A Quiet Flame

14 BERLIN, 1933, AND BUENOS AIRES, 1950

THE FIRST WE KNEW about it was a strong smell of burning. Then we heard the fire engines and the ambulances from Artilleriestrasse. Frieda went outside the hotel entrance to take a look and saw an excited crowd of people heading northwest across Pariser Platz. Above the rooftops of the French Embassy something lit up the night sky like an open furnace door.

“It’s the Reichstag,” said Frieda. “The Reichstag is on fire.”

We ran back into the hotel, intending to get a better view from the roof. But in the lobby I met Herr Adlon. I told him the Reichstag was on fire. It was just after ten p.m.

“Yes, I know.” He drew me to one side, thought better of what he had been about to say, and then took me into the manager’s office. He closed the door. “There’s something I want you to do. And it might well be dangerous.”

I shrugged it off.

“Do you know where the Chinese Embassy is?”

“Yes, it’s on Kurfürstendamm. Next to the Nelson Theater.”

“I want you to go there, to the Chinese Embassy, in the hotel laundry van,” said Louis Adlon, handing me some keys. “I want you to pick up some passengers and bring them straight back here. But on no account let them alight at the front door of the hotel. Drive them through the gate to the tradesman entrance. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

“Might I ask who it is, sir?”

“You may. It’s Bernard Weiss and his family. Someone tipped him off that the Nazis were coming to his house tonight to lynch him. Fortunately, Chiang Kai-shek is a friend of Izzy’s and agreed to let him and his family take refuge there. He just called me a few minutes ago and asked if I could help. Naturally, I agreed to let him stay here. And I assumed you would want to help, too.”

“Of course. But wouldn’t he be safer remaining in the embassy?”

“Perhaps, but he’d be more comfortable here, wouldn’t you agree? Besides, we are used to having people stay here in our VIP suites in conditions of almost total secrecy. No, we shall look after him very well, and for as long as is necessary.”

“This has something to do with Reichstag fire, I’m certain of it,” I said. “The Nazis must be planning a complete overthrow of the republic. And to declare martial law.”

“I think you must be right. Are you carrying a gun?”

“No, sir. But I can fetch one.”

“There’s no time. You can take mine.” He took out a key chain and unlocked the safe. “The last time I took this gun out of the safe was during the Spartakist uprising of 1919. But it’s been well oiled.” He handed me a broom-handled Mauser and a box of ammunition. Then he upended a leather briefcase, emptying the contents onto his desk. “Put the Mauser in this. And be careful, Bernie. I don’t think it’s going to be the kind of night that makes one feel proud to be a German.”

Louis Adlon was right. The streets of Berlin were full of marauding gangs of storm troopers. They sang their songs and waved their flags as if the fire were cause for celebration. I saw some smashing the windows of a Jewish-owned store near the zoo. It was all too easy to imagine what would have happened if they’d met up with an old rabbi or some luckless idiot wearing a Lenin-style peaked cap and a red flag on his lapel. There were police vans and armored cars everywhere, but I didn’t suppose they were intent on protecting Communists and Jews. And seeing the SCHUPO men doing very little to stop disorder in the city, I was very glad I was no longer a policeman. On the other hand, it was an excellent night to be Chinese. When I arrived, I saw that no one was paying any attention to the Chinese Embassy or its occupants.

Leaving the engine running and the doors open, I got out of the van and rang the embassy’s doorbell. A Chinese answered the door and asked who I was. I told him Louis Adlon had sent me, at which point the double doors to a ground-floor anteroom were flung open and I saw Izzy and his family waiting there with their luggage. They looked at me anxiously. Izzy shook my hand and nodded silently. We didn’t say anything much. There wasn’t time. I grabbed their suitcases, threw them in the van, and when I was satisfied that it was quite safe, I waved my passengers out of the embassy, slamming the doors of the van shut behind them.

When I reached the Adlon, I drove through to the tradesman entrance as instructed and found Louis Adlon waiting. Max, the hall porter, loaded the Weiss family belongings onto a baggage trolley and disappeared into a service elevator. He didn’t even look for a tip. Everything was strange about that night. Meanwhile, we hurried the refugees into another service elevator and along to the best suite in the hotel. That was typical of Louis Adlon, and I knew the significance would not be lost on Izzy.

