'I know I've put on a bit of weight,' he said. 'But I thought you of all people would recognise me.'
I sat down and rubbed some of the dust from my eyes. 'Now you come to mention it, you do seem kind of familiar.'
'You, I wouldn't have recognised at all. Not in a million years.'
'I know. I should lay off the chocolates. Get myself a haircut and a manicure. But I never do seem to have the time. My job keeps me pretty busy.'
The officer's pork butcher's face cracked a smile. Almost. A sense of humour. That's impressive, in this place. But if you really want to impress me then stop playing the tough guy and tell me who I am.'
'Don't you know?'
He tutted impatiently and shook his head. 'Please. I can help you if you'll let me. But I have to believe you're worth it. If you're any kind of detective you'll remember who I am.'
'Erich Mielke,' I said. 'Your name is Erich Mielke.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: GERMANY, 1946
'You knew all along.'
'There was a moment when I didn't. The last time I saw you, Erich, you looked like me.'
For a moment Mielke looked grim, as if he was remembering. 'Fucking French,' he said. 'They were as bad as the Nazis in my book. It still sticks in my throat they get to be one of the four victorious powers in Berlin. What did they do to defeat the fascists? Nothing.'
'We can agree on something, anyway.'
'Le Vernet was the second time you pulled my bread out of the oven. Why'd you do it?'
I shrugged. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'
'No, that won't do,' he said firmly. 'Tell me. I want to know. You were dressed like a Gestapo officer, but you didn't act like one. I didn't get it then and I don't get it now.'
'Between you and me and these four walls, Erich, I'm afraid the Gestapo were rather a bad lot.' I told him about the murders committed by Major Bomelburg and the SS storm troopers on the road to Lourdes. 'You see, it's one thing taking a man back to stand trial. It's something completely different just to shoot him in a ditch at the side of the road. It was just your good fortune that we went to the camp at Gurs first, otherwise it might have been you who was shot while trying to escape. But given what I've seen since of your friends in the MVD, it's probably what you deserved. Rats are still rats whether they're grey, black or brown. I just wasn't cut out to be much of a rat myself.'
'Maybe a white rat, eh?'
'Maybe.'
Mielke chucked a packet of Belomorkanal across the table at me. 'Here. I don't smoke myself but I brought these for you.' He tossed some matches after the cigarettes. 'It's my opinion that smoking is bad for your health.'
'My health has got more important things to worry about.' I lit one and puffed it happily. 'But maybe you didn't know. Russian nails are better for your health than American ones.'
'Oh? Why's that?'
'Because there's so little tobacco in them. Four good puffs and they're gone.'
Mielke smiled. 'Talking about your health, I don't think this place is good for you. If you stay here long enough you're liable to grow two heads. That would be a waste, in my opinion.' He came around the table and sat on the corner, swinging one of his polished riding boots carelessly. 'You know, when I was in Russia I learned to look after my health. I even won the sports medal of the Soviet Union. I was living in a little town outside Moscow called Krasnogorsk and I used to go hunting at the weekend on a sporting estate once owned by the Yussupov family. Prince Yussupov was one of those aristocrats who murdered Rasputin. There was all sorts of rubbish talked about the death of Rasputin, you know. That they had to kill him three or four times before he was actually dead. That they poisoned him, shot him, beat him to death and then drowned him. In fact, they made it all up just to make their futile deed seem more heroic. And the prince didn't even do the deed himself. The truth was that Rasputin was shot through the forehead by a member of the British Secret Service. Now I mention all of this to make the point that a man, even a strong man like Rasputin, or you perhaps, can survive almost anything except being killed. You, my friend, will die here. You know it. I know it. Perhaps you will be poisoned by the uranite. Perhaps you will be shot, attempting to escape. Or when the mine floods, as I believe sometimes it does, then you will drown. But it doesn't have to be that way. I want to help you, Gunther. Really, I do. But you'll need to trust me.'
'I'm all ears, Erich. Just two of them at the last count.'
'We both know that you would make a very poor officer in the Fifth Kommissariat. First, you would have to attend the Anti-Fascist School in Krasnogorsk. For re-education. To be turned into a believer. From our one meeting and everything I've read about you, Gunther, I'm quite convinced that it would be a waste of time trying to convert you into a communist. However, that still remains your best way out of here. To volunteer for K-5 and re- education.'
'It's true, I've rather neglected my reading of late, but…'
'Naturally, this would only be a smokescreen for your escape.'
'Naturally. I suppose there's no chance of me being shot through this smokescreen.'
'There's a chance of us both being shot, if you really want to know. I'm sticking my neck out for you, Gunther. I hope you appreciate that. Over the last ten or twelve years I've become rather an expert at saving my own skin. I imagine it's something we have in common. Either way it's not something I do lightly.'
'Why do it at all? Why take the risk? I don't get it the same way you didn't get it.'
'You think you're the only rat that's not cut out for it? You think a Gestapo officer is the only man who can develop a conscience?'
'I was never a believer. But you – you believed it all, Erich.'
'It's true. I did believe. Absolutely. Which is why it comes as a shock to discover that Party loyalty can count for nothing, and everything can be taken away again at the stroke of a pen.'
'Why would they do that to you, Erich?'
'We all have our little secrets, that's why.'
'No, that won't do,' I said parroting his earlier speech once more. 'Tell me. I want to know. And then maybe I'll trust you.'
Mielke stood up and walked around the room with his arms folded around himself in thought. After a while he nodded, and said:
'Did you ever wonder what happened to me after Le Vernet?'
'Yes. But I told Heydrich you joined the Foreign Legion. I'm not sure if he believed me.'
'I was interned at Le Vernet for another three years after I saw you in 1940. Can you imagine that? Three years in Hell. Well, perhaps you can, now, yes, I suppose you can. I was posing as a German-Latvian called Richard Hebel. Then, in December 1943,1 was conscripted as a labourer into Speer's Ministry for Armaments and War Production. I became what had previously been known as a Todt worker. Effectively I and thousands of others were slave labour for the Nazis. I myself was a woodcutter in the Ardennes Forest, supplying fuel for the German Army. That's where I became the man you see now. These are woodcutter's shoulders. Anyway, I remained a so- called relief volunteer, working twelve hours a day, until the end of the war, when I made my way back to Berlin and walked into the newly legalised KPD headquarters on Potsdamer Platz, to volunteer my services to the Party. I was extremely lucky. I met someone who told me to lie about what I'd been doing during the war. He advised me to say that I hadn't been a prisoner at all, and certainly not a relief volunteer for the fascists.'
Mielke frowned a big, puzzled frown, like a bear gradually realising that it has been stung by a bee. He shook his head.
'Well, this didn't make any sense to me. After all, it was hardly my fault that I'd been forced to work for the Nazis. But I was told that the Party wouldn't see it that way. And against all of my instincts, which were to have faith in Comrade Stalin and the Party, I decided to put my trust in this one man. His name was Victor Dietrich. So I
