Prussian Blue

by Philip Kerr

  “I can live with it,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m sure you can live with it, Commissar. But I’m sorry to tell you that Martin Bormann can’t.”

  The next second Wilhelm Zander lifted the Walther from his side and shot Diesbach three times without even blinking. In the cave entrance it sounded like the metallic roar of some modern Minotaur. He collapsed onto the ground, his blood draining onto the sand as he died.

  For a moment I just stood there, frozen to the spot, not least because the gun in Zander’s hand was now pointed very squarely at me.

  “I wanted him alive,” I yelled.

  “Maybe you did. But no one else did.”

  “There’s a proper way of doing things,” I said. “Otherwise the law is as bad as those who break it. Don’t you see?”

  “How old-fashioned you sound. And how very naïve. Can you really be so stupid? This unfortunate incident—namely Karl Flex’s murder—never happened. For obvious reasons. After all, it would hardly do if the Leader were ever to find out that someone had been shot on the terrace of the Berghof, would it? That would be bad enough, don’t you agree? But if other people found out, that would be even worse. I mean, if Flex could be shot on that terrace, anyone could be shot on that terrace. And can you imagine what they’d do with a story like that in the foreign newspapers and magazines? It would give all sorts of people ideas. Bad ideas. It would be open season on the Leader. Democratically minded English sportsmen with hunting rifles arriving in the area for the ultimate prey. Hitler himself.”

  “I might have known you’d pull something like this, Zander.”

  “This certainly wasn’t done on my own initiative. Martin Bormann ordered me to kill him. So don’t get all high and mighty with me, Gunther. Killing’s not my thing at all. I’m just the button that Bormann pushed back in Obersalzberg before we left. Anyway, if you ask me, I’ve done the poor bastard a favor. They would only have chopped his head off and that’s not a good way to die. From what I’ve heard, they’ve stopped sharpening the blade on the guillotine at Plötzensee on Hitler’s personal orders. Just to make the whole execution process last a bit longer. By all accounts it can take two or three drops of the falling ax before the head is actually severed. Christ, I bet that makes your eyes water.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked, carefully watching the gun in Zander’s steady hand and more particularly his trigger finger. I knew there were at least four shots still left in the Walther’s magazine. There was no trace of nerves in the little man’s demeanor, which surprised me. It’s not every pen-pushing German bureaucrat who can murder a man in cold blood. “Can we go home now? Or does Bormann want me dead, too?”

  “My dear Gunther, Bormann doesn’t want you dead. But I do. And so do several of my colleagues in Obersalzberg. People like Dr. Brandt, Bruno Schenk, Peter Högl. I suppose a fellow like you just leaves the rest of us feeling rather embarrassed by our own dishonesty. You see, as you’ve probably gathered, we’re all in the same racket that Karl was. The ten percent racket. All of us have been skimming off what Bormann has been making from his stewardship of Hitler’s mountain. Well, that seemed only right, given that we were the ones he detailed to collect his various tributes. Not that it seemed particularly dishonest, I have to say. Bormann’s been making a fortune since he came to Obersalzberg. And if it’s all right for him, well—not that you could do much about our racket even if you wanted to. If you exposed us, you’d have to expose Bormann, and he wouldn’t like that. But why take the risk? At least, that’s what we’ve all concluded. You’re a loose end, Gunther, and being shot while trying heroically to arrest Johann Diesbach ties that up rather nicely. One problem cancels out the other. It even makes a nice bow and, under these circumstances, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you get that police medal after all. Albeit posthumously. Those are the Nazi heroes that Dr. Goebbels likes the best. The ones who are not around to gainsay what he—”

  There was nothing clever or ingenious about what happened next. You couldn’t even have said that I outwitted him. A typical Nazi, Zander was still giving me this long, self-serving speech when I simply turned tail and ran away, back into the Schlossberg Caves. Usually running away is best. Cowardice only looks that way when there’s someone watching closely and from a position of comparative safety. Most brave men are cowards on any other day of the week.

  The next moment there was a loud bang. A piece of quartz beside my face flew off as Zander’s first bullet missed me. With my head buried in my shoulders I kept moving. Another loud explosion followed and it was as if some angry cave-dwelling insect had bitten the back of my right hand. I grimaced with pain, made a fist, and ducked into the sanctuary of the darkness. Two more shots ricocheted off the wall behind me, like the blows from some invisible miner’s pickax. But only silence pursued my last-minute escape. Silence and the sound of my own feet stumbling across the sandy floor. I guessed Zander was probably reloading the Walther and this prompted me to stop for a second before I managed to run into one of the walls, and to switch on my flashlight, and then to go on with all speed. I hoped Zander’s fear of Martin Bormann wouldn’t overcome his fear of the dark and his claustrophobia. I was counting on that. I had two loaded guns in my coat pockets, but I was never much of a shot with my left hand; my right hand was already numb and I could feel blood between my fingers, which is no way to take careful aim, even with a long-barreled Luger. I paused for a second behind the cover of a wall and switched off the flashlight for a few moments so that I might draw a breath in comparative safety. It was as well that I did; a moment later the darkness was lit up in a series of brief gunpowder flashes as Zander fired six shots into the caves. They were the wild, speculative, hope-for-the-best kind of shots that men used to let off in the trenches when they got bored, but they were still dangerous if they hit something and I threw myself on the ground until the tiny bombardment was over. The air reeked of cordite and I realized he’d already tried his very best to murder me. Six in the dark had been it. If he’d had what it took to enter the caves and kill me he’d have conserved his ammunition until he had a clear target. For a moment I thought about shooting back, but I couldn’t see any better than he could and, in truth, I had no wish to earn the enmity of a figure as powerful as Martin Bormann; killing his messenger wasn’t likely to play well back in Obersalzberg. But I was already feeling safer. Under the circumstances it hardly seemed probable that Zander would mention trying to kill me to his master. Now all I had to do was find another way out of the caves and with nine levels to choose from, I had a pretty good chance of making good my escape. After that I had no idea what might happen beyond a cigarette and an immediate trip to the local hospital to get my hand fixed, and perhaps my jaw as well.

