“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Gunther, but—”

“Shut up and listen. I was an intelligence officer. And before that I worked for the War Crimes Bureau in Berlin. One of the crimes we investigated was the murders of twenty-six thousand Polish officers, four thousand of them at a place I’m not going to mention in case it makes this dog prick up his ears. They were all of them murdered and buried in a forest clearing by NKVD.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” insisted the major. “Everyone knows that was the SS.”

“Look, it’s vital you believe that they weren’t killed by the SS. I know. I saw the bodies. Look, this man, this Blue sitting next to us, is wearing several medals on his chest, one of which is the Merited NKVD Worker medal. Like I said, I was an intelligence officer, and I happen to know that this medal was commissioned by the Council of the People’s Commissars of the USSR—in other words, Uncle Joe himself—in October 1940, as a special thank-you to all of those who did the killings in April of that same year.”

The major tutted loudly and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Outside our carriage, the stationmaster blew his whistle and the locomotive expelled a loud cloud of steam. “Where are you going with this conversation?”

“Don’t you get it? He’s an assassin. I wouldn’t mind betting that Comrade General Mielke has placed him on this train to kill all three of us.”

The train started to move.

“Ridiculous,” said Weltz. “Look, if this is the beginning of an attempt at escape, it’s a pretty clumsy one. Everyone knows that those Poles were murdered by the fascists.”

“You mean everyone except everyone in Poland,” I said. “There’s not much doubt there who was responsible. But if you don’t believe that, then maybe you’ll believe this: Mielke’s already screwed you in the ass, Major. He gave me a gun that I’m supposed to use to help make my escape. But my bet is that the gun isn’t going to work.”

“Why would the comrade general do such a thing?” asked Weltz, shaking his head. “It makes absolutely no sense.”

“It makes a lot of sense if you know Mielke as well as I do. I think he wants me dead because of what I could tell you about him. And he probably wants you both dead in case I already have.”

“It couldn’t hurt to see if he’s telling the truth about the gun, sir,” said Lieutenant Rascher.

“All right. Stand up, Gunther.”

Staying exactly where I was, I glanced quickly at the Russian sergeant. He had a large Stalin-size mustache and one continuous matching eyebrow; the nose was round and red, almost comical-looking; the ears had more hair on and in them than a wild pig’s.

“If you search me, Major, the Ivan will figure something’s wrong and draw his gun. And it will be too late for us all when he’s done that.”