A Man Without Breath (Bernie Gunther Mystery 9) (57 page)

‘You have the advantage of me, Wilhelm,’ said Von Kluge.

‘Nor for long, old fellow. Not for long.’ He pointed at a chair. ‘May I sit down?’

‘My dear Wilhelm, of course. Although if you have just travelled all that way by road then perhaps it would be better to adjourn, so that you may refresh yourself, after which you and I can talk in private.’

‘No, no.’ Canaris removed his naval officer’s cap, sat down and lit a small, pungent cigar. ‘And with all due respect, it’s
not you I came to see, nor Colonel von Gersdorff, nor indeed this impudent fellow.’ Canaris pointed at me. ‘About whom I have heard a great deal during my journey.’

Von Kluge shook his head, irritably. ‘He is more than impudent, sir. He is a bare-faced liar, an unmitigated scoundrel who stands accused of trying to murder an innocent man, and a disgrace to the uniform of a German officer.’

‘In which case he should certainly be severely punished,’ said Canaris. ‘And you should proceed with this trial immediately. So please don’t stop on my account.’

‘I’m glad you agree, Wilhelm,’ said Von Kluge, sitting down again. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced over at Von Schlabrendorff and nodded at him to carry on examining his witness, but it seemed that Canaris was not yet finished speaking. Indeed, he had hardly started.

‘But I should however like to know who it is that Captain Gunther tried to kill.’

‘My Russian
Putzer
, sir,’ said Von Kluge. ‘He is the man with his arm in a sling now giving evidence. His name is Alok Dyakov.’

Canaris shook his head. ‘No, sir. That man’s name is not Alok Dyakov. And he could never be described as an innocent man. Not in this life. Nor perhaps the next.’ He puffed his cigar patiently.

The Russian stood up and seemed about to do something until he saw that Von Gersdorff was now pointing a gun at him.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ spluttered Von Kluge. ‘Colonel von Gersdorff? Explain yourself.’

‘All in good time, sir.’

‘I think at this stage,’ said Canaris, ‘it might be better if we cleared the court of everyone who is not immediately
germane to these legal proceedings. There are things I am going to say that perhaps not everyone needs to hear, old friend.’

Von Kluge nodded curtly and stood up. ‘These proceedings are suspended,’ he said. ‘While er … Admiral Canaris … and I …’

‘You and I can stay, naturally,’ Canaris told the field marshal as men started to troop out of the room. ‘Colonel von Gersdorff, Captain Gunther, Judge Conrad – you had better stay as well, since you are somewhat pivotal to this whole matter. And you of course, Herr Dyakov. Yes, I think you had better stay for now, don’t you? After all, you’re why I came here.’

When the court was empty of all who had not been named by the admiral, Von Kluge lit a cigarette and tried to look as if he was still in control of a court martial; but in truth, everyone now knew who had the whip hand. For a moment, Canaris played with the ear of one of the dachshunds before proceeding.

‘I think you should prepare yourself for a shock, Günther,’ Canaris told Von Kluge. ‘You see, that man – the man you know as Alok Dyakov, your
Putzer
, is an NKVD officer, and I recognized him the moment I came into this court martial.’

‘What?’ said Von Kluge. ‘Nonsense. He used to be a schoolteacher.’

‘This man and I have met at least once before,’ said Canaris. ‘As you may know, during the Spanish Civil War I was in and out of Spain on several occasions, setting up a German intelligence network that survives to this day and continues to serve us very well. Occasionally it amused me to test myself and my fluency in Spanish by working among the Reds. And it was in Madrid that I met the man I now see in this court,
although he might remember me rather better as Señor Guillermo, an Argentine businessman posing as a communist sympathizer. I went to the Soviet embassy in Madrid in January 1937 to have a meeting with him when he was Military Attaché Mikhail Spiridonovich Krivyenko. He was in Spain to help set up the international brigades on the republican side, although it’s fair to say that, as a political commissar in Barcelona and Malaga, he succeeded in shooting as many of them as he did of the people on the side of the falangists. Isn’t that right, Mikhail? Anarchists. Trotskyites. The POUM. Anyone who wasn’t a Stalinist, really. You’ve killed all sorts.’

Krivyenko stayed silent.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Von Kluge. ‘It’s fantastic.’