  SIXTY-SIX

  October 1956

  “On your feet, Gunther.”

  Friedrich Korsch was stuffing the gun he’d found on the floor by my leg under the waistband of his trousers and slowly backing away. In the low light I could just make out the triumphant expression on his face, as if he was looking forward to killing me; he appeared to be alone.

  “Why?” I said wearily. Once before I’d escaped being shot in the Schlossberg Caves and I scarcely thought I was about to manage it again. There’s a limit to how lucky one lucky man can be. Then again, good luck is merely the ability and determination to overcome bad luck; anything else looks like capricious fortune. But my determination to do anything other than sleep inside that mountain for a thousand years was sorely lacking. “What’s the point?” I added. “You might as well shoot me in here, Friedrich. As mausoleums go, this place is as good as any.”

  “Because those aren’t General Mielke’s orders. I’m to make your death look like a suicide. Something the local cops can explain away. The Blue Train murderer takes his own life. Which can hardly happen if I kill you now. So please get up. I’m not a sadistic man, and I’d hate to have to blow your kneecaps off. But I ca
n assure you, not nearly as much as you would.”

  He had a point. My luck had finally run out and, as coincidences go, this one seemed more meaningful than not; it looked very much as if fate had always meant me to meet my end in the Schlossberg Caves and was determined not to be disappointed in that respect. God moves in mysterious ways but it’s best to recognize that most of the mystery relates to why people still think he gives a damn about any of us. I stood up reluctantly and brushed some of the sand off my trousers. “I expect they’ll give you a promotion for this. Or a medal. Perhaps both.”

  Korsch circled away some more now that I was on my feet. But he certainly wasn’t about to miss me from wherever he was standing in the cavern. Not even with one eye.

  “For catching an old fascist enemy of the people like you? Yes, I expect so.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  “It’s how it will be reported in Germany, probably. And why not? These days we need our villains just as much as we need our heroes. There’s a lot we can blame on the Nazis and usually do. Now, then. Do you have any more guns?”

  “Sadly, not.”

  Korsch moved around the wall of the cave to where my jacket was hanging on the light switch and patted it down. “Just making sure. You always were a slippery bastard, Gunther.”

  “That’s how I managed to stay alive, Friedrich.”

  “You can keep telling yourself that if you like. But I rather think you stayed alive by doing exactly what the likes of Heydrich and Goebbels told you to do.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “Sure. But you were the police commissar, not me. I was just your spanner for a short time.”

  “I guess you have to tell yourself that now that you’re a spanner for the Ivans. More importantly, I guess you have to tell them that, too.”

  “Not the Ivans, no. There’s a new Germany that’s being constructed. A socialist Germany. We’re running our own show, now. Not the Russians. Us. The Germans. It’s better this time because there’s a proper goal we’re all working toward.”

  “Even in this light I can see you don’t believe any of that crap. I look at you and see myself all those years ago, trying to keep my mouth close to the Party line and pretend that everything was fine with the way our masters were running Germany. But we both know it wasn’t—and it still isn’t. The GDR and the communists are just another universal tyranny. So how about you pretend you never saw me in here and let me go? For old times’ sake. Does it really make such a difference to the new order if I’m dead?”

  “Sorry, Bernie. No can do. If General Mielke ever found out I let you go it wouldn’t just be me who suffered, it would be my whole family. Besides, there are a couple of my men waiting by the entrance outside, just in case you manage to give me the slip in the dark. If I let you escape, they wouldn’t like it, either. You’ve led us on a real polka since the Riviera.”

  “And why? Because I wasn’t prepared to go to England and poison Mielke’s own agent, Anne French. That’s why. That should tell you something about your new masters, Friedrich. They’re cowards. Still, it was brave of you coming in here on your own, I suppose.”

  “Wasn’t it? You were joking before about my getting a medal and a promotion. But that’s not a joke to me. I will get both of those things now. My men will see to that. Catching you is my big chance of preferment with Mielke. I could get my fourth pip for this. Maybe even a major’s whipped-cream shoulder boards.”

