Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

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‘Yes sir,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘It’s clear from his NKVD file that Krivyenko was never a trained spy. His expertise was as a policeman and executioner – as the admiral has already said. Since the Germans arrived in Smolensk, he’s been lying low, gaining our confidence. Your confidence, field marshal. Waiting for the right opportunity to start sending information about our plans to the Ivans. I hold myself partly responsible for that; after all, I introduced the two of you.’

‘Yes, yes you did,’ said Von Kluge, as if he hoped that might make things look better back in Berlin.

‘Things have been quiet during the winter of course, so there’s been little for Krivyenko to do except interfere with the smooth running of Captain Gunther’s investigations into the Katyn Wood massacre. It’s probable that it was Krivyenko who helped to spirit away or possibly even murder another NKVD officer called Rudakov, who was also involved in the Katyn massacre; and that he murdered a local doctor called Batov who might have provided us with invaluable documentary evidence of what actually happened to all those poor Polish officers.’

‘Evidence like that would have been quite irrefutable,’ added Canaris. ‘As things stand, the Kremlin is already arguing that this whole Katyn investigation has been a put-up job, a piece of cynical black propaganda by the Abwehr to drive a wedge deep into the enemy coalition. It’s obvious to anyone that these Poles were murdered by the Russians, although that won’t stop the Russians from saying different. Of course, once we get Major Krivyenko into the witness box in Berlin, they’ll find that lie much harder to maintain. Certainly they’ll still argue that we coerced him, or some such nonsense. Lies are what Bolsheviks are good at. But in spite of all that, Krivyenko provides a unique opportunity to present the world with one inarguable truth in this war. I’m sure you appreciate that fact as much as I, field marshal.’

Von Kluge grunted quietly.

‘Now that our new offensive in Kursk is only weeks away, Krivyenko’s become more active,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘It’s almost certain that he murdered the two signallers from the 537th because they discovered he’d been eavesdropping on your own private conversations with the leader, probably about the new offensive, and using the radio at the castle to send messages to his contact in Soviet military intelligence – the GRU. And that he also murdered a third signaller – Corporal Quidde – when the man discovered irrefutable evidence that Krivyenko had murdered his two comrades.’

None of this was true of course; Von Gersdorff would certainly have told Canaris about the tape recording of Hitler’s conversation with Von Kluge and the bribe, but Canaris was much too clever to tell Von Kluge that he knew this was the real reason why the signallers had been murdered. Embarrassing a field marshal was clearly not on the Abwehr’s agenda. It was certainly not on mine, and I judged it better to follow the admiral’s canny lead and keep my mouth shut about what I knew.

‘At least that’s what I’m going to write in my report, Gunther,’ commented Canaris.

‘I see,’ said Von Kluge quietly.

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself old fellow,’ said Canaris. ‘There are spies everywhere. It’s all too easy for officers to be caught out like this, during a war. Even a field marshal. Why, just last year it was revealed that a man on my own staff – a Major Thummel – was spying for the Czechs.’

He dropped the cigar onto the wooden floor and ground it out under his shoe before picking up one of the dogs and laying it on his lap.

‘Look at it this way,’ said Canaris. ‘You have helped apprehend an important witness to what happened here in Katyn. Someone who was directly involved in the murders of those poor Polish officers. It’s not as good as having pictures and ledgers, but it is the next best thing. And I’m absolutely certain you’re going to come out of this very well.’

Von Kluge was nodding, thoughtfully.

All this time Krivyenko had remained more or less silent, calmly smoking a cigarette and watching the automatic in Von Gersdorff’s hand like a cat awaiting an opportunity to sprint for a gap in a slowly closing door. He might have had one arm in a sling but he was still dangerous. From time to time, however, he smiled or shook his head and muttered something in Russian, and it was clear that at some future stage – perhaps in Berlin – he intended to dispute the admiral’s version of events. The field marshal saw that, too. He wasn’t called Clever Hans for nothing.

Finally, when Canaris appeared to have finished speaking, the Russian stood up, slowly and, turning his back on his former master, bowed in the little admiral’s direction.

‘May I say something?’ he asked politely. ‘Admiral.’

‘Yes,’ said Canaris.

‘Thank you,’ said Krivyenko and stubbed out his cigarette.

He looked not in the least bit afraid. There was, I thought, a surprising amount of defiance in his demeanour, although he must have known that there was likely to be a rough time ahead for him in Berlin.

‘Then I should like to say that I did indeed kill all the people you mentioned, Herr Admiral – Dr Berruguete, Dr Batov and his daughter. The Rudakov brothers are floating down the Dnieper. I don’t deny any of it for one minute. However you might like to know that the real reason I killed the two signallers was not exactly as you have described. There was another-’

The sound of the gunshot made us all jump – everyone except Krivyenko: the bullet hit him squarely in the back of the head and he collapsed face-down onto the floor like an overburdened coat-stand. For a brief moment I thought Von Gersdorff must have shot him until I saw the Walther in the field marshal’s outstretched hand.

‘You didn’t actually think for a minute I was going to permit that bastard to embarrass me in front of everyone in Berlin, did you Wilhelm?’ he said coldly.

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Canaris.

Von Kluge made the automatic safe, laid it down on the table in front of him and walked steadily out of the room. There was just enough time for Canaris to pick up Von Kluge’s gun and lay it carefully on the floor beside Krivyenko’s body before everyone who’d been asked to leave earlier came rushing back in.

I had to hand it to the admiral: he had remarkable presence of mind. It really did look as if Krivyenko might have placed the gun to the back of his own head and pulled the trigger. Not that I suppose it would have mattered – no one was likely to accuse the field marshal of murder, not in Smolensk.

‘This Russian fellow has shot himself,’ Canaris announced for the benefit of everyone now present. ‘With the field marshal’s own pistol.’ He added, quietly: ‘Like a scene from a play by Chekhov. What do you think, Rudi?’

‘Yes sir. That’s exactly what I was thinking. Ivanov , I should say.’

I walked over to Krivyenko’s motionless body and pushed it with the toecap of my boot. The man was without breath and there was so much blood on the floor that I hardly needed to bend down and look for a pulse, although it would have been easy enough to have taken hold of his wrist. It was curious the way he had fallen on his face, with one of his hands slightly behind his back, almost as if it had been tied there. Death had been caused by a single shot in the head. The bullet had struck the man just above the nape of his neck, piercing the occipital bone, close to the lower part of the skull; the point of exit was in the lower part of the forehead. The shot had been fired from a German-made pistol with a capacity of less than eight millimetres. The shot in the victim’s head looked as if it had been the work of an experienced man. I thought it much more than likely that the body would end up in a shallow grave – unmarked and unmourned.

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