Berlin Noir

police to be left in ignorance of CIC/ Crowcass operations. The Americans are even more Byzantine in their organizational structures than we are ourselves. Belinsky was plausible to you; but he was also plausible, as an idea, to Muller: enough to scare him out into the open when you told him that a Crowcass agent was on his trail; but not enough to scare him as far as South America, where he could be of no use to us. After all, there are others in CIC, less fastidious about employing war-criminals than the people in Crowcass, whose protection Muller could seek out.

‘And so it has proved. Even as we speak Muller is exactly where we want him: with his American friends in Pullach. Being useful to them. Giving them the benefit of his massive knowledge of Soviet intelligence structures and secret police methods. Boasting about the network of loyal agents he still believes are in place. This was the first stage of our plan – to disinform the Americans.’

‘Very clever,’ I said, with genuine admiration, ‘and the second?’

Poroshin’s face adopted a more philosophical expression. ‘When the time is right, it is we who shall leak some information to the world’s press: that Gestapo Muller is a tool of American Intelligence. It is we who will sit back and watch them squirm with embarrassment. It may be in ten years’ time, or even twenty. But, provided Muller stays alive, it will happen.’

‘Suppose the world’s press don’t believe you?’

‘The proof will not be so hard to obtain. The Americans are great ones for keeping files and records. Look at that Documents Centre of theirs. And we have other agents. Provided that they know where and what to look for, it will not be too difficult to find the evidence.’

‘You seem to have thought of everything.’

‘More than you will ever know. And now that I have answered your question, I have one for you, Herr Gunther. Will you answer it, please?’

‘I can’t imagine what I can tell you, Palkovnik. You’re the player, not me. I’m just a knight in your Vienna gambit, remember?’

‘Nevertheless, there is something.’

I shrugged. ‘Fire away.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘to return to the chess board for a moment. One expects to make sacrifices. Becker, for example. And you of course. But sometimes one encounters the unexpected loss of material.’

‘Your queen?’

He frowned for a moment. ‘If you like. Belinsky told me that it was you who killed Traudl Braunsteiner. But he was a very determined man in this whole affair. The fact that I had a personal interest in Traudl was of no special account to him. I know this to be true. He would have killed her without a second thought. But you -

‘I had one of my people in Berlin check you out at the US Documents Centre. You told the truth. You were never a Party member. And the rest of it is there too. How you asked for a transfer out of the SS. That could have got you shot. So a sentimental fool, maybe. But a killer? I will tell you straight, Herr Gunther: my intellect says that you did not kill her. But I must know it here too.’ He slapped his stomach. ‘Perhaps here most of all.’

He fixed me with his pale blue eyes, but I did not flinch or look away.

‘Did you kill her?’

‘No.’

‘Did you run her down?’

‘Belinsky had a car, not me.’

‘Say that you had no part in her murder.’

‘I was going to warn her.’

Poroshin nodded. ‘Da,’ he said, ‘dagavareelees (that’s agreed). You are speaking the truth.’

‘Slava bogu (Thank God).’

‘You are right to thank him.’ He slapped his stomach once again. ‘If I had not felt it, I would have had to kill you as well.’

‘As well?’ I frowned. Who else was dead? ‘Belinsky?’

‘Yes, most unfortunate. It was smoking that infernal pipe of his. Such a dangerous habit, smoking. You should give it up.’

‘How?’

‘It’s an old Cheka way. A small quantity of tetryl in the mouthpiece attached to a fuse which leads to a point below the bowl. When the pipe is lit, so is the fuse. Quite simple, but also quite deadly. It blew his head off.’ Poroshin’s tone was almost indifferent. ‘You see? My mind told me that it was not you who killed her. I merely wanted to be sure that I would not have to kill you as well.’

‘And now you are sure?’

‘For sure,’ he said. ‘Not only will you walk out of here alive -’

‘You would have killed me down here?’

‘It is a suitable enough place, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes, very poetic. What were you going to do? Bite my neck? Or had you wired one of the caskets?’

‘There are many poisons, Herr Gunther.’ He held out a small flick-knife in his palm. ‘Tetrodotoxin on the blade. Even the smallest scratch, and bye-bye.’ He pocketed the knife in his tunic and gave a sheepish little shrug. ‘I was about to say that not only may you now walk out of here alive, but that if you go to the cafe Mozart now, you will find someone waiting there for you.’

My look of puzzlement seemed to amuse him. ‘Can you not guess?’ he said delightedly.

‘My wife? You got her out of Berlin?’

‘Kanyeshnct (Of course). I don’t know how else she would have got out. Berlin is surrounded by our tanks.’

‘Kirsten is waiting at the Mozart cafe now?“

He looked at his watch and nodded. ‘For fifteen minutes already,’ he said. ‘You’d best not keep her waiting much longer. An attractive woman like that, on her own in a city like Vienna? One must be so careful nowadays. These are difficult times.’

‘You’re full of surprises, Colonel,’ I told him. ‘Five minutes ago you were ready to kill me on nothing more tangible than your indigestion. And now you’re telling me that you’ve brought my wife from Berlin. Why are you helping me like this? Ya nye paneemayoo (I don’t understand).’

‘Let us just say that it was part of the whole futile romance of Communism, vot i vsyo (that’s all).’ He clicked his heels like a good Prussian. ‘Goodbye, Herr Gunther. Who knows? After this Berlin thing, we may meet again.’

‘I hope not.’

‘That is too bad. A man of your talents – ’ Then he turned and strode off.

I left the Imperial Crypt with as much spring in my step as Lazarus. Outside, on Neuer Markt, there were still more people watching the strange little cafe-terrace that had no cafe. Then I saw the camera and the lights, and at the same time I spotted Willy Reichmann, the little red-haired production manager from Sievering Film Studios. He was speaking English to another man who was holding a megaphone. This was surely the English film that Willy had told me about: the one for which Vienna’s increasingly rare ruins had been a prerequisite. The film in which Lotte Hartmann, the girl who had given me a well-deserved dose of drip, had been given a part.

I stopped to watch for a few moments, wondering if I might catch sight of Konig’s girlfriend, but there was no sign of her. I thought it unlikely that she would have left Vienna with him and passed up her first screen role.

One of the onlookers around me said, ‘What on earth are they doing?’ and another answered saying, ‘It’s supposed to be a cafe – the Mozart cafe.’ Laughter rippled through the crowd. ‘What, here?’ said another voice. ‘Apparently they like the view better here,’ replied a fourth. ‘It’s what they call poetic licence.’

The man with the megaphone asked for quiet, ordered the cameras to roll and then called for action. Two men, one of them carrying a book as if it was some kind of religious icon, shook hands and sat down at one of the tables.

Leaving the crowd to watch what happened next, I walked quickly south, towards the real Mozart cafe and the wife who was waiting there for me.