Another month passed. And then one day I was summoned to the office again, and I went along expecting to find the same two MVD officers and hear them ask me if my time in the mine shaft had helped to change my mind about K-5. It had changed my mind about a lot of things, but not German communism and its secret police force. I was going to tell them to go to hell, and perhaps sound like I meant it, too, even though I was ready for someone to come and put some plaster of Paris on my face. So I was a little disappointed that the two officers weren’t there, the way you are when you’ve worked up a pretty good speech about a lot of noble things that don’t add up to very much that’s important when you’re lying in the morgue.

There was only one officer in the room, a heavyset man with receding brown hair and a pugnacious jaw. Like his two predecessors, he wore blue breeches and a brown gimnasterka tunic but was better decorated; as well as the veteran NKVD soldier badge and Order of the Red Banner, there were other medals I didn’t recognize. The insignia on his collar tabs and the stars on his sleeves seemed to indicate that he was at least a colonel, or perhaps even a general. His blue officer’s cap, with its squarish visor, lay on the table alongside the Nagant revolver in its bucket-sized holster.

“The answer is still no,” I said, hardly caring who he was.

“Sit down,” he said. “And don’t be a bloody fool.”

He was German.

“I know I’ve put on a bit of weight,” he said. “But I thought you of all people would recognize me.”

I sat down and rubbed some of the dust from my eyes. “Now you come to mention it, you do seem kind of familiar.”

“You I wouldn’t have recognized at all. Not in a million years.”

“I know. I should lay off the chocolates. Get myself a haircut and a manicure. But I never do seem to have the time. My job keeps me pretty busy.”

The officer’s pork-butcher’s face cracked a smile. Almost. “A sense of humor. That’s impressive in this place. But if you really want to impress me, then stop playing the tough guy and tell me who I am.”

“Don’t you know?”

He tutted impatiently and shook his head. “Please. I can help you if you’ll let me. But I have to believe you’re worth it. If you’re any kind of detective, you’ll remember who I am.”

“Erich Mielke,” I said. “Your name is Erich Mielke.”

25

GERMANY, 1946

You knew all along.”

“There was a moment when I didn’t. The last time I saw you, Erich, you looked like me.”