Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

Allen Dulles checked the bowl of his pipe, relit it carefully, and stared at me through eyes that slowly narrowed behind his glasses.

“We’ll talk again, this afternoon.”

He was about to leave the room when one of his OSS men handed him a photograph, which he looked at for several seconds through ruminative clouds of pipe smoke.

“Now, this is interesting,” he said. “While we’ve been talking, one of our more diligent desk analysts has come up with this photograph. Perhaps you’d care to comment on this.”

Dulles handed me the picture. There was a caption on a label affixed to the bottom of the print that I hardly needed to read as I recognized the picture immediately. It read: Picture taken at the Prague Circus Krone in October 1941 for local Czech newspaper. The two officers in foreground are Generals Heydrich and Frank. Also pictured are Heydrich’s wife, Lina, Frank’s wife, Karola, Heydrich’s three aides-de-camp, believed to be Ploetz, Pomme, and Kluckholn, and an unknown man, but also believed to be a senior officer in the SD.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” said Dulles. “That ‘unknown’ German officer with Generals Heydrich and Frank?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I admitted. “I see no point in denying it. But I don’t know that it tells you anything very much, Mr. Dulles. After all, none of us is wearing a uniform. It certainly doesn’t tell you that I’m an SS-Obersturmbannführer, which I think is the rank that Walter Schellenberg held around that time.”

“It tells me that you knew Heydrich pretty well if you went to the fucking circus with him and his wife.”

They locked me in a bedroom. There were no bars on the window but this was in the tower room — the one that looked like a church steeple from the outside — and the drop straight to the sloping ground was at least fifteen meters. The Three Toledos wouldn’t have made a jump like that if the famous Erwingos had been there to catch them. I certainly wasn’t about to try it.

There was a table with a drawer and a chair; I opened the drawer and found some sheets of Prantl, which would have been useful if I’d planned to escape from the window on a paper airplane. I lay down on a surprisingly clean bed, reached for my cigarettes, and then remembered they’d been confiscated along with everything else except my wristwatch. One o’clock became one-thirty, and then one forty-five, and I felt my spirits start to lower even further as I pictured Dalia arriving at the Baur au Lac and discovering to her surprise that I wasn’t there. How would she feel? How long would she wait before concluding that I wasn’t coming? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? For a while I thought about being in bed with her and the pleasures I was surely missing, but that didn’t help. It just made me want to punch the door or smash the window.

At exactly two o’clock I went to the sash window and tried to open it, but the paint on the frame had left the window sealed. I thought about smashing the glass and shouting down to the street, but for as long as I stood there looking out, I saw no one in the street. Not even a dog or a cat. Zurich was quiet at the best of times. But this neighborhood was as quiet as a Swiss watch movement. I also imagined that the minute I started shouting out the window the American who was seated on the other side of the door — I could hear his feet on the floor and smell his cigarettes — would come in and belt me in the teeth. I’d been punched before and didn’t mind being punched again, but I figured I was going to need to keep all of my wits if I was ever going to persuade Dulles that I wasn’t General Schellenberg.

It seemed that I had until morning to do this. And if I didn’t persuade him, then what? Would they really let me go? If making a spy of the head of SD Foreign Intelligence was what this was all about, how did they intend to compromise him enough to make him turn against his Nazi masters? There was nothing that Allen Dulles had said that led me to think they had very much information about the real Schellenberg. Since they didn’t know what he really looked like, it all felt like a poorly conceived fishing expedition. At least it did until you considered another, more uncomfortable possibility, which was that they intended to question me for as long as they could before they killed me, or somehow got me out of the country and back to the USA for further interrogation. Getting me out of a landlocked country — Switzerland was, after all, surrounded by Germany, fascist Italy, Vichy France, and Nazi Austria — looked like a tall order, even for the Americans. Killing me looked like a better bet. If they did suppose I was a top Nazi general, then killing me would have made perfect sense, too. In spite of Dulles’s smooth assurances, a bullet in the back of my head appeared to be the real fate that lay in store for me. Assassinating the general in charge of SD Foreign Intelligence would have been no less useful to the Allied war effort than assassinating Heydrich, or Field Marshal Rommel, who had famously and narrowly escaped an attempt on his life by British commandos in November 1941.

At two-thirty I went to the door and listened carefully. The Ami on the other side seemed to be reading a newspaper. I thought I heard him fart, and a few seconds later I was sure of it.

“I wouldn’t mind a cigarette,” I said, retiring to a safe distance. “You’re never alone with a cigarette.”

“Sorry,” said the man, in German. “Boss’s orders. No cigarettes, in case you set the room on fire. And then where would we be? Explaining ourselves to the Zurich fire service.”

“How about a cup of coffee?” I said. “Have you any orders against giving the prisoner food and drink?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I was thinking I might bring you a coffee. But before I did that I was just trying to think of the German for ‘No tricks, you Nazi bastard, or I’ll shoot you in the fucking leg.’”

“I think you’ve made yourself perfectly understood.”

“How do you like your coffee?”

“Black. Plenty of sugar, if you have it. Or saccharine.”

“All right. Wait there.”

“You know, I think I will.”

I dropped onto the wooden floor and peered under the door just in time to see a pair of stout-looking brown, wingtip shoes walk loudly away and the butt of a cigarette he had discarded, which still had plenty of good tobacco left in it — in fact it was still burning. I went quickly back to the desk drawer, fetched a sheet of notepaper, and slid it underneath the door and then the cigarette butt. A minute later I was lying happily on the bed and puffing the Ami’s Viceroy back to life. No cigarette ever tasted better than that one. It felt like a small, exquisite victory — temporary but no less satisfying for all that, which is of course pleasure incarnate.

I’d hoped the Ami might come back with the coffee in time for him to see the cigarette in the corner of my mouth. But I smoked it right down to the butt, reminding myself of how much I preferred European cigarettes, and still he did not return. When I heard a muffled commotion I dropped back onto my belly and stared under the door again.

I could still see the wingtip shoes but now they were pointed at the ceiling, and while I was still trying to puzzle out why, I heard a gunshot. And then another. The Swiss police? I couldn’t imagine that anyone else was trying to rescue me; then again, it seemed unlikely that the Swiss would have fired shots at foreigners and risked their very neutrality. More shots were fired. And then I heard footsteps outside my door. Seconds later I heard the key in the lock and the door was flung open to reveal a man in a gray suit who was more obviously German than Swiss or American. His hair was as yellow as corn, there was a small dueling Schmiss on his cheek, and there was no mistaking his accent.