I turned the loose doorknob and pushed firmly on through the deafening sound of the creaking hinge and my own heavy breathing, until I could see Merten’s body lying on its side in the bed. How he didn’t wake up I didn’t know. Possibly the racket caused by his own snoring was louder than any commotion I could have made. A Panzer tank would have made less noise. At this point I might have hit him on the head with something hard to stun him while I searched for the gun but I wanted to avoid this if I could, if only because transporting a man with a head injury back to Athens might prove to be difficult. I pointed the beam from the flashlight at the bedside table, where there was a light without a shade, a copy of a novel by Ian Fleming, a pair of spectacles, a glass of something stronger than water, and, ominously, an open box of 9-millimeter ammunition.
Still looking for the gun I bent carefully over Merten’s head; his loud snoring smelled strongly of cigarettes and schnapps, while his rotund body was sour with the smell of sweat. From the way his hand was under the pillow I concluded that it was probably holding the Walther, which also meant that unless he was very nervous indeed, or just foolhardy, the safety catch had to be on. The safety on a Walther was usually stiff and might give me another vital second if we had to wrestle for it. I considered rolling him out of bed unceremoniously, and then rejected the idea, thinking he might still be holding the gun when he hit the floor on the other side of the bed. I was considering my next option when the naked man stirred, let out a loud grunt, and turned onto his other side, and I caught a glimpse of something black under the pillow. As the snoring resumed I reached for the object quickly, and came up with a leather-bound New Testament, as if he’d been reading it before or after reading the copy of Casino Royale. I wondered if perhaps there was a useful text in there for the spiritual guidance of someone who had helped to engineer the deaths of sixty thousand Jews after robbing them blind. My father, an enthusiastic Nazi but all his life a churchgoing man, could probably have told me what it was.
I stepped back from the bed and glanced quickly around the malodorous room and this time I spotted the Walther on a table by the window, next to another bottle of Schladerer and a packet of Finas. With some relief I fetched the gun, checked the safety, and dropped it into my jacket pocket. Sweeping the table with the flashlight I also found Merten’s passport and some ferry tickets as far as Istanbul, and from there, a first-class ticket aboard the Orient Express to Germany. From the dates on the tickets, Merten would have been back home in Munich in just a few days. I pocketed these, too, thinking I might use them myself if things got desperate. Feeling a little more relaxed, I switched on the overhead light, helped myself to a drink and a cigarette, sat down in the room’s only armchair and while I waited for the sleeping man to stir under the glare of the bare bulb, I glanced over his passport; Merten was only forty-six but looked ten years older. Not much of a testament to a complete lack of conscience, I thought. After a minute he groaned a bit, sat up, yawned, belched, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and frowned at me blearily. He looked like a crapulous Buddha.
“Gunther,” he said, scratching his pendulous breasts and large belly. “What the hell are you doing here?”
FORTY-EIGHT
–
“I’m the man Munich RE sent down to Athens to investigate Siegfried Witzel’s insurance claim for the Doris.”
“I see. Well, no, I don’t actually. You’re not a marine-insurance man. You don’t know one end of a ship from another. Why you, Bernie?”
“Neff, the regular marine-claims adjustor, went sick, and Alois Alzheimer asked me to step into his boat shoes. Although frankly I could wish I hadn’t.”
Merten coughed for several seconds, tapped his chest, and then pointed at the packet of Finas. “Cigarettes,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
I tossed them onto the bed, followed by a book of matches.
Merten lit one and smoked it gratefully. “I would say it’s good to see you again, but then again maybe it isn’t. At this hour I get the feeling you’re here to do more than adjust an insurance claim. Come now, Bernie. You have to admit it looks very odd.”
“Look, Max, there’s not much time so you’d better listen carefully. Meanwhile I strongly suggest that you get dressed because we have to leave the island as soon as possible.”
“Leave? You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’ll forgive me if I ask, why? Why would I want to leave?” He exhaled a cloud of smoke and waved his hand at the barely finished room. “I’m on holiday and in spite of any evidence to the contrary I’m enjoying myself here.”
“It’s your neck. Well, to cut a long story
