(2013) Collateral Damage (25 page)

Then there was the dinner at home held en the same night in April
every year. Candle-lit, the best silver out, and wine on the table for the silent,
secret toasts between the adults. When they were children he and his sister were
allowed to attend the first part of the evening, before the wine really flowed and
the songs started; as adolescents they were commanded. He remembered Eva, all giggles
and girlish good humour, demanding: 'But what are you celebrating? Is it your engagement?
Is it when you met? Is it when you fell in love? Please tell us.'

To which the invariable reply was, 'When you're older. We'll
tell you when you're older.'

Only they never did tell them, and it was not until he was seventeen
that Koller discovered that the twentieth of April was Hitler's birthday.

He last saw his parents shortly before he first went underground
to avoid a minor arson charge. He had adopted the contemporary hirsute uniform of
student protest and their estrangement was already almost complete. His mother,
intuitively sensing crisis, had said: 'When your father was your age he was a revolutionary
too - against the bourgeoisie, against your grandparents. Later they made things
up. Don't hate us.'

'I don't hate you. I just hate what you stand for.' This was
a lie. He hated them because of what they stood for, the inherited stigma.

'If you'd been born-' his mother said.

'NO. I wouldn't. I wouldn't have done what you did. That racialist
thing - it's disgusting.'

'You don't know the pressures. You take so much for granted.
A strong Germany, a job after university, food in your belly.'

When he left he did not say goodbye and it was not until the
police called, a few days later, that they realised he was involved in something
more than merely demonstrating against somebody else's war. They had not met for
more than seven years and he never telephoned. When the newspapers printed his wanted
picture, his mother tried to prevent his father from seeing it. Once, early on,
they had received a postcard on which he had written: 'I am fine and doing something
I believe in.'
In
brackets he had added: 'Hope cops let
you have this when they have checked the handwriting!'

Since his telephone call to Cyprus from the post office near
the Sorbonne Koller had stopped his midday excursions. He would usually wait until
dusk before mixing in the early evening rush to buy his newspapers. Otherwise he
relied on radio and television for his news. The other tenants in his block were
middle class and incurious, and the concierge was so accustomed to his infrequent
comings and goings that she hardly registered the presence or absence of the Dutch
gentleman who went away a lot on business.

The young French reporter had a good show with his scoop and
his magazine promoted it on the billboards outside the newsstands. 'The fascist,
the waiter, and the terrorist' they called it.
To Koller's disgust
an introduction to the interview, which had been printed almost verbatim, made much
of the possibility that he had been having a homosexual affair with the dead waiter,
even hinting that Fouche-Larimand himself might have been the third member of a
ghastly ménage a trois that transcended ideological boundaries.
What redeemed
the article, as far as Koller was concerned, was that it carried the full address
of the clinic in Athens. The temptation to leave immediately was enormous, but he
stayed in the flat for another three days until - exactly two weeks after Le Poidevin's
death - he judged that the heat was off and he could cross frontiers at minimum
risk.

He took a train to Brussels, travelling on an Australian passport
in the name of Martin, his last remaining alias and one he had always been reluctant
to use because of his accented English. But the Flemish-speaking immigration man
who boarded the train at the frontier gave the document the most cursory glance.
A few hours later he was on the direct Sabena flight to Athens, trying to catch
the eye of a big-hipped stewardess for a second after-dinner brandy.

He took a room at the Grande Bretagn in Constitution Square,
a belle époque establishment of brass and polished wood and wing-collared barmen,
where the richer tourists recover from their ascent through warm smog on the Acropolis.

As usual, because of airport security, he had taken his pistol
only as far as Brussels and next morning had to go to one of the Front's safe houses
in the port of Piraeus, a forty-five-minute drive away, to collect another one.
To his disgust the Armenian there could offer him only an ancient, long-barrelled
revolver that was difficult to conceal under his jacket. Nor was there any opportunity
to test the tarnished brass cartridges that came with it. He grumbled, but the Armenian,
an overweight epicurean already into his third ouzo of the day, was adamant that
it was all that was available. After Koller left he made a telephone call to Cyprus.

