Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“No initiative,” he said. “You have to tell them what to do. By the numbers. Not like it was in our day, eh, Bernie?”

“Look, Fridolin, no offense,” I said. “I mean, I’m not anxious to repeat tonight’s experience, but I really haven’t a fucking clue who you are. The chin I recognize. The bad skin, the leather eye patch — even the pimp mustache. But the rest of your ugly mug is a mystery to me.”

The man touched the top of his bald head self-consciously. “Yeah, I’ve lost a lot of hair since last we met. But I had the eye patch. From the war.” He held out his hand affably. “Friedrich Korsch.”

“Yeah, I remember now.” He was right; we had once been friends, or at least close colleagues. But all that was in the past. Call me petty but I tend to hold it against my friends when they try to kill me. Ignoring his hand, I said, “When was that? The last time we met?”

“Nineteen forty-nine. I was working undercover for the MVD on an American newspaper in Munich. Remember? Die Neue Zeitung ? You were looking for a war criminal called Warzok.”

“Was I?”

“I bought you lunch in the Osteria Bavaria.”

“Sure. I had pasta.”

“And before that you came to see me in ’47, in Berlin, when you were looking to get in touch with Emil Becker’s wife.”

“Right.”

“Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

“Becker? The Amis hanged him, in Vienna. For murder.”

“Ah.”

“What’s more, they finished the job. Those cowboys weren’t doing it for kicks like you guys. My kicks, that is. I never thought it would feel so good to have my feet firmly on the ground.”

“I feel bad about this,” said Korsch. “But—”

“I know. You were only obeying orders. Trying to stay alive. Look, I understand. For men like you and me, it’s an occupational hazard. But let’s not pretend we were ever friends. That was a long time ago. Since then you’ve become a real pain in the neck. My neck. Which is the only one I’ve got. So how about you and your boys get the hell out of my place and we’ll see each other at the train station in Nice, the day after tomorrow, like I agreed with the comrade-general?”

The Gare de Nice — Ville had a forged-steel rooftop, an impressive stone balcony, and a big ornate clock that belonged in purgatory’s waiting room. Inside were several grand chandeliers: the place looked more like a Riviera casino than a railway station. Not that I’d visited many casinos. I was never much interested in games of chance, perhaps because most of my adult life had felt like a reckless gamble All bets were certainly off as far as the next few days were concerned. It was hard to imagine working for the Stasi having anything but a negative outcome for Gunther. Undoubtedly they were planning to kill me as soon as the job in England was complete. Whatever Mielke said about working for him in Bonn or Hamburg after Anne French was safely silenced, it was on the cards that I would be the last loose end from the Hollis operation. Besides, my eyes looked like the two of diamonds, which isn’t ever much of a card to play in any game. Because of them I was wearing sunglasses and I didn’t even see the two Stasi men as I came through the station entrance. But they saw me. The GDR gives those boys radioactive carrots to help them see in the dark. They ushered me to the platform, where Friedrich Korsch was waiting beside the Blue Train that would take me to Paris.

“How are you?” he asked solicitously as I handed my bag to one of the Stasi men and let him carry it onto the carriage for me.

“Fine,” I said brightly.

“And the eyes?”

“Not nearly as bad as they look.”

“No hard feelings, I hope.”

I shrugged. “What would be the point?”

“True. And at least you’ve got two. I lost one in Poland, during the war.”

“Besides, it’s a long way to Paris. I assume you are coming to Paris. I hope you are. I haven’t got any money.”

“All in here,” said Korsch, patting the breast pocket of his jacket. “And yes, we are coming to Paris with you. In fact, we’re going all the way to Calais.”

“Good,” I said. “No, honestly, it will give us a chance to talk about old times.”

Korsch narrowed his eye, suspicious. “I must say you’ve changed your tune since last we met.”

“When last we met I was not long hanged by the neck until I was almost dead, Friedrich. Jesus might have managed to forgive his executioners after an experience like that, but I’m a little less understanding. I thought I was history.”

“I suppose so.”

“You can suppose all you like. But I know . Frankly, I’m still a bit sore about it. Thus the silk foulard scarf and the sunglasses. God only knows what they’ll make of me in the dining car. I’m a little old to be passing myself off as a Hollywood movie star.”

“By the way,” he asked. “Where did you go yesterday? You gave my men the slip. We had an anxious morning before you came back again.”

“Were you watching me?”

“You know we were.”

“You should have said. Look, there was someone I needed to see. A woman I’ve been sleeping with. She lives in Cannes. I had to tell her I was going away for a few days and, well, I didn’t want to do it on the phone. You can understand that, surely.” I shrugged. “Besides, I didn’t want you people knowing her name and address. For her own protection. After the other night I’ve no idea what you or your general are capable of.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, I was only gone for a few hours. I’m here now. So what’s the problem?”

Korsch said nothing, just looked at me closely, but with my eyes hidden behind the dark glasses he had nothing to go on.

“What’s her name?”

“I’m not going to tell you. Look, Friedrich, I need this job. The hotel’s closed for the season now and I just have to get back to Germany. I’ve had it with France. The French drive me mad. If I have to stay here for another winter I’ll go crazy.” That much was certainly true; and almost as soon as I said it I regretted my sincerity and did my best to cover it with some nonsense about wanting my revenge on Anne French. “What’s more, I really want to get even with this woman in England. So leave it, will you? I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you.”

“All right. But next time you’re thinking of going somewhere, make sure you keep me informed.”

We climbed aboard the train, found our compartment, left some luggage there, and then the four of us went to the dining car to eat some breakfast. I was ravenously hungry. It seemed we all were.

“Karl Maria Weisthor?” I asked affably as the waiter brought us coffee. “Or Wiligut. Or whatever the murdering bastard used to call himself when he wasn’t convinced he was an ancient German king. Or even Wotan. I can’t remember which. You mentioned him the other day and I meant to ask. Whatever became of him, do you know? After we collared him in ’38? Last I heard he was living in Wörthersee.”

“He retired to Goslar,” said Korsch. “Protected and cared for by the SS, of course. After the war the Allies permitted him go to Salzburg. But that didn’t work out. He died in Bad Arolsen, in Hesse, in 1946, I think. Or was it 1947? Anyway, he’s long dead. Good riddance, too.”

“Not exactly justice, is it?”

“You were a good detective. I learned a lot from you.”

“Stayed alive. That says something, under those circumstances.”

“It wasn’t so easy, was it?”

“Not much has changed for me, I’m afraid.”

“You’ll be around for quite a while yet. You’re a survivor. I knew it then and I know it now.”