Inside the magnificent suite, the heavy silk curtains were already drawn and a fire was burning brightly in the grate. Izzy’s wife disappeared into the bathroom with her children. Adlon was pouring some drinks for us all. Max showed up and began to put the luggage away. While you couldn’t see anything of what was happening outside, you could hear a lot. Some storm troopers had come along Wilhelmstrasse and were chanting, “Death to the Marxists!” Izzy’s eyes were full of tears. But he tried to smile.

“It sounds as though they have already found the people to blame for the fire,” he said.

“People will never believe that,” I said.

“They’ll believe what they want to believe,” said Izzy. “And right now they certainly don’t want to believe in the Communists.”

He took the glass offered by Louis, and the three of us toasted one another.

“To better days,” said Louis.

“Yes,” said Izzy. “But I fear this is just the beginning. This is more than just a fire. Mark my words, this is the funeral pyre of German democracy.” He placed an avuncular hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to have to watch yourself, my young friend.”

“Me?” I grinned. “I’m not the one who was hiding out in the Chinese Embassy.”

“Oh, it’s been over for me for a while. We’ve been prepared for something like this. Our suitcases have been packed for weeks.”

“Where will you go, sir?”

“Holland. We’ll be safe there.”

I could see he was tired. Exhausted. So we shook hands and I left him. I never saw him again.

I went up to the roof and found Frieda, watching the fire with some of the guests and hotel staff. One of the waiters from the cocktail bar had brought up a bottle of schnapps to help ward off the cold night air, but no one was drinking very much. Everyone knew what the fire meant. It looked like a beacon from hell.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “I’m scared.”

I put my arm around her. “Why? There’s nothing to be scared of. You’re perfectly safe up here.”

“I didn’t mean that, Bernie. I’m Jewish, remember?”

“I’d forgotten. I’m sorry.” I drew her closer to me and kissed her on the forehead. Her hair and overcoat smelled strongly of smoke, almost as if she herself had caught fire.

I coughed a little. “So much for Berlin’s famous air,” I said.

“I was worried about you. Where have you been?”

A strong gust of bitterly cold wind filled our faces with smoke. Where had I been? I didn’t know. I was dull, without thoughts. I swallowed with some difficulty and tried to answer. The smoke was bothering me a lot now. There was so much of it that I couldn’t see the fire anymore. Nor the Adlon’s rooftop. Or even Frieda. After a minute, I took a deep breath that hurt my throat. Then I called out to her: “Where are you?”

A man peered at me out of the smoke. He was wearing a white coat and a gold wristwatch. His eyes were on my collarbone and then his fingers, too, as though he expected to find something he was looking for under my Adam’s apple.

I turned my head on the pillow and yawned.

“How does that feel?” asked the man wearing the white coat.

“Hurts a bit when I swallow,” I heard myself say. “Otherwise it feels fine.”

He was tanned and fit-looking, with a smile as neat as the teeth on a comb. His castellano wasn’t up to much. He sounded English, or American perhaps. His breath was cold and perfumed, like his fingers.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the British Hospital in Buenos Aires, Señor Hausner. You had an operation on your thyroid. Remember? I’m your doctor. Dr. Pack.”

I frowned, trying to remember who Hausner was.

“As it happens, you’re a very lucky man. You see, the thyroid sits on either side of your Adam’s apple like two small plums. One of them was cancerous. We took that part of your thyroid out. But the other part was fine. So we left it there. All of which means you won’t have to spend the rest of your life having to take thyroxin pills. Just a little calcium, until we’re satisfied with your blood analysis. You’ll be out of here and back at work in just a few days.”

There was something attached to my throat. I tried to touch it, to feel what it was, but the doctor stopped me.

“Those are some little clips to keep the skin over the incision together,” he explained. “We won’t stitch you up finally until we’re quite satisfied that everything in there is all right.”

“And if it’s not?” I croaked.

“Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it is all right. If the cancer hasn’t already spread from one side of your thyroid to the other, it probably won’t now. No, the reason we don’t sew you up yet is because we like to keep an eye on your windpipe. Sometimes, after removal of the thyroid or a part of the thyroid, there’s a small danger of asphyxiation.” He brandished a pair of surgical pliers. “If that happens, we unlock those clips with these, and open you up again. But I can assure you, sir, there’s really very little chance of that happening.”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t mean to be rude. But there was too much dope inside me to mind my manners. And I was having a hard job just trying to remember my real name. My name wasn’t Hausner, I was certain of that much.