  “You do know Erich Mielke was a cop killer. Before he became a cop.”

  “I remember he shot some Freikorps police bully, if that’s what you mean.”

  “My, the commies really have done a good job with your reeducation, haven’t they? I bet you could even spell ‘dialectic’ and ‘bourgeoisie.’”

  Korsch brandished the automatic and grinned. “Since I’m the one holding the Bismarck, it would seem as if my reeducation has turned out better than yours, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Therein lies the true essence of Marxism. ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs’ only ever works with a gun in your hand. How did you find me, anyway?”

  “I’d like to say I know you better than you think, Gunther. But I can’t claim it was the result of any great insight on my part. That moto rider from Saarbrücken reported bringing you here to one of our police informants. It was him who told us you were in Homburg. He suspected you from the beginning, apparently. After that it was more or less obvious to me that you’d return to the Schlossberg Caves, given what happened here just before the war.”

  “I was always under the impression that no one ever knew about that. Not precisely. Certainly Wilhelm Zander never talked about it, for obvious reasons. I never talked about it, either. Not even to Heydrich. For equally obvious reasons. I thought I was safer that way, given what Bormann had said about keeping my mouth shut concerning what happened on the Berghof terrace. And before he left the area, Zander removed anything that would have identified Johann Diesbach. Including Johann Diesbach, now I come to think of it. I believe Zander had some local Gestapo come to fetch the body so they could dump it somewhere else. So how did you ever think to connect me with this place?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You might call it an itch on my nose that needs scratching now that I’m standing on the gallows with my hands tied behind my back. That is, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Maybe I’m just cleverer than you give me credit for.”

  “It’s always a possibility.”

  “When you and Zander showed up in Homburg looking for Diesbach, it was his sister who suggested that he should hide in the caves. After a few days she came up here to bring him some food and found the floor of the cave entrance littered with empty cartridges. From their number she guessed there had been some sort of shoot-out and when, weeks later, Diesbach still hadn’t contacted her, she naturally assumed the worst.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Because she wrote to Diesbach’s wife, Eva, informing her that she suspected Johann might have met a violent end. And when Eva forwarded me the letter, asking for my help in finding out what had happened to him, I agreed.”

  “I don’t remember the two of you being that friendly.”

  “After you left me behind in Berchtesgaden, she and I got on quite well. You might say that I was a real consolation to that woman. Very soon after her husband disappeared, Eva moved to Berlin. And, for a while, we were lovers.”

  “Taking a risk, weren’t you, Friedrich? Given her medical history.”

  “Worth it, though. You saw what she looked like.”

  “She was built, all right, if that’s what you mean. But why didn’t you ask me what became of Diesbach, to save you all that bother?”

  “I did. On two or three occasions. Maybe you’ve forgotten but all you’d say was that he was dead and that I’d stay alive longer if I forgot he’d ever existed. Or words to that effect. So I did, eventually. And so did she.”

  “Good advice, if you don’t mind me saying so. I did you a favor there. For Bormann, the security of the Berghof was more than just a matter of guarding Hitler’s life. It was also a matter of guarding Hitler’s feelings. It was made very clear to me that any kind of loose talk about Karl Flex’s death would be treated as treasonous. Undermining Reich security or some such nonsense.”

  “Anyway, none of that matters much now.”

  “And did you find out what became of Diesbach’s body?”

  “In time. It seems that the local Gestapo took him to a crematorium in Kaiserslautern and had him burned to ashes at midnight. Not that Eva Diesbach cared very much by then. She had other things on her mind. Her son Benno, remember him? He got himself picked up by a man in the old Friedrichstrasse arcade and was sent to a KZ with a pink triangle on his jacket.” Korsch jerked the barrel of the silenced Makarov pistol
at one of the quartz tunnels leading back to the cave entrance. “All right. Story’s over. Let’s go, shall we? This damned place gives me the shivers. And you’re right. It is exactly like being buried alive.”

  “So how are you planning that I should kill myself? Thallium poisoning, or another hanging?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Now move.”

  I hesitated to move. “May I fetch my jacket? I’m cold.”

  “You won’t need it where you’re going.”

  “My ID is in that jacket. If the proper authorities don’t find that, then it won’t look like much of a suicide.”

  “What do you care?”

  “I don’t. But I really am feeling cold. Besides, my cigarettes are also in that jacket. And I’m hoping you might allow me a last smoke.”

  Korsch jerked his head at my jacket. “All right. But don’t get any clever ideas, Gunther. I really don’t mind shooting you. Not after what you did to poor Helmut. He was the man in the leather shorts you strangled the day before yesterday. And one of my best men.”

  “It was him or me.”

  “Perhaps. But he was also my cousin.”

  “Well, I am sorry about that. Cousins are hard to come by these days. But I really don’t think he was a very nice person, Friedrich. Before I killed Helmut I watched him shoot a cat for sport. What kind of a sick bastard does something like that?”

  “I don’t care about cats very much. But that makes two of my men you’ve killed since we met again. There’s not going to be a third.”