(2013) Collateral Damage

by Colin Smith

  The reporter filled page after page in his notebook, having wisely decided not to interrupt the old man's flow with questions. Only when Fouche-Larimand had finished, the single eye glittering madly in the shrunken face, did he ask him about Le Poidevin.

  'I knew him in the Milice. I went to his funeral,' he said curtly. 'You kept in touch with him over all these years?'

  'No. We renewed our acquaintanceship quite recently. We met by chance at the cafe where he worked.'

  'What connection could he have had with somebody like Koller?'

  'I've no idea - apart from the obvious one,' he added mischievously.

  'You mean, mon Colonel, that Koller's a homosexual.'

  'Why not?'

  At Fouche-Larimand's request the reporter took some more photographs of him - this time with his hair combed, in a silk dressing-gown, and smoking a cigarette - then departed, the camera now openly displayed, with his scoop.

  The third event gave the dying man even more pleasure. He received an international call on his bedside phone from the man Le Poidevin had said he called 'le Grand jules'. They talked for about six minutes and, according to the middle-aged nurse who arrived to give him his bed-bath, but stayed to listen, they talked in German.

  What the nurse, who had polished her school German during the Nazi occupation, heard, was this:

  Ah. You mean if he turns up I can tell him? All of it? It will be a pleasure. I will die a happy man. Yes, I think so too. He will come. Yes, yes. I agree. He must have told him. He must have told him something. The funeral? (laughter) No, it was a mistake. I wish I was that clever. You know me - always the sentimentalist. But it was in the papers, and now a reporter has interviewed me here. Yes, here - in the clinic. What? A Frenchman. I forget which one. Yes, one of those. Yes, he will read it. He will come, I'm sure about that. Then he will -

  At this point he noticed the nurse and angrily waved her away.

  Koller waited in the Paris flat for two weeks to allow the hue and cry following Le Poidevin's death to subside. He ate out of a stockpile of canned food he and Siegfried had laid in months before for just such an emergency. He read a lot, quickly moving from a worthy re-reading of Johann Most, Che Guevara and Regis Debray to the westerns he had been guiltily fond of ever since he was at Gymnasium.

  'Why do you read that American trash?' his father had always asked. 'I've seen half-starved boys not much older than you make them run like rabbits.'

  'They're just stories, Papa. Just stories.'

  But even then, when he and all his schoolfriends had declared themselves pacifists and had sworn they would never be conscripted, he had dreamed of being the loner with a gun in his hand and a cause to kill or be killed for. A Shane putting down the cattle barons and their thugs who would crush the homesteading proletariat.

  His father would sometimes invade these day-dreams by making one of his rare, and to the boy, totally incomprehensible jokes. 'It will always be one of those mysteries of military science how they managed to defeat the Apaches without air cover and the British to cover their flanks.'

  Then the young Koller would rush upstairs and lock himself in his room in petulant pubescent fury, throw the book aside, recall yet again, until the heat came to his eyes, the taunts endured from classmates since barely out of kindergarten.

  'Your pappy burned babies.'

  'It's not true. I'll kill you.'

  'It is. It is. My mother saw it in the paper. He was a Nazi. An SS man. A pig of a Nazi.'

  As he grew older the taunts stopped, because he acquired the reputation of always being the one willing to turn childish grappling into a real fight with the first punch to the face. Once, after one of these victories, he was sent home early and for almost an hour refused to tell his mother why until, with a mixture of threats and kindness, she wheedled the truth out of him.

  'Don't listen to these lies,' she had said sternly. Then, 'Were they Jews?'

  Miserably he had confessed he did not know what a Jew was. She asked the names of his tormentors and what they looked like, and seemed relieved at the lack of 'steins' and the abundance of blond thatch.

  'But was Pappy a Nazi? Was he in the SS?'

  'He did his duty.'

  'But was he?'

  'Many people were. They were the finest soldiers Germany has ever had. You must be proud.'

  'Did he burn babies?'