In the taxi on the way back to Athens, ignoring the optimistic
thumbs of the androgynous young back-packers lining the route, the terrorist tried
to concentrate his mind on the problem of getting into the clinic to see Fouche-Larimand.
Instead, he found himself wondering how, once inside, he was going to persuade a
dying man that it was in his best interests to talk. He had to know who was behind
the Charlemagne Circle, what really motivated them: was Fouche-Larimand really the
Grand Jules Le Poidevin had referred to? And why had the Circle picked on the Front?
And why his cell?
There were other, easier targets. He
had no doubt that the Frenchman knew most, perhaps all of the answers. But from
what Le Poidevin had told him, and from those biographical details he had gleaned
from the news magazine, he could not imagine the old fascist scaring very easily.
If he didn't want to talk, would oblivion now seem any worse than oblivion in a
few weeks' time? He might even welcome the idea. But a lot of pain could come first.
He could arrange that. And even a man already dancing with death might still fear
other things. Koller remembered what had happened to Siegfried, and began to feel
much more confident that Fouche-Larimand would tell him what he wanted to know.

To his great surprise when he arrived at the clinic Koller had
no problem in getting to their most sought-after patient. He introduced himself
to the grey-haired woman behind the reception desk as 'Mr Martin from Paris - a
friend of Mr Le Poidevin'. He pronounced Le Poidevin in the correct Guernsey fashion
- 'Le Pedvin'.

'I think you're expected,' said the receptionist, looking him
up and down.

Fouche-Larimand was at his hammiest.

'Ah, Herr Martin,' he said when Koller was ushered into his room.
'What kept you?'

He was sitting up in bed wearing the same dressing-gown in which
he had appeared in the pages of the news magazine. Across the bed covers, partly
hidden by newspapers and magazines, lay his sword-stick.

Koller succeeded in hiding his surprise and sat down on the bedside
chair. When the nurse who had shown him in had gone he took one of the newspapers
off the bed, put it across his lap, pulled the heavy revolver out of his waistband
and cocked it beneath the newspaper with an ostentatious click. He ignored the stick.

'Aren't you going to lock the door?' asked FoucheLarimand.

Koller shook his head.

 
'I suppose you want me
to answer some questions before you kill me?'

'From what I've read, the last bit won't be necessary.'

'Ah, doctors can be wrong, you know.'

'It doesn't look like it from here.'

The old man appeared to be entering the final stages of his decay.
The dead, flavescent tissue of the burn scar now looked positively alive against
the drawn, alabaster face. Under the dressing-gown the wounds from the last operation
were not healing properly and the bandages had to be changed three times a day.
Only the one good darting eye, flicking from Koller to the door to the sword-stick,
betrayed the willing spirit.

'Why did you kill Le Poidevin? It wasn't his fault, you know.
He was just a pawn, a cypher.'

'I didn't. He must have killed himself-unless you did it.'

It was Fouche-Larimand's turn to conceal surprise; he hadn't
been expecting a denial.

'No matter, he's dead anyway - a common fate. He told you about
our little club, I suppose - the Charlemagne Circle?'

'Yes.'

'You must admit, dear boy, it was clever stuff.'

Koller swallowed hard. 'I don't understand why an old fascist
like you would work for the Zionists?'

'My dear boy, I am not anti-Zionist, just anti-semitic.'

'Stop calling me "dear boy".'

'Yes, dear boy. In any case, we aren't working for them – we
just happened to be on the same side.'

'You have no connection with the Israelis?' asked Koller, doing
his best to ignore the provocation.

'Of course not.
Oh my dear boy! Is that
what you thought?
The clever Jews using their old enemies to bash
the Palestinians.
What a devious mind you have. I expected something a bit
more plodding - it must be your mother's side. No, we were just fighting communism
and the sort of decadents and moral degenerates who allow it to spread. Something,
I'm proud to say, I've been doing all my adult life. You, of course, are an anti-Nazi
who has spent much of his time fighting Jews - a peculiar philosophy.'

