by Philip Kerr
With one eye on the cellar stairs in case one of Nebe’s men should come looking for me now that my presence upstairs was overdue, I knelt down in front of her and surveyed the wound and the instrument that had caused it. It was an ordinary-looking corkscrew, with a wooden handle now sticky with blood. The sharp business end had been screwed into the side of her knee-joint to a depth of several millimetres, and there seemed no way of removing it without causing her almost as much pain as had been caused by screwing it in. The slightest touch of the handle made her cry out.
‘Please take it out,’ she urged, sensing my indecision.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘but hold on to the seat of your chair. This is going to hurt.’ I drew the other chair close enough to prevent her kicking me in the groin and sat down. ‘Ready?’ She closed her eyes and nodded.
The first anti-clockwise twist turned her face a bright shade of scarlet. Then she screamed, with every particle of air in her lungs. But with the second twist, mercifully she passed out. I surveyed the thing in my hand for a brief second and then hurled it at the man whose ears I had boxed. Lying in a corner, breathing stertorously between groans, Veronika’s torturer looked to be in a bad way. The blow had been a cruel one, and although I had never used it before, I knew from my army training that sometimes it even caused a fatal brain haemorrhage.
Veronika’s knee was bleedily heavily. I searched around for something with which to bandage her wound, and decided to make do with the shirt of the man I had deafened. I went over to him and tore it off his back.
Having folded the body of the shirt, I pressed it hard against the knee and then used the sleeves to tie it tightly. When the dressing was finished it was a good looking piece of first-aid work. But her breathing had turned shallow now, and I didn’t doubt that she would need a stretcher out of there.
By this time, almost fifteen minutes had elapsed since my signal to Belinsky, and yet there was no sound that anything had yet happened. How long could it take his men to move in? I hadn’t heard so much as a shout to indicate that they might have encountered some resistance. With people like the Latvian around, it seemed too much to expect that Müller and Nebe could have been arrested without a fight.
König moaned and moved his leg feebly like a swatted insect. I kicked the dog aside and bent down to take a look at him. The skin underneath his moustache had turned a dark, livid colour, and from the amount of blood that had rolled down his cheeks, I judged that I had probably separated his nose cartilage from the upper section of his jaw.
‘I guess it’ll be a while before you enjoy another cigar,’ I said grimly.
I took König’s Mauser out of my pocket and checked the breech. Through the inspection hole I saw the familiar glint of a centre-fire cartridge. One in the chamber. I hauled out the magazine and saw another six neatly ranged like so many cigarettes. I slammed the magazine back up the handle with the heel of my hand and thumbed back the hammer. It was time to find out what had happened to Belinsky.
I went back up the cellar stairs, waited behind the door for a moment and listened. Briefly I thought I heard breathing and then realized that it was my own. I brought the gun up beside my head, slipped the safety off with my thumbnail, and came through the door.
For a split second I saw the Latvian’s black cat, and then felt what seemed like the whole ceiling collapsing on top of me. I heard a small popping noise like a champagne cork, and almost laughed as I realized that it was all the sound of the gun firing involuntarily in my hand that my concussed brain was able to decode. Stunned like a landed salmon I lay on the floor. My body hummed like a telephone cable. Too late I remembered that for a big man the Latvian was remarkably light on his feet. He knelt down beside me, grinned into my face before wielding the cosh again.
Then the darkness came.
35
There was a message waiting for me. It was written in capital letters as if to emphasize its importance. I struggled to make my eyes focus, only the message kept moving. Blearily, I picked out the individual letters. It was laborious, but I had no choice. Finally I pieced the letters together. The message read: ‘CARE USA’. It seemed important somehow, although I failed to understand why. But then I saw that this was only one part of the message, and the second half at that. I swallowed nauseously and struggled through the first part of the message, which was coded: ‘GR.WT 26lbs. CU.FT. 0’ 10”.’ What could it all mean? I was still trying to understand the code when I heard footsteps and then the sound of a key turning in the lock.
