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  ALSO BY PHILIP KERR

  THE BERNIE GUNTHER BOOKS

  The Berlin Noir Trilogy

  March Violets

  The Pale Criminal

  A German Requiem

  The One from the Other

  A Quiet Flame

  If the Dead Rise Not

  Field Gray

  Prague Fatale

  A Man Without Breath

  The Lady from Zagreb

  The Other Side of Silence

  OTHER WORKS

  A Philosophical Investigation

  Dead Meat

  The Grid

  Esau

  The Five-Year Plan

  The Second Angel

  The Shot

  Dark Matter: The Private Life of Sir Isaac Newton

  Hitler’s Peace

  Prayer

  FOR CHILDREN

  The Children of the Lamp Series

  The Akhenaten Adventure

  The Blue Djinn of Babylon

  The Cobra King of Kathmandu

  The Day of the Djinn Warriors

  The Eye of the Forest

  The Five Fakirs of Faizabad

  The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan

  One Small Step

  A MARIAN WOOD BOOK

  Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Thynker, Ltd.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Kerr, Philip, author.

  Title: Prussian blue : a Bernie Gunther novel / Philip Kerr.

  Description: New York : published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2017. | “A Marian Wood Book.”

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016046341 (print) | LCCN 2016054837 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399177057 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698413139 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Gunther, Bernhard (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Private Investigators—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6061.E784 P79 2017 (print) | LCC PR6061.E784 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016046341

  p. cm.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is for Martin Diesbach, who is no relation but a very good friend, to whom I am always indebted.

  CONTENTS

  ALSO BY PHILIP KERR

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I am not so weak as to submit to the demands of the age when they go against my convictions. I spin a cocoon around myself; let others do the same. I shall leave it to time to show what will come of it: a brilliant butterfly or maggot.

  —Caspar David Friedrich

  ONE

  October 1956

  It was the end of the season and most of the hotels on the Riviera, including the Grand Hôtel Cap Ferrat, where I worked, were already closed for the winter. Not that winter meant much in that part of the world. Not like in Berlin, where winter is more a rite of passage than a season: you’re not a true Berliner until you’ve survived the bitter experience of an interminable Prussian winter; that famous dancing bear you see on the city’s coat of arms is just trying to keep himself warm.

  The Hotel Ruhl was normally one of the last hotels in Nice to close because it had a casino and people like to gamble whatever the weather. Maybe they should have opened a casino in the nearby Hotel Negresco—which the Ruhl resembled, except that the Negresco was closed and looked as if it might stay that way the following year. Some said they were going to turn it into apartments but the Negresco concierge—who was an acquaintance of mine, and a fearful snob—said the place had been sold to the daughter of a Breton butcher, and he wasn’t usually wrong about these things. He was off to Bern for the winter and probably wouldn’t be back. I was going to miss him but as I parked my car and crossed the Promenade des Anglais to the Hotel Ruhl I really wasn’t thinking about that. Perhaps it was the cold night air and the barman’s surplus ice cubes in the gutter but instead I was thinking about Germany. Or perhaps it was the sight of the two crew-cut golems standing outside the hotel’s grand Mediterranean entrance, eating ice cream cones and wearing thick East German suits of
the kind that are mass-produced like tractor parts and shovels. Just seeing those two thugs ought to have put me on my guard but I had something important on my mind; I was looking forward to meeting my wife, Elisabeth, who, out of the blue, had sent me a letter inviting me to dinner. We were separated, and she was living back in Berlin, but Elisabeth’s handwritten letter—she had beautiful Sütterlin handwriting (banned by the Nazis)—spoke of her having come into a bit of money, which just might have explained how she could afford to be back on the Riviera and staying at the Ruhl, which is almost as expensive as the Angleterre or the Westminster. Either way I was looking forward to seeing her again with the blind faith of one who hoped reconciliation was on the cards. I’d already planned the short but graceful speech of forgiveness I was going to make. How much I missed her and thought we could still make a go of it—that kind of thing. Of course, a part of me was also braced for the possibility she might be there to tell me she’d met someone else and wanted a divorce. Still, it seemed like a lot of trouble to go to—it wasn’t easy to travel from Berlin these days.

