Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“Christ, I can’t believe we’re here, in Hitler’s own house,” Kaspel said. “The fucking Berghof. That his study is just across the hall. I mean, Jesus Christ, Gunther. Talk about sacred ground. I mean, we should pull off our shoes or something.” It was almost as much of a performance as the one we’d overheard in the Great Hall.

“Being RSD I’d have thought you’d been in here before, Hermann.”

“What gave you that idea? No, it’s only Rattenhuber or Högl who ever get to come into the Berghof. They’re Bavarians, you see. It’s only Bavarians that Hitler really trusts. Rattenhuber is from Munich. And Högl is from Dingolfing. I don’t know where Brückner is from. But he was in a Bavarian infantry regiment. Hitler hates Berliners. Doesn’t trust them. Thinks they’re all reds, so it’s just as well he’s not going to meet you, Gunther. It’s people like you who give us Berliners a bad name. No, this is the first time I’ve ever been through the front door of this house.”

“Help yourself to a souvenir, if you see one, Hermann. Take that crappy watercolor that was on the wall, if you like. I certainly shan’t tell anyone.”

“Aren’t you even a little bit impressed by the fact that you’re here?”

“Sure.” I picked up the Leica and took his picture. “If I were any more impressed with being in this place I’d take off like a hot air balloon and not land until they shot me down over Paris.”

“You’re a sarcastic bastard, you know that?”

“I thought you knew that. I’m from Berlin.”

“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I’m hoping to forget that I was ever here. It already seems like a bad dream. But then, so does everything else that’s happened since we strolled into the Sudetenland.”

Kaspel wet his finger, wiped away the remains of the powdered Pervitin, and then licked it slowly.

“Do you always take it like that?” I asked him. “Like a human Electrolux?”

“After a while you get a sort of tolerance of the magic potion when you take it orally. Takes a while to kick in. When you need the effect to be immediate, it’s best you take it like snuff.”

There was a knock at the door. It was Arthur Kannenberg. His eyes were bulging a bit more than was usual for him; in that respect they reminded me of his stomach. Hitler might have been a vegetarian and a teetotaler but it was plain Kannenberg liked his sausage and his beer.

“How’s it going?” he said affably.

“Good,” I said.

“Anything you need, Bernie?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“I spoke on the telephone with Peter Hayer, the ornithologist. Like you asked. He’s there now, at the apiary. If you want to speak with him.”

“Peter Hayer? Sure. Thanks, Arthur.”

“I suppose you heard everything. That argument between myself and Brückner.”

“I don’t think we were the only ones, Arthur. But then I suppose you were both aware of that. What’s the big idea? That some of what you said might get back to the Leader without you having to tell him, I suppose. Only you’d better remember, that works two ways.”

Kannenberg looked sheepish for a moment. “I suppose you know he’s a murderer. Brückner. He served under Colonel Epp, during the Bavarian communist insurrection in 1919. They killed hundreds of people. In Munich and in Berlin. I’ve even heard it said that it was Brückner who commanded the Freikorps men who murdered Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht. Which is one reason that he’s especially close to Hitler, of course. I mean to say — what’s one more murder for a man like that? I happen to know he has a rifle with a sniper scope at his house in Buchenhohe. You might care to see if it’s still there.”

“Arthur,” I said patiently. “You really can’t have it both ways. You already told me that Flex was standing next to Brückner when he was shot on the terrace. Remember? Besides, what happened to Luxemburg and Liebknecht? In Berlin they might still think that was murder. But certainly not in any other part of Germany. Least of all this one.”

“No, I suppose not.” Kannenberg smiled sadly. “But you know, Brückner and Karl Flex, they weren’t exactly what you’d call friends. Brückner threatened to kill him once.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

“I don’t remember the exact words. You should ask him about it. But I will say this: his best friend on the mountain used to be Karl Brandt. It was Dr. Brandt who treated Brückner after his car accident. Which is also why Brückner recommended him to Hitler. Brandt owes everything to Brückner. Everything. Not only that, but Brandt is a pretty good shot, by all accounts. His father was a copper with the Mühlhausen Police and showed him how to handle a gun when he was a kid.”

“They used to be friends, you said? Implying that they aren’t any longer.”

“Brückner fell out with Dr. Brandt, too. I’m not sure exactly why. But I think because Brandt was into something with Flex.”

I nodded patiently.

“Thanks, Arthur, I’ll bear all that in mind.”

“Just thought I’d mention it.”

“Duly noted.”

Kannenberg smiled back at me and then left.

“What do you make of that, boss?” said Kaspel.

“Frankly, I’m not surprised, Hermann. In a place like this, where truth is always at a premium, we’re going to hear plenty of good stories. I suppose Neville Chamberlain heard one about the Czechos and I suppose you have to believe what you want to believe. Therein lies the problem, you see; I worry that I’m going to think one of these people actually did it. Not because they did do it, but because I start thinking that someone must be telling the truth.”

I grabbed my coat and the binoculars and headed toward the door with Kaspel following. Halfway downstairs I stopped for a second to show him the list of names compiled by Bruno Schenk; the last name on the list belonged to the man we were going to see, the Landlerwald’s ornithologist, Peter Hayer.

It was snowing lightly and there was a party of workers shoveling the stuff off the road along the western perimeter of the Leader’s Territory. They looked pretty sullen about it, too, although I don’t know that there’s any other way to look when you’re shoveling while it’s still snowing.

“Slow down,” I said, realizing, too late, that I should have been driving: Kaspel had so much meth inside him I was afraid he might have some kind of seizure. I felt a bit high myself. The voices were gone for the moment but I was still buzzing, which seemed only appropriate given where we were going. “I make a bad passenger at the best of times. But I don’t want to get killed while I’m here. Heydrich would never forgive you.”

Kaspel slowed a little and drove us farther up the mountain toward the Kehlstein, past the Türken Inn on our right, and then Bormann’s house. He pointed out the sights as we went along, which did nothing to make me feel any safer. Meanwhile, I opened the second envelope that had been on my desk, which was from Major Högl, if only to avoid looking at the twisting road ahead.

“That’s the kindergarten, the greenhouse — Hitler likes his fresh fruit and vegetables — the SS barracks. You can’t see it, but Göring’s house is down there to the left. Naturally it’s the biggest. Then again, so is he.” He pulled up at a small crossroads. “That’s the post office. And next to it the chauffeurs’ quarters, garages for all the official cars, and behind those the Platterhof Hotel, which is still being constructed, of course.”

“It’s like a small town up here.”

“Christ only knows what they’re doing underground. Sometimes you can feel the vibration of all the tunneling that’s going on in Obersalzberg and it’s like the Nazis are inside your skull. Of course there are lots of government buildings down in Berchtesgaden as well. Only that tends to be the brother’s territory. Albert Bormann. He’s in charge of the Chancellery and a small group of adjutants who don’t take their orders from brother Martin. There’s even a theater up here, but outside the Leader’s Territory. They put on all sorts of things for the locals, to try and improve community relations. I heard our friend Schenk give a talk there once. Or was it Wilhelm Zander? Yes, Zander.” Kaspel laughed. “He talked about Tom Sawyer and the American novel. You can imagine how that went down.”