“I hope you operated on the right patient, Doc,” I heard myself whisper. “I’m someone else, you know. Someone I used to be, a long time ago.”

THE NEXT TIME I woke up, she was there, stroking the hair back from my forehead. I’d forgotten her name but I certainly hadn’t forgotten how lovely she was. She was wearing a figure-hugging cigar-brown dress with short, tight sleeves. It made her look like she’d been rolled on a Cuban girl’s thigh. If I’d had the strength, I’d have put her in my mouth and sucked at her toes.

“Here,” she said, putting a little necklace around my neck. “It’s a chai necklace. For life. To help you get well.”

“Thanks, angel. By the way, how did you find out I was here?”

“They told me at your hotel.” She glanced around my room. “It’s a nice room. You’ve done all right for yourself.”

I had a private room at the British Hospital because they didn’t have a private room at the American Hospital and because Colonel Montalbán didn’t want Dr. George Pack from Sloan-Kettering in New York seen anywhere near the President Juan Perón Hospital, and especially nowhere near the Evita Perón Hospital. But I couldn’t tell Anna any of that. It was a very British room. There was a nice picture of the king on the wall.

“But why here instead of the German Hospital?” asked Anna. “I suppose you’re scared someone will recognize you, is that it?”

“It’s because my doctor is an American and doesn’t speak German,” I said. “And because his castellano isn’t much, either.”

“Anyway, I’m cross with you. You didn’t tell me you were ill.”

“I’m not, angel. Not anymore. As soon as I get out of here, I’ll prove it.”

“All the same, I think I would have mentioned something if it had been me who had cancer,” she said. “I thought we were friends. And that’s what friends are for.”

“Maybe I thought you’d think it was contagious.”

“I’m not an idiot, Gunther. I know cancer’s not contagious.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to take that risk.”

I could tell the king agreed with me. He didn’t look too well himself. He was wearing a naval uniform and enough gold braid to supply a shipful of ambitious officers. There was pain in his eyes and in the sinews of his thin hands, but he seemed the type to stick it out in silence. I could tell we had a lot in common.

“And talking of risk,” I told her sternly, “I meant what I said, angel. You’re to say nothing about what happened. Or to ask questions concerning what we found out about Directive Eleven.”

“I don’t know that we found out very much,” she said. “I’m not convinced you’re the great detective my friend said you are.”

“Well, that makes two of us. But either way, this is not something people in this country want anyone asking about, Anna. I’ve been in this business a long time and I know a big secret when I smell one. I didn’t tell you this before, but when I mentioned Directive Eleven to someone in SIDE, he started twitching like a divining rod. Promise me you won’t talk about it. Not even to your father and your mother and your rabbi confessor.”

“All right,” she said sulkily. “I promise. I won’t say anything about any of it. Not even in my prayers.”

“As soon as I’m out of here, we’ll put the wheels in motion again. See what we can find out. In the meantime, you can answer me this question. What are you? A Jewish Catholic? Or a Catholic Jew? I’m not sure I can tell the difference. Not without chucking you in the village pond, anyway.”

“My parents converted when they left Russia,” she said. “Because they wanted to fit in when they got here. My father said that being a Jew made you too noticeable. That it was best to keep a low profile and seem like everyone else.” She shook her head. “Why? Have you got something against Jewish Catholics?”

“On the contrary. If you go back far enough, you’ll find that all Catholics are Jewish. That’s the great thing about history. If you go back far enough, even Hitler’s Jewish.”

“I guess that explains everything,” she said, and kissed me tenderly.

“What was that for?”

“That was in lieu of some grapes. To help you get well soon.”

“It might just help, at that.”

“Then so should this: I’ve fallen for you. Don’t ask me why, because you’re too old for me, but I have.”

I HAD OTHER VISITORS, but none of them as lovely as Anna Yagubsky, and none who made me feel as good. The colonel looked in on me. So did Pedro Geller. And Melville from the Richmond Café. He was kind enough to beat me at chess. It all felt very civilian and commonplace, as if I were part of a community instead of a man in exile from his own country. With one very tall and scar-faced exception.

He was about six-feet-four, and two hundred fifty pounds. His hair was thick and dark and, brushed back from a broad, lumpy forehead, looked like a Frenchman’s beret. His ears were enormous, like an Indian elephant’s, and his left cheek was covered with the Schmissen beloved of German students for whom a dueling saber had been a more attractive diversion than a slim volume of poetry. He was wearing a light-brown sports jacket, a pair of very baggy flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a green silk tie. His shoes were very polished and stout and probably contained a tape-recording of a military parade ground. In his left hand was a cigarette. I guessed he was in his early forties, and when he spoke German, it was with a strong Viennese accent. “So, you’re awake,” he said.