My head cleared agonizingly as I was hauled up by two pairs of strong hands. One of the men kicked the empty cardboard Care package out of the way as they frogmarched me through the doorway.
My neck and shoulder were hurting so bad that my skin turned to gooseflesh the second they held me under my arms, which I now realized were handcuffed in front of me. I retched desperately and tried to get back on to the floor where I had felt comparatively comfortable. But I remained supported and struggling merely made the pain more intense; and so I allowed myself to be dragged along a short, damp passageway, past a couple of broken barrels and up some steps to a big oak vat. The two men sat me roughly in a chair.
A voice, Müller’s voice, told them to give me some wine. ‘I want him to be fully conscious when we question him.’
Someone put a glass to my lips, and tilted my head painfully. I drank. When the glass was empty I could taste blood in my mouth. I spat in front of me, I didn’t care where. ‘Cheap stuff,’ I heard myself croak. ‘Cooking wine.’
Müller laughed, and I turned my head towards the sound. The bare lightbulbs burned only dimly but even so they managed to hurt my eyes. I squeezed the lids hard shut, and then opened them again.
‘Good,’ said Müller. ‘You’ve still got something left in you. You’ll need it to answer all my questions, Herr Gunther, I can assure you.’
Müller was sitting on a chair with his legs crossed and his arms folded. He looked like a man who was about to watch an audition. Seated beside him, and looking rather less relaxed than the former Gestapo chief, was Nebe. Next to him sat König, wearing a clean shirt, and holding his nose and mouth with a handkerchief as if he had a bad attack of hayfever. On the stone floor at their feet lay Veronika. She was unconscious, and but for the bandage round her knee quite naked. Like me she was also handcuffed, although her pallor indicated that this was an entirely redundant precaution.
I turned my head to the right. A few metres away stood the Latvian and another thug whom I hadn’t seen before. The Latvian was grinning excitedly, no doubt in anticipation of my further humiliation.
We were in the largest of the outhouses. Beyond the windows the night looked in on the proceedings with dark indifference. Somewhere I could hear the low throb of a generator. It hurt to move my head or my neck, and it was actually more comfortable to look back at Müller.
‘Ask anything you like,’ I said, ‘you’ll get nothing out of me.’ But even as I spoke I knew that in Müller’s expert hands there was no more chance of my not telling him everything than there was of me naming the next Pope.
He found my bravado sufficiently absurd as to laugh and shake his head. ‘It’s quite a few years since I conducted an interrogation,’ he said with what sounded like nostalgia. ‘However, I think you’ll find that I haven’t lost my touch.’ Müller looked to Nebe and König as if seeking their approbation, and each man nodded grimly.
‘I bet you won prizes for it, you half-sized bastard.’
At this utterance, the Latvian was prompted to strike me hard across the cheek. The sudden jerk of my head sent an agonizing pain down to my toenails and made me cry out.
‘No, no, Rainis,’ Müller said like a father to a child, ‘we must allow Herr Gunther to talk. He may insult us now, but eventually he will tell us what we want to hear. Please don’t hit him again unless I order you to do it.’
Nebe spoke. ‘It’s no use, Bernie. Fräulein Zartl has now told us all about how you and this
American fellow disposed of poor Heim’s body. I wondered why you were so inquisitive about her. Now we know.’
‘In fact we now know a great deal,’ said Müller. ‘While you have been having a nap, Arthur here posed as a policeman in order to gain access to your rooms.’ He smiled smugly. ‘It wasn’t too difficult for him. Austrians are such docile, lawabiding people. Arthur, tell Herr Gunther what you discovered.’
‘Your photographs, Heinrich. I imagine that the American must have given them to him. What do you say, Bernie?’
‘Go to hell.’
Nebe continued, unperturbed. ‘There was also a drawing of Martin Albers’ headstone. You remember that unfortunate business, Herr Doktor?’
‘Yes,’ said Müller, ‘that was very careless of Max.’
