military police in on it. If the charges against you were to be dropped now, it might persuade the Org that the case was about to be reopened.’
‘So where does that leave me, for Christ’s sake?’
‘This American agent I’m working with has promised to let you go if we can put Müller in your place. We’re going to try and draw him out into the open.’
‘Until then they’re just going to let the trial go ahead, maybe even the sentence too?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘And you’re asking me to keep my mouth shut in the meantime.’
‘What can you say? That Linden was possibly murdered by a man who’s been dead for three years?’
‘It’s just so —’ Becker flung his cigarette into the corner of the room ‘— so damned callous.’
‘Do you want to take that biretta off your head? Look, they know about what you did in Minsk. Playing a game with your life isn’t something they feel squeamish about. To be honest, they don’t much care whether you swing or not. This is your only chance, and you know it.’
Becker nodded sullenly. ‘All right,’ he said.
I stood up to leave, but a sudden thought stopped me from walking to the door.
‘As a matter of interest,’ I said, ‘why did they release you from the Soviet POW camp?’
‘You were a prisoner. You know what it was like. Always scared they were going to find out you were in the SS.’
‘That’s why I’m asking.’
He hesitated for a moment. Then he said: ‘There was a man who was due to be released. He was very sick, and would have died soon enough. What was the point in repatriating him?’ He shrugged, and looked me square in the eye. ‘So I strangled him. Ate some camphor to make myself sick — damn near killed myself — and took his place.’ He stared me out. ‘I was desperate, Bernie. You remember what it was like.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ I tried to conceal my distaste, and failed. ‘All the same, if you’d told me that before today I’d have let them hang you.’ I reached for the door handle.
‘There’s still time. Why don’t you?’
If I’d told him the truth Becker wouldn’t have understood what I was talking about. He probably thought that metaphysics was something you used to manufacture cheap penicillin for the black market. So instead I shook my head, and said, ‘Let’s just say that I made a deal with someone.’
30
I met König at the Café Sperl in Gumpendorfer Strasse, which was in the French sector but close to the Ring. It was a big, gloomy place which the many art-nouveau-style mirrors on the walls did nothing to brighten, and was home to several half-size billiard tables. Each one of these was illuminated by a light which was fixed to the yellowing ceiling above with a brass fitting that looked like something out of an old U–boat.
König’s terrier sat a short way off from its master like the dog on the record label, watching him play a solitary but thoughtful game. I ordered a coffee and approached the table.
He judged his shot at a careful cue’s length, and then applied a screw of chalk to the tip, silently acknowledging my presence with a short nod of his head.
‘Our own Mozart was particularly fond of this game,’ he said, lowering his eyes to the felt. ‘Doubtless he found it a very congenial facsimile of the very precise dynamism of his intellect.’ He fixed his eye on the cue-ball like a sniper taking aim, and after a long, painstaking moment, rifled the white on to one red and then the other. This second red coasted down the length of the table, teetered on the lip of the pocket and, enticing a small murmur of satisfaction from its translator — for there exists no more graceful manifestation of the laws of gravity and motion — slipped noiselessly out of sight.
‘I, on the other hand, enjoy the game for rather more sensuous reasons. I love the sound of the bal
ls hitting each other, and the way they run so smoothly.’ He retrieved the red from the pocket and replaced it to his own satisfaction. ‘But most of all I love the colour green. Did you know that among Celtic peoples the colour green is considered unlucky? No? They believe green is followed by black. Probably because the English used to hang Irishmen for wearing green. Or was it the Scots?’ For a moment König stared almost insanely at the surface of the billiard table, as if he could have licked it with his tongue.
‘Just look at it,’ he breathed. ‘Green is the colour of ambition, and of youth. It’s the colour of life, and of eternal rest. Requiem aeternam dona eis.’ Reluctantly he laid his cue down on the cloth, and conjuring a large cigar from one of his pockets, turned away from the table. The terrier stood up expectantly. ‘You said on the telephone that you had something for me. Something important.’
I handed him Belinsky’s envelope. ‘Sorry it’s not in green ink,’ I said, watching him take out the papers. ‘Do you read Cyrillic?’
König shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it might as well be in Gaelic.’ But he went ahead and spread the papers out on the billiard table and then lit his cigar. When the dog barked he ordered it to be quiet. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to explain exactly what I am looking at?’
‘These are details of MVD dispositions and methods in Hungary and Lower Austria.’ I smiled coolly and sat down at an adjacent table where the waiter had just laid my coffee.
König nodded slowly, stared uncomprehendingly at the papers for another few seconds, then scooped them up, replaced them in their envelope and slipped the papers inside his jacket pocket.
‘Very interesting,’ he said, sitting down at my table. ‘Assuming for a moment that they’re genuine —’
‘Oh, they’re genuine all right,’ I said quickly.
He smiled patiently, as if I could have had no idea of the lengthy process whereby such information was properly verified. ‘Assuming they’re genuine,’ he repeated firmly, ‘how exactly did you come by them?’