Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

I was still thinking about this when I drove into the Baur’s parking lot, immediately to the west of the hotel and on the other side of the canal. I stepped out of the car and was locking the door when a man got out of the car parked next to me and asked me for a light. Not suspecting anything, I reached for my lighter, which is when I found a big Colt automatic in my gut and another man frisking me for a gun. The next thing I knew I was being invited to get into the back of my own Mercedes and the man with the gun was sitting alongside me. The one who’d searched me had taken my passport and the car keys and was now in the driver’s seat. A moment or two later we were speeding out of the hotel car park with the other car close behind.

I imagine they’d been following me all the way from Küsnacht. It wasn’t like me not to spot a tail, but with so much on my mind I simply hadn’t noticed it. There were four of them — two in my car and two in the car behind. I turned to take a longer look but the man seated beside me flicked the lobe of my ear meaningfully with the Colt and told me to keep my eyes to the front.

“Who are you?” I asked. “You’re not Gestapo. Not with those suits and that cologne.”

The man with the gun said nothing. By now all I knew was that we were driving north. That’s easy when the river is to the west and on your left. Five minutes later we turned into a dull, quiet neighborhood full of tall white houses with gable roofs and stopped in front of a corner house with several stories and a steeple. One of the men in the car behind opened a garage door and we drove inside. Then I was marched upstairs and through the door of a barely furnished corner apartment on the uppermost floor — a safe house, I imagined, with a nice view of nothing very much. A man smoking a pipe and wearing a three-piece suit was seated behind a refectory table. His hair was thin and white and he had a broad gray mustache. He wore a spotted bow tie and a pair of wire-framed glasses. He continued writing something on a sheet of paper with a fountain pen while I was escorted to a chair in the middle of the room. I sat down and waited to discover who these people were. So far, their accents had led me to believe they were neither Swiss nor German, and I quickly presumed they were English or American.

Eventually the man behind the refectory table spoke in fluent German that was too good for an American.

“How are you today, General?” he asked.

“Thank you, I’m well, but I’m afraid you’ve obviously got the wrong man. I’m not a general. Last time I looked at my pay book it said captain.”

The man with the pipe said nothing and continued writing.

“If you bother to check my passport you’ll see I’m not the man you probably think I am. My name is Bernhard Gunther.”

“In our profession none of us is ever really what he seems to be,” said the man with the pipe. He spoke calmly, like a professor or a diplomat, as if he had been explaining a philosophical point to a dull student.

“In Nazi Germany not being who you are is a regular way of life, for everyone. Take my word for it.”

The pipe smoke was sweet and actually smelled like real, unadulterated tobacco, which made me think he must be American. The English were just as badly off for tobacco as the Germans.

“Oh, I think we know who you are, all right.”

“And I’m telling you that you’ve made a mistake. I’m guessing you think that I’m General Walter Schellenberg. I am driving his car, after all. He asked me to bring it here, from the Mercedes car factory in Sindelfingen. And now I’ve met you I’m beginning to understand why. I’m guessing he was expecting something like this might happen. Getting snatched off the streets by American spies. That’s what you are, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not German. I know you’re not Swiss. And you can’t be English. Not with those suits.”

The pipe smoker started writing again. I had nothing to lose by talking. So I talked. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.

“Look here, I’ve an important appointment back at my hotel at two o’clock. With a lady. So I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Which isn’t much. Keep the car. It isn’t mine. But I’d rather not miss that appointment.”

“This lady. What’s her name?”

I said nothing.

“If you tell us her name we shall leave word at your hotel that you have been unavoidably detained.”

“So you can snatch her, too?”

“Why would we do that when we have you, General?”

“I’d rather not say what her name is. We’re lovers, all right? But the lady is married. I expect you could find out, but I’d rather not say what her name is.”

“And how would your wife, Irene, feel about that?”

“I think Irene would be all right with it since I’m not married to her.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to be here awhile,” said the man. “So you might as well get used to the idea. You won’t be keeping your appointment with your lady friend. You’ll be helping us with the answers to some important questions we have, General Schellenberg. And it would be unfortunate for us both if your answers were not truthful.”

“Look,” I said. “You know the name of General Schellenberg’s wife. Congratulations. But you obviously know very little else because if you did you’d know that he’s nothing like me. He’s short. I’m tall. He’s younger than me. Thirty-three, I think. Better-looking, too, although I agree that seems unlikely. He speaks fluent French. On account of the fact that he lived in Luxembourg. I hardly speak a word of it. And he’s a snake, which is how I’m here now instead of him. Look, there’s a man — a Swiss — who’ll vouch for what I say. He’s an intelligence officer, too — a captain by the name of Paul Meyer-Schwertenbach. He works for military intelligence. His boss is a man named Masson. Meyer knows who I am because he’s met the real General Schellenberg. And he’s met me, in Berlin. Last year he came to an international crime commission conference. I got to know him reasonably well. He lives in a château in Ermatingen, called Wolfsberg Castle. Why don’t you telephone him? He’ll tell you what Schellenberg looks like and what I look like and we can sort this whole thing out in a few minutes. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m not a spy. I’m really not in a position to tell you anything very much. I was a criminal commissar with Kripo in Berlin, and until recently I was working for the War Crimes Bureau, at army headquarters. I’ve been sent here on a private mission by Dr. Goebbels in his capacity as head of the UFA film studios at Babelsberg. There’s an actress, living here in Zurich... he wants her to star in his next film. That’s it, gentlemen. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this time you got the monkey, not the organ-grinder.”

“This conference. Where was it held?”

“The Villa Minoux, in Wannsee. That’s a sort of guesthouse owned by the SS.”

“Who else was there?”

I shrugged. “The usual suspects. Gestapo Müller, Kaltenbrunner, Himmler. General Nebe. And Schellenberg, of course. It was him who introduced me to Captain Meyer-Schwertenbach.”

“You move in very elevated circles for a mere captain.”

“I go where I’m told to go.”

“Have you ever been in Switzerland before?”

“No. Never.”

The pipe smoker smiled in a faceless sort of way, without conveying anything of his emotions, so it was impossible for me to determine if he thought what I’d said was true, or false, funny, or beneath contempt. The three other men in the room were all thugs — Gestapo types with better haircuts and nicer breath.

“Tell me, General, what plans does Germany have for the invasion of Switzerland?” he asked.