  The hotel restaurant was on the top floor in one of the corner cupolas. It was perhaps the best in Nice, designed by Charles Dalmas. Certainly it was the most expensive. I hadn’t ever eaten there but I’d heard the food was excellent and I was looking forward to my dinner. The mâitre d’ sidestepped his way across the beautiful Belle Epoque room, met me at the bookings lectern, and found my wife’s name on the page. I was already glancing over his shoulder, searching the tables anxiously for Elisabeth and not finding her there yet, checking my watch and realizing that I was perhaps a little early. I wasn’t really listening to the mâitre d’ as he informed me that my host had arrived, and I was halfway across the marble floor when I saw I was being ushered to a quiet corner table where a squat, tough-looking man was already working on a very large lobster and a bottle of white Burgundy. Recognizing him immediately, I turned on my heel only to find my exit blocked by two more apes who looked as if they might have climbed in through the open window, off one of the many palm trees on the Promenade.

  “Don’t leave yet,” one of them said quietly in thick, Leipzig-accented German. “The comrade-general wouldn’t like it.”

  For a moment I stood my ground, wondering if I could risk making a run for the door. But the two men, cut from the same crude mold as the two golems I’d seen by the hotel entrance, were more than a match for me.

  “That’s right,” added the other. “So you’d best sit down like a good boy and avoid making a scene.”

  “Gunther,” said a voice behind me, also speaking German. “Bernhard Gunther. Come over here and sit down, you old fascist. Don’t be afraid.” He laughed. “I’m not going to shoot you. It’s a public place.” I suppose he assumed that German speakers were at a premium in the Hotel Ruhl and he probably wouldn’t have been wrong. “What could possibly happen to you in here? Besides, the food is excellent and the wine more so.”

  I turned again and took another look at the man who remained seated and was still applying himself to the lobster with his cracker and a pick, like a plumber changing the washer on a tap. He was wearing a better suit than his men—a blue pinstripe, tailor-made—and a patterned silk tie that could only have been bought in France. A tie like that would have cost a week’s wages in the GDR and probably earned you a lot of awkward questions at the local police station, as would the large gold watch that flashed on his wrist like a miniature lighthouse as he gouged at the flesh of the lobster, which was the same color as the more abundant flesh of his powerful hands. His hair was still dark on top but cut so short against the sides of his wrecking ball of a head it looked like a priest’s black zucchetto. He’d put on some weight since last I’d seen him, and he hadn’t even started on the new potatoes, the mayonnaise, the asparagus tips, the salade niçoise, sweet cucumber pickles, and a plate of dark chocolate arranged on the table in front of him. With his boxer’s physique he reminded me strongly of Martin Bormann, Hitler’s deputy chief of staff; he was certainly every bit as dangerous.

  I sat down, poured myself a glass of white wine, and tossed my cigarette case onto the table in front of me.

  “General Erich Mielke,” I said. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “I’m sorry about bringing you here under false pretenses. But I knew you wouldn’t have come if I’d said it was I who was buying dinner.”

  “Is she all right? Elisabeth? Just tell me that and then I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, General.”

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  “I take it she’s not actually here in Nice.”

  “No, she’s not. I’m sorry about that. But you’ll be glad to know that she was most reluctant to write that letter. I had to explain that the alternative would have been so much more painful, for you at least. So please don’t hold that letter against her. She wrote it for the best of reasons.” Mielke lifted an arm and snapped his fingers at the waiter. “Have something to eat. Have some wine. I drink very little myself but I’m told this is the best. Anything you like. I insist. The Ministry of State Security is paying. Only, please don’t smoke. I hate the smell of cigarettes, especially when I’m eating.”

  “I’m not hungry, thanks.”

