On one occasion, Alyosha drove him to a funeral. The Gauleiter’s arrival was announced by a fanfare from the SA, and several hundred supporters lined his way as he limped along the gravel path to the graveside, where he made a heartfelt speech about the latest martyr to the cause, promising to avenge the wrong. But as Alyosha drove him back to his office, he overheard him asking the deputy editor of Der Angriff, who was about to interview him, to remind him again of the name of the man who had just been buried.

  Alyosha worked long hours every week, day and night, and would often feel himself slump at the wheel. The days would be sedate enough, but after dark, it was a different matter, the motor car full of sweat and laughter after a successful night of communist-bashing. A couple of nights previously, Alyosha had nearly found himself in trouble when Vlasich Pesotski was arrested for breaking the nose of the old one-armed man who sold the Arbeiter Illustriete in front of the Potsdam Bahnhof. He’d punched him to the floor, then kicked him in the head, sending him flying down the steps until his body rolled to a standstill at the bottom. As Vlasich had run off, two or three workers had given chase, and when they’d caught him, they’d half killed him. Alyosha had driven away from the Potsdam Bahnhof without his friend that night.

  Alyosha was always relieved when those nights came to an end and he had the motor car to himself again. On the other side of the windows the world was lonely and silent in the darkness, the wind whipping from the east, the cold from the north, but he felt safe and snug inside his motor car. And, for the first time in his life, he was being well paid.

  53.

  Very early one morning, as instructed, Alyosha arrived at Professor Krieger’s apartment to drive him to Cologne. As it was such a long drive, he alternated the driving with Kaspar Strassburger, the Professor’s bodyguard whenever he was on official Nazi business. Kaspar’s face was a mess, as a French bullet had ripped a chunk out of it in Verdun, but he still had the straight-backed bearing of a soldier. On his chest he wore his Iron Cross, awarded for attacking and killing five French soldiers with his bayonet. When his blade finally broke he killed the last soldier – a terrified young lad who begged for his mother – by forcing him face-down into the mud and piss of the trench and suffocating him to death by placing his boot across the back of his neck until the mud stopped bubbling. When he heard that the war was over, that Germany had been betrayed, that his hopes had died prematurely, that it was all over, after the army’s exceptional sacrifice, Kaspar couldn’t eat for almost two months. He carried his fury and his bitterness with him, until he could put them in the loyal service of the Nazis.

  It was late afternoon when they reached the city, and on Hohenzollern Bridge, Alyosha was forced to slow the Mercedes to a crawl because of the thousands of people making their way across to the new Messehalle, on the other side of the Rhine. It was a magnificent building, rising to an impressive height, and, brightly lit as it was, it looked like some peaceful modern white temple against the night sky. As they approached, the slogans on the suspended banners read, ‘Marxism must die if Germany is to live’.

  Alyosha and Kaspar accompanied Professor Krieger through the entrance, which was guarded by young men in khaki, who stood to attention smartly when they saw the uniform of an Oberführer. As they entered the hall, their ears were filled with the sound of a band playing Lützow’s song – ‘Wilde Verwegene Jagd’. Backstage, the Professor was welcomed by a local committee of Nazis, and Alyosha watched bemusedly as a deputation of young nurses put bloody bandages on healthy men, so that they could sit on the stage with their crutches and their dressings, witnesses to the fighting between them and the KPD or SPD.

  Professor Krieger was ushered in due course to his place on the stage, where twelve rows of chairs had been set out. Suspended from the ceiling were the familiar Nazi banners with their black swastikas. Alyosha and Kaspar were told to stand out of view on the side of the stage. The hall was rapidly filling, and the galleries were already packed, with people leaning over the rails. Running here and there were little boys selling newspapers, and flashbulbs were already popping from the pen of photographers, while on a rostrum in the middle of the hall, two cameramen were preparing to film the speeches.

  The band struck up another tune as mothers and fathers, dressed in black to remember their sons, martyrs for the cause, were led to reserved seats at the front. Stewards ran up and down the aisles, gesturing to each other above the noise.

  When everybody had found their seats, the music stopped, and Professor Krieger stepped forward to the microphone, his voice booming out through the loudspeakers when he greeted the crowd. But the intense heat from the powerful spotlights was already making Alyosha feel lifeless and light-headed, and he consequently took very little in of the speech, which lasted almost half an hour. When his former tutor finally finished and sat down, and the applause came to an end, the stage darkened. The band piped up again as a spotlight swept in circles over the crowd, before travelling up the main aisle and coming to rest on a man standing on his own. The crowd roared and rose as one. Alyosha watched him make his way down the central aisle towards the stage, followed by a forest of flags. As he neared the stage, Alyosha lost sight of him for a moment, but then, bit by bit, he reappeared as he ascended the steps – his hair, his watery eyes, like the eyes of a postman on a cold winter’s morning, then his nose, his moustache, his chin, his Adam’s apple, his chest, his legs. He turned to face the crowd and the music stopped, but he stood there without speaking for some minutes, amidst the tumultuous applause and the clicking and whirring of cameras. He looked younger and slighter yet taller in the flesh. With his fists held against his hips he patiently waited, the roars of the ardent thousands engulfing him in wave after wave of adulation.

