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Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. FIELD GRAY
  3. ALSO BY PHILIP KERR
  4. FIELD GRAY
  5. Copyright
  6. Epigraph
  7. Dedication
  8. FIELD GRAY
  9. Contents
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. 32
  42. 33
  43. 34
  44. 35
  45. 36
  46. 37
  47. 38
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. AUTHOR’S NOTE

“You think I give a fuck about any of that?” he said angrily. “How many fucking Jews he killed. I don’t care. I don’t care about Treblinka, Gunther. Or the fate of some lousy Gypsies. They’re dead. Too bad. It’s not my problem. What I do care about is finding Edgard de Boudel. Got that? What I care about is finding the man who tortured and murdered almost three hundred Frenchmen in Indochina.” He was shouting now and waving his arms in the air, but he didn’t grab me by the lapels, and I sensed that while he might have been angry and disappointed, he was also wary of me now.

“So we’re going back to that refugee camp at Friedland tomorrow and we’re going to look at every man there and we’re going to find de Boudel. Understand?”

“It’s not my fault that he’s not our man,” I shouted back. “But it was the right call. And, assuming your information is correct and de Boudel really was on that fucking train, then it stands to reason he’s in the camp.”

“You’d better pray he is, or we’re both in trouble. It’s not only your ass, it’s mine, too.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

“What?”

“Pray. Pray to get out of this place for a while. To get away from you, Émile.” I shook my head. “I need some room to breathe. To clear my head.”

He seemed to control himself and then nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—you’re right. Look, take a walk around town. Go to church again. I’ll send someone with you.”

“What about him? Kestner?”

“We’ll take him back to the refugee camp. The German authorities can decide what to do with him. But me, I don’t have any time for the UN and their stupid War Crimes Commission. I don’t want to know about it.”

Muttering in French, he walked off, probably before one of us felt obliged to try to hit the other again.

I found Grottsch, who to my surprise tried to excuse the Frenchman with the explanation that his daughter was ill. We collected our coats and went outside into the autumn sunshine. Göttingen was full of students, which served to remind me that my own daughter, Dinah, was probably in her first year of university by now. At least I hoped she was.