The Pale House (38 page)

“What kind of judge?”

“I will tell that to Alexiou,” said Reinhardt, making the one throw he could, making it here and now with the man he had chosen, hoping it would hit something, and not just fall silently. He need not have worried, as the man's eyes went flat with menace.

“What do you want of Alexiou?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“What about?”

“That is between him and me.”

There was a call from higher up, and a rope unfurled itself down against the light gray sky, thumping to the earth next to them. Reinhardt wound and fastened it around Kreuz's ankles, then began pulling himself up it, hearing the Greek coming up behind him. At the top, breathless, he watched the men haul the body up. Reinhardt watched it come, seeing how the dead always lay at the wrong angle. Limbs were never meant to move that way. As if in death a body assumed a freedom it could never achieve in life. A last heave up and over the breach, and Kreuz's body lolled across the ground. Heads peered in and down.

“Drunk again,” one of the soldiers said.

“Looks like he fell. Bashed his head in,” said a Feldgendarme, kneeling and pointing needlessly at Kreuz's skull. “Stupid bugger.”

“Couldn't'a happened to a nicer man.”

“Anyone see him yesterday?” Reinhardt asked. Again, that space opened up around him, heads turning down and away. He looked for the Greek and saw the man walking away, toward an archway in the courtyard's walls. Reinhardt decided to give him time, and then he would go looking himself. “No one? Someone must have. I just want a when and where, otherwise I'll have this whole unit drawn up for punishment detail,” he said, putting iron in his voice, challenging them with his eyes, his stance. “A time and place. That's all.”

“Latrine block,” said a voice. It was a skinny soldier, his hands hunched deep into his coat. Space opened up around him as Reinhardt walked toward him. “About midnight. He was in one of the stalls. Talking to himself. Like he usually did.”

“What was he saying?”

“Nonsense, Captain. It's what usually came out of his mouth. Muttering and giggling about tickets and judges. Sounded like he'd won the lottery or something.”

“Show me the latrine block.”

The man's mouth fell, and then he nodded, sighing out through his nose. Reinhardt followed him across the courtyard, pointing at Kreuz's body and looking at the Feldgendarme. “He's all yours, Corporal,” he said.

The man led Reinhardt to a sagging structure of wood and timber, the stench from which was eye-watering even before he ducked into it. The man pointed to a stall at the end, its door hanging half open in front of a hole in the sodden ground, a pair of duckboards all the support there was. The stench was appalling, and Reinhardt had to cover his nose and mouth with his sleeve as he pushed his eyes from corner to corner of the stall, but he could see nothing, and when he came back out into the fresh air the man was gone, but the Greek was back.

“You come,” the man said. “Alexiou will talk.”

R
einhardt was led through the archway into a small courtyard, trucks and cars parked tightly around it. Reinhardt followed the Greek around a half-track with no tracks sitting slumped to one side. There were men dotted around the courtyard, but his eyes were drawn to two big men warming their hands over a brazier in front of the entrance to what looked like it had once been a stable. They were twins, stocky, broad shouldered, thick black hair cut close to the blocks of their heads. They looked Reinhardt over, and then one of them glanced inside the room. There was a third man in there, sitting back in the shadows. Dimly seen, a hand gestured, and the twins stood aside, motioning Reinhardt to pass inside.

He squeezed past the brazier's glow, his skin pulling at its heat, then into the dimness of the room. The man sitting at the back leaned forward slightly, and Reinhardt could see immediately the resemblance the twins bore to him, such that it was obvious he was their father. Feeling self-conscious but feeling it was the right thing to do, Reinhardt extended his right hand to the man, who, after a moment, took it and shook. The man's hand was large, the skin warm and hard. It was a firm shake, one squeeze of the hand, and the man nodded slightly and sat back. He motioned with the other hand, and one of the twins pulled out a stool and offered it to Reinhardt. He sat, stretching his left leg out.

“My name is Captain Reinhardt, of the Feldjaegerkorps.”

“Alexiou,” said the man. He said something else, and one of the twins turned to Reinhardt and translated his father's words. “My father asks would you like coffee?”

“Only if it is Greek.”

Alexiou smiled as he understood—a thin curl of his lips, but a smile nevertheless—though his eyes stayed flinty, and he and Reinhardt sized each other up as the twins busied themselves over the brazier. They sat in silence as the smell of roasting coffee filled the room, and the twins returned with mismatched cups. Reinhardt took his, turning it in his hands and lifting it to inhale the scent. His eyes closed a moment, and he was back on
, the city moving toward high summer, and it was late afternoon, the square filling with people, with friends and families, the air thick with conversation. He opened his eyes, saw the old man looking at him, and he saluted him with the cup, taking a hot sip.

