by Philip Kerr
“Then, a few weeks ago, when I was in London researching a report for the president on the Katyn Forest massacre, I ran into someone I’d known back in Vienna. An Englishman who had been a fellow Communist and who now works for British intelligence. And, it would seem, from what you’ve just told me, Russian intelligence, too. We talked about old times and that was it. Or so I thought, until General Donovan mentioned these intercepts and codebooks. Naturally I wanted to know if I should expect the NKVD to try to reestablish contact. I suspect that the only reason they haven’t is because I’ve been away from Washington since November twelfth. I doubt that they’ve had time.
“All the same, I can’t deny that all of this would be embarrassing for me if Donovan and the president got to know about it. Embarrassing and perhaps even compromising. I would probably have to resign from the service. But I don’t think I’d go to the electric chair for something I did before the United States was at war with Germany. I don’t think I’d even go to prison for it. So, no, I’m not going to help you to escape. I’ll take my chances.”
I smiled nonchalantly. I actually felt better now that I knew what the Bride material contained.
“But, then, so will you.”
Reichleitner frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Only this. That if you do decide to tell Deakin and Donovan what you know, it might be worth bearing in mind that I won’t be the only person who’s arrested for spying. There’s you for one. Don’t forget, Major Deakin’s still got your name on chit for a firing squad. And for another, there’s this little lady. Cairo’s answer to Mata Hari.”
I handed Reichleitner the photograph from Elena’s album. “This was taken just a few months ago. At the opening of the Auberge des Pyramides. Quite apart from the many questions it begs about what you were doing here at that time, it also begs just as many about Elena Pontiatowska. You see, Major Reichleitner, I know all about the radio in the little room behind the bookcase. And that, on its own, would be enough to book her the firing squad after yours.”
“What do you intend to do?” Reichleitner asked grimly.
“If it was just you and her and the odd bit of information about what the SOE is up to in Yugoslavia, then I think I might be inclined merely to warn Elena that I was on to her. That she should cease operations and get the hell out of Cairo. You see, we’re good friends. Maybe good friends like you and she were good friends. That I don’t know.
“What I do know is that it’s more serious than just a bit of spying. A lot more serious. You see, I believe she’s involved in a plot to assassinate Stalin in Teheran.”
I showed Reichleitner the plaintext message I had taken from the bin in Elena’s radio room and tossed the half-baked part of my theory in his lap.
“What was the idea with the Beketovka File, anyway? To use it as some sort of post factum justification for killing Stalin? Yes, that might play quite well with the world’s press. Stalin was a tyrant, a monster, a mass murderer. He deserved to die because God knows how many others have been murdered on his orders. And here’s the proof. This is what Germany has always been fighting against. This kind of Bolshevik barbarism. And this is why Britain and America have been fighting the wrong enemy.” I nodded. “It makes a lot of sense when you think of it like this.”
“To you, maybe,” said Reichleitner. “But not to me, I’m afraid. It wasn’t like that at all. I don’t know anything about a plot to kill Stalin.”
“No? Then what about that photograph? At the very least it proves you’ve been here in Cairo before. As a spy.”
“It’s true, I’ve been here before. But not as a spy.”
“I get it. You were on vacation.” I grinned and threw my cigarette onto the floor of Reichleitner’s cell. “See the Pyramids and then back to Berlin with some dirty postcards and a couple of cheap souvenirs.”
Reichleitner said nothing. He was looking green around the mouth. But I was through being patient. I grabbed him by the vest and banged him hard against the cell wall.
“Come on, Max, you idiot,” I yelled. “It’s not just your ass that’s facing a firing squad. It’s Elena’s, too. Or are you too dumb to realize that?”
“All right. I’ll tell you what I know.”
I let him go and stood back. He sat down heavily and lit a cigarette. “From the top,” I said. “When you’re ready.”
