Philip Kerr - Field Grey

'Who is this Boudel fellow anyway?' said the prisoner. 'And what's he supposed to have done?'

I nodded. 'Yes, that's a good idea,' I told the prisoner. 'Find out what this wanted man's done and if it turns out be rather less heinous than what you did yourself, then put your hands up for it. Why not? I can see how you could think that might work.'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Gunther. I've spent the last nine years in a Russian POW camp. Whatever it is I'm supposed to have done I reckon I've paid for it, several times over.'

'As if I care.'

'I demand to know this man's name,' said Vigee.

'How about it? I told the prisoner. 'We both know you're not Richard Kettenacher. I suppose you stole his pay book and just swapped the photograph on the inside cover – stuck it on with some egg white. Russians didn't usually pay too much attention to the corner stamps. You figured a new name and a different service would keep the dogs off your trail, because after Treblinka you knew that someone would be coming to look for you. You and Irmfried Eberl, wasn't it?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Neither do I,' complained Vigee. 'And I'm beginning to get irritated.'

'Permit me to introduce you, Emile. This is Major Paul Kestner. Formerly of the SS and deputy commander of the Treblinka death camp in Poland.'

'Rubbish,' said Kestner. 'Rubbish. You don't know what you're talking about.'

'At least he was until Himmler found out about what he was doing there. Even he was horrified by what he and the commandant had been up to. Theft, murder, torture. Isn't that right, Paul? So horrified that you and Eberl were kicked out of the SS, which is how you found yourself in the Wehrmacht, defending Berlin, trying to redeem yourself for your earlier crimes.'

'Nonsense,' said Kestner.

'You may not have Edgard de Boudel in custody, Emile, but you do have one of the worst war criminals in Europe. A man who is responsible for the deaths of at least three quarters of a million Jews and gypsies.'

'Rubbish. Rubbish. And don't think I'm unaware of what this is really about, Gunther. It's about Paris, isn't it? June 1940.'

Vigee frowned. 'What about it?'

'He tried to have me murdered,' I said.

'I knew it,' said Kestner.

Vigee nodded at the door. 'Outside,' he told me. 'I need to speak with you.'

I followed him out of the wine cellar, up the stairs and into the little walled garden by the canal. Vigee lit us each a cigarette.

'Paul Kestner, huh?'

I nodded. 'I imagine the UN War Crimes Commission will be pleased to have him in custody,' I said.

'You think I give a fuck about any of that?' he said angrily. 'How many fucking Jews he killed. I don't care. I don't care about Treblinka, Gunther. Or the fate of some lousy gypsies. They're dead. Too bad. It's not my problem. What I do care about is finding Edgard de Boudel. Got that? What I care about is finding the man who tortured and murdered almost three hundred Frenchmen in Indo-China.' He was shouting now and waving his arms in the air, but he didn't grab me by the lapels, and I sensed that while he might have been angry and disappointed he was also wary of me now.

'So, we're going back to that refugee camp at Friedland tomorrow and we're going to look at every man there and we're going to find de Boudel. Understand?'

'It's not my fault that he's not our man,' I shouted back.

'But it was the right call. And, assuming your information is correct and de Boudel really was on that fucking train, then it stands to reason he's in the camp.'

'You'd better pray he is, or we're both in trouble. It's not only your ass, it's mine, too.'

I shrugged. 'Maybe I'll do that.'

'What?'

'Pray. Pray to get out of this place for a while. To get away from you, Emile.' I shook my head. 'I need some room to breathe. To clear my head.'

He seemed to control himself and then nodded. 'Yes. I'm sorry. It's not your fault, you're right. Look, take a walk around town. Go to church again. I'll send someone with you.'

'What about him? Kestner?'

'We'll take him back to the refugee camp. The German authorities can decide what to do with him. But me, I don't have any time for the UN and their stupid War Crimes Commission. I don't want to know about it.'

Muttering in French, he walked off, probably before one us felt obliged to try to hit the other again.

I found Grottsch, who, to my surprise, tried to excuse the Frenchman with the explanation that his daughter was ill. We collected our coats and went outside into the autumn sunshine. Gottingen was full of students, which served to remind me that my own daughter, Dinah, was probably in her first year of university by now. At least I hoped she was.

Walking around a bit, Grottsch and I found ourselves beside the ruins of the town's synagogue on Obere-Masch Strasse, burnt to the ground in 1938, and I wondered how many of Gottingen's Jews had met their ends in Treblinka at the hands of Paul Kestner and if nine years in a Russian POW camp really was sufficient punishment for three quarters of a million people. Perhaps there was after all no earthly punishment that was equal to a crime like that. But if not here on earth, then where?

Our footsteps took us back to St Jacobi's church. Outside I stopped to look in the window of a shop opposite, but when I walked away I found I was alone. I stopped and glanced around, expecting to see Grottsch coming towards me, but he was nowhere to be seen. For a moment I considered escape. The prospect of visiting Friedland refugee camp and being seen by Bingel and Krause was no more appealing than it had been the previous day; and about the only thing that prevented me walking straight to the railway station was a lack of money and the knowledge that my French passport was back at the Pension Esebeck. I was still debating my next course of action when I found I was closely accompanied by two men wearing neat little hats and short dark raincoats.

'If you're looking for your friend,' said one of the men, 'he had to sit down and rest. On account of the fact that he suddenly felt very tired.'

I was still looking around for Grottsch, as if I really cared what happened to him, when I realised that there were two more men behind me.

'He's sleeping it off in the church.' The man speaking had good German but it wasn't his first language. He wore heavy- framed glasses and was smoking a metal-stemmed pipe. He puffed and a cloud of tobacco smoke obscured his face for a moment.

'Sleeping it off?'

'A hypodermic shot. Nothing to worry about. Not for him and not for you, Gunther. So relax. We're your friends. There's a car around the corner waiting to take us on a little ride.'

'Suppose I don't want to go for a ride?'

'Why suppose anything of the kind when we both know that's exactly what you want? Besides, I'd hate to have to give you a shot like your friend Grottsch. The effects of thiopental can linger unpleasantly for several days after injection.' He had my arm now and his colleague had the other and we were already turning the corner onto Weender Strasse. 'A new life awaits you, my friend. Money, and a new identity, a new passport. Anything you want.'

The door of a large black saloon swung open ahead of me. A man wearing a leather jacket and a matching cap was standing behind it. Another man walking a few steps ahead of me stopped by the car door and turned to face me. I was being kidnapped and by people who knew exactly what they were doing.

'Who are you?' I asked.

'Surely you've been expecting us,' said the man beside me. 'After your note.' He grinned. 'You can't imagine the excitement your information has caused. Not just here in Germany, but at headquarters, too.'

I bent forward to get into the car and felt someone's hand on the top of my head, just in case at the last moment I tried to resist and bumped my head on the door frame. Cops and spies all over the world were always thoughtful like that. Two men outside the car stayed on the alert, looking around nervously until everyone who was supposed to be in the car was in the car, and then the doors were closed and we were moving and it was all over, with no more fuss than if we were all going on an unexpected shopping trip to the next town.