by Philip Kerr
I was still up in the air but looking down on myself as I was lying on the cobbles of the Rue Obscure. I seemed to be hovering above the straw-dog heads of all those Stasi men like a cloud of gas. They’d cut me down and were trying to loosen the ligature around my neck but they gave up when one of the agents produced a pair of wire cutters and clipped it along with some of the skin under my ear. Someone stamped on my chest, which was all the first aid I was about to receive from the Stasi, and I started to live again. One of them was applauding my performance on the high wire—his words, not mine—and now back in my body I turned over on my stomach to retch and drool onto the cobbles and then to haul some air painfully into my starved lungs. I touched something wet on my neck, which turned out to be my own blood, and heard myself mumble something with a tongue that was only just accustomed to being inside my mouth again.
“What’s that?” The man with the wire cutters bent down to help me sit up, and I spoke again.
“Need a cigarette,” I said. “Get my breath.” I put a hand on my chest and willed my heart to slow down a bit before it packed up altogether after the excitement of what I’d assumed were my last few minutes on earth, or near it anyway.
“You’re a game one, uncle, I’ll say that for you. He wants a nail, he says.” He laughed and fetched a packet of Hit Parades from his pocket and stabbed one between the lips of my still trembling mouth. “There you go.”
I coughed some more, and then sucked hard when his lighter sparked into life. It was probably the best cigarette I’d ever tasted.
“I’ve heard of a last cigarette,” he said. “But I never saw the condemned man smoke one after the execution. Tough old bastard, aren’t you?”
“Less of the old,” I said. “Feel like a new man.”
“Get him on his feet,” said another man. “We’ll walk him home.”
“Don’t expect a kiss,” I croaked. “Not after you’ve pulled me through the cocoa like that.”
But they’d made a pretty good job of hanging me half to death, and when I was on my feet I almost fainted and they had to catch me.
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “Give me a minute.” And then I puked, which was a shame after the nice steak I’d eaten with Mielke. But it’s not every day you survive your own hanging.
They half-carried, half-walked me home and along the way the man I’d recognized before explained why they’d tried to make me hand in my spoon.
“Sorry about that, Gunther,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“But the boss feels that you weren’t taking him seriously. He didn’t like that. Reckons that the old Gunther would have put up a bit more resistance to the idea of killing your old girlfriend. And I have to say I agree with him. You always did have a lot of hair on your teeth. So for him not to see any—well, he thought you were taking the piss. We were going to just mix you up a bit but he said we should impress on you what would happen to you for real if you try to give him the fucking basket. Next time, our orders are that we leave you dangling. Or worse.”
“It’s nice to hear a German voice again,” I said wearily—I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. “Even if you are a bastard.”
“Aw, don’t say that, Gunther. You’ll hurt my feelings. We used to be friends, you and me.”
I started to shake my head but thought better of it when the pain kicked in. My neck felt like I’d had a chiropractic session with a gorilla. I began coughing again and paused to retch into the gutter once more.
“I don’t remember. Then again, my brain’s been starved of oxygen for several minutes so I can only just remember my own name, let alone yours.”
“You need some pain expeller,” said my old friend and, producing a little hip flask, he put it to my lips and let me take a substantial bite of the contents. It tasted like molten lava.
I winced and then uttered a short, staccato concerto of coughs. “Christ, what is that stuff?”
“Gold Water. From Danzig. That’s right.” The man grinned and nodded. “Now you’re getting there. You remember me, don’t you, Gunther?”
In truth I still hadn’t a clue who he was, but I smiled and nodded back at the man; there’s nothing quite like being hanged to make you anxious to please, especially when it’s your own hangman who’s genially claiming your acquaintance.
“That’s right. I used to drink this stuff when we were both cops at the Alex. You probably remember that, don’t you? Man like you doesn’t forget much, I reckon. I was your criminal assistant in ’38 and ’39. We worked a couple of big cases together. The Weisthor case. Remember that bastard? And Karl Flex, of course, in ’39. Berchtesgaden? You certainly wouldn’t have forgotten him. Or the cold air of Obersalzberg.”
“Sure, I remember you,” I said, tossing my cigarette away and still without a clue as to who he was. “Thought you were dead. Everyone else is these days. People like you and me, anyway.”
“We’re the last of them, you and me, true enough,” he said. “From the old Alex. You should see it now, Gunther. I swear, you wouldn’t recognize the place. Railway station’s there, like before, and the Kaufhaus, but the old Police Praesidium is long gone. Like it was never there. The Ivans demolished it on account of the fact it being a symbol of fascism. That and the Gestapo HQ on Prinz Albrechtstrasse. The whole area is just one enormous wind tunnel. These days the cops are headquartered over in Lichtenberg. With a smart new building on the way. All the modern conveniences. Canteen, showers, crèche. We’ve even got a sauna.”
