The next day, he felt more relaxed and at peace with himself than he had for a long time. Miraculously, he had slept well, and had no recollection of dreams, good, bad or otherwise. He still missed Petra’s comforting presence, but he knew in his heart it was for the best and he would get over it.
When he got to the office, activity in the typing pool was as frenetic as ever and he greeted the girls cheerily.
“Morning, ladies!”
One or two murmured something in return but it felt unusually restrained, forced somehow, but he thought nothing more about it and pushed the swing doors open. Johnny Bristow was in his usual place, hunched over a transcript, cigarette in ashtray, sleeves rolled up, tie askew even though it was only eight forty-five. The heat was getting to him.
“What’s the latest, old man?” Harry said, removing his jacket and slinging it over his chair.
Johnny continued to run his pencil along a line of text and spoke without looking up.
“Don’t ask. It’s going to be a whitewash.”
“Damn,” said Harry although he didn’t really care one way or another about the cricket. He noticed a white envelope on his desk and picked it up. It was postmarked Coventry.
“Oh, that arrived at your old flat. One of the suits brought it in,” said Johnny.
“Suits?”
“Yeah. They’re back.”
“Oh, really?” Harry frowned. This was far more important than cricket. “I thought they’d finished.”
Johnny looked up. “So did I. It’s really putting a dampener on things. Everyone’s looking at everyone else. Looking over their shoulder. I found them going through your desk when I got in. Probably been snooping through mine…” He trailed off and Harry noticed Johnny’s attention had shifted. He turned around. The two suits, minus overcoats and hats, had come up behind him.
“Major Male. Can I ask you to step into Admiral Webb’s office for a moment?” Suit Number One – no greeting, no pleasantry, no grace.
“Yes, of course.”
The Queen, Churchill and MacMillan eyed him intently as he followed Suit Number One into Webb’s palatial office and approached his ornate desk. Suit Number Two followed closely behind. Suit Number One took a seat next to Webb.
“Please sit down, Major.” An instruction, not a courtesy. Webb remained silent, relegated to observer on this occasion, but Harry guessed that alone didn’t explain the surly Churchillian countenance. “We’ve read your report and it concurs with the two previous interviews you’ve given on the matter, with the sole addition of the information regarding Santa Cristina De Lago.” Suit Number One laid a thumb and two fingers on a manila folder in front of him as if it might blow away. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
Harry knew it was a leading question but he could answer it truthfully. There was nothing he’d like to add. There was always something he could add if they insisted but it would be of no use to them. He hadn’t told them what he’d been wearing that day, nor what he’d had for breakfast, nor how he felt about the Bergmann affair in general, nor how he felt about Petra leaving him, nor, indeed, that he recognised a dead Nazi from way back. None of it was relevant. He dealt in facts. The rest of it was personal, no one’s business but his own.
“What kind of thing?’
“Answer the question, Major,” Suit Number One said with barely concealed irritation. Harry would have been irritated too had he been on the other side of the desk. It sounded like evasion and it always happened when the one being questioned needed a clue so he could be sure what to lie about. But he wasn’t going to play that game. Not any more. Somehow, something made him feel emboldened and if his request for leave was denied and it turned into something more permanent, so be it.
“I’m sure you have something in mind.” It was totally out of character, but it made him feel good. “It will save us all a lot of time if you just come out with it.”
Webb’s jowls twitched. “Now look here, Male…”
“Thank you, Admiral, but I think Major Male is right. It will save time.”
Webb gave a mild harrumph and sat back in his capacious leather armchair, chin raised in defiance. Suit Number One opened the folder, pulled out the picture of Kessler that Roger had printed for him and slid it in front of Harry.
“Do you know this man?”
Harry looked into the face of evil one more time. There was no doubt. It was Kessler, minus the blood and the blackened face and the lame leg and the broken arm and the rage and the rabid hatred he’d exhibited that day in ’44 in the farmhouse. This was Kessler, calm, collected, smart in his crisp uniform, enjoying a good day at the office in the sunshine, murdering a few hundred innocents and revelling in the attention and the admiration for his professionalism.
“Yes, I think I do.”
“Do you or don’t you?”
“I don’t know him. But I know who he is.”
“What does that mean?”
Harry hesitated, trying to find the right words. He really didn’t want to relate the whole ghastly episode, not to these people.
