‘Maybe,’ she said stiffly. ‘In the morning, perhaps. But right now I’m going to bed. So, if you want me, I’ll be in my hut.’
I watched her walk away into the darkness. I wanted her all right. I wanted to feel her smooth thighs wrapped around me the way I had the previous night. I wanted to feel my hands squashed under her behind as I nudged deep into her. But it bothered me a bit that she had tried – oh so subtly – to scare me off from behaving like a detective. It bothered me also that she had mentioned the word cannon before we’d found the broom-handle Mauser. Of course she might have been in the habit of describing guns as cannons – some people were. Then again, she’d used the name ‘box cannon’ when she’d been handling the gun in Von Gersdorff’s Mercedes, and that was what some people called a Mauser C96. And I knew she could handle a gun. I’d seen her handling the Mauser as comfortably as her Dunhill lighter.
It also bothered me that she’d been so quick to finger him for the murder and that she’d had mud on her shoes when I’d gone to see her in the hut – shoes she had not long changed into after removing her medical whites and boots.
I bent down and retrieved the object I’d seen on the ground: a cigarette end. There was more than enough left on it for a Berlin street vendor to have put it on his tray of half-smoked cigarettes, which was how most people – the poor anyway – went about supplementing their daily ration of three johnnies. Had she been smoking at the scene of the crime? I couldn’t remember.
Then there was the Spanish connection. I had a strong feeling there was a lot more about her time in Spain that Ines wasn’t telling me.
*
Von Gersdorff had a little glass in his fingers; the gramophone was playing something improving, only I wasn’t improved enough to recognize it. But he wasn’t alone: he was with General von Tresckow. They had a carafe of vodka, some caviar, pickles, slices of toast on an engraved silver salver, and some hand-rolled cigarettes. It wasn’t the German Club but it still looked pretty exclusive.
‘Henning, this is the fellow I was telling you about. This is Bernhard Gunther.’
To my surprise Von Tresckow stood up and bowed his bald head politely, which had my eyebrows up on my scalp: I wasn’t used to being treated with courtesy by the local flamingos.
‘I am delighted to meet you,’ he said. ‘We are in your debt, sir. Rudi told me what you did for our cause.’
I nodded back at him politely, but all the same it irritated me the way he’d talked about ‘our cause’ as if you needed a red stripe down your trouser leg or a gold signet ring with your family crest engraved on the face to want to be rid of Adolf Hitler. Von Tresckow and his piss-elegant, aristocratic friends had some airs – that was understandable – but this struck as me the worst air of all.
‘You make that sound like a kind of plutarchy, sir,’ I said. ‘I had the impression that half the world would like to see the back of that man. With a couple of holes in it.’
‘Quite right. Quite right.’ He puffed his cigarette and grinned. ‘According to Rudi here you’re a bit of a tough guy.’
I shrugged. ‘I was tough last year. And perhaps the year before. But not any more. Not since I got to Smolensk. I found out how easy it is to wind up dead, in an unmarked grave with a bullet in the back of your head just because there’s a “ski” at the end of your name. A tough guy is someone who’s hard to kill, that’s all. I guess that makes Hitler the toughest guy in Germany right now.’
Von Tresckow took that one on the chin.
‘You’re a Berliner, yes?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He made a fist that he held up in front of his face and mine; it was clear he’d been drinking. ‘Good. The ideal of freedom can never be disassociated from real Prussians like us, Gunther. Between rigour and compassion, pride in oneself and consideration for our fellow man, there must exist a balance. Wouldn’t you say so?’
I’d never really thought of myself as a Prussian, but there’s a first time for everything, so I nodded, patiently: like most German generals, von Tresckow was a little too fond of the sound of his own natural leadership.
‘Oh surely,’ I said. ‘I’m all in favour of a little balance. Where and when you can find it.’
‘Will you have some vodka, Gunther?’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘A little caviar, perhaps?’
‘No sir. Not for me. I’m here on business.’
That sounded provincial and dull – as if I was out of my depth – but I couldn’t have cared less what they thought. That’s the Berliner in me, not the Prussian.
‘Trouble?’
