“Possibly to piss Rudolf off,” said Kestner. “Since almost certainly he knows nothing about your mission. By the way, Bernie, what is your mission? The Prinz Albrechtstrasse has been rather secretive about what you’re doing in Paris.”

“You remember that communist who murdered the two policemen in Berlin in 1931? Erich Mielke?”

To his credit, Kestner didn’t even flinch at the mention of this name.

“Vaguely,” he said.

“Heydrich thinks he’s in a French concentration camp somewhere in the south of France. My orders are to find him, get him back to Paris, and then arrange his transport back to Berlin, where he’s to stand trial.”

“Nothing else?”

“What else could there be?”

“Only that we could have organized that on our own, without your having to come here to Paris. You don’t even speak French.”

“You forget, Paul. I’ve met Mielke. If he’s changed his name, as seems likely, I might be able to identify him.”

“Yes, of course. I remember now. We just missed him in Hamburg, didn’t we?”

“That’s right.”

“Seems like a lot of effort for just one man. Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

“What Heydrich wants, Heydrich gets.”

“Point made,” said Kestner. “Well. Shall we walk? It’s a fine day.”

“Is it safe?”

Kestner laughed. “From who? The French?” He laughed again. “Let me tell you something about the French, Bernie. They know that it’s in their interest to get on with us Fridolins. That’s what they call us. Quite a lot of them are happy we’re here. Christ, they’re even more anti-Semitic than we are.” He shook his head. “No. You’ve got nothing to worry about from the French, my friend.”

Unlike Kestner, I didn’t speak a word of French, but it was easy to find your way around Paris. There were German direction signs on every street corner. It was a pity I didn’t have a similar arrangement inside my own head; it might have made it easier to decide what to do about Kestner.

Kestner’s French was, to my Fridolin ears, perfect, which is to say he sounded like a Frenchman. His father was a chemist who, disgusted by the Dreyfus affair, had left Alsace to live in Berlin. In those days, Berlin had been a more tolerant place than France. Paul Kestner had been just five years old when he came to live in Berlin, but for the rest of his life his mother always spoke to him in French.

“That’s how I got this posting,” he said as we walked north to the Seine.

“I didn’t think it was because of your love of art.”