‘I dare say you must have guessed that Max Abs and Martin Albers were one and the same person, Bernie. He was an old-fashioned, rather sentimental kind of man. He just couldn’t pretend to be dead like the rest of us. No, he had to have a stone to commemorate his passing, to make it look respectable. Really, a typical Viennese, wouldn’t you say? I should think you were probably the person who tipped off the MPs in Munich that Max was due to arrive there. Of course, you weren’t to know that Max was carrying several sets of papers and travel warrants. You see, documents were Max’s speciality. He was a master forger. As the former head of SD clandestine operations section in Budapest, he was one of the very best in his field.’
‘I suppose he was another bogus conspirator against Hitler,’ I said. ‘Another fake entry on the list of all those who were executed. Just like you, Arthur. I have to hand it to you: you’ve been very clever.’
‘That was Max’s idea,’ said Nebe. ‘Ingenious, yes, but with König’s help not very difficult to organize. You see, König commanded the execution squad at Plotzensee, and hanged conspirators by the hundreds. He supplied all the details.’
‘As well as the butcher’s hooks and piano wire, no doubt.’
‘Herr Gunther,’ said König indistinctly through the handkerchief he kept pressed to his nose, ‘I hope to be able to do the same for you.’
Müller frowned. ‘We’re wasting time,’ he said briskly. ‘Nebe told your landlady that the Austrian police thought you had been kidnapped by the Russians. After that she was most helpful. Apparently your rooms are being paid for by Dr Ernst Liebl. This man is now known to us as Emil Becker’s advocate at law. Nebe is of the opinion that you were retained by him to come to Vienna and attempt to clear him of the murder of Captain Linden. I myself am of this opinion. Everything fits, so to speak.’
Müller nodded at one of the uglies, who stepped forward and collected up Veronika in his pylon-sized arms. She made no movement, and but for her breathing which became louder and more difficult as her head lolled back on her neck, one might have thought that she was dead. She looked as if they had drugged her.
‘Why don’t you leave her out of this, Müller,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know.’
Müller pretended to look puzzled. ‘That surely is what remains to be seen.’ He stood up, as did Nebe and König. ‘Bring Herr Gunther along, Rainis.’
The Latvian hauled me to my feet. Just the effort of being made to stand made me feel suddenly faint. He dragged me a few metres to the side of a sunken circular oak vat which was of the dimensions of a good-sized fish-pond. The vat itself was joined to a rectangular steel plate which had two wooden semicircular wings like the leaves of a large dining table, by a thick steel column which went up to the ceiling. The thug carrying Veronika stepped down in the vat and laid her on the bottom. Then he got out and drew down the two oak leaves of the plate to form a perfect, deadly circle.
‘This is a wine press,’ Müller said matter-of-factly.
I struggled weakly in the Latvian’s big arms, but there was nothing I could do. It felt like my shoulder or collarbone was broken. I called them several filthy words and Müller nodded approvingly.
‘Your concern for this young woman is encouraging,’ he said.
‘It was her you were looking for this morning,’ said Nebe. ‘When you walked into Rainis, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, all right, it was. Now let her go, for God’s sake. I give you my word, Arthur, she knows absolutely nothing.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Müller admitted. ‘Or at least not much. So König tells me anyway, and he is a most persuasive person. But you’ll be flattered to learn that she still managed to conceal the part which you played in Heim’s disappearance for quite a while. Isn’t that so, Helmut?’
‘Yes, General.’
‘But in the end she told us everything,’ Müller continued. ‘Even before your impossibly heroic arrival on the scene. She told us that you and she had enjoyed a sexual relationship, and that you had been kind to her. Which was why she had asked you for help when it came to getting rid of Heim’s body. Which was why you came looking for her when König took her away. Incidentally, I must compliment you. You killed one of Nebe’s men quite expertly. It’s a great pity that a man of your formidable skills will never work for our Organization after all. But a number of things remain a puzzle, and I expect you, Herr Gunther, to enlighten us.’ He glanced around and saw that the man who had laid Veronika into the vat was now standing by a small panel of electric switches on the wall.
