Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

I collected the poker off the hearth and stoked the fire negligently. Nebe’s man arrived with the coffee, but I paid him no attention, and after he had gone again I stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes.

The fire stirred, clapped its hands a couple of times, and warmed my side. Behind my closed lids, bright red turned to deep purple, and then something more restful…

‘Herr Gunther?’

I jerked my head up from the sofa. Sleeping in an awkward position, even for only a few minutes, had made my neck as stiff as new leather. But when I looked at my watch I saw that I had been sleeping for more than an hour. I flexed my neck.

Sitting beside the sofa was a man wearing a grey flannel suit. He leaned forward and held out his hand for me to shake. It was a broad, strong hand and surprisingly firm for such a short man. Gradually I recognized his face, although I had never met him before.

‘I am Dr Moltke,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Herr Gunther.’ You could have blown froth from the top of his accent it was so Bavarian.

I nodded uncertainly. There was something about his gaze I found deeply disconcerting. His were the eyes of a music-hall hypnotist.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Herr Doktor.’ Here was another one who had changed his name. Another one who was supposed to be dead, like Arthur Nebe. And yet this was no ordinary Nazi fugitive from justice, if indeed justice existed anywhere in Europe during 1948. It gave me a strange feeling to consider that I had just shaken hands with a man who, but for the mysterious circumstances surrounding his ‘death’, might well have been the world’s most wanted man. This was ‘Gestapo’ Heinrich Müller, in person.

‘Arthur Nebe has been telling me about you,’ he said. ‘You know, you and I are quite alike it seems. I was a police detective, like yourself. I began on the beat and I learnt my profession in the hard school of ordinary police work. Like you I also specialized: while you worked for the murder commission, I was led to the surveillance of Communist Party functionaries. I even made a special study of Soviet Russian police methods. I found much there to admire. As a policeman yourself, you would surely appreciate their professionalism. The MVD, which used to be the NKVD, is probably the finest secret police force anywhere in the world. Better even than the Gestapo. For the simple reason, I think, that National Socialism was never able to offer a faith capable of commanding such a consistent attitude towards life. And do you know why?’

I shook my head. His broad Bavarian speech seemed to suggest a natural geniality which I knew the man himself could not possibly have possessed.

‘Because, Herr Gunther, unlike Communism, we never really appealed to the intellectuals as well as to the working classes. You know, I myself did not join the Party until 1939. Stalin does these things better. Today I see him in quite a different light than I did of old.’

I frowned, wondering whether this was Müller’s idea of a test, or a joke. But he seemed to be perfectly serious. Pompously so.

‘You admire Stalin?’ I asked, almost incredulously.

‘He stands head and shoulders above any of our Western leaders. Even Hitler was a small man by comparison. Just think what Stalin and his Party have stood up to. You were in one of their camps. You know what they’re like. Why, you even speak Russian. You always know where you are with the Ivans. They put you up against a wall and shoot you, or they give you the Order of Lenin. Not like the Americans or the British.’ Müller’s face suddenly took on an expression of intense dislike. ‘They talk about morality and justice and yet they allow Germany to starve. They write about ethics and yet they hang old comrades one day, and recruit them for their own security services the next. You can’t trust people like that, Herr Gunther.’

‘Forgive me, Herr Doktor, but I was under the impression that we were working for the Americans.’

‘That is wrong. We work with the Americans. But in the end we are working for Germany. For a new Fatherland.’

Looking more thoughtful now, he got up and went over to the window. His manner of expressing deliberation was a silent rhapsody more characteristic of a peasant priest wrestling with his conscience. He folded his thick hands thoughtfully, unclasped them again and finally pressed his temples between both fists.

‘There is nothing to admire in America. Not like Russia. But the Amis do have power. And what gives them this power is the dollar. That is the only reason why we must oppose Russia. We need the American dollars. All that the Soviet Union can give us is an example: an example of just what loyalty and dedication can achieve, even without money. So then, think what Germans might do with similar devotion and American cash.’

I tried and failed to stifle a yawn. ‘Why are you telling me this Herr – Herr Doktor?’ For one ghastly second I had almost called him Herr Müller. Did anyone but Arthur Nebe, and perhaps von Bolschwing, who had interrogated me, know who Moltke really was?

‘We are working for a new tomorrow, Herr Gunther. Germany may be divided between them now. But there will come a time when we are a great power again. A great economic power. So long as our Organization works alongside the Amis to oppose Communism, they will be persuaded to allow Germany to rebuild herself. And with our industry and our technology we shall achieve what Hitler could never have achieved. And what Stalin – yes, even Stalin with his massive five-year plans – what he can still only dream of. The German may never rule militarily, but he can do it economically. It is the mark, not the swastika, that will conquer Europe. You doubt what I say?’

If I looked surprised it was only because the idea of German industry being on top of anything but a scrapheap seemed perfectly ludicrous.

‘It’s just that I wonder if everyone in the Org thinks the same way as you?’

He shrugged. ‘Not precisely, no. There are a variety of opinions as to the worth of our allies, and the evil of our enemies. But all are agreed on one thing, and that is the new Germany. Whether it takes five years, or fifty-five years.’

Absently, Müller started to pick his nose. It occupied him for several seconds, after which he inspected his thumb and forefinger and then wiped them on Nebe’s curtains. It was, I considered, a poor indicator of the new Germany he had been speaking of.

‘Anyway, I just wanted this opportunity to thank you personally for your initiative. I’ve had a good look at the documents that your friend has provided, and there’s no doubt in my mind -it’s first-class material. The Americans will be beside themselves with excitement when they see it.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

Müller strolled back to his chair by my sofa and sat down again. ‘How confident are you that he can carry on providing this sort of high-grade material?’

‘Very confident, Herr Doktor.’

‘Excellent. You know, this couldn’t have come along at a better time. The South German Industries Utilization Company is applying to the American State Department for increased funding. Your man’s information will be an important part of that case. At this morning’s meeting I shall be recommending that the exploitation of this new source be given top priority here in Vienna.’

He collected the poker off the hearth and jabbed violently at the glowing embers of the fire. It wasn’t too difficult to imagine him doing the same to some human subject. Staring into the flames, he added: ‘With a matter of such personal interest to me, I have a favour to ask, Herr Gunther.’

‘I’m listening, Herr Doktor.’

‘I must confess I had hoped to persuade you to let me run this informer myself.’