“Nice for you. About the sauna.”
We reached my front door and someone helpfully fetched the keys from my pocket and let me into the flat. They followed me inside and, being policemen, had a good poke around in my stuff. Not that I cared. When you’ve nearly lost your life everything else seems of little importance. Besides, I was too busy looking at my cadaver’s face in the bathroom mirror. I looked like a South American tree frog; the whites of my eyes were now completely red.
My anonymous friend watched me for a while and then, stroking a chin that was as long as a concert harp, he said, “Don’t worry, that’s just a few burst blood vessels.”
“I’m a couple of centimeters taller, too, I think.”
“In a few days, you’ll find the eyes are back to normal. You might want to wear some sunglasses until they calm down a bit. After all, you don’t want to frighten anyone, do you?”
“It sounds like you’ve done this before. Half-hanged someone, I mean.”
He shrugged. “It’s lucky we’ve already got your picture on your new passport.”
“Isn’t it?” I touched the livid crimson mark that the plastic cord had left on my neck; anyone would have been forgiven for thinking my head had been stitched onto my shoulders by Dr. Mengele.
One of the other Stasi men was in my kitchen, making coffee. It was odd how the men who’d tried to hang me were now looking after me so carefully. Everyone was just obeying orders, of course. That’s the German way, I guess.
“Hey, boss,” said one, to the man standing next to me in my bathroom. “His phone’s not working.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “Since no one ever calls me I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, go and find a pay phone.”
“Boss.”
“We’re supposed to call the comrade-general and tell him how things went.”
“Tell the general I can’t say it’s been one of my best evenings,” I said. “And be sure to thank him for dinner.”
The Stasi man went away. My friend handed me the hip flask again and I took another bite of Gold Water. There’s real gold in that stuff. Tiny flecks of it. The gold doesn’t make the stuff expensive, but it does make your tongue look semiprecious. They should give it to all men who are about to be hanged. It might brighten the proceedings up a bit.
“No initiative,” h
e said. “You have to tell them what to do. By the numbers. Not like it was in our day, eh, Bernie?”
“Look, Fridolin, no offense,” I said. “I mean, I’m not anxious to repeat tonight’s experience, but I really haven’t a fucking clue who you are. The chin I recognize. The bad skin, the leather eye patch—even the pimp mustache. But the rest of your ugly mug is a mystery to me.”
The man touched the top of his bald head self-consciously. “Yeah, I’ve lost a lot of hair since last we met. But I had the eye patch. From the war.” He held out his hand affably. “Friedrich Korsch.”
“Yeah, I remember now.” He was right; we had once been friends, or at least close colleagues. But all that was in the past. Call me petty but I tend to hold it against my friends when they try to kill me. Ignoring his hand, I said, “When was that? The last time we met?”
“Nineteen forty-nine. I was working undercover for the MVD on an American newspaper in Munich. Remember? Die Neue Zeitung? You were looking for a war criminal called Warzok.”
“Was I?”
“I bought you lunch in the Osteria Bavaria.”
“Sure. I had pasta.”
“And before that you came to see me in ’47, in Berlin, when you were looking to get in touch with Emil Becker’s wife.”
“Right.”
“Whatever happened to him, anyway?”
“Becker? The Amis hanged him, in Vienna. For murder.”
“Ah.”
“What’s more, they finished the job. Those cowboys weren’t doing it for kicks like you guys. My kicks, that is. I never thought it would feel so good to have my feet firmly on the ground.”
“I feel bad about this,” said Korsch. “But—”
“I know. You were only obeying orders. Trying to stay alive. Look, I understand. For men like you and me, it’s an occupational hazard. But let’s not pretend we were ever friends. That was a long time ago. Since then you’ve become a real pain in the neck. My neck. Which is the only one I’ve got. So how about you and your boys get the hell out of my place and we’ll see each other at the train station in Nice, the day after tomorrow, like I agreed with the comrade-general?”
FOUR
October 1956
The Gare de Nice–Ville had a forged-steel rooftop, an impressive stone balcony, and a big ornate clock that belonged in purgatory’s waiting room. Inside were several grand chandeliers: the place looked more like a Riviera casino than a railway station. Not that I’d visited many casinos. I was never much interested in games of chance, perhaps because most of my adult life had felt like a reckless gamble All bets were certainly off as far as the next few days were concerned. It was hard to imagine working for the Stasi having anything but a negative outcome for Gunther. Undoubtedly they were planning to kill me as soon as the job in England was complete. Whatever Mielke said about working for him in Bonn or Hamburg after Anne French was safely silenced, it was on the cards that I would be the last loose end from the Hollis operation. Besides, my eyes looked like the two of diamonds, which isn’t ever much of a card to play in any game. Because of them I was wearing sunglasses and I didn’t even see the two Stasi men as I came through the station entrance. But they saw me. The GDR gives those boys radioactive carrots to help them see in the dark. They ushered me to the platform, where Friedrich Korsch was waiting beside the Blue Train that would take me to Paris.