But Suit Number One had smelt blood. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It wasn’t part of my brief to identify the perpetrators of a war crime. I was asked to confirm the location.”
“Then why did you ask for the photo?”
“Because I thought I recognised him and I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure of what, Major?”
“Sure that I recognised him.” Harry saw Suit Number One’s patience ebbing away. Obfuscation was not his intention, but he would have to concede that was how it looked. “I wanted to check he wasn’t the official Bergmann was talking about. The guy in the politburo.” It seemed perfectly simple to him but Suit Number One’s face betrayed only confusion and bewilderment.
“Why?” He spread his hands wide.
“Because if he were the politburo official Bergmann was talking about, I’d have been wrong about recognising him.”
“I’m not with you, Major.”
Harry’s temperature was rising too. It was none of their business but they would drag it out of him eventually. He couldn’t bear to go there, revisit the scene, but he had no choice.
“Because the guy I know is dead. His name’s Ernst Kessler and he’s dead, crushed under a chimney stack. I saw it happen.” They looked at him blankly. He fumbled with his shirt buttons while Webb and the suits watched in mounting consternation. He pushed back his shirt to reveal the scar in his right shoulder. “He shot me. Here. With that bloody Luger, no doubt.” He poked at the photo angrily.
“Major!” Webb was out of his chair again. “I strongly suggest you temper your language and your behaviour!”
Harry took a breath and slowly buttoned his shirt. “Sorry, sir.”
Suit Number One waited a second or two. “So you wanted to confirm to your own satisfaction that Kessler, or whatever he calls himself these days, is not a member of the politburo, and that’s the end of it?”
“More or less.”
“And you decided he isn’t?”
“Yes… I mean no.”
“Which is it, Major?”
“I mean yes, I decided he’s not the guy Bergmann was talking about.”
“And why is it so important to you?”
“I wanted to be sure he was dead.”
“I’ll ask again. Why is that important?”
Harry had no answer to this, either for himself or the others. When he’d seen the image in the film he’d had a horrible thought that somehow, Kessler may have survived and was now a high-ranking member of the East German government. It made his war crimes no less heinous, just personal. Too personal.
“How do you know he’s dead?”
“I told you. A chimney fell on him.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean then what? I don’t know. He shot me, the chimney fell in and the next thing I know I wake up two weeks later in a field hospital miles away.”
“So you never examined the body. Took a pulse?”
Harry shook his head in dismay and had a sudden urge to laugh. They had no idea. He wanted them to understand, to know what he’d been through but without having to tell them. He could not and would not relate the sorry, hideous episode. It was far too painful, and even if he tried, it would sound so far-fetched as to be too incredible for words. It even seemed incredible to him every time he thought about it, which was maybe why he had never been able to put it out of his mind. To him, it was still a bad dream and as in all dreams, the things that happened in it were unreal. But Kessler had been real and the shock of seeing him again was real. He’d come in today filled with purpose, enjoying a flicker of optimism about the future and a hint of self-confidence that he hadn’t felt in a long while, despite being reminded of the evil Kessler. He’d had the satisfaction of knowing what a criminal Kessler had been, that he’d met his end and that justice had somehow been done. But now felt profoundly subdued again. He offered another crumb of testimony, hoping but not expecting it would satisfy them.
“No, I didn’t examine the body. I passed out.”
Webb’s intercom buzzed – a welcome distraction. He picked up the handset rather than talking into the speaker.
“Webb.” He listened for a second or two and looked at Suit Number One. “Thank you,” he said, replacing the handset and nodding at Suit Number One. “They’re here.” Suit Number One sat back in his chair.
“It’s out of our hands now, Major. It’s a police matter.”
Harry heard the click of a door opening and twisted his head around. Cynthia was showing two new suits flanked by uniformed Polizei into the office.
“What’s going on?”
“The police are investigating the murders of seven people and they believe you may be able to help them with their enquiries in identifying the murderer.”
“Everything I know is in my report!” he protested and hated himself for sounding weak.
“We believe you know who he is.”
“I never once saw him.”
“Maybe. But we did. We saw him stand over you with a loaded gun and fail to shoot and we saw him being taken away by three police offers whom he subsequently murdered.”
A chill went up Harry’s spine as the penny dropped. He whispered the name.
“Kessler.”
“Indeed. Not quite as dead as you thought, Major.”