  'Of course not. These are wicked lies made up after the war by the Russians and the Americans. They did these things. The English too. They burned people alive in air raids.'

  She put her arms around him. 'Next time they say it, just ignore them. They are stupid people. Now I must phone your school. Forget about it.'

  But he was not allowed to forget. Every time his father thumped the table when the subject of pension rights for the Waffen SS came up - 'We were the Imperial Guard, not butchers' - or a newspaper brought 'lying Jewish propaganda' into the house, he was not allowed to forget. Or when medals were carefully packed for a regimental reunion that made headlines because of the clashes with the demonstrators waving placards outside, he was not allowed to forget.

  And later on, just before university and the start of his attempt to wash out the stain, there were the nightly harangues on 'those damned Communists who are stealing the country's youth'.

  With hindsight he saw these paternal outbursts for what they were - a forlorn, pre-emptive strike at the larceny budding around his own hearth.

  Then there was the dinner at home held en the same night in April every year. Candle-lit, the best silver out, and wine on the table for the silent, secret toasts between the adults. When they were children he and his sister were allowed to attend the first part of the evening, before the wine really flowed and the songs started; as adolescents they were commanded. He remembered Eva, all giggles and girlish good humour, demanding: 'But what are you celebrating? Is it your engagement? Is it when you met? Is it when you fell in love? Please tell us.'

  To which the invariable reply was, 'When you're older. We'll tell you when you're older.'

  Only they never did tell them, and it was not until he was seventeen that Koller discovered that the twentieth of April was Hitler's birthday.

  He last saw his parents shortly before he first went underground to avoid a minor arson charge. He had adopted the contemporary hirsute uniform of student protest and their estrangement was already almost complete. His mother, intuitively sensing crisis, had said: 'When your father was your age he was a revolutionary too - against the bourgeoisie, against your grandparents. Later they made things up. Don't hate us.'

  'I don't hate you. I just hate what you stand for.' This was a lie. He hated them because of what they stood for, the inherited stigma.

  'If you'd been born-' his mother said.

  'NO. I wouldn't. I wouldn't have done what you did. That racialist thing - it's disgusting.'

  'You don't know the pressures. You take so much for granted. A strong Germany, a job after university, food in your belly.'

  When he left he did not say goodbye and it was not until the police called, a few days later, that they realised he was involved in something more than merely demonstrating against somebody else's war. They had not met for more than seven years and he never telephoned. When the newspapers printed his wanted picture, his mother tried to prevent his father from seeing it. Once, early on, they had received a postcard on which he had written: 'I am fine and doing something I believe in.' In brackets he had added: 'Hope cops let you have this when they have checked the handwriting!'

  Since his telephone call to Cyprus from the post office near the Sorbonne Koller had stopped his midday excursions. He would usually wait until dusk before mixing in the early evening rush to buy his newspapers. Otherwise he relied on radio and television for his news. The other tenants in his block were middle class and incurious, and the concierge was so accustomed to his infrequent comings and goings that she hardly registered the presence or absence of the Dutch gentleman who went
away a lot on business.

  The young French reporter had a good show with his scoop and his magazine promoted it on the billboards outside the newsstands. 'The fascist, the waiter, and the terrorist' they called it. To Koller's disgust an introduction to the interview, which had been printed almost verbatim, made much of the possibility that he had been having a homosexual affair with the dead waiter, even hinting that Fouche-Larimand himself might have been the third member of a ghastly ménage a trois that transcended ideological boundaries. What redeemed the article, as far as Koller was concerned, was that it carried the full address of the clinic in Athens. The temptation to leave immediately was enormous, but he stayed in the flat for another three days until - exactly two weeks after Le Poidevin's death - he judged that the heat was off and he could cross frontiers at minimum risk.

  He took a train to Brussels, travelling on an Australian passport in the name of Martin, his last remaining alias and one he had always been reluctant to use because of his accented English. But the Flemish-speaking immigration man who boarded the train at the frontier gave the document the most cursory glance. A few hours later he was on the direct Sabena flight to Athens, trying to catch the eye of a big-hipped stewardess for a second after-dinner brandy.