“I’ve been operating in this theater for a while. Ankara and Cairo, mainly. But I’m not a spy. I’m a courier. I’ve been involved in some secret peace negotiations between Himmler, von Papen, and the Americans. In particular, a man named George Earle who is yet another of your president’s special representatives.”
“Earle? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Listen, I don’t deny that the Beketovka File was intended to undermine U.S.-Soviet relations. And, by the way, it’s completely genuine. But there was never any talk of an assassination. At least nothing of which I have been made aware.”
“How much did Elena know of your activities?”
“Almost nothing. Only that there was an important document I was required to go back and fetch from Germany. And which then had to find its way into the president’s hands by the shortest route possible.”
“I suppose that was where I came in handy,” I said grimly.
Reichleitner shook his head, hardly understanding what I was talking about. “She’s just the station master, that’s all. She helps whichever German gets off the train, so to speak. Not asking questions. Just facilitating one mission and then another.”
“This week a peace envoy, next week an assassin, is that it?”
“You say you’re an expert on German intelligence? Then you’ll know that the Abwehr and the SD don’t tend to share much in the way of information or operational plans. And neither of them is much disposed to keep the Foreign Ministry or the Gestapo informed of what they’re up to.”
“But surely Himmler knows what’s happening?”
“Not necessarily. Himmler and Admiral Canaris don’t get on any better than Canaris and Schellenberg. Or Schellenberg and von Ribbentrop.”
“And you. Where do you fit into all this?”
“I’m SS. Before the war I was with the Criminal Police. And, like I say, I’m just a courier between Himmler and von Papen, and your Commander Earle. I met Earle here in Cairo when I was last here. You could probably ask him to confirm my story. I’m certainly not an assassin.” Reichleitner handed back the plaintext message from the Abwehr. “But it’s possible I could help you catch him. This Brutus. If he really exists.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To help Elena, of course. If there is an attempt made to kill Stalin, then it might go badly for her. I’ve no wish to see any harm come to her.” He paused. “I might be able to persuade her to cooperate in bringing in Brutus. Or I could simply persuade her to tell you who this man is. How would that be?”
“All of that in spite of the fact you told me you’d like to see Stalin dead.”
“I’d much prefer that Elena stayed alive.” Reichleitner glanced wistfully at the photograph of himself and Elena that lay on the table. “I don’t see that she has got much choice but to cooperate, do you? And what have you got to lose?”
“Nothing, probably. All the same, I’d like to think about it. Over breakfast.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m going back to my hotel. Have a bath and something to eat while I’m considering your proposal. Then I’ll come back here and tell you what I’ve decided to do.”
By now it was clear to me that the major was fond of Elena—probably as fond of her as I was myself.
“What shall I do with these transcripts?” he asked.
“Don’t say I told you to. But burn them. And the codebooks.”
On the cab ride back to the hotel, I asked myself if I could risk telling Reilly and Hopkins what I had discovered. What was the life of a woman I was fond of, a woman who was, after all, a German spy, alongside the fate of the only man capable of
driving Russia on to the Pyrrhic victory over Germany that seemed inevitable? I should probably just have walked around the corner from Grey Pillars to the American legation and placed the whole matter in the hands of the Secret Service. But then, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that one of the Treasury agents was Brutus, the potential assassin. I needed time to think, and with the conference in Teheran still several days away, the small matter of a few hours seemed neither here nor there.
Climbing out of the cab in front of Shepheard’s, I scratched my hand on a metal hinge. Having wrapped my handkerchief around the wound to stop it bleeding, I cleaned the cut with some iodine when I was back in my room. In Cairo, it didn’t do to neglect these things. Then I shaved and drew a bath. I was just about to step into the tepid water when there was a loud knock at the door. Cursing, I wrapped a bath towel around my middle and opened the door to find myself faced by four men, two of them tall, thin Egyptians wearing the white uniform of the local police. The two Europeans with them were breathing hard, as if they’d used the stairs. One of them addressed me politely, but behind his wire-frame glasses, he had a nasty look in his eye.
