Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

I thought for a minute. ‘Naturally I should have to ask his opinion. He trusts me. It might take a little time.’

‘Of course.’

‘And as I told Nebe, he’ll want money. Lots of it.’

‘You can tell him I’ll organize everything. A Swiss bank account. Whatever he wants.’

‘Right now what he wants most is a Swiss watch,’ I said, improvising. ‘A Doxas.’

‘No problem,’ Müller grinned. ‘You see what I mean about the Russian? He knows exactly what he wants. A nice watch. Well, leave that to me.’ Müller replaced the poker on its stand and sat back contentedly. ‘Then I can assume you have no objections to my proposal? Naturally you will be well-rewarded for bringing us such an important informer.’

‘Since you mention it, I do have a figure in mind,’ I said.

Müller raised his hands and beckoned me to name it.

‘You may or may not know that I suffered a heavy loss at cards quite recently. I lost most of my money, about 4,000 schillings. I thought that you might like to make that up to 5,000.’

He pursed his lips and started nodding slowly. ‘That sounds not unreasonable. In the circumstances.’

I smiled. It amused me that Müller was so concerned to protect his area of expertise within the Org that he was willing to buy me out of my involvement with Belinsky’s Russian. It was easy to see that in this way the reputation of Gestapo Müller as the authority on all matters relating to the MVD would be ensured. He slapped both his knees decisively.

‘Good. I’m glad that’s settled. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. We’ll talk again after this morning’s meeting.’

We certainly will, I said to myself. Only it would probably be at the Stiftskaserne, or wherever the Crowcass people were likely to interrogate Müller.

‘Of course we’ll have to discuss the procedure for contacting your source. Arthur tells me you already have a dead-letter arrangement.’

‘It’s all written down,’ I said to him. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everything is in order.’ I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already past ten o’clock. I got up and straightened my tie.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Müller said, clapping me on the shoulder. He seemed almost jovial now that he had got what he wanted. ‘They will wait for us, I can assure you.’

But almost at the same moment the library door opened and the slightly irritated face of the Baron von Bolschwing peered into the room. He raised his wristwatch significantly and said, ‘Herr Doktor, we really must get on now.’

‘It’s all right,’ Müller boomed, ‘we’ve finished. You can tell everyone to come in now.’

‘Thank you very much.’ But the Baron’s voice was peevish.

‘Meetings,’ sneered Müller. ‘One after another in this organization. There’s no end to the pain of it. Like wiping your arse with a car tyre. It’s as if Himmler were still alive.’

I smiled. ‘That reminds me. I have to hit the spot.’

‘It’s just along the corridor,’ he said.

I went to the door, excusing myself first to the Baron and then to Arthur Nebe as I shouldered past the men coming into the library. These were Old Comrades all right. Men with hard eyes, flabby smiles, well-fed stomachs and a certain arrogance, as if none of them had ever lost a war or done anything for which they ought to have been in any way ashamed. This was the collective face of the new Germany that Müller had droned on about.

But of König there was still no sign.

In the sour-smelling toilet I bolted the door carefully, checked my watch and stood at the window trying to see the road beyond the trees at the side of the house. With the wind stirring the leaves it was difficult to distinguish anything very clearly, but in the distance I thought that I could just about make out the fender of a big black car.

I reached for the cord of the blind and, hoping that the thing was attached to the wall rather more firmly than the blind in my own bathroom back in Berlin, I pulled it gently down for five seconds, then let it roll up again for another five seconds. When I had done this three times as arranged, I waited for Belinsky’s signal and felt very relieved when I heard three blasts of a car horn from far away. Then I flushed the toilet, and opened the door.

Halfway back along the corridor leading back to the library I saw König’s dog. He stood in the middle of the corridor sniffing the air and regarding me with something like recognition. Then he turned away and trotted downstairs. I didn’t think there was a quicker way of finding König than by letting his crapper do it for me. So I followed.

At a door on the ground floor the dog stopped and whined a little bark. As soon as I opened it, he was off again, scampering along another corridor towards the back of the house. He stopped once more and made a show of trying to burrow under another door, to what looked like the cellar. For several seconds I hesitated to open it, but when the dog barked I decided that it was wiser to let him through rather than risk that the noise would summon König. I turned the handle, pushed, and, when the door didn’t budge, pulled. It came towards me with only a gentle creak, largely concealed by what sounded at first like a cat mewing somewhere down in the cellar. Cool air and the horrible realization that this was no cat touched my face, and I felt myself shiver involuntarily. Then the dog twisted round the edge of the door and disappeared down the bare wooden stairs.

Even before I had tiptoed to the bottom of the flight, where a large rack of wine concealed me from immediate discovery, I had recognized the painful voice as belonging to Veronika. The scene required very little analysis. She was sitting in a chair, stripped to the waist, her face deathly pale. A man sat immediately in front of her; his sleeves were rolled up and he was torturing her knee with some bloodstained metal object. König stood behind her, steadying the chair and periodically stifling her screams with a length of rag.

There was no time to worry about my lack of a gun, and it was fortunate that König was momentarily distracted by the arrival of his dog. ‘Lingo,’ he said looking down at the brute, ‘how did you get down here? I thought I locked you out.’ He bent down to pick the dog up and in the same moment I stepped smartly round the wine rack and ran forwards.

The man in the chair was still in his seat as I clapped both his ears with my cupped hands as hard as I could. He screamed and fell on to the floor, clutching both sides of his head and writhing desperately as he tried to contain the pain of what were almost certainly burst eardrums. It was then that I saw what he had been doing to Veronika. Slicking out of her knee joint at a right angle was a corkscrew.

König’s gun was even now halfway out of his shoulder-holster. I leaped at him, punched hard at his exposed armpit and then chopped him across the upper lip with the edge of my hand. The two blows together were enough to disable him. He staggered back from Veronika’s chair, blood pouring from his nose. I needn’t have hit him again, but now that his hand no longer covered her mouth, her loud cries of excruciating pain persuaded me to deliver a third, more vicious blow with my forearm, aimed at the centre of his sternum. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. Immediately the dog stopped its furious barking and set about trying to revive him with its tongue.

I picked König’s gun off the floor, slipped it into my trouser pocket and quickly started untying Veronika. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘we’re getting out of here. Belinsky will be here any minute with the police.’

I tried not to look at the mess they had made of her knee. She moaned pitiably as I pulled the last of the cords away from her bloodstained legs. Her skin was cold and she was shaking all over, clearly going into shock. But when I took off my jacket and put it about her shoulders, she held my hand firmly and said through gritted teeth, ‘Get it out, for God’s sake get it out of my knee.’