  He took a room at the Grande Bretagn in Constitution Square, a belle époque establishment of brass and polished wood and wing-collared barmen, where the richer tourists recover from their ascent through warm smog on the Acropolis.

  As usual, because of airport security, he had taken his pistol only as far as Brussels and next morning had to go to one of the Front's safe houses in the port of Piraeus, a forty-five-minute drive away, to collect another one. To his disgust the Armenian there could offer him only an ancient, long-barrelled revolver that was difficult to conceal under his jacket. Nor was there any opportunity to test the tarnished brass cartridges that came with it. He grumbled, but the Armenian, an overweight epicurean already into his third ouzo of the day, was adamant that it was all that was available. After Koller left he made a telephone call to Cyprus.

  In the taxi on the way back to Athens, ignoring the optimistic thumbs of the androgynous young back-packers lining the route, the terrorist tried to concentrate his mind on the problem of getting into the clinic to see Fouche-Larimand. Instead, he found himself wondering how, once inside, he was going to persuade a dying man that it was in his best interests to talk. He had to know who was behind the Charlemagne Circle, what really motivated them: was Fouche-Larimand really the Grand Jules Le Poidevin had referred to? And why had the Circle picked on the Front? And why his cell? There were other, easier targets. He had no doubt that the Frenchman knew most, perhaps all of the answers. But from what Le Poidevin had told him, and from those biographical details he had gleaned from the news magazine, he could not imagine the old fascist scaring very easily. If he didn't want to talk, would oblivion now seem any worse than oblivion in a few weeks' time? He might even welcome the idea. But a lot of pain could come first. He could arrange that. And even a man already dancing with death might still fear other things. Koller remembered what had happened to Siegfried, and began to feel much more confident that Fouche-Larimand would tell him what he wanted to know.

  To his great surprise when he arrived at the clinic Koller had no problem in getting to their most sought-after patient. He introduced himself to the grey-haired woman behind the reception desk as 'Mr Martin from Paris - a friend of Mr Le Poidevin'. He pronounced Le Poidevin in the correct Guernsey fashion - 'Le Pedvin'.

  'I think you're expected,' said the receptionist, looking him up and down.

  Fouche-Larimand was at his hammiest.

  'Ah, Herr Martin,' he said when Koller was ushered into his room. 'What kept you?'

  He was sitting up in bed wearing the same dressing-gown in which he had appeared in the pages of the news magazine. Across the bed covers, partly hidden by newspapers and magazines, lay his sword-stick.

  Koller succeeded in hiding his surprise and sat down on the bedside chair. When the nurse who had shown him in had gone he took one of the newspapers off the bed, put it across his lap, pulled the heavy revolver out of his waistband and cocked it beneath the newspaper with an ostentatious click. He ignored the stick.

  'Aren't you going to lock the door?' asked FoucheLarimand.

  Koller shook his head.

  'I suppose you want me to answer some questions before you kill me?'

  'From what I've read, the last bit won't be necessary.'

  'Ah, doctors can be wrong, you know.'

  'It doesn't look like it from here.'

  The old man appeared to be entering the final stages of his decay. The dead, flavescent tissue of the burn scar now looked positively alive against the drawn, alabaster face. Under the dressing-gown the wounds from the last operation were not healing properly and the bandages had to be changed three times a day. Only the one good darting eye, flicking from Koller to the door to the sword-stick, betrayed the willing spirit.

  'Why did you kill Le Poidevin? It wasn't his fault, you know. He was just a pawn, a cypher.'

  'I didn't. He must have killed himself-unless you did it.'

  It was Fouche-Larimand's turn to conceal surprise; he hadn't been expecting a denial.

  'No matter, he's dead anyway - a common fate. He told you about our little club, I suppose - the Charlemagne Circle?'

  'Yes.'