“Are you Professor Willard Mayer?”
“Yes.”
The man held up a warrant card. “Detective Inspector Luger, sir. And this is Sergeant Cash.” The inspector did not bother to identify the two Egyptians. In their white uniforms they looked like a couple of pipecleaners. “May we come in, sir?”
“All of you?” But the two detectives had already brushed me aside and entered my room. Cash didn’t look at me at all. He was looking around the room.
“Nice room,” he said. “Very nice. I’ve never actually been in a room at Shepheard’s. Officers only, you see.”
“Standards have to be maintained, you know,” I said, disliking him for the way he had of making me feel like I was a criminal. “Otherwise where would the empire be?”
He winced a little and fixed me with his stoniest look. Perhaps it worked on Egyptians, but it didn’t work on me. But then he smiled. His smile was terrifying. It was full of teeth. Bad teeth. I turned to Luger in disgust.
“Look, what’s going on? I was just about to take a bath.”
“Did you spend the night in this room, sir?” he asked.
“No, I just came here to take a bath.”
“Just answer the question, please, Professor.”
“All right. I spent the night at a friend’s house.”
“Would you mind telling me the name of your friend, sir?”
“If you really think it’s necessary. The house belongs to the Princess Elena Pontiatowska. I can’t remember the street number. But it’s on Harass Street, in Garden City.” Even as I spoke, I saw Sergeant Cash pick up my bloodstained handkerchief and catch Luger’s eye. “Look, what is all this? I’m with the American delegation.” I looked at Cash. “That’s spelled D-I-P-L-O-M-A-T-I-C.”
“We’ll try not to take up too much of your valuable time, sir,” said Luger. “When did you leave the princess’s house. Approximately?”
“Early this morning. At about seven.”
“And did you come straight here?”
“No, as a matter of fact I dropped into British Army GHQ at Grey Pillars. On official business. My boss, General Donovan, will vouch for me, if required. As indeed will Mike Reilly, who is head of the president’s Secret Service detail.”
“Yes, sir,” said Luger.
Cash replaced my handkerchief carefully on the table. A little too carefully for my liking. Almost as if he contemplated picking it up again and placing it in an envelope marked “Evidence.” That was bad enough, but now he collected my trousers off the back of the chair where I had thrown them, and was inspecting the pocket. There was a bloodstain on the edge of the pocket lining.
“Look, I’m not saying another goddamn thing until you’ve told me what’s going on.”
“In that case, sir, you leave me no alternative,” sighed Luger. “Willard Mayer, I’m arresting you on suspicion of having committed murder. Do you understand?”
“Who’s been murdered, for Christ’s sake?”
“Get dressed, sir,” said Cash. “But not these trousers, eh?”
“I cut myself. Climbing out of a cab about half an hour ago.”
“I’m afraid that’s for the laboratory to decide now, sir.”
“Look, this is a mistake. I haven’t murdered anyone.”
Luger had found my shoulder holster and the Colt automatic it contained. Holding the holster, he lifted the pistol to his nostrils and sniffed it experimentally.
“It’s not been fired for months,” I said, putting on some clothes. “I wish you’d tell me what this is all about. Has something happened to Elena?”
Neither of the two detectives spoke as they escorted me to a large black car parked outside the hotel. We drove south, to the Citadel, a centuries-old bastion that, with its needle-like minarets, was just about the most dramatic feature on Cairo’s skyline. Circling the Citadel, we entered it from the back, at a higher level, close to the center of the ancient complex, and then drove through the gate tunnel and into a courtyard in front of the police station.
I got out of the car and, still closely escorted, entered the building. There, in a large room with a wear-polished stone floor, a fine view over the city, and, on the wall, a portrait of King George, my interrogation began.
It very quickly became apparent that Elena had been murdered.
“Were you involved in a sexual relationship with Elena Pontiatowska?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How did you meet?”
