The Grave of Truth (2 page)

Max began writing, underlining points to fix them in his memory. There were stories circulating about Sigmund Walther and his affiliations in East Germany, and rumours of his ambition to form a splinter group inside the Party. He was staying at the Crillon with his wife and two eldest children on a private visit to Paris. If it really was private it had been extraordinarily well advertised in advance, and
Newsworld
's request for an exclusive interview had been promptly granted.

The aspirin had taken effect, and Max was totally absorbed in his work. Walther was a challenge: his personality had eluded previous interviewers; even the television cameras had failed to expose more than he intended to reveal about himself. Journalists covered themselves by describing him as an enigma.

Max prepared himself as he did his notes. No personal prejudice, no slanted questions; a man as clever as Sigmund Walther would detect immediately if his attitude were hostile and defend himself. Max wanted him off guard if possible. His telephone buzzed; he frowned and picked it up. Martine's voice reminded him that he was due at the Crillon in twenty minutes. He put his notes in his desk, slipped the little transistorized tape-recorder into his outside pocket, and went out. The secretary looked up at him as he passed.

‘Is your headache better?'

‘Yes, it's fine.'

‘Your wife rang, but I didn't put her through. I said you were out. I hope that was all right.'

He could imagine Ellie, brimming with outrage because he had given a Peter a box on the ear, and suddenly the idea made him smile. At a safe distance he could imagine the scene he had left behind as hilariously funny. It wouldn't be so funny when he went home.

‘Did my wife leave any message?'

‘Well, yes.' He sensed Martine's hesitation. ‘She asked if you would come home; she said Peter was too upset to go to school. I told her you were out all morning at this Walther interview but I'd give you the message as soon as you came in.'

‘Thanks,' he said.

The doorman at the Crillon took his car and parked it for him. The reception desk was surrounded with people checking in and out. The service was courteous and efficient and within a few minutes a pageboy was escorting him in a lift to the Walthers' suite on the second floor. It was one of the best suites in the hotel, with a magnificent view over the Place de la Concorde; the door was opened by a tall slim woman wearing a scent he recognized because he had given it to Ellie for her birthday. It was probably the most expensive in the world, and it was his first, misleading impression of Minna Walther.

‘M. Steiner—come in, please. My husband won't be a moment.'

She had an amazing figure for a woman with five children; a long straight back, narrow hips and elegant legs. She was wearing a casual coat and skirt; he noticed the lack of jewellery, the plain wedding ring on her finger.

‘Do sit down,' she said. ‘I'll go and call Sigmund.'

‘Thank you, Frau Walther,' he answered in German. She was too Slavic in type to be beautiful: the cheekbones were too high and the grey eyes a little too far apart. She had a lovely wide smile that changed her face completely.

‘I'm afraid my French is terrible,' she said. ‘I'm told I have a very strong accent.'

‘No worse than mine,' Max said. ‘It's not an easy language for us.'

She hesitated by an inner door, touching the handle. ‘How long have you been away from home?'

Home. It was years since he had thought of Germany as home. Or heard anyone speak about it in that way.

‘Nearly eighteen years,' he said. ‘I moved to England soon after I left university. Then I got married and we lived in England till we moved here.'

‘I'll call my husband,' she said.

He got up and went to the window; sitting down would have placed him at a disadvantage when Walther came in. He stared down at the traffic coiling round the Place below. The breadth and splendour of Napoleon III's concept for his capital had made the site of the guillotine and the Terror into the epitome of civic elegance. Germany had revived the guillotine; those found guilty of high treason during the war were executed face upwards by Himmler's special order. He turned round as Sigmund Walther came through from the inner room. He reached Max and held out his hand.

‘Sorry I kept you waiting; I had to take a call. Would you like coffee or a drink?'

‘A whisky and soda would be fine.'

‘I'll join you.' Walther went to a walnut cabinet and started pouring drinks.

He was shorter than Max had expected, very fit and quick moving; his skin was lightly tanned, as if he made use of a sun lamp. Blue-eyed, hair slightly thinning, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and plain tie, he wore his forty-two years lightly. Max tasted the drink and set it down. They faced each other, Walther leaning back on the sofa, legs crossed, very relaxed, Max sitting slightly forward in the armchair. He had slipped his hand into his pocket and activated the tape while Walther's back was turned.

