If the Dead Rise Not by Philip Kerr Page A

that I might stand there myself and give Kriminalinspector Richard Bömer half a chance to find me in accordance with Liebermann von Sonnenberg’s arrangements.
    Before he saw me, I saw him—a tallish man in his late twenties, fair-haired, carrying a briefcase under his arm, and wearing a gray suit and a pair of shiny black boots that might have been made to measure for him at the police school in Havel. Deep laugh lines bracketed a wide, full mouth that seemed on the edge of a smile. His nose was bent slightly out of shape, and a thick scar ran through one eyebrow like a little bridge over a golden stream. Except for his ears, which were unscarred, he looked like a promising, young light middleweight who had forgotten to remove his gum shield. Seeing me, he approached unhurriedly.
    “Hey.”
    “Are you Gunther?”
    He pointed southeast, in the direction of the palace. “I think he used to face this way. Frederick William the Third, I mean.”
    “Sure about that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. I like a man who holds on to his opinions.”
    He turned and pointed to the west. “They moved him over there. Behind those trees. Which is where I’ve been waiting for the last ten minutes. I decided to come over here when it occurred to me that you might not know that he’d moved.”
    “Who expects a granite horseman to go anywhere?”
    “They’ve got to march somewhere, I guess.”
    “That’s a matter of opinion. Come on. Let’s sit. A cop never stands when he can sit.”
    We walked up to the Old Museum and sat on the steps in front of a long façade of Ionic columns.
    “I like coming here,” he said. “It makes you think of what we used to be. And what we will be again.”
    I looked at him blankly.
    “You know, German history,” he said.
    “German history is nothing more than a series of ridiculous mustaches,” I said.
    Bömer smiled a crooked, bashful smile, like a schoolboy. “My uncle would love that one,” he said.
    “I take it you don’t mean Liebermann von Sonnenberg.”
    “He’s my wife’s uncle.”
    “As if having the head of KRIPO holding a sponge in your corner wasn’t enough. So your uncle. Who’s he? Hermann Goering?”
    He looked sheepish. “I just want to work homicides. To be a good policeman.”
    “One thing I learned about being a good policeman. It doesn’t pay nearly as well as being a bad one. So who’s your uncle?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “It’s only that Liebermann wanted me to be your uncle, so to speak. And I’m the jealous type. If you’ve got another uncle as important as me, I want to know about it. Besides, I’m nosy, too. That’s why I became a detective.”
    “He’s someone at the Ministry of Propaganda.”
    “You don’t look like Joey the Crip, so you must be talking about someone else.”
    “Bömer. Dr. Karl Bömer.”
    “These days it seems everyone needs a doctorate to lie to people.”
    He grinned again. “You’re just doing this, aren’t you? Because you know I’m a Party member.”
    “Isn’t everyone?”
    “You’re not.”
    “Somehow I never got around to it. There was always a big line of people outside Party headquarters when I went to apply.”
    “It should have told you something. That there’s safety in numbers.”
    “No, there isn’t. I was in the trenches, my young friend. A battalion can be killed just as easily as a single man. And it was the generals, not the Jews, who made sure of that. They’re the ones who stabbed us in the back.”
    “The chief said I should try to avoid talking politics with you, Gunther.”
    “That’s not politics. That’s history. You want to know the real truth of German history? It’s that there’s no truth in German history. Like me at the Alex. None of what you’ve heard about me is true.”
    “The chief said you were a good detective. One of the best.”
    “Apart from that.”
    “He said it was you who caught Gormann, the strangler.”
    “If that had been difficult, the chief would have put