I sat up in bed and nodded. “Who are you?”

He picked up in his huge mitts the surgical pliers—the ones that were supposed to open the clips on my neck in case anything went wrong with my windpipe—and started to play crab with them.

“Otto Skorzeny,” he said. His voice sounded almost as rough as my own, as if he gargled with battery acid.

“That’s a relief,” I said. “Most of the nurses have been quite pretty up until now.”

He chuckled. “So I noticed. Maybe I should check in here myself. I’m still plagued with an old war wound I got in ’forty-one. I was blown up with a Katyusha rocket and buried alive for a while.”

“I hear that’s the best way, in the long run.”

He chuckled again. It sounded like a drain emptying.

“What can I do for you, Otto?” I called him Otto because all three buttons were done up on his jacket and there was something bulging under his right armpit. I didn’t think it was his thyroid.

“I heard you were asking questions about me.” He smiled, but it was more a way of stretching his face than anything pleasant.

“Oh?”

“At the Casa Rosada.”

“Maybe one or two.”

“That might not be a healthy thing to do, my friend. Especially for a man in your position.” He tapped the jaws of the pliers together meaningfully. “What are these things for, anyway?”

I thought it better not to tell him in any detail. “They’re surgical pliers.”

“You mean for pulling out ingrown toenails and things like that?”

“I imagine so.”

“I saw a man have all his fingernails pulled out by the Gestapo once. That was in Russia.”

“I’ve heard it’s a fascinating country.”

“Those bloody Russians can take pain like no one else,” he said with real admiration in his voice. “Once, I saw a Russian soldier, both of whose arms had been taken off at the elbow just an hour or two earlier, get up from his mattress and take himself to the latrine.”

“Must have been some pair of pliers.”

“Anyway, I’m here now. So what did you want to know? And don’t give me that phony passport story. A good-conduct pass, or whatever it is. What do you really want to know?”

“I’m looking for a killer.”

“Is that all?” Skorzeny shrugged. “We’re all of us that, I imagine.” He put out his cigarette in the ashtray on my bedside cabinet. “Otherwise we’d hardly be here, in Argentina.”

“True. But this man has killed children. Young girls, anyway. Gutted them like pigs. In the beginning, I thought one of our old comrades might have developed a taste for psychopathic murder. Now I know it’s something else altogether. Also there’s a missing girl who may or may not be connected with any of this. She might be dead. Or abducted.”

“And you thought I might have had something to do with all this?”

“Abduction used to be your main claim to fame, as I recall.”

“You mean Mussolini?” Skorzeny grinned. “That was a rescue mission. There’s a hell of a difference between pulling the Duce’s eggs out of the fire and kidnapping a bloody schoolgirl.”

“I know that. All the same, I felt obliged to look under every stone. Those are my orders, anyway.”

“Who’s giving them?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I like you, Hausner. You’ve got guts. Unlike most of our old comrades. Here I am, quietly intimidating you—”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“—and you refuse to be intimidated, damn you.”

“So far.”

“I could go to work on those clips with these pliers,” he said. “I bet that’s what they’re for, as a matter of fact. But it occurs to me that I’d rather have a man like you on my side. Allies, men you can rely on, are rather thin on the ground in this country.”

He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. From the look of him, and the reputation he had, it was probably the safest thing to do.

“Yes, I could use a good man on my side, in Argentina.”

“Sounds like you’re offering me a job, Otto.”

“Maybe I am, at that.”

“Everyone wants me to work for them. At this rate, I’ll make employee of the year.”

“So long as you stay alive you might.”

“Meaning?”

“I wouldn’t want you shooting off your mouth about my business,” he said. “If you did, I’d have to shoot off your mouth.”

He said it in a way that made me think he believed it sounded cute. Only I didn’t doubt that he was serious about it. From what I knew about Otto Skorzeny—Waffen-SS colonel, Knight’s Cross, hero of the eastern front, the man who rescued Mussolini from British custody—it would have been a grave mistake not to take him seriously. An unmarked-grave mistake.

“I can keep my mouth shut,” I said.

“Everyone can keep their mouths shut,” Skorzeny said. “The trick is to do it and stay alive at the same time.”