‘Do you know anything about making wine?’ he asked, walking round the vat. ‘The crushing, as the word suggests, is the process whereby the grape is squeezed, bursting its skin and releasing the juice. As you will no doubt be aware it was once done by treading the grapes in huge casks. But most modern presses are pneumatic or electrically operated machines. The crushing is repeated several times, and thus is an indication of the quality of the wine, with the first press being the best of all. Once every bit of juice has been squeezed out, the residue — I believe Nebe calls it “the cake” — is supplied to a distillery; or, as is the case on this small estate, it is turned into fertilizer.’ Müller looked across at Arthur Nebe. ‘There, Arthur, did I get that right?’
Nebe smiled indulgently. ‘Perfectly right, Herr General.’
‘I hate to mislead anyone,’ Müller said with good humour. ‘Even a man who is going to die.’ He paused and looked down into the vat. ‘Of course at this precise moment it is not your life which is the most pressing issue, if I may be permitted that one tasteless little joke.’
The big Latvian guffawed in my ear, and my head was suddenly enveloped with the stink of his garlicky breath.
‘So I advise you to make your answers quickly and accurately, Herr Gunther. Fräulein Zartl’s life depends on it.’ He nodded at the man by the control panel who pressed a button which initiated a mechanical noise, gradually increasing in pitch.
‘Don’t think too harshly of us,’ said Müller. ‘These are hard times. There are shortages of everything. If we had any sodium pentathol we should give it to you. We should even look to buy it on the black market. But I think you’ll agree that this method is every bit as effective as any truth drug.’
‘Ask your damned questions.’
‘Ah, you’re in a hurry to answer. That’s good. Tell me then: who is this American policeman? The one who helped you dispose of Heim’s body.’
‘His name is John Belinsky. He works for Crowcass.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He knew that I was working to prove Becker’s innocence. He approached me with an offer to work in tandem. Initially he said that he wanted to find out why Captain Linden had been murdered, but then after a while he told me that he really wanted to find out about you. If you had anything to do with Linden’s death.’
‘So the Americans aren’t happy that they have the right man?’
‘No. Yes. The military police are. But the Crowcass people aren’t. The gun used to kill Linden was one which they traced back to a killing in Berlin. A corpse which was supposed to be you, Müller. And the gun checked back to SS records at the Berlin Documents Centre. Crow
cass didn’t inform the military police for fear that they might spook you out of Vienna.’
‘And you were encouraged to infiltrate the Org on their behalf?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they so certain that I’m here?’
‘Yes.’
‘But until this morning you had never seen me before. Explain how they know, please.’
‘The information that I supplied on the MVD was designed to draw you out. They know you like to consider yourself an expert in these matters. The thinking was that with information of such quality, you yourself would take charge of the debrief. If I saw you at this morning’s meeting I was to signal to Belinsky from the toilet window. I had to pull down the blind three times. He would be watching the window through binoculars.’
‘And then what?’
‘He was supposed to have brought agents to surround the house. He was meant to have arrested you. The deal was that if they were successful in arresting you, then they would let Becker go free.’
Nebe glanced over at one of his men, and jerked his head at the door. ‘Get some men to check the grounds. Just in case.’
Müller shrugged. ‘So you’re saying that the only reason they know I’m here in Vienna is because you made some signal to them from a lavatory window. Is that it?’ I nodded. ‘But then why didn’t this Belinsky have his men move in and arrest me, as you had planned?’
‘Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same question.’
‘Come now, Herr Gunther. This is inconsistent, is it not? I ask you to be fair. How am I supposed to believe this?’
‘Would I have gone looking for the girl if I didn’t think there were going to be agents arriving?’
‘What time were you supposed to make your signal?’ asked Nebe.
‘Twenty minutes into the meeting I was supposed to excuse myself.’
‘At 10.20 then. But you were looking for Fräulein Zartl before seven o’clock this morning.’