‘Oh, I can assure you it’s quite true,’ said Canaris. ‘The colonel has Krivyenko’s NKVD file to prove it. I imagine that’s why he tried to murder Captain Gunther. Because he realized that the captain was onto him. And he certainly murdered the unfortunate Dr Berruguete, because of what he’d learned about him while he’d been a commissar in Spain. I believe he may also have murdered several others as well since we Germans captured Smolensk. Isn’t that true, Mikhail?’

Now, Krivyenko’s eyes were on the exit. But Von Gersdorff’s Walther pistol was in his way.

‘And before these latest crimes, he and another man called Blokhin were often in Smolensk with a team of NKVD executioners, murdering the enemies of the revolution and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Including, I’ll hazard, several thousand Polish officers in the spring of 1940. That’s what Krivyenko is best at: murder. Always has been. Oh, he’s very clever. For one thing he’s an excellent linguist: speaks Russian, Spanish, German, even Catalan – that’s a very hard language for anyone to learn. I never did. But murder is
Krivyenko’s speciality. You see, he failed in Spain, and failure is very hard to explain to a tyrant like Stalin – to all tyrants, really. Which explains why he’s just a major now when he was a colonel back in 1937. I expect he’s had to carry out an awful lot of murders to make up for his failings in Spain. Isn’t that right, Mikhail? You were almost shot upon your return to Russia, were you not?’

Krivyenko said nothing, but it was plain from his expression that he knew the game was up.

‘As soon as Colonel von Gersdorff told me about Krivyenko, I knew it had to be the same fellow. Which meant that I simply had to come down here to Smolensk and shall we say pay my respects? You see, what none of you can know is that Colonel Krivyenko was directly responsible for the death of one of my best agents in Spain – a man by the name of Eberhard Funk. Funk was shot, but not before he had been relentlessly and brutally tortured by this man before us. With a knife. That’s how he prefers to kill. Oh he’ll use a gun, if he has to. But Krivyenko likes to feel his victim’s last breath on his face.’ Canaris puffed his cigar again. ‘He was a good man, Funk. A distant relation of our Reich minister of economic affairs, you know. I honestly never thought that I’d be able to tell Walther Funk that the man who tortured and killed Eberhard had finally been caught.’

Von Kluge had turned a quiet shade of grey and his cigarette remained unsmoked in its ashtray. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and he looked like a schoolboy whose favourite toy had been confiscated.

‘The question, of course,’ said Canaris, ‘is what has Krivyenko been doing while he’s been here in Smolensk working for you, old fellow? What has he been up to while he’s been your
Putzer
?’

‘We went hunting a lot,’ said Von Kluge, dully. ‘That’s all. Hunting.’

‘I’m sure you did. By Rudi’s account, Krivyenko organized a successful wild boar hunt for you. Yes, that must have been a lot of fun. No harm in that. But Rudi has some opinions about what else he’s been up to, don’t you Rudi?’

‘Yes sir,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘It’s clear from his NKVD file that Krivyenko was never a trained spy. His expertise was as a policeman and executioner – as the admiral has already said. Since the Germans arrived in Smolensk, he’s been lying low, gaining our confidence. Your confidence, field marshal. Waiting for the right opportunity to start sending information about our plans to the Ivans. I hold myself partly responsible for that; after all, I introduced the two of you.’

‘Yes, yes you did,’ said Von Kluge, as if he hoped that might make things look better back in Berlin.

‘Things have been quiet during the winter of course, so there’s been little for Krivyenko to do except interfere with the smooth running of Captain Gunther’s investigations into the Katyn Wood massacre. It’s probable that it was Krivyenko who helped to spirit away or possibly even murder another NKVD officer called Rudakov, who was also involved in the Katyn massacre; and that he murdered a local doctor called Batov who might have provided us with invaluable documentary evidence of what actually happened to all those poor Polish officers.’

‘Evidence like that would have been quite irrefutable,’ added Canaris. ‘As things stand, the Kremlin is already arguing that this whole Katyn investigation has been a put-up job, a piece of cynical black propaganda by the Abwehr to drive a wedge deep into the enemy coalition. It’s obvious to anyone that these Poles were murdered by the Russians, although
that won’t stop the Russians from saying different. Of course, once we get Major Krivyenko into the witness box in Berlin, they’ll find that lie much harder to maintain. Certainly they’ll still argue that we coerced him, or some such nonsense. Lies are what Bolsheviks are good at. But in spite of all that, Krivyenko provides a unique opportunity to present the world with one inarguable truth in this war. I’m sure you appreciate that fact as much as I, field marshal.’