They began with a general conversation, designed to put the interviewee at ease; Max didn't continue for long because he sensed that Sigmund Walther knew the technique and was impatient with it. His questions became more specific. How would Walther deal with the problem of urban terrorists? Did he think de Gaulle's withdrawal from NATO or his resignation would have a significant impact on German policy towards France? Was he in favour of Britain's joining the EEC? Walther's answers showed a mind at once incisive and decisive. ‘Tell me,' Max went on, ‘what role would you like to see West Germany play in the Community in the next five years?'

‘Five years from now? I wouldn't look that far ahead—in a year I'd like to see some sort of
rapprochement
with the East German government, while keeping our links with the Community and NATO as strong as possible.'

‘You don't think these aims are incompatible?'

‘No. There is one thing about our people which distinguishes us from other Europeans. Our nationhood is comparatively recent. Partition, division, all the punishments inflicted upon us by the Allies and Russia after the war, have not only affected us but are responsible for the atmosphere of confrontation which bedevils the world at the moment: I believe that the principal duty of our government is to try and establish good relations with our people in the East. We must aim at polycentrism, not bipolarity.' He leaned forward to emphasize what he was saying. ‘That is the policy I am advocating in Bonn.'

‘And this is what you will try to bring about if you are offered a post by Brandt?'

‘Yes,' Sigmund Walther said. ‘I have considerable support in the Bundestag.'

‘Are you really proposing the ultimate reunification of Germany?'

‘If Europe is to have any hope of peace in the future our country must become a sovereign state with all our people within our own borders.'

Max gave a slight smile. ‘Some might think of the word
Lebensraum
, Herr Walther, when you talk about all Germans being incorporated into Germany.' He was watching Walther's hands for any sign of tension; they were a truer barometer of inner reaction than the eyes. They didn't move from his side, and yet he hesitated before answering that gentle provocation. When he did, it was Max who was taken by surprise.

‘I'm not a Nazi, Herr Steiner. I believe the desire of every German is to belong to his country, not to Communism or Western democracy or any other ideological faction. I believe that whatever Ulbricht's dictatorship behind the Wall imposed upon our people can and will be eroded by that longing to be one nation again. But we in West Germany have to take the political initiative.'

‘What makes you think that either Russia or the West would allow this
rapprochement
to take place?'

‘As far as the West is concerned, I also believe that Europe has grown up politically in the last twenty years. I believe from personal contacts among senior NATO officers that the reunification of our country would be welcomed by the West.'

‘You still have Russia to convince,' Max said. ‘Even if France, for instance, could be persuaded to accept a strong and united Germany, is it really conceivable that the Soviet Union would stand by and allow the Eastern territories to escape her? Of course,' he added thoughtfully, ‘reunification would be a marvellous platform in the elections.'

Sigmund Walther didn't answer. He picked up his whisky and drank most of it. ‘You're not taking any notes,' he remarked. ‘But no doubt you have a tape-recorder?'

‘Yes,' Max said. ‘But I find it puts people off when they can see it. Have you any objection to this being taped?'

‘None at all. I just wanted to establish that you weren't relying on memory.' The easy smile came and lingered; Max could see why Walther had been so successful in industry; his reputation had begun as a negotiator. He had a magnetic charm that in no way concealed his considerable authority.

‘Let me put my last question to you another way. If at any time in the future East Germany tried to form some kind of federation with Bonn, Russia would act as she did in Hungary—and in Czechoslovakia less than two years ago—to prevent it. Wouldn't what you're proposing lead to a military confrontation with the West?'

‘Are you asking that question for
Newsworld
, or do you have any interest in the future of Germany as a German?'

‘I'm asking the question,' Max said, ‘so that
Newsworld
readers can get an answer; I'm not personally concerned.'