‘I’m afraid so. Only before I get to that I want to tell you – what we talked about earlier this evening, me rocking the boat with my own plans – you can forget what I said. It was a very bad idea. One way or another I get a lot of those. And I realized that I’m not as independently minded as I thought I was.’
‘Might I ask what those plans were?’ asked the general.
Henning von Tresckow was not much more than forty and was one of the youngest generals in the Wehrmacht. That might have had something to do with his wife’s uncle, Field Marshal Fodor von Bock, but his many decorations told a more inspiring story. The fact is, he was as bright as a polished cavalry sabre and cultured, and everyone seemed to love him – Von Kluge was forever asking Von Tresckow to recite the poet Rilke in the officer’s mess. But there was something ruthless about the man that made me wary. I had the strong feeling he, as with all of his class, disliked Hitler a lot more than he had ever loved the republic and democracy.
‘Let’s just say that I went for a walk, like Rilke. And I was grasped by what we cannot grasp and which changed me into something else.’
Von Tresckow smiled. ‘You were in the mess, the other night.’
‘Yes sir. And I heard your rendition. I thought it was good, too. You make quite a performer. But it so happens I always did like Rilke. He might just be my favourite poet.’
‘And why is that d’you think?’
‘Trying to say what can’t be said seems a very German dilemma. Especially in these anxious, disquieting times. And I’ve changed my mind about that drink. On account of how things just became a little more disquieting than they were before.’
‘Oh?’ Von Gersdorff poured me one from the carafe. ‘How so?’
He handed me the drink and I put it away quickly, just to keep things tidy in his small but well-appointed quarters: Von Gersdorff’s bed had an eiderdown as thick as a cumulus cloud and his furniture looked as if it had all come from home – or at least one of his homes. He poured me another. After the brandy, it was probably a mistake, but since the war I never mind mixing my drinks. My policy on drinking is simply the result of the shortages and what the Austrian school of economics call praxeology: I accept whatever is offered – mostly – whenever it’s offered.
‘Someone has murdered the Spanish expert from the international commission. Professor Berruguete. Shot him right between the eyes. It doesn’t get much more disquieting than that.’
‘Here at Krasny Bor?’
I nodded.
‘Who did it?’ asked Von Tresckow.
‘That’s a good question sir. I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘That is disquieting.’
I nodded. ‘What’s even more disquieting is that they used your gun to do it, colonel.’
‘My gun?’ He glanced at the cross-belts and holster hanging off the end of his bedstead.
‘Not that one. I mean the broom-handle Mauser in the door pocket of your car. I hope you don’t mind but I already checked. I’m afraid it’s not there.’
‘Lord, does that make me a suspect?’ asked Von Gersdorff, smiling wryly.
‘How many people knew it was there?’ I asked.
‘In the door pocket? Any number of people. And I didn’t ever lock the car. As doubtless you have just found out. After all, this is supposed to be a secure area here at Krasny Bor.’
&n
bsp; ‘Ever use it down here in Smolensk?’ I asked.
‘In anger? No. It was a back-up firearm. Just in case. There’s also a machine-pistol in the trunk. Well, you can’t be too careful on these Russian country roads. You know what they say: keep one gun for show and another to blow someone’s head off. The Walther is all right at close range, but the Mauser is as accurate as a carbine when the shoulder-stock is attached and it packs a hell of a punch.’
‘The shoulder-stock is missing, too,’ I said, ‘but so far it hasn’t been found.’
‘Damn.’ Von Gersdorff frowned. ‘That’s a pity. I was fond of that rig. It belonged to my father. He used it when he was in the guards.’
He reached under the bed and took out the empty carry-case, which was complete with gun oil and several stripper clips, each holding nine bullets.
Von Tresckow ran his hand along the polished wooden surface of the case, admiringly. ‘Very nice,’ he said, and then lit a cigarette. ‘You see a beautiful German gun like this and you wonder how it is we can be losing the fucking war.’
‘Pity about that stock,’ complained Von Gersdorff.
‘I dare say it will turn up in the morning,’ I said.
‘You must tell me where the gun was found and I’ll go and look for it myself,’ said Von Gersdorff.
‘Can we forget about your gun for a moment, colonel?’
