by Philip Kerr
Poroshin leaned forward and knocked open a silver cigarette box on the desk. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.
I took one and lit it with a fancy silver lighter that was cast in the shape of a field gun; then I looked at it critically, as if judging its value in a pawnshop. He had irritated me and I wanted to kick back at him somehow. ‘You’ve got some nice loot,’ I said. ‘This is a German field gun. Did you buy it, or was there nobody at home when you called?’
Poroshin closed his eyes, snorted a little laugh, then got up and went over to the window. He drew up the sash and unbuttoned his fly. ‘That’s the trouble with drinking all that Ovaltine,’ he said, apparently unperturbed by my attempt to insult him. ‘It goes straight through you.’ When he started to pee, he glanced back across his shoulder at the Tatar who remained standing by the filing cabinet and the glass of vodka which stood on it. ‘Drink it and get out, pig.’
The Tatar didn’t hesitate. He emptied the glass with one jerk of his head and stepped swiftly out of the office, closing the door behind him.
‘If you saw how peasants like him leave the toilets here, you would understand why I prefer to piss out of the window,’ said Poroshin, buttoning himself. He closed the window and resumed his seat. The boots thudded back on to the blotter. ‘My fellow Russians can make life in this sector rather trying at times. Thank God for people like Emil. He is a most amusing man to have around on occasion. And very resourceful too. There is simply nothing that he cannot get hold of. What is the word you have for these black-market types?’
‘Swing Heinis.’
‘Yes, swings. If one wanted entertainment, Emil would be the swing to arrange it.’ He laughed fondly at the thought of him, which was more than I could do. ‘I never met a man who knew so many girls. Of course they are all prostitutes and chocoladies, but that is not such a great crime these days, is it?’
‘It depends on the chocolady,’ I said.
‘Also, Emil is most ingenious at getting things across the border — the Green Frontier you call it, don’t you?’
I nodded. ‘Through the woods.’
‘An accomplished smuggler. He’s made a great deal of money. Until this happened he was living very well in Vienna. A big house, a fine car and an attractive girlfriend.’
‘Have you ever made use of his services? And I don’t mean his acquaintance with chocoladies.’
Poroshin confined himself to repeating that Emil could get hold of anything.
‘Does that include information?’
He shrugged. ‘Now and again. But whatever Emil does, he does for money. I find it hard to believe he would not have also been doing things for the Americans.
‘In this case, however, he had a job from an Austrian. A man called König, who was in the advertising and publicity business. The company was called Reklaue & Werbe Zentrale, and they had offices here in Berlin and in Vienna. König wanted Emil to collect layouts from the Vienna office to bring to Berlin, on a regular basis. He said that the work was too important to trust to the post or to a courier, and König couldn’t go himself as he was awaiting denazification. Of course Emil suspected that the parcels contained things besides advertisements, but the money was good enough for him to ask no questions, and since he came to and from Berlin on a fairly regular basis anyway, it wasn’t going to cause him any extra problems. Or so he thought.
‘For a while Emil’s deliveries went without a problem. When he was bringing cigarettes or some such contraband into Berlin he would also bring one of König’s parcels. He handed them over to a man called Eddy Holl and collected his money. It was as simple as that.
‘Well, one night Emil was in Berlin and went to a nightclub in Berlin-Schönberg called the Gay Island. By accident he met this man, Eddy Holl. He was drunk and introduced him to an American army captain called Linden. Eddy described Emil to Captain Linden as “their Vienna courier”. The next day Eddy telephoned Emil and apologised for being drunk and suggested that it would be better for all their sakes if Emil forgot all about Captain Linden.
