“I’d say you succeeded.”
“So would I.”
“And where did you learn German, Elli?” asked Merten.
“From my father. He worked for North German Lloyd. The shipping company. Before the war he was the chief officer on the SS Bremen.”
“You speak it very well.”
“I’m getting better since I met Bernie.”
“Yes, there’s a lot you can learn from Bernie. I don’t know what kind of a teacher he is, but he’s a good man in a tight spot. It’s thanks to him that I came through the war with nothing very much on my conscience.”
For the sake of a peaceful drive back to Athens I let that one go. But did he really believe that?
“Wait,” said Merten. “Didn’t the Bremen catch fire?”
“Yes,” said Elli. “It sank. In 1941.”
“I was stationed in Bremen in 1941 and I seem to remember there was some talk of negligence on the part of the captain.”
“I don’t remember that,” she said, bristling a little. “But my father wasn’t the captain. He was the chief officer, like I said.”
“What was his name?”
“Panatoniou. Agamemnon Panatoniou. Why?”
“I’m just curious.” Merten puffed his cigarette and, irritably, Elli wound down her window. “That’s one of the things I love about Greece,” he said. “I mean here I am, being driven by Agamemnon’s daughter. And the woman who came to clean at the house in Spetses—her name was Electra. Like something out of Homer, isn’t it, Bernie?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t smoke so much, Herr Merten,” said Elli. “It’s not good for you.”
“You’re right. But in Greece who would notice?”
“I notice,” she said. “Because it’s not good for me.”
“When you’ve lived through what Bernie and I lived through, a small health hazard like a cigarette seems hardly worth worrying about. But you’re right. I should cut down. For the sake of my family.”
That was the first time I’d heard Merten mention a family. Under other circumstances I might have asked him about them. But I didn’t want to think about them; not now.
We stopped for gas in a small village called Sofiko, where I went into a bar and made the telephone call to leave a message for Lieutenant Leventis at police headquarters. A little to my surprise he was working on a Sunday.
“I thought you’d be in church,” I said.
“Whatever gave you that idea? No, I usually come in on a Sunday and catch up with some paperwork. What have you got for me, Commissar?”
I told him about Max Merten and the gold and its history, and how I was bringing him in so that he could be a volunteer witness in the defense of Arthur Meissner, and that I thought that this should count in his favor if Leventis decided to arrest him.
“He’s not Brunner,” said Leventis. “I wanted Alois Brunner. He’s why I started this whole investigation. I told you before, Commissar. Jaco Kapantzi, the man he killed on the train, was a friend to my father. Plus he killed Witzel and he killed Samuel Frizis. Arresting Merten doesn’t help my clear-up rate.”
“He’s not Brunner, and he’s not Eichmann, but perhaps, if you were a Jew in Salonika, Max Merten is the next best thing. He was Wehrmacht, not SS, but by all accounts they could do nothing without his say-so. Eichmann, Brunner, Wisliceny—they all had to go through him. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Someone who was in charge of things who you can put on trial. A real Nazi war criminal and certainly someone who’s a lot better than a mere translator.”
“Yes. I suppose you’re right.”
“Only if I bring him you’re to give him every chance. In other words, you’re to give him the benefit of legal advice.”
“What? A German is telling me about a man’s legal rights in Greece?”
“I’m talking about the rules of natural justice, that’s all. I don’t know, you Greeks probably invented them. What I mean is, this will be in the newspapers and it won’t just be Max Merten you’re putting on trial, it’ll be Greece, too. Greece then. And Greece now. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Just look at the exemplary way the Allies handled those trials in Germany. Even the Russians looked like they were being fair. Besides, according to his own account, Max Merten witnessed Jaco Kapantzi’s death on the train from Salonika. That means you have a useful witness if ever you do catch up with Alois Brunner.”
“True. All right. I agree. He’ll get a lawyer and all his rights.”
“One more thing. All of this. Me playing Judas, and bringing this man in.”
“I get it. You want your thirty pieces of silver.”
“Just my passport. This gets me off the hook, right? Me and Garlopis.”
“If he’s who you say he is, sure, Commissar. No problem. You bring him in and you can have your life back. If you can call it that now that you’re an insurance man and no longer a detective, like me.”
Not so as you’d notice was what I felt like saying. But I’d been smart before with cops and they usually didn’t like it. Cops never like it when people are smarter than them. It reminds them of how dumb they are. I’d been a dumb cop myself on several occasions when a case wasn’t coming together and I didn’t like it then either.
I left the bar, went back to the car, and paid for the gas. Merten wasn’t there.
“Where is our friend?” I asked Elli.
She pointed across the deserted village square, festooned with Greek flags and filled with the smell of frying potatoes. In the distance I saw Merten sitting on a bench next to a bus stop with his valise on the dry ground beside him.
“What’s he doing there?”
“I imagine he’s waiting for a bus.”
“Did you two have words?”
“Not exactly. But I don’t like him, Bernie.”
“Are you sure you didn’t just tell him where to get off?”
“No, nothing of the sort. He just took his bag out of the trunk, said something in German that I