“How are you?” he asked solicitously as I handed my bag to one of the Stasi men and let him carry it onto the carriage for me.
“Fine,” I said brightly.
“And the eyes?”
“Not nearly as bad as they look.”
“No hard feelings, I hope.”
I shrugged. “What would be the point?”
“True. And at least you’ve got two. I lost one in Poland, during the war.”
“Besides, it’s a long way to Paris. I assume you are coming to Paris. I hope you are. I haven’t got any money.”
“All in here,” said Korsch, patting the breast pocket of his jacket. “And yes, we are coming to Paris with you. In fact, we’re going all the way to Calais.”
“Good,” I said. “No, honestly, it will give us a chance to talk about old times.”
Korsch narrowed his eye, suspicious. “I must say you’ve changed your tune since last we met.”
“When last we met I was not long hanged by the neck until I was almost dead, Friedrich. Jesus might have managed to forgive his executioners after an experience like that, but I’m a little less understanding. I thought I was history.”
“I suppose so.”
“You can suppose all you like. But I know. Frankly, I’m still a bit sore about it. Thus the silk foulard scarf and the sunglasses. God only knows what they’ll make of me in the dining car. I’m a little old to be passing myself off as a Hollywood movie star.”
“By the way,” he asked. “Where did you go yesterday? You gave my men the slip. We had an anxious morning before you came back again.”
“Were you watching me?”
“You know we were.”
“You should have said. Look, there was someone I needed to see. A woman I’ve been sleeping with. She lives in Cannes. I had to tell her I was going away for a few days and, well, I didn’t want to do it on the phone. You can understand that, surely.” I shrugged. “Besides, I didn’t want you people knowing her name and address. For her own protection. After the other night I’ve no idea what you or your general are capable of.”
“Hmm.”
“Anyway, I was only gone for a few hours. I’m here now. So what’s the problem?”
Korsch said nothing, just looked at me closely, but with my eyes hidden behind the dark glasses he had nothing to go on.
“What’s her name?”
“I’m not going to tell you. Look, Friedrich, I need this job. The hotel’s closed for the season now and I just have to get back to Germany. I’ve had it with France. The French drive me mad. If I have to stay here for another winter I’ll go crazy.” That much was certainly true; and almost as soon as I said it I regretted my sincerity and did my best to cover it with some nonsense about wanting my revenge on Anne French. “What’s more, I really want to get even with this woman in England. So leave it, will you? I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you.”
“All right. But next time you’re thinking of going somewhere, make sure you keep me informed.”
We climbed aboard the train, found our compartment, left some luggage there, and then the four of us went to the dining car to eat some breakfast. I was ravenously hungry. It seemed we all were.
“Karl Maria Weisthor?” I asked affably as the waiter brought us coffee. “Or Wiligut. Or whatever the murdering bastard used to call himself when he wasn’t convinced he was an ancient German king. Or even Wotan. I can’t remember which. You mentioned him the other day and I meant to ask. Whatever became of him, do you know? After we collared him in ’38? Last I heard he was living in Wörthersee.”
“He retired to Goslar,” said Korsch. “Protected and cared for by the SS, of course. After the war the Allies permitted him go to Salzburg. But that didn’t work out. He died in Bad Arolsen, in Hesse, in 1946, I think. Or was it 1947? Anyway, he’s long dead. Good riddance, too.”
“Not exactly justice, is it?”
“You were a good detective. I learned a lot from you.”
“Stayed alive. That says something, under those circumstances.”
“It wasn’t so easy, was it?”
“Not much has changed for me, I’m afraid.”
“You’ll be around for quite a while yet. You’re a survivor. I knew it then and I know it now.”
I smiled, but of course he was lying; old comrades or not, if Mielke told him to kill me he wouldn’t hesitate. Just like in Villefranche.
“This is quite like old times, you and me, Friedrich. You
remember that train we took to Nuremberg? To interview the local police chief about Streicher?”
“Almost twenty years ago. But yes, I remember.”
“That’s what I was thinking of. Just came into my mind.” I nodded. “You were a good cop, Friedrich. That’s not so easy, either. Especially under those circumstances. With a boss like the one we had back then.”
