“Yes, Herr General.”

Nebe turned and finally looked at me. “You. Captain Gunther. Come with me.”

I followed Nebe into the adjacent office, where four junior SS officers were reading files taken from an open filing cabinet.

“You lot,” said Nebe. “Fuck off. And close the door behind you. And tell those lazy bastards next door to get rid of that body before it starts stinking the place out in this heat.”

There were two desks in this office, overlooked by a set of French windows and a poor portrait of Stalin in a gray uniform with a red stripe down the side of his trouser leg, looking rather less Caucasian and more Oriental than was usual.

Nebe fetched a bottle of schnapps and glasses from one of the desk drawers and poured two large ones. He took his own drink without a word, like a man who was tired of seeing things straight, and poured himself another while I was still sniffing and tensing my liver.

7

MINSK, 1941

I hadn’t seen Nebe in more than a year. He looked older and more worn than I remembered. His previously gray hair was now the same silver color as his War Merit Cross, while his eyes were as narrow as his pillbox slit of a mouth. Only his long nose and prominent ears seemed much the same.

“It’s good to see you again, Bernie.”

“Arthur.”

“A whole lifetime spent arresting criminals, and now I’ve become a criminal myself.” He chuckled wearily. “What do you think of that?”

“You could put a stop to it.”

“What can I do? I’m just a cog in Heydrich’s machine of death. The machine’s in gear, too. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to.”

“You used to think you could make a difference.”

“That was then. Hitler has the whip hand since the fall of France. There’s no one who dares to oppose him now. Things will have to go badly in Russia for us before that can happen again. Which they will, of course. I’m certain of it. But not yet. People like you and me will have to bide our time.”

“And until then, Arthur? What about these people?”

“You mean the yids?”

I nodded.

He tossed back his second drink and then shrugged.

“You really don’t give a damn, do you?”

Nebe laughed a wry sort of laugh. “I’ve got quite a lot on my mind, Bernie,” he said. “Himmler’s coming here next month. What do you expect me to do? Sit him down somewhere quiet and explain that this is all very wrong? Explain that Jews are people, too? Tell the Emperor Charles the Fifth and the Diet of Worms, ‘Here I stand, I can do no other’? Be reasonable, Bernie.”

“Reasonable?”

“These men—Himmler, Heydrich, Muller—they’re fanatics. You can’t reason with fanatics.” He shook his head. “I’m already under suspicion after the Elser plot.”