Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (novels to read .txt) 📕

leaving Rome he’d explored a number of explanations, some inadequate, some implausible, others frankly baroque. None of them owed anything to the truth but now – for once in his life – he sensed there was no point in lying. This man knew more about lying than anyone else on earth. When it came to deception, no one was in his league. When the next Olympics came around, he could be certain of a gold medal. Truly, the Prince of Liars.

‘I fucked up,’ Nehmann said.

‘I know. Someone from the Foreign Ministry paid me a visit last night. One of Ribbentrop’s associates. Very discreet. No prior warning. In my world, Nehmann, that doesn’t happen very often.’

‘And?’

‘He showed me a letter. He seemed to think it was from me. Happily, that can’t have been possible, as I was very glad to point out.’ Goebbels paused for a moment. His eyes were very black. ‘Your handwriting, I think. Not mine.’

‘Yes.’

‘Might you care to explain?’

Nehmann did his best. He described the queue for taxis at the Rome terminus, the suited figure who’d helped himself to a seat in the back, and his surprise to be looking at a gun beneath the folds of his expensive raincoat.

‘He threatened you?’

‘He warned me off.’

‘Did he explain why?’

‘No. I had an address for Baarova. He told me she’d moved. He also demanded the letter. I’m sorry but I had no choice.’

‘How did he know the letter existed?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And that’s the truth?’

Nehmann didn’t answer. He knows, he thought to himself. He knows everything.

‘There’s a hotel on the Grand Canal,’ Goebbels said softly. ‘I happen to know it. It’s called the Al Codega. They serve an astonishing crème brulée. You were there with your actress friend. And you were probably drunk. You’re an inventive man, Nehmann. You understand the power of language, of make-believe,and so does your little Czech friend. It was a game you were playing that night. You wrote the script. She performed it. Sadly, the audience included one of Ribbentrop’s associates. And, for whatever reason, he jumped to the wrong conclusion.’ Goebbels leaned forward, intense, his eyes never leaving Nehmann’s face. ‘Ribbentrop’s people will do anything to attack me, to hurt me. You handed them the perfect weapon. Sadly, from their point of view, they were duped.’

‘By?’

‘You. Why? Because they believed you. Because you caught my tone of voice on the page and your actress friend was clever enough, or drunk enough, to do the rest. Do we understand each other, Nehmann? Or must I go through it all again?’

Nehmann was staring at him. Perfect, he thought. The perfect cover story. The perfect explanation. The perfect way to keep Ribbentrop’s attack dogs at arm’s length. A work, in its own small way, of genius. He was about to answer Goebbels’ question, but the Minister hadn’t finished.

‘You were never house-trained, Nehmann, and some days I should lock you in a cage, but the fact that you belong in the wild is an asset. That’s why I employ you, believe it or not. You’re different. I know I can depend on that. You also take sizeable risks. Risks, alas, have consequences. But first we swim.’ He gestured at the water. ‘Agreed?’

Without waiting for an answer, Goebbels stood up. Underneath the dressing gown he was naked. He put the garment carefully to one side, balanced briefly on the seat in the stern and then dived overboard. Nehmann stripped and joined him. The water was colder than he’d expected but it didn’t seem to bother Goebbels. The Minister beckoned him closer, wiped the water from his eyes and suggested they swim to the bottom together.

‘A pebble each, ja?Last to surface wins.’

Nehmann nodded assent. Goebbels was first to submerge. Nehmann took a tiny lungful of air and then jack-knifed to follow him, smooth, powerful strokes driving him ever deeper into the murky water. He could see the Minister kicking downwards in front of him but as the light faded, and the water grew colder still, nothing remained but the pale soles of his feet. One of them, he noticed, was twisted inwards. Then the darkness engulfed everything, and he was gone.

Nehmann pinched his nose and blew hard to clear the pressure in his ears. He’d learned to swim in the mountains in water far colder than this but there was still no sign of the bottom and he was beginning to feel the first shivers of panic when, out of nowhere, he found it. At this depth, everything was pitch-black. Nehmann’s fingers closed over a handful of mud and pebbles and then he pushed hard against the bottom, kicking upwards, fighting the urge to open his mouth and fill his bursting lungs. That way, he knew, lay certain death.

It was getting lighter now, tiny bits of vegetation in the water, the temperature rising, and then came the moment when his head broke the surface, and he lay on his back, grateful for the sun on his face, sucking air deep into what felt like his belly. Finally, he opened his eyes. Goebbels was floating an arm’s length away, breathing normally. Nehmann showed him the pebble from the bottom of the lake.

‘And you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You didn’t make it?’

‘No.’ The Minister smiled. ‘You win.’

*

They helped each other back onto the speedboat and then towelled themselves dry.

‘Over there?’ He indicated a low house among the trees. ‘That’s where she lived.’

‘Baarova?’

‘Lida, yes. I used to take a walk every summer evening. The house had been rented by an actor, Frohlich, and I knew she’d moved in with him. It was inevitable we should meet. I think we both knew that.’

He lay back against the stern of the boat, his legs spread, the towel over his lap, his back cushioned by the carefully folded dressing gown. His eyes were closed and he seemed at peace with the world.

‘I used to invite them both out in this little boat,’ he murmured. ‘Other guests came, too. It was innocent. It was fun.’

‘And your wife? Magda?’

‘Away somewhere.’ He flapped his hand,