I felt myself becoming slightly exasperated with them both: Von Gersdorff seemed to care more about the loss of his rifle stock than the death of Dr Berruguete. Von Tresckow was already looking at his friend’s collection of classical records.
‘A man is dead. An important man. This could prove to be very awkward for us – for Germany. If the rest of these experts get wind of what’s happened they might all clear off and leave us needing some new laundry.’
‘It seems you need some new laundry yourself, Gunther,’ observed the general. ‘Where’s your shirt, for God’s sake?’
‘I lost it on a horse. Just forget about that. Look, gentlemen, it’s very simple, I need to put the brake on this, and quick. In the middle of a war it might sound ridiculous, but ordinarily I’d make a shot at catching the fellow who killed this Spaniard, only right now I figure it’s more important not to scare the suspects. By which of course I mean the assembled experts of the international commission.’
‘Are they suspects?’ asked the general.
‘We’re all suspects,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Isn’t that right, Gunther? Anyone could have helped himself to the Mauser in my car. Ergo, we’re all of us under suspicion.’
I didn’t contradict him.
General Von Tresckow grinned. ‘I’ll vouch for the colonel, Captain Gunther. He’s been here all night, with me.’
‘I’m afraid the captain knows that isn’t true, Henning,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘He and I went for a walk in the forest earlier this evening. I suppose I could have done it after that. I’m a pretty good shot, too. At my military school in Breslau I was considered the best marksman in my year.’
*
‘In Breslau, you say?’ I said.
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Only that you seem to be one of several people here in Smolensk who have a Breslau connection. Professor Buhtz for one—’
‘And your friend, the beautiful Dr Kramsta, for another,’ added Von Gersdorff. ‘We mustn’t forget her. And yes, before you ask, I do know her – sort of. Or at least her family. She’s a von Kramsta from Muhrau. My late wife, Renata, was related to her, distantly.’
‘The von Schwartzenfeldts are related to the von Kramstas?’ said the general. ‘I didn’t know that.’
This was a lot more than I knew – about Ines, about everything. Sometimes I had the strange idea that I knew nothing and no one – certainly no one that the vons and the zus would have called anyone.
‘Yes,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘I believe she and her brother Ulrich came to our wedding, in 1934. Her father was with the foreign office. A diplomat. But we lost touch soon after that and haven’t seen each other in years. Ulrich became very left-wing – to be honest, I think he was a communist – and regarded me as not much better than a Nazi. He was killed after fighting for the republicans in 1938; murdered by the fascists in some Spanish concentration camp.’
‘How awful,’ said the general.
‘There was something awful about it,’ admitted Von Gersdorff. ‘Something nasty. I remember that much.’
‘Sounds like a motive for murder right there,’ said the general, gallantly fingering Ines Kramsta. ‘But Captain Gunther is right, Rudi. We need to manage this situation before it gets out of hand.’ He allowed himself another wry smile. ‘By Christ, but Goebbels is going to go mad when he finds out about this.’
‘Yes he is,’ I said, realizing that I was probably the one who was going to have to tell him. He had only just recovered from being told about the murder of Dr Batov and the disappearance of the only documentary evidence of precisely what had happened at Katyn.
‘And about the only person who’s going to be pleased at this turn of events is the field marshal,’ he added. ‘He hates all this.’
‘And the murderer,’ I said. ‘We mustn’t forget him.’ I said ‘him’ very firmly for the general’s benefit. ‘I’m sure he’s pleased as a snowman with a new carrot.’
‘Take whatever measures you think are appropriate here, Gunther,’ said the general. ‘I’ll back you all the way. Speak to my adjutant and tell him you need to make this problem go away. I’ll speak to him for you if you like?’
‘Please do,’ I said.
‘And perhaps I could contact the Tirpitzufer,’ said Von Gersdorff, ‘to see if the Abwehr’s Spanish section can turn up anything on this dead doctor. What was his name again?’
I wrote it down on a piece of paper for him. ‘Doctor Agapito Girauta Ignacio Berruguete,’ I said. ‘From the University of Madrid.’