That was cute, too. The scars, the Knight’s Cross, the reputation for ruthlessness, all of it was starting to make a lot of sense. The man who put Otto Skorzeny’s nose out of joint wasn’t about to get the loan of his collection of pressed wildflowers. He was a killer. Maybe not the kind of killer who enjoyed killing for killing’s sake, but certainly the kind who killed without even the least idea of how anyone could lose any sleep over it.

“All right. I’ll help you out if I can, Otto. I’m not awful busy right now. So go ahead. Pretend I’m your priest or your doctor. Tell me something confidential.”

“I’m looking for some money.”

I tried to stifle a yawn. “Small world,” I said.

“Not that sort of money,” he snarled.

“There’s a kind I don’t know about?”

“Yeah. The kind you can’t count because there’s so bloody much of it. Serious money.”

“Oh. That kind of money.”

“Here in Argentina, about two hundred million U.S. dollars.”

“Well, I can understand why you would be looking for that kind of money, Otto.”

“Maybe twice that. I don’t know for sure.”

This time I stayed silent. Four hundred million dollars is the kind of figure that commands a lot of respectful silence.

“During the war, two, maybe three or four U-boats came to Argentina with gold, diamonds, and foreign currency. Jew money, mostly. From the camps. On arrival, the Monte Cristo was handled by five German bankers. German-Argentines who were supposed to be financing the war effort on this side of the Atlantic.” He shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you how successful they were at that. And most of the money remained unspent. Safely tucked up in vaults at the Banco Germánico and the Banco Tourquist.”

“That’s a nice little legacy for someone,” I said.

“Now you’re getting it,” said Skorzeny. “After the war, the Peróns had the same thought as you. The greasy general and his bitch blonde started putting a little pressure on these five bankers. Suggesting that they might like to make a generous campaign contribution in return for all the traditional Argentine hospitality that was being shown to our old comrades. So the bankers anted up and hoped that was the end of it. Of course it wasn’t. It’s expensive, being a dictator. Especially one without the same line of Jewish credit that Hitler enjoyed. So the Peróns, bless their black shirts, asked for another contribution. And this time the bankers demurred. As bankers do. Big mistake. The president started to apply a little pressure. One of the bankers, the eldest, Ludwig Freude, was charged with espionage and fraud. Freude made a deal with Perón, and in return for turning over the control of a nice chunk of change, his son Rodolfo Freude was made the head of security police.”

“That’s a nice quid pro quo,” I said.

“Isn’t it? Heinrich Dorge, who was formerly an aide to Hjalmar Schacht, was less cooperative. He didn’t have a son like Rodolfo. Which was too bad for him. The Peróns had him murdered. To encourage the other three bankers: von Leute, von Bader, and Staudt. And they were encouraged. They handed over the lot. The whole Monte Cristo. Since then they have remained effectively under house arrest.”

“Why? If the Peróns have the loot, then what’s the point of that?”

“Because there’s a lot more to it than the money that walked down the gangplank of a couple of U-boats. A lot more money, anyway. You see, the Peróns have got this foundation going. For the last five years Eva’s been giving Reichsbank money away to just about every Argie bastard who can spin her a hard-luck story. They’ve been buying the loyalty of the people. The trouble is, at the rate they’re spending the U-boat cash, they’re going to run out. And so, to stay in power for another ten, maybe twenty years, they would dearly like to get their hands on the real prize. The big prize. The motherlode.”

“You mean your four hundred million dollars isn’t it?”

“We didn’t lose the war for lack of money, my friend. At the end of the war, there was so much money held in the Reichsbank’s Swiss accounts it made what was in German banks here look like small change. There are billions of Nazi dollars in Zurich. And it’s all of it, every last cent, under the control of those three remaining bankers here in Buenos Aires. At least, it is so long as they remain alive.”

“I see.”

“For the Peróns, the question is how to get their hands on it. To exercise control of the Zurich accounts requires the physical presence in Switzerland of at least one of those bankers, accompanied by the signed letters of the other two. But which one of them can be trusted to go? Trusted by the Peróns. Trusted by the other bankers. Naturally, there’s no guarantee that the one who goes to Zurich is ever going to come back again. Nor any guarantee that he will do what the Peróns want him to do when he’s there. Which is, of course, to sign control of the money over to them. It leaves these three in a bit of a tight spot. And that’s where I come in.”

