“You helped me, didn’t you? Got me the job with MRE. Now that I’m down here it would seem ungrateful not to help you, Max.”
“Well, when you put it like that. I always did like you, Bernie.” Merten nodded; he put on an undershirt, glanced around the room, and frowned. “Now where did I leave that clean shirt?”
“It’s outside. On the washing line.” I looked at my watch as if Brunner really was on our tail. I’d almost managed to convince myself that he really had captured Spiros Reppas and was squeezing him for information back at the house beside the Acropolis. My plan was to drive Merten back to Athens and, once there, to persuade Lieutenant Leventis that while Max Merten wasn’t Alois Brunner he was the next best thing; betraying Merten seemed to be my best option for getting my passport back and, along the way, delivering up a criminal to well-deserved justice. It was the right thing to do and yet—and yet there was something about this deception that left a sour taste in my mouth. “You need to hurry, Max. The sooner we’re off this island, the better. There’s a boat waiting for us on the quayside, to take us to Kosta, where I have a car.”
“Yes, of course.” Merten sat down to put on his stinky socks and then his shoes. “You say we have a three- or four-hour start on Brunner? Since he got hold of Spiros?”
“That’s right.”
“That might be a lot less if Spiros talks right away. Think about it. Why would he stay silent if Brunner puts his feet to the fire, like that poor Aztec, Cuauhtémoc.”
“While poor Spiros might easily say where you’ve been hiding, Max, he can hardly tell him what Brunner probably wants to know most of all, which is the true location of the Epeius, and the gold. Spiros told me that only you knew where it was—that you kept the location a secret even from him and Witzel—but I can’t imagine a man like Brunner will believe that story, not for a minute. Which, like I say, and unfortunately for Spiros, ought to slow Brunner down just long enough for us to put some distance between him and us.”
“Yes, that makes sense. Bad enough to be tortured, but to be tortured for something you don’t actually know. Jesus.” Merten pulled a face. “It doesn’t bear thinking of, does it?”
“Then don’t think about it. That should be easy for you, Max. You don’t strike me as a man much troubled by conscience. But there’s no time for any more delay. I’d hate it if my theory about Spiros proved to be wrong. Being here now I’m in as much danger as you are. And so is the friend I have who’s waiting downstairs. She’s going to drive us straight to Athens. Her name is Elli.”
“Short for Elisabeth, no doubt. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“So finish dressing and come downstairs.”
“You know, I really appreciate you helping me like this. You were always a good man in a tight spot. Especially now that you have my gun, not to mention my tickets home. If you need a ticket home, Bernie, you only have to ask. I’ve more than enough money to buy you a ticket, too. In gratitude for saving my neck. Again.”
“That would be the money you and Schramma stole from General Heinkel in Munich, wouldn’t it? Money you needed to fund this expedition.”
“That money was given to the general by the communists, with the intention of compromising West German politics. Money that was probably stolen from the proletariat they purport to represent. So I’m not much troubled about the origins of that money. Anyway, what do you care?”
“What I care about was the way you let me talk you into keeping it, Max. The way I was supposed to be the stooge meant to take the blame. Did you plan that, too?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Bernie. Of course not. And I certainly didn’t ask Schramma to kill the general and the other Fritz who was with him. That was his own stupid idea. You know if only we’d met again sooner I could have cut you in on this instead of Christian Schramma. I never did feel comfortable with that man. There’s something about Bavarians I realize I just don’t like, especially now I live there. I sometimes wonder if any of us will ever get back to Berlin.”
“Not while the Russians are drinking our beer.”
“But look, let’s forget all that unpleasantness. Munich and its complacent, middle-class Catholic values are a long way away. You and I, Bernie—we’re both Berliners, you and I, and that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? We’re old comrades, Bolle boys, right? So we should be straight with each other. So why don’t we just forget all this nonsense about Arthur Meissner and this Lieutenant Leventis and let’s talk about the real reason you came here to help me. Let’s talk about that, shall we?”
Merten was wagging his finger at me with a grin on his face that made me want to slap it onto the floor.
“You want a share, don’t you? Of the gold. Of course you do. And why not? Have you any idea how much is down there, in just fifteen fathoms of water? Hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth. Spiros and Witzel couldn’t have told you how much, because even they had no conception of even half of what’s there. Not in their wildest dreams. There’s enough gold to keep us in tax-free, mink-lined luxury for the rest of our lives. Think of it. More gold than Cortés and his conquistadors could even dream of. Free of income tax, Bernie, free of any tax. And it’s ours. All we