‘Several weeks later, when Emil was back in Vienna, he got a call from this Captain Linden, who said that he would like to meet him again. So they met at some bar and the American started to ask questions about the advertising firm, Reklaue & Werbe. There wasn’t much that Emil could tell him, but Linden’s being there worried him. He thought that if Linden was in Vienna that there might not be any more need for his own services. It would be a shame, he thought, to see the end of such easy money. So he followed Linden around Vienna for a while. After a couple of days Linden met another man, and followed by Emil they went to an old film studio. Minutes later Emil heard a shot and the man came out, alone. Emil waited until this man was gone. Then he went in and found Captain Linden’s dead body, and a load of stolen tobacco. Naturally enough he did not inform the police. Emil tries to have as little to do with them as possible.
‘The next day, König and a third man came to see him. Don’t ask me his name, I don’t know. They said that an American friend had gone missing, and that they were worried something might have happened to him. In view of the fact that Emil had once been a detective with Kripo, would he, for a substantial reward, look into it for them. Emil agreed, seeing an easy way to make some money, and perhaps an opportunity to help himself to some of the tobacco.
‘After a day or so, and having had the studio watched for a while, Emil and a couple of his boys decided it was safe to go back there with a van. They found the International Patrol waiting for them. Emil’s boys were a couple of pleasure-shooters and got themselves killed. Emil was arrested.’
‘Does he know who tipped them off?’
‘I asked my people in Vienna to find that out. It seems the tip-off was anonymous.’ Poroshin smiled appreciatively. ‘Now here’s the good part. Emil’s gun is a Walther P38. He took it with him to the studio. But when he was arrested and surrendered it he noticed that it wasn’t his P38 after all. This one had a German eagle on the handgrip. And there was another important difference. The local ballistics expert quickly identified this as the same gun that had shot and killed Captain Linden.’
‘Someone switched it for Becker’s own gun, eh?’ I said. ‘Yes, it’s not the sort of thing you’d notice right away, is it? Very neat. A man, conveniently carrying the murder weapon, returns to the scene of the crime, ostensibly to collect his stolen tobacco. Quite a strong case there I’d say.’
I took a last puff of my cigarette before extinguishing it in Poroshin’s silver desk-ashtray and helping myself to another. ‘I’m not sure what I would be able to do,’ I said. ‘Turning water into wine isn’t in my normal line of work.’
‘Emil is anxious, so his lawyer, Dr Liebl, tells me, that you should find this man König. He seems to have disappeared.’
‘I’ll bet he has. Do you think it was König who made the switch, when he came to Becker’s house?
‘It certainly looks that way. König or perhaps the third man.’
‘Do you know anything about König, or this publicity firm?’
‘Nyet.’
There was a knock at the door and an officer came into Poroshin’s office.
‘We have Am Kupfergraben on the line, sir,’ he announced in Russian. ‘They say it’s urgent.’
I pricked up my ears. Am Kupfergraben was the location of Berlin’s biggest MVD gaol. With so many displaced and missing persons in my line of work, it paid to keep your ears open.
Poroshin glanced at me, almost as if he knew what I was thinking, and then said to the other officer, ‘It will have to wait, Jegoroff. Any other calls?’
‘Zaisser from K–5.’
‘If that Nazi bastard wants to speak to me he can damn well wait outside my door. Tell him that. Now leave us please.’ He waited until the door had closed behind his subordinate. ‘K–5 mean anything to you, Gunther?’
‘Should it?’
‘Not yet, no. But in time, who knows?’ He did not elaborate, but instead glanced at his wristwa
tch. ‘We really must get on. I have an appointment this evening. Jegoroff will arrange all your necessary papers — pink pass, travel permit, a ration card, an Austrian identity card — do you have a photograph? Never mind. Jegoroff will have one taken. Oh yes, I think it would be a good idea if you were to have one of our new tobacco permits. It allows you to sell cigarettes throughout the Eastern Zone, and obliges all Soviet personnel to be of assistance to you wherever it is possible. It might just get you out of any trouble.’
‘I thought the black market was illegal in your zone,’ I said, curious as to the reason for this blatant piece of official hypocrisy.
‘It is illegal,’ Poroshin said, without any trace of embarrassment. ‘This is an officially licensed black market. It allows us to raise some foreign currency. Rather a good idea don’t you think? Naturally we will supply you with a few cartons of cigarettes to make it look convincing.’