“We were friends, from before the war. In Berlin.”
“I see.”
“Look, Inspector, she was still alive when I left the house this morning. But there’s something you should know. Something important.”
Luger looked up from the notes he had been making while I spoke. “And what might that be?”
“I need to see that she really is dead before I tell you.”
“All right,” sighed Luger. “Let’s go and take a look at her.”
The two detectives had the car brought back, and we drove to the house in Harass Street. It was now guarded by several Egyptian policemen and already subject to the close scrutiny of various scientific experts.
In the hall, Luger led the way up to the first floor. Cash brought up the rear. We went into Elena’s bedroom.
She lay beside a high French window, wearing a silk gown. She had been shot through the heart at fairly close range, for the wound was surrounded with black powder. I didn’t need to put a mirror in front of her mouth to know that she was dead.
“It looks as if she knew her attacker,” I observed. “Given the close proximity of her assailant. But it wasn’t me.”
On the floor beside her body lay a Walther PPK, and I realized with horror that it was very likely the same automatic I had handled in the radio room. It would have my fingerprints on it. But for the moment I said nothing.
“You’ve had your look,” Luger said.
“Just give me a minute, please. This was a good friend of mine.” But I was playing for time. There was something small on the floor, near Elena’s hand, and I wondered if I might see what it was before I was obliged to leave the crime scene. “This has all been a dreadful shock to me, Inspector. I need a cigarette.” I took out my cigarettes. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
I pretended to fumble with the pack and dropped a couple onto the floor. Placing another in my mouth I bent quickly down and retrieved only one of the two cigarettes from the carpet. At the same time I picked up the object close to Elena’s outstretched hand and slipped it into the pack.
“Here, here, you’re contaminating my crime scene,” objected Luger. “You’ve left one of your cigarettes on the floor.” And, bending down, he picked it up.
“Sorry.” I took the cigarette from Luger’s fingers and then lit the one in my mouth.
“Now, then,
Professor. What were you going to tell me that’s so important?”
“That Elena Pontiatowska was a German spy.”
Luger tried to repress a smile. “This case really does have everything,” he said. “Yes, it’s been quite a while since we had such a sensational murder here in Cairo. You have to go back to 1927, I’d say—the murder of Solomon Cicurel, the owner of the department store—to have such a fascinating dramatis personae, so to speak. There’s you, Professor, a famous philosopher, and a Polish princess who used to be married to one of the richest men in Egypt. A man who I might add, was also shot. And now you say that this woman was a German spy.”
“You can forget that business about ‘now I say,’ ” I told him. “I don’t recall saying anything about her before now.”
“Is that why you killed her?” asked Cash. “Because she was a German spy?”
“I didn’t kill her. But I can prove she was a spy.” For a moment I thought of showing Luger the plaintext message that was still in my coat pocket and then decided it would be better to put that straight into the hands of Hopkins and Reilly. “There’s a German agent radio in a secret room upstairs. I could show you where it is.”
Luger nodded, and we left Cash in the bedroom and went back along the landing to the double doors that opened onto the stone stairs, and then up to the little apartment. I showed the detective how the bookcase was really a door and then led the way into the secret room.
But the German sender/receiver was gone.
“It was there on that table. And next to it was the gun that’s on the floor in Elena’s bedroom. The Walther. I’m afraid you might find my prints on that, Inspector. I handled it when I came in here and found the radio this morning. Just to see if it was loaded.”
“I see,” said Luger. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, sir?”
“Only that I didn’t kill her.”
Luger sighed. “Try and look at it from my point of view,” he said, almost gently. “There was blood on your trousers when we arrested you. By your own admission your fingerprints are on the probable murder weapon. You were sleeping with the victim. And, to cap it all, when you came here, with some cock-and-bull story about spies, you even tried to interfere with evidence. Yes, I’ll thank you to hand that button over. The one you picked off the floor when you dropped your cigarettes in the bedroom back there.”