Von Kluge grunted quietly.

‘Now that our new offensive in Kursk is only weeks away, Krivyenko’s become more active,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘It’s almost certain that he murdered the two signallers from the 537th because they discovered he’d been eavesdropping on your own private conversations with the leader, probably about the new offensive, and using the radio at the castle to send messages to his contact in Soviet military intelligence – the GRU. And that he also murdered a third signaller – Corporal Quidde – when the man discovered irrefutable evidence that Krivyenko had murdered his two comrades.’

None of this was true of course; Von Gersdorff would certainly have told Canaris about the tape recording of Hitler’s conversation with Von Kluge and the bribe, but Canaris was much too clever to tell Von Kluge that he knew this was the real reason why the signallers had been murdered. Embarrassing a field marshal was clearly not on the Abwehr’s agenda. It was certainly not on mine, and I judged it better to follow the admiral’s canny lead and keep my mouth shut about what I knew.

‘At least that’s what I’m going to write in my report, Günther,’ commented Canaris.

‘I see,’ said Von Kluge quietly.

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself old fellow,’ said Canaris.
‘There are spies everywhere. It’s all too easy for officers to be caught out like this, during a war. Even a field marshal. Why, just last year it was revealed that a man on my own staff – a Major Thummel – was spying for the Czechs.’

He dropped the cigar onto the wooden floor and ground it out under his shoe before picking up one of the dogs and laying it on his lap.

‘Look at it this way,’ said Canaris. ‘You have helped apprehend an important witness to what happened here in Katyn. Someone who was directly involved in the murders of those poor Polish officers. It’s not as good as having pictures and ledgers, but it is the next best thing. And I’m absolutely certain you’re going to come out of this very well.’

Von Kluge was nodding, thoughtfully.

All this time Krivyenko had remained more or less silent, calmly smoking a cigarette and watching the automatic in Von Gersdorff’s hand like a cat awaiting an opportunity to sprint for a gap in a slowly closing door. He might have had one arm in a sling but he was still dangerous. From time to time, however, he smiled or shook his head and muttered something in Russian, and it was clear that at some future stage – perhaps in Berlin – he intended to dispute the admiral’s version of events. The field marshal saw that, too. He wasn’t called Clever Hans for nothing.

Finally, when Canaris appeared to have finished speaking, the Russian stood up, slowly and, turning his back on his former master, bowed in the little admiral’s direction.

‘May I say something?’ he asked politely. ‘Admiral.’

‘Yes,’ said Canaris.

‘Thank you,’ said Krivyenko and stubbed out his cigarette.

He looked not in the least bit afraid. There was, I thought,
a surprising amount of defiance in his demeanour, although he must have known that there was likely to be a rough time ahead for him in Berlin.

‘Then I should like to say that I did indeed kill all the people you mentioned, Herr Admiral – Dr Berruguete, Dr Batov and his daughter. The Rudakov brothers are floating down the Dnieper. I don’t deny any of it for one minute. However you might like to know that the real reason I killed the two signallers was not exactly as you have described. There was another—’

The sound of the gunshot made us all jump – everyone except Krivyenko: the bullet hit him squarely in the back of the head and he collapsed face-down onto the floor like an overburdened coat-stand. For a brief moment I thought Von Gersdorff must have shot him until I saw the Walther in the field marshal’s outstretched hand.

‘You didn’t actually think for a minute I was going to permit that bastard to embarrass me in front of everyone in Berlin, did you Wilhelm?’ he said coldly.

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Canaris.

Von Kluge made the automatic safe, laid it down on the table in front of him and walked steadily out of the room. There was just enough time for Canaris to pick up Von Kluge’s gun and lay it carefully on the floor beside Krivyenko’s body before everyone who’d been asked to leave earlier came rushing back in.

I had to hand it to the admiral: he had remarkable presence of mind. It really did look as if Krivyenko might have placed the gun to the back of his own head and pulled the trigger. Not that I suppose it would have mattered – no one was likely to accuse the field marshal of murder, not in Smolensk.

‘This Russian fellow has shot himself,’ Canaris announced
for the benefit of everyone now present. ‘With the field marshal’s own pistol.’ He added, quietly: ‘Like a scene from a play by Chekhov. What do you think, Rudi?’