smoke at the ceiling, and picked up the phone at its third ring.
“Pappenheim.”
“You’ve got trouble.”
“So what’s new?” Pappenheim retorted, recognising the voice at the other end. “I’ve always got trouble.”
“Not like this, you haven’t.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Then sit back. An American called Adams has just been killed…”
“ What?” Pappenheim sat bolt upright, and stubbed out the cigarette he’d been enjoying.
“Is that the sound of a Gauloise dying?”
“If this is a joke…”
“I never make jokes.”
“Tell me about it,” Pappenheim remarked pointedly. “So? What’s the full story?”
“Early days yet. Only just got the essentials, and it looks like a certain Colonel Bloomfield – whom I’m certain you’ve never heard of – is in the frame.”
“You have got to be joking.”
“I’ve just said…”
“Yes, yes, I know. You never joke. How certain are you about this?”
“Don’t insult me,” the person said. “I’ll call you later.” The line went dead.
“Touchy as ever,” Pappenheim said as he slowly replaced the receiver. “With news like this, one needs corroboration.” He picked up the other phone, and dialled an extension. “Ah. Miss Meyer. I need your expertise again, I’m afraid. I’ll square it with Herman.”
“I’ll be right there, sir.”
“Thank you.”
They left the A114 at the Zehlendorf junction and fed onto the B1, for Wannsee. The rain had stopped for a while and the road, though damp, was no longer wet enough for the fat wheels of the Porsche to generate much spray. Müller barely needed to use the wipers.
“Hey,” Carey Bloomfield began, peering upwards. “Think the sun will make it?”
“It might,” Müller replied. “On the other hand, it might not.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“The weather’s.”
“You’re something, Müller. You know that?”
“I know it.”
“Müller?”
“Yes?”
“The Wannsee Conference villa is near here, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Once we cross the water, we’ll be getting off at next junction. That’s Am Grosser Wannsee. The villa is along that road.”
“Can we have a look first, before we go check on Herr Vogel?”
“It’s on the way. Why not? But are you certain you would like to? The pictures in there are not pretty.”
“I know what you’re getting at. My dad’s Jewish; but my Mom isn’t. And I’m as secular as it’s possible to be. I can hack it.”
“You don’t need to be Jewish to be moved.”
“I realise that. Have you been there?”
“No.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”
“I don’t need to. But I’ll come with you.”
They came to the turning and Müller left the B1 to take the road, which skirted the shore. He drove along it until they came to an area on a wide bend where they could stop.
“There’s a car park further along,” he said, “but as we’re not going to be long, might as well stop here. That’s the place, over to the right. The Villa Marlier.”
The sun had actually begun to shine, and a strangely clear light had come upon the day. They walked along a tree and hedge-lined driveway, towards a circular flower bed at the entrance. They went round it, then paused just before entering.
“What a beautiful building, “ Carey Bloomfield said.
The sun, as if given an extra luminescence by the recent rain, appeared to light up the building.
She looked about her. “And beautiful grounds too. Great place to have a villa.”
They entered the villa with its dark, polished wooden floor, and pale walls covered with captioned photographs depicting events of humankind’s notorious inhumanity to itself.
They went through to the concentration camp display. Carey Bloomfield’s face was still, but she showed no emotion. They then went through to the actual room where the conference had been held. This room held a neat array of the photographs of the actual participants, with information on each
“Pappenheim.”
“You’ve got trouble.”
“So what’s new?” Pappenheim retorted, recognising the voice at the other end. “I’ve always got trouble.”
“Not like this, you haven’t.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Then sit back. An American called Adams has just been killed…”
“ What?” Pappenheim sat bolt upright, and stubbed out the cigarette he’d been enjoying.
“Is that the sound of a Gauloise dying?”
“If this is a joke…”
“I never make jokes.”
“Tell me about it,” Pappenheim remarked pointedly. “So? What’s the full story?”
“Early days yet. Only just got the essentials, and it looks like a certain Colonel Bloomfield – whom I’m certain you’ve never heard of – is in the frame.”
“You have got to be joking.”
“I’ve just said…”
“Yes, yes, I know. You never joke. How certain are you about this?”
“Don’t insult me,” the person said. “I’ll call you later.” The line went dead.
“Touchy as ever,” Pappenheim said as he slowly replaced the receiver. “With news like this, one needs corroboration.” He picked up the other phone, and dialled an extension. “Ah. Miss Meyer. I need your expertise again, I’m afraid. I’ll square it with Herman.”
“I’ll be right there, sir.”
“Thank you.”
They left the A114 at the Zehlendorf junction and fed onto the B1, for Wannsee. The rain had stopped for a while and the road, though damp, was no longer wet enough for the fat wheels of the Porsche to generate much spray. Müller barely needed to use the wipers.
“Hey,” Carey Bloomfield began, peering upwards. “Think the sun will make it?”
“It might,” Müller replied. “On the other hand, it might not.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“The weather’s.”
“You’re something, Müller. You know that?”
“I know it.”
“Müller?”
“Yes?”
“The Wannsee Conference villa is near here, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Once we cross the water, we’ll be getting off at next junction. That’s Am Grosser Wannsee. The villa is along that road.”
“Can we have a look first, before we go check on Herr Vogel?”
“It’s on the way. Why not? But are you certain you would like to? The pictures in there are not pretty.”
“I know what you’re getting at. My dad’s Jewish; but my Mom isn’t. And I’m as secular as it’s possible to be. I can hack it.”
“You don’t need to be Jewish to be moved.”
“I realise that. Have you been there?”
“No.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”
“I don’t need to. But I’ll come with you.”
They came to the turning and Müller left the B1 to take the road, which skirted the shore. He drove along it until they came to an area on a wide bend where they could stop.
“There’s a car park further along,” he said, “but as we’re not going to be long, might as well stop here. That’s the place, over to the right. The Villa Marlier.”
The sun had actually begun to shine, and a strangely clear light had come upon the day. They walked along a tree and hedge-lined driveway, towards a circular flower bed at the entrance. They went round it, then paused just before entering.
“What a beautiful building, “ Carey Bloomfield said.
The sun, as if given an extra luminescence by the recent rain, appeared to light up the building.
She looked about her. “And beautiful grounds too. Great place to have a villa.”
They entered the villa with its dark, polished wooden floor, and pale walls covered with captioned photographs depicting events of humankind’s notorious inhumanity to itself.
They went through to the concentration camp display. Carey Bloomfield’s face was still, but she showed no emotion. They then went through to the actual room where the conference had been held. This room held a neat array of the photographs of the actual participants, with information on each
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