“Excellent. I thank you.”

“My father says you are welcome,” said the twin who had spoken. “My name is Kostas. I will translate for you. This is Panos,” he continued, indicating the other twin. “Now, my father wonders what you would like to talk to him about.”

“May we speak freely, and openly?” Reinhardt looked at Alexiou as he spoke, waiting until the man finally nodded. The man was a patriarch, and patriarchs expected a certain mode and rhythm of conversation, and if he expected deference, Reinhardt would give him that too. “Did you kill Kreuz?”

“No,” Alexiou answered, finally, the word dropping into an aching silence.

“Do you know who did?”

“No. But I can guess.” Reinhardt waited. “He was killed by those he served.”

“By the Feldgendarmerie?” Alexiou's head came down in a slow nod. “Why?”

“I do not know.”

“Kreuz was afraid of you. Of all of you,” Reinhardt said, drawing the twins in with his eyes. “He was a spy for the Feldgendarmerie. For Jansky. He was afraid you would kill him for it.”

“Better is the devil where you can see him, Captain. Kreuz knew and heard what we wanted.”

“Who were Berthold and Seymer?”

All three of the Greeks leaned back, just slight movements, shifts of shoulders, tightening of necks. Alexiou's mouth twisted as he turned his head to one side to sip from his cup, keeping his eyes fixed on Reinhardt. “They were friends of ours.”

“What happened to them?”

“They disappeared. About a week ago.”

“How?”

“Working.”

“Where?”

“In the forest. Outside the city.”

“Where?”

Alexiou frowned, irritation unfurling itself across his eyes before he calmed himself. “At the camp for wood.”

Reinhardt frowned at Kostas. “Camp for wood?”

“For cutting wood,” Kostas nodded.

“The logging camp,” Reinhardt said to himself, quietly. “Tell me about this camp.”

“Nothing to tell. It was a place for taking wood. For the city. But it was unlucky work.”

“Why?”

“The camp was attacked by the Partisans. Several times.”

“Men went missing?” Alexiou nodded, slowly. “How many went missing?”

The Greeks looked among themselves. Panos said something quietly to his father. Alexiou shrugged, gestured with a jut of his chin, and Kostas turned to Reinhardt. “Four, maybe five men disappeared in the forest.”

“Kreuz found out the deaths had not been reported,” said Alexiou. “That the men's
soldbuchs
were still here. They had not been reported missing. And that the books were with Thun, one of the men who works in Jansky's office.”

“Who is Thun?”

“A snitch—it is the word?—a snitch, like Jansky. But good with papers.”

“Who was in charge of the logging camp?”

“Lieutenant Metzler.”

“Have other men gone missing?”

“What kind of question is that, Captain? This is war. Men go missing. This is a punishment unit. Men will go missing here, first. Who will care? Who will count? And now,” Alexiou said, leaning his elbows on his knees, “you talk. Tell me of Judge Dreyer. What is he?”

“A war crimes judge,” said Reinhardt, after a moment's consideration, watching the man's face. There was no reaction he could see.

“War crimes judge. What is this?”

“He works for the War Crimes Bureau. An investigation unit,” said Reinhardt. “It reports to the armed forces high command.”

“You work together?” Alexiou pointed at Reinhardt's armband.

“No. It's different. The bureau researches allegations of war crimes. By anyone, allied or enemy.”

“And then what?”

“If there is evidence, military courts launch proceedings. Trials,” he said. There was a reaction then, a flare and pinch of the man's nostrils. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Kreuz told us some things about you, Captain. Jansky told us some things. We found out some more. You were a policeman. You still are,” Alexiou said, glancing at Reinhardt's gorget, pausing to drink. “I will tell you some things, Captain Reinhardt. Things you may find interesting. But first, I will ask you, are you ready to deal with the devil?”

“With you?”

“With me.”

“I will listen,” Reinhardt said.

“I can maybe give you Jansky,” said Alexiou, a calm blink belaying the weight of his words. “This is what this judge wants, is it not?”

“Go on.”