‘You seem to have thought of everything. What about my money?’
‘It will be delivered to your home at the same time as your papers. The day after tomorrow.’
‘And where is the money coming from? This Dr Liebl, or from your cigarette concessions?’
‘Liebl will be sending me money. Until then this matter will be handled by the SMA.’
I didn’t like this much, but there wasn’t much of an alternative. Take money from the Russians, or go to Vienna and trust that the money would be paid in my absence.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Just one more thing. What do you know about Captain Linden? You said that Becker met him in Berlin. Was he stationed here?’
‘Yes. I was forgetting him, wasn’t I?’ Poroshin stood up and went over to the filing cabinet on which the Tatar had left his empty glass. He opened one of the drawers and fingered his way across the tops of his files until he found the one he was searching for.
‘Captain Edward Linden,’ he read, coming back to his chair. ‘Born Brooklyn, New York, 22 February 1907. Graduated Cornell University, with a degree in German, 1930; serving 970th Counter-intelligence Corps; formerly 26th Infantry, stationed at Camp King Interrogation Centre, Oberusel as denazification officer; currently attached to US Documents Centre in Berlin as Crowcass liaison officer. Crowcass is the Central Registry of War Crimes and Security Suspects of the United States Army. It’s not very much, I’m afraid.’
He dropped the file open in front of me. The strange, Greek-looking letters covered no more than half a sheet of paper.
‘I’m not much good with Cyrillic,’ I said.
Poroshin did not look convinced.
‘What exactly is the United States Documents Centre?’
‘It’s a building in the American sector, near the edge of the Grünewald. The Berlin Documents Centre is the depository for Nazi ministerial and party documents captured by the Americans and the British towards the end of the war. It’s quite comprehensive. They’ve got the complete NSDAP membership records, which makes it easy to find out when people lie on their denazification questionnaires. I’ll bet they’ve even got your name there somewhere.’
‘Like I said, I was never a Party member.’
‘No,’ he grinned, ‘of course not.’ Poroshin took the file and returned it to the filing cabinet. ‘You were only obeying orders.’
It was plain he didn’t believe me any more than he believed that I was unable to decipher St Cyril’s Byzantine alphabet: in that at least he would have been justified.
‘And now, if you have no more questions, I really must leave you. I am due at the State Opera in the Admiralspalast in half an hour.’ He took off his belt and, yelling the names of Yeroshka and Jegoroff, slipped into his tunic.
‘Have you ever been to Vienna?’ he asked, fixing the cross belt under his epaulette.
‘No, never.’
‘The people are just like the architecture,’ he said, inspecting his appearance in the window’s reflection. ‘They are all front. Everything that’s interesting about them seems to be on the surface. Inside they’re very different. Now there’s a people I could really work with. All Viennese were born to be spies.’
7
‘You were late again last night,’ I said.
‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ She slid naked out of bed and went over to the full-length mirror in the corner of our bedroom. ‘Anyway, you were kind of late yourself the other night. She started to examine her body. ‘It’s so nice having a warm house again. Where on earth did you find the coal?’
‘A client.’
Watching her standing there, stroking her pubic hair and flattening her stomach with the palm of her hand, lifting her breasts, scrutinizing her tight, finely-lined mouth with its waxy sheen, concave cheeks and shrinking gums, and finally twisting around to assess her gently sagging bottom, her bony hand with the rings on the fingers slightly looser than before, pulling at the flesh of one buttock, I didn’t need to be told what was going through her mind. She was an attractive, mature woman intent on making full use of what time she had left.
Feeling hurt and irritated, I jack-knifed out of bed to find my leg buckling beneath me.
‘You look fine,’ I said wearily, and limped into the kitchen.
‘That sounds a little short for a love sonnet,’ she called out.
There were some more PX goods on the kitchen table: a couple of cans of soup, a bar of real soap, a few saccharine cards and a packet of condoms.