Von Tresckow yawned and picked up the field telephone. ‘This is General von Tresckow,’ he said to the operator. ‘Find Lieutenant von Schlabrendorff and send him to Colonel von Gersdorff’s quarters right away.’ He paused. ‘Is he? Well put him on.’ He covered the mouthpiece for a moment and turned to Von Gersdorff. ‘For some reason Fabian’s down the road, with those ghastly signals people at the castle.’
He waited for a moment, tapping his boot impatiently, while I wondered why he thought they were ghastly. Was it possible he knew about the call-girl service that had been available through the 537th switchboard? Or were they just ghastly because they weren’t barons and knights?
‘Fabian? What are you doing over there?’ he said eventually. ‘Oh, I see. Can you really handle that by yourself? – he’s a big man, you know. Did he? I see. Yes, you had no choice. All right. Look, come and see me in my quarters when you get back here. Look, don’t for Christ’s sake do anything foolhardy. I’ll see if I can send you some help.’
Von Tresckow replaced the phone and explained the situation. ‘Von Kluge’s Putzer is drunk. Some peasant girl who works at the castle has thrown him over and the ignorant Ivan bastard has been sitting all night beside grave number one with a bottle getting steadily pissed. Apparently he’s got a pistol in his lap and is threatening to shoot anyone who goes near him. Says he wants to kill himself.’
‘I can think of any number of people here who would like to do it for him,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Me included.’
Von Tresckow laughed. ‘Exactly. It seems that Colonel Ahrens telephoned the field marshal’s office, and Von Kluge asked poor Fabian to go over there and sort it out. Typical of Clever Hans – to get someone else to do his dirty work. Anyway, that’s what Fabian is still trying to do, but without success.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘I really don’t know why Von Kluge keeps that man around. We’d all be a lot better off if he did shoot himself.’
‘I wouldn’t care to disarm Dyakov,’ observed Von Gersdorff. ‘Not if he’s drunk.’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said the ge
neral.
‘Do you think Fabian’s up to it? He’s a lawyer, not a soldier.’
Von Tresckow shrugged ‘I would have told Fabian to leave the Russian and come back here,’ he said, ‘because what’s happened here at Krasny Bor is obviously more important. But always supposing they don’t go straight home tomorrow morning, Gunther’s experts will want to see the valley of the Polacks before they see anything. Under the circumstances, the last thing they probably want to meet is a fucking tanked-up Russian with a pistol in his hand.’
Von Gersdorff laughed. ‘Might add to the sense of verisimilitude, sir,’ he said.
The general allowed himself a smile. ‘Perhaps it would at that.’
‘I know you’re a general,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got a better idea. How about you try to keep the lid on things here and I go down to Katyn Wood and take care of Dyakov?’
It certainly didn’t sound like a better idea – not to me. Maybe I was regretting making that little speech about me not being a tough guy; or maybe I just felt like hitting someone and Dyakov looked like he was made for it. What with the Polish Red Cross, someone shooting at me, and the murder of Dr Berruguete, it had been that kind of day.
‘Would you, Gunther? We would both be awfully grateful.’
‘Take my word for it. I’ve dealt with drunks before.’
‘Who better than a Berlin copper to deal with a situation like this, eh?’ He clapped me on the back. ‘You’re a good man, Gunther. A real Prussian. Yes, indeed, you can leave things here to me.’
Von Gersdorff had buttoned up his tunic and was pouring another drink.
‘I’ll drive you, Gunther,’ he said. ‘I’m going to send that signal off to the Tirpitzufer.’ He grinned. ‘You know, I think I’d like to see you take care of Dyakov.’ He handed me the drink. ‘Here. I’ve got a feeling you might need this.’
CHAPTER 10
Thursday, April 29th 1943
It was after midnight when we got to Katyn Wood. I preferred it in the dark – the smell and the flies weren’t so bad at night. Things were quieter, too, or at least they ought to have been. We heard Dyakov a long time before we saw him; he was singing a lachrymose song in Russian. Von Gersdorff pulled the car up outside the front door of the castle where Colonel Ahrens was waiting with Lieutenants Voss and Schlabrendorff and several men from the field police and the 537th. They all ducked at once as a pistol shot rang out in the forest. It was easy to imagine that sound multiplied four thousand times during the early spring of 1940.