“We are Greeks who enlisted in the German Army, as we felt we could no longer live in our own country,” said Alexiou. It was said simply, but the deeper meaning was there, the deeper truth that they were collaborators who had backed the wrong cause and were now paying the price for it. Said simply, it was a fact, like a rock in the road. It just was. It could not be moved, shunted aside. Only acknowledged, then contoured.

“We have been with this unit for some time, Captain. We were the first foreigners to join it. Nearly a year ago, in Greece. We needed a place of safety, and although it may sound strange to you, this place was it. If you like, I took the chance—for me and my family, and those others outside who are loyal to me—to hide away. To hide in plain view, if you like, to wait for another day, and I paid good gold for that privilege. Alas, that day never came. I used to think it would, but anyone who says there is a brighter time coming for our cause is dreaming. Now, I am no longer involved in the councils. In the decisions. Look at us. Everyone has gone, except the runts. We are last to move. Even the Albanians come before me.”

“What do you think is going on?”

“I do not know.”

“I heard of an Albanian who was killed, recently. In a car crash. He was from Balli Kombëtar.” The Greeks went still, all three of them staring at him. “What do you know of that?”

“Nothing. What the Albanians do is not our business. They are pigs.”

“What about the UstaÅ¡e?”

“What of them?”

“What do you hear?”

“They are pigs, too. We are all pigs, rooting in the dirt, eating shit, not able to see past our nose. I do not know the whole shape of what is happening, but what I see I do not like. This place no longer has the welcome of before, and now, I fear I must find another place for my people. I am tired of being ignored, of just being fed words. Words that are supposed to fill some hole, as if anyone but my sons could know the shape of the hole that fills me. Words that are supposed to kindle a fire in me, words that are supposed to recall the great blows we struck against the fucking leftists and the weaklings and the Communists who would have sent my country to ruin. Words that are supposed to describe the great things we will still do, if only we are patient. As if a warm handshake and a pat on the shoulder and praise is any substitute for action. You give such to a dog, Captain, not to a man.”

Alexiou paused, and though his voice remained calm, his anger was palpable. He sipped from his cup, his eyes far away. His sons looked past each other, round-shouldered around their own cups.

“Who is it who tells you these things?” Reinhardt asked.

“I do not know,” Alexiou answered. “Some fucking Germans. You all look and sound the same to us. One spoke like . . . like a fisherman. Harsh. Swearing. One spoke like a priest. That is when I knew. Always when you have no more need of us, this is when the big words come out.”

“Did Kreuz tell you about Dreyer?” Alexiou said nothing. “If he didn't, who did? Was it Jansky?” Reaction, the nose flaring, pinching. “It was Jansky. Ask yourself, why would he do that? What does he want you to do with that information?”

“I do not know, and I do not care.”

“You should. Maybe you should think why you are still here when the others have gone.”

“I do not march to Jansky's music anymore. Now, I must consider how best to act for my people. I have a deal for you. I will give you something. But you must look away.” Alexiou leaned forward, his cup tiny in his thick fingers. “If you can promise Dreyer will leave us alone, we can help give Jansky to him. We know things, and we are still close enough we can find new things. But you get nothing for nothing. For what we have, you must deal with the devil, and I think men like you find that hard.”

Reinhardt turned the coffee cup around in his fingers, gently tilting it so the liquid ran away from the grounds. He lifted it, sipped slowly until the taste went gritty and sour. “I can do that,” he said, looking at the sludge of grounds in the bottom of his cup. “After all, it's not so hard. You can even get used to it,” he finished, raising his eyes to Alexiou's.

“To fight injustice, you must sometimes commit it,” agreed Alexiou, gravely, leaning forward and taking the cup gently from Reinhardt while Reinhardt seethed inside, as if this man could dream he could plumb the depths of what Reinhardt regretted. Holding the cup delicately, Alexiou tilted it and turned it three times, spilling out a thin stream of liquid and dark grounds, then turned it upside down onto a small saucer and sat back.

“Kreuz had evidence he wanted to give to me. Can you find it?”

“What was it?”

Reinhardt shrugged, slightly, his mouth turning down. “I don't know. But I suspect it was documents. Maybe even these
soldbuchs
you mentioned he saw.”

“Where would he get those?” The three Greeks exchanged blank looks. “If he stole those, or if Jansky suspected he might have, I can understand he is dead now,” Alexiou continued.

“Kreuz was last seen alive in the latrines. Could it be he hid something there?” The three Greeks exchanged blank looks again. “Or somewhere else in the fortress.”