Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

“Are you Hauptsturmführer Gunther?” he barked.

“Yes.”

“Come with us. Quickly.”

I didn’t need asking again. I walked out of the tower bedroom and followed the man to the door of the apartment, where I stopped and glanced around, looking at the room where I’d been interrogated earlier. The air of the apartment was thick with the smell of gunpowder. It hung visibly in the air like a poltergeist. Three of the Amis lay bleeding on the floor; one of them had been shot through the head and was almost certainly dead; the other had an expanding bubble of blood in one of his nostrils that seemed to indicate there was still breath in his body. Another German with a broom-handle Mauser was reloading it in case he needed to shoot someone else.

“My passport,” I said. “My car keys.”

“We have everything,” said my rescuer. “Come on. We have to get the hell out of here before the cops show up. Even the Swiss are not about to ignore gunfire.”

We ran downstairs and outside where a black Citroën was parked at the side of the road. The other man — the man I’d seen with the Mauser — was reversing my Mercedes out of the Ami safe house’s garage.

“Get in,” said Scarface, pointing at the Citroën. “He’ll follow us in your car.”

We drove west this time. I know that because we drove across the river before turning south again. A couple of times I looked around and saw the Mercedes following close behind us. There was no gun on me now.

“Here,” said Scarface, and he handed me a cigarette.

“Thanks,” I said. “And thanks for the rescue.”

I lit it; after the Viceroy it should have tasted bad but to me it was like smoking the best hashish. I shook my head and smiled. “Who are you?” I asked. “Abwehr?”

Scarface laughed. “The Abwehr. You might as well ask a dead cat to follow a dog. We’re Gestapo, of course.”

“I never thought I’d be glad to see the Gestapo. Is it just the two of you?”

He nodded. “It’s lucky for you that there’s been a twenty-four-hour tail on you since Genshagen. You’ve been our beer since you checked into the hotel here in Zurich. We saw the Amis pick you up in the hotel car park this morning. At first we thought they might be Tommies but when we saw Dulles and his driver coming out of the building, we knew they were Amis. Besides, the Tommies wouldn’t have the nerve to do what the Amis did to you. They’re even more respectful of Swiss neutrality than the Italians, and that’s saying something. We were going to wait for backup. Anyway, when Dulles and his driver came out, we still weren’t sure how many that left inside. The fellow in the car behind has spent the last hour listening at the door of every apartment in that building.”

“They thought I was General Schellenberg,” I said.

“Not unreasonably, I’d have thought. You were driving his car, after all. You’re a lucky fellow, Gunther. After interrogating you, they’d have killed you for sure. The Americans like to shoot people who they perceive to be a threat. But only after they’ve beaten the shit out of them first. They think Europe is like the Wild West, I expect. Last year they were behind the murder of some French Vichy admiral called Darlan.”

After a while we started up a winding road and soon I could see Lake Zurich below and behind us.

“Where are we going?”

“A safe house just a few kilometers outside Zurich, in Ringlikon, near the foot of the Uetliberg. You can go back to the Baur when we’re sure we’re all in the clear for this. The safe house is not much of a place but the fellow who owns it is a Swiss-German dairy farmer who’s owned it since before the last war.”

The house in Ringlikon was a three-story, half-timbered farmhouse-style building beside a field of brown Swiss cows. What else do you expect to find in a Swiss field? In a shed beside the house, a large bull was standing by himself. He looked cross. I expect he was keen to get among the cows. It was a feeling with which I was familiar. We parked the cars and went inside the house. There was a lot of wooden furniture and pictures that looked like they’d been there a hundred years. The Swiss flag over the back door was a nice touch. But almost immediately I spied a bottle of schnapps on the kitchen shelves.

“I could use a drink,” I said.

“Good idea,” said Scarface, and he fetched the bottle and some glasses. “My hands are still shaking.”

“I’m grateful to you both,” I said. “And to our host, whoever he might be.”

“He’s away right now. Delivering milk to some of his customers. But you’ll meet Gottlob later, perhaps. He’s a good Nazi.”

“I can’t wait.”

The Gestapo man held out his hand. “Walter Nölle,” he said.

We shook hands, toasted each other with schnapps, and for a while at least, behaved like we were friends. Half an hour passed before I said, “Where’s the other fellow? The one who was driving my car.”

“Edouard — he’ll be here in a minute. Probably sending a message on the radio.” He glanced at his watch. “We usually clock in around this time.” He poured some more schnapps. “So what did you tell the Amis?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I told them it was a case of mistaken identity so I could hardly answer questions they’d set for Schellenberg. I think they were planning to get rough this afternoon. Which doesn’t bear thinking of. There’s nothing worse than being asked questions to which you just don’t know the answers. But I’m sure you know all about something like that.”

“Someone in the Swiss police obviously tipped them off,” said Nölle. “About the car.”

I nodded. “That’s the way it looks.”

“Did General Schellenberg tell you why he’s exporting a car to this Swiss Wood Syndicate?”

“He’s a general,” I said. “He’s not in the habit of explaining himself to a mere captain.”

Nölle let out a deep sigh.

“Look here, Gunther,” he said, “we’re going to have to make a full report on what we did today, to our superiors in Bern. You’re a cop. You understand how all that works. Our superiors won’t be at all happy that we’ve shot three Americans in Zurich. The Swiss are going to make a real stink about this. Because even without any evidence, the Americans will almost certainly point the finger at us. I’ve got to give my boss a full explanation for why we did what we did — for rescuing you — and somehow I don’t think the fact that you’re a fellow German is going to satisfy him. So, anything you can tell us will be gratefully appreciated. Anything at all. But we’ve got to tell those bastards in Berlin something.”

He paused.

“All right, perhaps you can tell us why Goebbels sent you all the way down here to see Dalia Dresner? Is he fucking her? Is that it?”

“I’m sorry. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but my lips are sealed. I’d like to help you out here. Really I would. As far as I know the minister wants her to star in a new movie called Siebenkäs , based on some crappy novel of the same name. In his capacity as head of the UFA film studios in Babelsberg. Nothing more. Schellenberg oiled the wheels for my trip. That’s all.”

“Goebbels sent you all the way here, just for that? Christ, that’s a nice trip. He must be fucking her.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Look, as far as I can determine, the Swiss manufacture wooden barracks for the German Army and the SS. The car was meant to sweeten some deal the SS has going with the Swiss, that’s all.”

“The SS, you say?”

“Yes. But I don’t think it’s much of a secret.” I frowned. “Unless.”

“What?”

For a moment I thought of the camp at Jasenovac.