Still naked, Kirsten followed me into the kitchen and watched me examining her haul. Was it just the one American? Or were there more?
‘I see you’ve been busy again,’ I said, picking up the packet of Parisians. ‘How many calories are these?’
She laughed behind her hand. ‘The manager keeps a load under the counter.’ She sat down on a chair. ‘I thought it would be nice. You know, it’s been quite a while since we did anything.’ She let her thighs yawn as if to let me see a little more of her. ‘There’s time now, if you want.’
It was quickly done, expedited with an almost professional nonchalance on her part, as if she had been administering an enema. No sooner had I finished than she was heading towards the bathroom with hardly a blush on her cheek, carrying the used Parisian as if it were a dead mouse she had found under the bed.
Half an hour later, dressed and ready to leave for work, she paused in the sitting-room where I had stoked the ashes in the stove and was now adding some more coal. For a moment she watched me bring the fire to life again.
‘You’re good at that,’ she said. I couldn’t tell whether any sarcasm was intended. Then she gave me a peremptory kiss and went out.
The morning was colder than a mohel’s knife, and I was glad to start the day in a reading library on Hardenbergstrasse. The library assistant was a man with a mouth so badly scarred that it was impossible to say where his lips were until he started to speak.
‘No,’ he said, in a voice that belonged properly to a sea-lion, ‘there are no books about the BDC. But there have been a couple of newspaper articles published in the last few months. One in the Telegraf, I think, and the other in the Military Government Information Bulletin.’
He collected his crutches and shouldered his one-legged way to a cabinet housing a large card-index where, as he had remembered, he found references for both these articles: one, published in the Telegraf in May, an interview with the Centre’s commanding officer, a Lieutenant-Colonel Hans W. Helm; the other an account of the Centre’s early history, written by a junior staff member in August.
I thanked the assistant, who told me where to find the library’s copies of both publications.
‘Lucky for you that you came today,’ he said. ‘I’m travelling to Giessen tomorrow, to have my artificial leg fitted.’
Reading the articles I realized that I had never thought the Americans were capable of such efficiency. Admittedly, there had been a certain amount of luck involved in the accumulation of some of the Centre’s documentary collections. For example, troops of the US Seventh Army had stumbled on
the complete Nazi Party membership records at a paper mill near Munich, where they were about to be pulped. But staff at the Centre had set about the creation and organization of the most comprehensive archive, so that it could be determined with complete accuracy exactly who was a Nazi. As well as the NSDAP master files, the Centre included in its collection the NSDAP membership applications, Party correspondence, SS service records, Reich Security Office records, SS racial records, proceedings of the Supreme Party Court and the People’s Court — everything from the membership files of the National Socialist Schoolteachers’ Organization to a file detailing expulsions from the Hitler Youth.
Another thought occurred to me as I left the library and made my way to the railway station. I would never have believed that the Nazis could have been stupid enough to have recorded their own activities in such comprehensive and incriminating detail.
I left the U-Bahn — a stop too early as it turned out — at a station in the American sector which, for no reason to do with their occupation of the city, was called Uncle Tom’s Hut, and walked down Argentinische Allee.
Surrounded by the tall fir trees of the Grünewald, and only a short distance from a small lake, the Berlin Documents Centre stood in well-guarded grounds at the end of Wasserkäfersteig, a cobblestoned cul-de-sac. Inside a wire fence the Centre comprised a number of buildings, but the main part of the BDC appeared to be a two-storey affair at the end of a raised pathway, painted white and with green shutters on the windows. It was a nice-looking place, although I soon remembered it as the headquarters of the old Forschungsamt — the Nazis’ telephone-tapping centre.
The soldier at the gatehouse, a big, gap-toothed Negro, eyed me suspiciously as I halted at his checkpoint. He was probably more used to dealing with people in cars, or military vehicles, than with a lone pedestrian.
‘What do you want, Fritzy?’ he said, clapping his woolly gloves together and stamping his boots to keep warm.