‘That's a pity,' Walther said quietly. ‘But I'll give you the answer just the same. West Berlin is the parent of the Wall; the division of the capital of Germany into two halves was dictated by vengeance and the Allies' fear of offending Stalin. An island of Western-style democracy in a Marxist sea. The concept is crazy and was very nearly fatal. The world has been closer to war over Berlin than over any other issue since 1945. If it means confronting Russia then I believe the West is strong enough to do it, exactly as America did over Cuba. Russia is not going to embark on a nuclear war with China at her back.

‘I believe it will be possible to reunite Germany and not only preserve peace but restore proper balance to Europe and the free world.' He finished his drink. ‘That will make a nice quote for the article you're going to write,' he said. ‘Now perhaps you would switch your little machine off? Wherever it is—'

Max took the recorder out of his pocket and laid it on the coffee table. He pressed the switch to ‘Off'.

‘Amazing how small they can make these things,' Walther said.

‘Would you like me to play it back?'

‘No, thanks. In spite of being in politics, I don't enjoy hearing myself speak. I'd probably ask you to wipe it out and start all over again. And we haven't got time for that.' He got up, looked at his watch, exclaimed softly.

‘I have a luncheon appointment at one—the traffic is so bad in Paris, I've hardly enough time—excuse me, I'll ring down for my car.' He turned, holding the telephone. ‘Wait a moment—we can go down together.'

He opened the inner door and called to his wife. She came and stood in the doorway, smiling at him.

‘I'll be back at three, my darling. We've had a very good interview. I hope I haven't given Herr Steiner too bad an impression!'

Max said good-bye to her; she kissed her husband on the cheek and shook hands with him. He had forgotten how distinctive that type of German woman was.

Walther and he went down in the lift. As they reached the foyer he turned to Max. ‘How long is it since you've been back to Germany?'

‘A long time,' he said. ‘Your wife asked me the same thing.' They had reached the glass street doors and passed through them into the brilliant sunshine. Walther's car, the chauffeur waiting by the rear door, was drawn up outside. Walther held out his hand to Max. ‘Minna feels the same as I do. Germany needs men with talent and courage. You could do a lot for your country. Why don't you come back?'

‘I live here now,' Max answered. ‘I'm not due to be posted anywhere as far as I know.'

‘I have a lot of contacts in German journalism,' Sigmund Walther said. ‘Think about coming back. I'm being quite serious about this. Just let me know.' They were still shaking hands as they talked, Walther half turned from the street facing Max, when the first shots cracked out.

There were two of them; Max saw them quite clearly seconds before he realized what was happening. Two men, with dark glasses, standing within a few feet of Sigmund Walther, with guns in their hands. It was a moment frozen in shock and disbelief; Walther's hand gripped his in a convulsion of agony; the smile of a second earlier became a hideous grimace, and still the shots cracked, as bullets thudded into his lurching body and one whined like an angry hornet past Max's head. Walther was falling now, turning a semi-circle as he collapsed, almost in slow motion; people in the street were screaming and shouting; the firing had stopped. Max scarcely saw the running figures disappear into the crowd as he held the dying man in his arms. Blood was streaming over the pavement. Walther's face had turned a deathly grey, his eyes were filming over.

His lips moved and Max crouched close to him, his hands sticky with Sigmund Walther's blood. For a moment the eyes cleared, and by a last effort of will a single word was spoken clearly: ‘Janus …' Then Walther choked and his head rolled sideways as he died.

It was dark and the offices of
Newsworld
were closed up except for the nightwatchman and the office where Max Steiner sat alone. He switched his desk light on when the room grew too dark for him to see, and he sat with his elbows on his desk and the little tape-recorder in front of him. The police had played the tape back, while they took a long statement from him. Someone had asked if he wanted to see a doctor himself, if he felt shocked. He had been very calm and refused everything but coffee. He wanted a clear head unclouded by alcohol or tranquillizers. He had seen the killers: two men, one above medium height, the other slighter in build and shorter; the dark glasses had made it difficult to guess their ages but both had dark, short hair and were Caucasians. Professionals, who had escaped through the crowds and been seen leaping into a waiting car. The car had been found abandoned in a Paris suburb. Predictably it had been stolen that morning.