'I got him some penicillin, sure, but it wasn't for him. It was for his son. He had cerebro-spinal fever. There's quite an epidemic of it, I believe. And a shortage of antibiotics, especially in Russia. There's a shortage of everything but manpower in the Soviet Union.
'After that, Poroshin did me one or two favours. Fixed papers, gave me a cigarette concession, that sort of thing. We became quite friendly. And when the Org's people got round to recruiting me, I told him all about it. Why not? I thought K/nig and his friends were a bunch of spinners. But I was happy to make money from them, and frankly I wasn't much involved with the Org beyond that odd bit of courier-work to Berlin. Poroshin was keen that I get closer to them however, and when he offered me a lot of money, I agreed to try. But they're absurdly suspicious, Bernie, and when I expressed some interest in doing more work for them they insisted that I subject myself to an interrogation about my service with the SS and my imprisonment in a Soviet POW camp. It bothered them a lot that I was released. They didn't say anything about it at the time, but in view of what has happened since, I guess they must have decided that they couldn't trust me, and put me out of the way.' Becker lit one of his cigarettes and leaned back on the hard chair.
'Why didn't you tell this to the police?'
He laughed. 'You think I didn't? When I told them about the Org those stupid bastards thought I was telling them about the Werewolf Underground. You know, that shit about a Nazi terrorist group.'
'So that's where Shields got the idea.'
'Shields?' Becker snorted. 'He's a fucking idiot.'
'All right, why didn't you tell me about the Org?'
'Like I said, Bernie, I wasn't sure if they hadn't already recruited you in Berlin. Ex-Kripo, ex-Abwehr, you'd have been exactly what they were looking for.
But if you hadn't been in the Org and I'd told you, you might well have gone round Vienna asking questions about it, in which case you would have ended up dead, like my two business partners. And if you were in the Org I thought that maybe that would just be in Berlin. Here in Vienna you'd be just another detective, albeit one I knew and trusted. Do you see?'
I grunted an affirmative and found my own cigarettes.
'You still should have told me.'
'Perhaps.' He drew fiercely on his cigarette. 'Listen, Bernie. My original offer still stands. Thirty thousand dollars if you can dig me out of this hole. So if you've got anything up your sleeve '
'There's this,' I said, cutting across him. I produced Mnller's photograph, the one that was passport-sized. 'Do you recognize him?'
'I don't think so. But I've seen this picture before, Bernie. At least I think I have. Traudl showed it to me before you came to Vienna.'
'Oh? Did she say how she came by it?'
'Poroshin, I guess.' He studied the picture more carefully. 'Oak-leaf collar patches, silver braid on the shoulders. An SS-BrigadeFnhrer by the look of him.
Who is it, anyway?'
'Heinrich Mnller.'
'Gestapo Mnller?'
'Officially he's dead, so I'd like you to keep quiet about all this for the moment. I've teamed up with this American agent from the War Crimes Commission who is interested in the Linden case. He worked for the same department.
Apparently the gun that was used to kill Linden belonged to Mnller, and was used to kill the man who was supposed to be Mnller. Which might leave Mnller still alive. Naturally the War Crimes people are anxious to get hold of Mnller at any price. Which leaves you firmly on the spot I'm afraid, at least for the moment.'
'I wouldn't mind if it was firmly. But the particular spot they have in mind has hinges on it. Do you mind explaining what this means exactly?'
'It means they're not prepared to do anything that might scare Mnller out of Vienna.'
'Assuming he's here.'
'That's right. Because this is an intelligence operation, they're not prepared to let the military police in on it. If the charges against you were to be dropped now, it might persuade the Org that the case was about to be reopened.'
'So where does that leave me, for Christ's sake?'
'This American agent I'm working with has promised to let you go if we can put Mnller in your place. We're going to try and draw him out into the open.'
'Until then they're just going to let the trial go ahead, maybe even the sentence too?'
'That's about the size of it.'
'And you're asking me to keep my mouth shut in the meantime.'
'What can you say? That Linden was possibly murdered by a man who's been dead for three years?'
'It's just so ' Becker flung his cigarette into the corner of the room ' so damned callous.'
'Do you want to take that biretta off your head? Look, they know about what you did in Minsk. Playing a game with your life isn't something they feel squeamish about. To be honest, they don't much care whether you swing or not. This is your only chance, and you know it.'
Becker nodded sullenly. 'All right,' he said.
I stood up to leave, but a sudden thought stopped me from walking to the door.
'As a matter of interest,' I said, 'why did they release you from the Soviet POW camp?'
'You were a prisoner. You know what it was like. Always scared they were going to find out you were in the SS.'
'That's why I'm asking.'
He hesitated for a moment. Then he said: 'There was a man who was due to be released. He was very sick, and would have died soon enough. What was the point in repatriating him?' He shrugged, and looked me square in the eye. 'So I strangled him. Ate some camphor to make myself sick damn near killed myself and took his place.' He stared me out. 'I was desperate, Bernie. You remember what it was like.'
'Yes, I remember.' I tried to conceal my distaste, and failed. 'All the same, if you'd told me that before today I'd have let them hang you.' I reached for the door handle.
'There's still time. Why don't you?'
If I'd told him the truth Becker wouldn't have understood what I was talking about. He probably thought that metaphysics was something you used to manufacture cheap penicillin for the black market. So instead I shook my head, and said, 'Let's just say that I made a deal with someone.'
Chapter 30
I met K/nig at the сafe Sperl in Gumpendorfer Strasse, which was in the French sector but close to the Ring. It was a big, gloomy place which the many art-nouveau-style mirrors on the walls did nothing to brighten, and was home to several half-size billiard tables. Each one of these was illuminated by a light which was fixed to the yellowing ceiling above with a brass fitting that looked like something out of an old U-boat.
K/nig's terrier sat a short way off from its master like the dog on the record label, watching him play a solitary but thoughtful game. I ordered a coffee and approached the table.
He judged his shot at a careful cue's length, and then applied a screw of chalk to the tip, silently acknowledging my presence with a short nod of his head.
'Our own Mozart was particularly fond of this game,' he said, lowering his eyes to the felt. 'Doubtless he found it a very congenial facsimile of the very precise dynamism of his intellect.' He fixed his eye on the cue-ball like a sniper taking aim, and after a long, painstaking moment, rifled the white on to one red and then the other. This second red coasted down the length of the table, teetered on the lip of the pocket and, enticing a small murmur of satisfaction from its translator for there exists no more graceful manifestation of the laws of gravity and motion slipped noiselessly out of sight.
'I, on the other hand, enjoy the game for rather more sensuous reasons. I love the sound of the balls hitting each other, and the way they run so smoothly.' He retrieved the red from the pocket and replaced it to his own satisfaction. 'But most of all I love the colour green. Did you know that among Celtic peoples the colour green is considered unlucky? No? They believe green is followed by black.