  'You must admit, dear boy, it was clever stuff.'

  Koller swallowed hard. 'I don't understand why an old fascist like you would work for the Zionists?'

  'My dear boy, I am not anti-Zionist, just anti-semitic.'

  'Stop calling me "dear boy".'

  'Yes, dear boy. In any case, we aren't working for them – we just happened to be on the same side.'

  'You have no connection with the Israelis?' asked Koller, doing his best to ignore the provocation.

  'Of course not. Oh my dear boy! Is that what you thought? The clever Jews using their old enemies to bash the Palestinians. What a devious mind you have. I expected something a bit more plodding - it must be your mother's side. No, we were just fighting communism and the sort of decadents and moral degenerates who allow it to spread. Something, I'm proud to say, I've been doing all my adult life. You, of course, are an anti-Nazi who has spent much of his time fighting Jews - a peculiar philosophy.'

  'You've already given your interview. Let's get some facts. How did you penetrate us? What led you to Siegfried?'

  'Oh, you've read it?' said the dying man, completely ignoring the question. 'I hope you didn't mind my little joke about you being queer? I hear you're quite a ladies' man. I thought it was quite good, quite fair. They didn't misquote me all that much. The climate is changing, you know. People are more prepared to listen to us, heed our warnings. And the conservatives are coming back into power all over Free Europe. Not much better than the socialists, it's true - but better, definitely better.'

  'This gun is fitted with a silencer,' lied Koller, bringing it up behind the newspaper. 'If you don't stop this shit and answer my questions, it will give me great pleasure to shoot you through one of your knee-caps. It won't kill you, of course, but the pain will be excruciating. If you still won't tell, I'll do it to the other one and then I'll start at the wrists and the elbows.'

  'My dear boy, that's much more like it, much more in character, I'm sure. I was teasing. I fully intend to tell you everything-'

  'And don't call me "dear boy".'

  'How about Hans? I am such a sentimentalist. That's why I go to the funerals of nonentities and get myself into trouble.' Fouche-Larimand was enjoying himself. A trace of colour had even returned to one cheek. But a bullet in the knee was painful and he didn't want to push his luck.

  'Well, of course, the Circle penetrated your little cell by getting hold of your friend Siegfried and he, er, talked.'

  'Yes, I know that, we might go into that, but what I want to know is how you found us? Who helped you? The DST? CIA? Israeli intelligence
? German? British - who?'

  'My dear Hans, you must realise that we are persona non-grata with all those fine organisations. No, we had inside information. Someone who knew the inside of your head, someone who could imagine what you would do next, how you would react. I admit we have a friend, an old comrade, in the German police who gave us some general advice. Lisbon, Amsterdam, London and Paris, he said - in about that order I believe. We wasted a lot of time in Portugal and Holland.'

  'And this person who is supposed to know the inside of my head - this is your Grand Jules?'

  'Ah, Le Poidevin told you that as well, did he? You must have had a very interesting conversation. Now you want to know who he is? Well, I'll tell you, but I think you might find it a bit of a shock. Why don't you pour yourself a brandy - it is your drink, isn't it? You'll find a bottle on the table over there. Pour one for me while you're at it.'

  Koller sat still. 'Listen, you old fart,' he said, 'I think we have been watching different movies. Get on with it.'

  'That's the trouble with you young people nowadays,' sighed the Comte. 'No sense of style.'

  The German made an angry movement beneath the newspaper, which fell to the floor to reveal the ancient revolver he was holding.

  'Silencer indeed,' snorted Fouche-Larimand. 'From which museum did you steal that blunderbuss.'

  'Talk,' said Koller. The dying man told him what he wanted to know.

  When he had finished, Koller sat for a long time without saying anything. It was as if by neatly reversing an equation, the whole sum of his adult life had been cancelled out. Like a prisoner who had spent years filing through his bars only to find that he was actually outside the prison all the time. Then, still without a word, the gun held limply in his right hand, he got up to leave.