“As for the rest of what he said, there was less than ten percent truth in any of it. I was a detective at police headquarters in Berlin and I did work for the Nazis but only under considerable duress, and while I did meet some of those people he talked about I never murdered anyone, Elli.”
“Damn that man,” she said angrily. “Damn him for finding the weak spot. And not yours. This is my weak spot. That’s the irony. He was looking for yours and he found mine. Look, I’m sorry but I don’t like married men. Especially when they’re married to someone else. Maybe I should have mentioned that last night. A few years ago I had an affair with a married man, someone in the ministry, and I swore then I would never get involved with a married man again. That’s not your fault. But it’s just how it is, do you see?”
“I told you; we’re separated. And we’re getting a divorce.”
“That one’s as old as the Odyssey,” she said. “You should read it sometime. In the end Ulysses goes back to his wife. I have to say that this is what happened to me.”
“That isn’t going to happen with me.”
“Like everything else, I’ve only got your word for it.”
“And my word won’t do, I guess.”
“If you didn’t happen to be a man it would probably do just fine.”
“So where does this leave us?” I asked.
“I’m not sure where it leaves you, Bernie, or whatever your real name is, but I already know the way out of this particular labyrinth. Me, I’m going home. On my own. Leaving you and your fat friend to sort things out between you.”
“You’re reading this all wrong, sugar. I was fixing to stay on in Greece a while, just to be with you. With the hope of making that stick.”
“That’s going to take a box of tools you neither own nor know how to use.”
“Tell me where to get them and I’ll try to make this work.”
“I’m standing on higher ground than you, Bernie. I already see what you can’t. I was brought up Greek Roman Catholic and we believe in dead wives, not in divorced ones. Which reminds me. I’m pretty sure you told me your wife died eight years ago, in Munich.”
“Kirsten. That’s right.” I thought it best not to mention that I’d had a wife before Kirsten. I figured there were only so many ex-wives, dead or living, that poor Elli could take.
“That explains but doesn’t excuse it. Not in my book. When you changed your name, maybe you forgot that women don’t change quite as easily as that. In fact, most of them don’t change at all. Most of us want the same things: a nice handbag and a husband we can trust, but we’ll generally settle for one or the other.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“You don’t know the half of how I feel. Honestly, it’s not even your fault. I’m that kind of woman and you’re just that kind of guy. A survivor. I guess maybe the war did that to you. Perhaps you had standards once, and lived up to them, too. I don’t know but I have standards, too. My only regret about all this is that I threw away my father’s Beretta. Probably just as well. If I had it now I might even shoot you. Maybe I wouldn’t kill you. What you’ve done to me isn’t so bad in the great scheme of things that you need killing. I can’t answer for the rest of humanity. But you’d always have a little hole to remember me by.”
“I suspect I’ll have one anyway. I’m not likely to forget you, Elli.”
“I think you’d best try,” she said, and walked quickly away.
I watched her go. I felt a pang of regret seeing her go. There was a real possibility that it might have worked between us. Then again, we might just have been friends and it wasn’t like I had many of those. You can never tell how these things will play themselves out. But if I’m honest I have to admit I also felt a degree of relief that she had walked out on me. The age difference was only one thing. There was something else, too, and again it wasn’t her fault: The fact was I didn’t have the patience for any woman, not anymore, and not just her. I’d probably been on my own for too long and I guess I preferred it that way.
I kept on watching Elli for a while thinking she might look back, but of course she didn’t and I didn’t really expect her to. I watched her until I couldn’t see her anymore and then turned to look at Max Merten still seated in the back of the Rover. I pulled the Bismarck from under my waistband and waved him out and when he stayed put I opened the door and, ignoring the pain in my arm, hauled him out by the scruff of the neck.
“Move.”
“You’re not going to shoot me?”
His eye was nervously on the ditch behind him and the gun in my hand as well it might have been. I had killed people—he’d been right about that much, at least, although arguably most of them had needed killing. But it had been a while since I had shot anyone and although it would have paid him back for his lawyer’s smart mouth, I knew it wouldn’t have solved anything very much. It never does. It certainly wouldn’t have brought Elli running back.
“No, I’m not going to shoot you,” I said. “I want you to drive. Drive the car, Max.”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Bernie. Just say where to.”
He slipped behind the steering wheel and I got into the front passenger seat.
“Police headquarters. Constitution Square. Next to the Grande Bretagne Hotel.”
“Right away.” He checked my expression nervously and then said, “She’ll be back. Just as soon as she’s calmed down a bit.”
“Not this