  “Of course you are. You’re a Berliner. We don’t have to be hungry to eat. The war taught us to eat when there’s food on the table.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of food on this table. Are we expecting anyone else? The Red Army, perhaps?”

  “I like to see lots of food when I’m eating, even if I don’t eat any of it. It’s not just a man’s stomach that needs filling. It’s his senses, too.”

  I picked up the bottle and inspected the label.

  “Corton-Charlemagne. I approve. Nice to see that an old communist like you can still appreciate a few of the finer things in life, General. This wine must be the most expensive on the list.”

  “I do, and it most certainly is.”

  I drained the glass and poured myself another. It was excellent.

  The waiter approached nervously, as if he’d already felt the edge of Mielke’s tongue.

  “We’ll have two juicy steaks,” said Mielke, speaking good French—the result, I imagined, of his two years spent in a French prison camp before and during the war. “No, better still, we’ll have the Chateaubriand. And make it very bloody.”

  The waiter went away.

  “Is it just steak you prefer that way?” I said. “Or everything else as well?”

  “Still got that sense of humor, Gunther. It beats me how you’ve stayed alive for this long.”

  “The French are a little more tolerant of these things than they are in what you laughingly call the Democratic Republic of Germany. Tell me, General, when is the communist government going to dissolve the people and elect another?”

  “The people?” Mielke laughed, and breaking off from his lobster for a moment, placed a piece of chocolate into his mouth, almost as if it were a matter of indifference what he was eating just as long as it was something not easily obtained in the GDR. “They rarely know what’s best for them. Nearly fourteen million Germans voted for Hitler in March 1932, making the Nazis the largest party in the Reichstag. Do you honestly believe they had a clue what was best for them? No, of course not. Nobody did. All the people care about is a regular pay packet, cigarettes, and beer.”

  “I expect that’s why twenty thousand East German refugees were crossing into the Federal Republic every month—at least until you imposed your so-called special regime with its restricted zone and your protective strip. They were in search of better beer and cigarettes and perhaps the chance to complain a little without fear of the consequences.”

  “Who was it said that none are more hopelessly enslaved than those who believe they are free?”

  “It was Goethe. And you misquote him. He said that none are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely belie
ve they are free.”

  “In my book, they are one and the same.”

  “That would be the one book you’ve read, then.”

  “You’re a romantic fool. I forget that about you, sometimes. Look, Gunther, most people’s idea of freedom is to write something rude on a lavatory wall. My own belief is that the people are lazy and prefer to leave the business of government to the government. However, it’s important that the people don’t place too great a burden on those in charge of things. Hence, my presence here in France. Generally speaking I prefer to go hunting. But I often come here around this time of year to get away from my responsibilities. I like to play a little baccarat.”

  “That’s a high-risk game. But then you always were a gambler.”

  “You want to know the really great thing about gambling here?” He grinned. “Most of the time, I lose. If there were still such decadent things as casinos in the GDR I’m afraid the croupiers would always make sure I won. Winning is only fun if you can lose. I used to go to the one in Baden-Baden but the last time I was there I was recognized and couldn’t go again. So now I come to Nice. Or sometimes Le Touquet. But I prefer Nice. The weather is a little more reliable here than on the Atlantic coast.”

  “Somehow I don’t believe that’s all you’re here for.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So what the hell do you want?”

  “You remember that business a few months back, with Somerset Maugham and our mutual friends Harold Hennig and Anne French. You almost managed to screw up a good operation there.”

  Mielke was referring to a Stasi plot to discredit Roger Hollis, the deputy director of MI5—the British domestic counterintelligence and security agency. The real plan had been to leave Hollis smelling of roses after the bogus Stasi plot was revealed.

  “It was very good of you to tie up that loose end for us,” said Mielke. “It was you who killed Hennig, wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer but we both knew this was true; I’d shot Harold Hennig dead in the house Anne French had been renting in Villefranche and done my very best to frame her for it. Since then the French police had asked me all sorts of questions about her, but that was all I knew. As far as I was aware, Anne French remained safely back in England.