'You've already given your interview. Let's get some facts. How
did you penetrate us? What led you to Siegfried?'

'Oh, you've read it?' said the dying man, completely ignoring
the question. 'I hope you didn't mind my little joke about you being queer? I hear
you're quite a ladies' man. I thought it was quite good, quite fair. They didn't
misquote me all that much. The climate is changing, you know. People are more prepared
to listen to us, heed our warnings. And the conservatives are coming back into power
all over Free Europe. Not much better than the socialists, it's true - but better,
definitely better.'

'This gun is fitted with a silencer,'
lied
Koller, bringing it up behind the newspaper. 'If you don't stop this shit and answer
my questions, it will give me great pleasure to shoot you through one of your knee-caps.
It won't kill you, of course, but the pain will be excruciating. If you still won't
tell, I'll do it to the other one and then I'll start at the wrists and the elbows.'

'My dear boy, that's much more like it, much more in character,
I'm sure. I was teasing. I fully intend to tell you everything-'

'And don't call me "dear boy".'

'How about Hans?
I am such a sentimentalist.
That's why I go to the funerals of nonentities and get myself into trouble.' Fouche-Larimand
was enjoying himself. A trace of colour had even returned to one cheek. But a bullet
in the knee was painful and he didn't want to push his luck.

'Well, of course, the Circle penetrated your little cell by getting
hold of your friend Siegfried and
he
, er, talked.'

'Yes, I know that, we might go into that, but what I want to
know is how you found us? Who helped you?
The DST?
CIA?
Israeli intelligence?
German?
British - who?'

'My dear Hans, you must realise that we are persona non-grata
with all those fine organisations. No, we had inside information. Someone who knew
the inside of your head, someone who could imagine what you would do next, how you
would react. I admit we have a friend, an old comrade, in the German police who
gave us some general advice. Lisbon, Amsterdam, London and Paris, he said - in about
that order I believe. We wasted a lot of time in Portugal and Holland.'

'And this person who is supposed to know the inside of my head
- this is your Grand Jules?'

'Ah, Le Poidevin told you that as well, did
he
? You must have had a very interesting conversation. Now you
want to know who he
is?
Well, I'll tell you, but I think
you might find it a bit of a shock. Why don't you pour yourself a brandy - it is
your drink, isn't it? You'll find a bottle on the table over there. Pour one for
me while you're at it.'

Koller sat still. 'Listen, you old fart,' he said, 'I think we
have been watching different movies. Get on with it.'

'That's the trouble with you young people nowadays,' sighed the
Comte. 'No sense of style.'

The German made an angry movement beneath the newspaper, which
fell to the floor to reveal the ancient revolver he was holding.

'Silencer indeed,' snorted Fouche-Larimand. 'From which museum
did you steal that
blunderbuss.
'

'Talk,' said Koller. The dying man told him what he wanted to
know.

When he had finished, Koller sat for a long time without saying
anything. It was as if by neatly reversing an equation, the whole sum of his adult
life had been cancelled out. Like a prisoner who had spent years filing through
his bars only to find that he was actually outside the prison all the time. Then,
still without a word, the gun held limply in his right hand, he got up to leave.

'Aren't you going to kill me?' demanded Fouche-Larimand, his
voice high-pitched, almost squeaky.

Koller, moving slowly around the bed, shook his head.

'Don't you want to hear about Siegfried, your dear comrade Siegfried?
God, how he screamed.
Like a woman. He screamed before
we'd even started on him and when - when we started pulling the nails - he screamed
even more. He would have told us without that, but we did it anyway became that's
what the bastard deserved. And when he knew we were going to finish him he cried
- cried like a child.'

Koller looked at the old man. He was sitting up in
bed,
his hands gripping the steel bed frame either side of the
mattress, chin up and quivering slightly, his good eye half-closed.