“Oh? Are you a banker now, Otto?”

I tried to look and to sound like all this was news to me. But my meeting with the von Baders and the disappearance of their daughter, Fabienne, left me in no doubt that the money and her disappearance were somehow connected.

“More of a banking regulator, you might say,” said Skorzeny. “You see, I’m here to make sure the Peróns never see a pfennig of that money. To this end I’ve managed to become quite close to Eva. Largely on account of how I managed to foil an attempt on her life. Well, it was easy enough.” He chuckled. “Especially since it was me who set her up. Anyway, she’s come to rely on me, rather.”

“Otto,” I said, grinning. “You don’t mean—”

“We’re not lovers, exactly,” he admitted. “But like I said, she’s come to rely on me. So who knows what might happen? Especially as the president is off fucking young girls.”

“Oh? How young?”

“Thirteen. Fourteen. Sometimes younger, according to Eva.”

“And how is this trust in you going to manifest itself in a way that’s relevant to the money in Switzerland?” I asked carefully.

“By making sure I can be in a position to find out if ever she manages to send one of these bankers to Zurich. Because then I should have to act to prevent that from happening.”

“You mean kill someone. One of the bankers. Maybe all three of them.”

“Probably. As I said, the trust won’t be under their control forever. Eventually, the money will be dispersed to certain organizations throughout Germany. You see, it’s our plan to use the money to rebuild the cause of European fascism.”

“ ‘Our plan’? You mean the Old Comrades plan, don’t you, Otto? The Nazi plan.”

“Of course.”

“And double-crossing the Peróns? It sounds dangerous, Otto.”

“It is.” He grinned. “Which is why I need someone in the secret police watching my back. Someone like you.”

“Suppose that I’m the nervous type. Suppose that I don’t want to be involved.”

“That would be a shame. For one thing, it would mean you’d have no one watching your back. Besides, Eva trusts me. You, she hardly knows. If you denounce me, you’ll be the one who disappears, not me. Think it over.”

“How long have I got?”

“Time’s up.”

“I can hardly say no, can I?”

“That’s the way I see it, too. You and me. We’re two of a kind. You see, it was Eva who told me about you. About that little speech you made to her and the greaseball. How you used to be a cop. Stuff like that. That took a boxful of eggs. Perón appreciated that. So do I. We’re both mavericks, you and I. Loners. Outsiders. We can help each other out. A phone call here. A phone call there. And depend on it. We never forget our friends.” He produced a business card and placed it carefully on my bedside table. “On the other hand.”

“On the other hand.”

He glanced at the picture of the British king that was hanging on the wall beside my bed. For a moment, he just stared at it with something like malevolence. Then he punched it hard. Hard enough to smash the glass and knock the picture off the wall. The picture fell on the floor. Small pieces of glass showered my chest and legs. Skorzeny ignored them, preferring to concentrate on allowing a small trickle of blood to run off his lacerated knuckles and onto my head. He smiled, but his meaning was less than companionable.

“On the other hand, the next time we meet this could be your blood we’re looking at, not mine.”

“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there, Otto. You should get it seen to. I believe there’s a good veterinary hospital over on Viamonte. Maybe they’ll even give you a rabies shot while they’re fixing your paw.”

“This?” Skorzeny lifted his hand and let the blood drip onto my face. For a moment, he seemed fascinated by the sight of it. Maybe he was, at that. There were plenty of people in the SS who’d been fascinated by bloodshed. Most of them seemed to be living in Argentina. “This is just a scratch.”

“You know, it might be a good idea if you were to leave now, Otto. After what you did to their king. This is the British Hospital, after all.”

Otto spat on the fallen picture. “I always hated that bastard,” he said.

“No need to explain. No need at all.” I was humoring him now. Anxious for him to be gone. “Not from a man who once met Adolf Hitler.”

“More than once,” he said quietly.

“Really?” I said, feigning interest. “The next time we see each other, you must tell me all about it. In fact, I’ll look forward to it.”

“Then we’re partners.”

“Sure, Otto, sure.”

He held out his bloody hand for me to shake. I took it and felt the strength in his forearm and, closer to him now, saw the dirty ice in his blue eyes and breathed the rank odor of his decaying breath. There was a little gold star in his lapel. I didn’t know what it was, but I wondered whether he would grind to a halt if I removed it, like the murderous creature in Gustav Meyrink’s The Golem.

If only life were that simple.