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Authors: Anthony Price
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render a bill of some sort.
'And that really is the sum total?'
'I might be able to come up with a few more names. But it wouldn't signify, because he covers too much territory. That's the trouble — you can't pin him down. In any case, David, you'd best tell me more exactly what it is you want.'
Basically the Israelis knew no more than the British: they both knew simply what was common knowledge. But Audley had expected that. What they did have, however, was by far the best record of events in Berlin in 1945; it was a mere byproduct of their long hunt for the missing Nazi butchers, but it was rumoured to be astonishingly complete. That, though he didn't know it, was going to be Jake's special contribution.
'Well,' began Audley judiciously, 'there are several periods of Panin's career I'd like to fill in, but I think you'll only be able to help me with the early one, which is really the least important. I may not even need it, but if you could pass the word to one or two of your Berlin old-timers, they might know something.'
Jake's face hardened. Different nations had different raw places, tender spots, where no leeway was ever allowed. For the Indians and Pakistanis it was Kashmir. For Frenchmen it was 1940. For Jake, and for may other Israelis, it was still the missing Nazis of 1945. He should have remembered that.
'I give you my word, Jake, that as far as I know this has nothing to do with war criminals. Absolutely nothing. And you know how I feel about that.'
The Israeli relaxed. In as far as he trusted any Anglo-Saxon he trusted Audley. Which was not far, perhaps, but far enough.
He nodded. 'Okay, David. I'll drop a word to Joe Bamm–you can always get him at our Berlin place. He's forgotten more about the old days than most other people ever know. In return, if you turn up any little thing about one of them , don't you sit on it.'
He looked at his watch. 'Is that all, then? Because if it is my Delilah awaits me.' He paused, unsmiling again. 'But just you watch it, David, my old friend. You're not dealing with simple Jewish farm boys and stupid Arab peasants any more. You're dealing with real chess players now. If I were you I'd wear belt and braces. They haven't changed one bit, the Russians, whatever your starry-eyed liberals say.'
Audley had one more self-appointed contact to establish before going to the office, but there was no time unfortunately to make it a face to face one. The hated telephone had to be used this time.
'Dr Freisler? Theodore–David Audley here.'
Theodore Freisler was outwardly the archetypal German of the twentieth century world wars, hard-faced and bullet-headed. But within the Teutonic disguise lived an old nineteenth century liberal, whose spiritual home was on the barricades of 1848. His books on German political history were highly regarded in the new Germany, though even in translation Audley found them unreadable. The mind which produced them, however, was at once gentle and formidable: Theodore was a wholly civilised man, the living answer to Jake's unshakeable suspicion of everything German.
'Theodore–I'm glad to have caught you. I'm always expecting to find you've gone back to Germany.'
Theodore had quite unaccountably settled in Britain, in an uncomfortable flat near the British Museum, during a historical conference in 1956. And although he was always revisiting Germany and talking of returning to the Rhineland he had showed no sign of actually doing so. Audley had wondered idly whether he was producing some terrible successor to Das Kapital , to set the next age of the world by the ears.
'One day, David, one day. But until that day I shall make my personal war reparation by letting your chancellor have most of my royalties. That is justice, eh?'
'You'll have to work a lot harder to shift our balance of payments, Theodore. But you may be able to help me just now.'
Their friendship had started years before when Theodore, no Nazi-lover, had volunteered the
'And that really is the sum total?'
'I might be able to come up with a few more names. But it wouldn't signify, because he covers too much territory. That's the trouble — you can't pin him down. In any case, David, you'd best tell me more exactly what it is you want.'
Basically the Israelis knew no more than the British: they both knew simply what was common knowledge. But Audley had expected that. What they did have, however, was by far the best record of events in Berlin in 1945; it was a mere byproduct of their long hunt for the missing Nazi butchers, but it was rumoured to be astonishingly complete. That, though he didn't know it, was going to be Jake's special contribution.
'Well,' began Audley judiciously, 'there are several periods of Panin's career I'd like to fill in, but I think you'll only be able to help me with the early one, which is really the least important. I may not even need it, but if you could pass the word to one or two of your Berlin old-timers, they might know something.'
Jake's face hardened. Different nations had different raw places, tender spots, where no leeway was ever allowed. For the Indians and Pakistanis it was Kashmir. For Frenchmen it was 1940. For Jake, and for may other Israelis, it was still the missing Nazis of 1945. He should have remembered that.
'I give you my word, Jake, that as far as I know this has nothing to do with war criminals. Absolutely nothing. And you know how I feel about that.'
The Israeli relaxed. In as far as he trusted any Anglo-Saxon he trusted Audley. Which was not far, perhaps, but far enough.
He nodded. 'Okay, David. I'll drop a word to Joe Bamm–you can always get him at our Berlin place. He's forgotten more about the old days than most other people ever know. In return, if you turn up any little thing about one of them , don't you sit on it.'
He looked at his watch. 'Is that all, then? Because if it is my Delilah awaits me.' He paused, unsmiling again. 'But just you watch it, David, my old friend. You're not dealing with simple Jewish farm boys and stupid Arab peasants any more. You're dealing with real chess players now. If I were you I'd wear belt and braces. They haven't changed one bit, the Russians, whatever your starry-eyed liberals say.'
Audley had one more self-appointed contact to establish before going to the office, but there was no time unfortunately to make it a face to face one. The hated telephone had to be used this time.
'Dr Freisler? Theodore–David Audley here.'
Theodore Freisler was outwardly the archetypal German of the twentieth century world wars, hard-faced and bullet-headed. But within the Teutonic disguise lived an old nineteenth century liberal, whose spiritual home was on the barricades of 1848. His books on German political history were highly regarded in the new Germany, though even in translation Audley found them unreadable. The mind which produced them, however, was at once gentle and formidable: Theodore was a wholly civilised man, the living answer to Jake's unshakeable suspicion of everything German.
'Theodore–I'm glad to have caught you. I'm always expecting to find you've gone back to Germany.'
Theodore had quite unaccountably settled in Britain, in an uncomfortable flat near the British Museum, during a historical conference in 1956. And although he was always revisiting Germany and talking of returning to the Rhineland he had showed no sign of actually doing so. Audley had wondered idly whether he was producing some terrible successor to Das Kapital , to set the next age of the world by the ears.
'One day, David, one day. But until that day I shall make my personal war reparation by letting your chancellor have most of my royalties. That is justice, eh?'
'You'll have to work a lot harder to shift our balance of payments, Theodore. But you may be able to help me just now.'
Their friendship had started years before when Theodore, no Nazi-lover, had volunteered the
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