  When he finally spoke his voice was pleasant, melodious even, and he had a homely, intimate way about him. The crowd was so quiet now that when he let out a long and level sigh, as if from the bottom of his heart, everybody heard it. Gradually, as he warmed to his subject, his diction became more staccato, and he began to hammer home his utterances like nails. His speech gathered momentum, growing stronger and stronger. He was clearly feeling great emotion, and sometimes his voice became low and hoarse, and his tone fierce, but the next minute, he sounded close to tears, his voice so tender, almost breaking. He started to shake as if from overwhelming pain, like a man who was carrying the twentieth century on his back. But his words were like sparks, igniting a fire, until he’d lit a bonfire of response as he excited, as he disturbed, as he awoke, winning over every heart and mind in that vast hall. He clenched his fists, he shut his eyes tightly and lifted his chin as the sweat ran down his cheeks in rivers of tears. He talked of faithfulness. He talked of the spirit of the community. He talked of a community of communities, of a land and people fused. He talked of fraternity and blood. He talked of hopelessness and hope, and of the curse of communism. He talked of his own country being torn apart by two dozen minor parties and of their rampant selfishness.

  ‘We will never thrive until our country is united.’

  Applause.

  ‘There is no future until our country is as one.’

  Stronger applause.

  ‘Kein Kapitulieren! Kein Kapitulieren! Kein Kapitulieren! Deutschland, sieg—’

  ‘Heil!’

  Five thousand as one.

  ‘Sieg—’

  ‘Heil!’

  ‘Sieg—’

  ‘Heil!’

  ‘Sieg—’

  ‘Heil!’

  They had to return to Berlin straight after the rally because the Professor was lecturing the next day. Alyosha drove the first leg, with Professor Krieger snoring in the back and Kaspar nodding off next to him. It had started to rain, and Alyosha cursed silently as the headlights of the motor car close behind him blinded him every time he looked in the mirror. He assumed the driver wished to overtake, and so he reduced his speed slightly so that he could pass. The motor car drew level with him, and as Alyosha glanced across, he could see the dark shadows of the driver and passenger. The next minute, the window next to him shattered, sending shards and splinters of glass everywhere. The motor car sped away, its back lights becoming smaller until they disappeared completely. With Professor Krieger yelling incoherently from the back, Alyosha brought his own motor car to a stop at the side of the road, shaken but unscathed apart from a few minor cuts from the splinters of glass. It was only then that he saw with horror the blood pumping out from Kaspar’s neck in great spurts, drenching the rest of him in a sticky red mess.

  54.

  Through Pauline’s father’s influence, Artyom was finally granted a licence to open a branch of Intra-Banque in Paris. In exchange, he was happy to offer François de Wendel a seat on the board. Artyom felt quietly confident at last that a flotation on the Stock Exchange would soon follow.

  Pauline had first introduced him to her father at the Longchamp races. He was a heavily built, melancholic-looking man, who moved his cumbersome body as slowly as the Pharaoh’s chariot in the sands of the Red Sea, but his mind was as sharp as a razor. Luckily, he took to Artyom instantly. Artyom had presented himself as a widower with one son called Dimitri. That was technically true, and he’d made a song and dance about the death of his dear Jeanette. His mistress and her children was a detail he kept to himself.

  At one time, François de Wendel had many business interests in Russia, and he had lost some millions in investments following the 1917 Revolution. The Banque des Pays du Nord had shares in the Russian Azov-Don Bank, and François de Wendel had been on the board for years, and his father and grandfather before him. The main concern in Paris had been how to stop the communists from getting their dirty

  hands on the reserve capital – twelve and a half tonnes of pure gold that the Azov-Don Bank had given as a deposit to the Enskilda Bank in Stockholm at the end of the summer in 1918, as they raised a loan of thirty million kroner for the cause of the White armies. There had still been considerable optimism then that Wrangel’s army in South Russia would muster the strength to defeat Lenin. But it proved misplaced. By the first week of January 1920, not one of the directors of the Azov-Don Merchant Bank remained on Russian soil. Every one of them had been forced to turn his back on his own country, most of them fleeing to Paris or Berlin. The Board of Directors had met on the twentieth of the same month in Paris, François de Wendel in the chair.

  Not to lose hope, that was the most important thing, though the Azov-Don and all its assets – including the twelve and a half tonnes of gold in Stockholm – had been nationalised by the Bolsheviks on behalf of the people. Through the influence of the Banque des Pays du Nord, some small remainder of their capital was saved from being swallowed entirely by Moscow. However, since the French Government had acknowledged the Soviet Union de jure in 1924, the Kremlin had insisted that any disputed assets in French bank accounts should be frozen, until it was all returned to the People’s Bank in Moscow. Already the legal disputes between the Board of the Banque des Pays du Nord and the Government of the Soviet Union had been dragging their way through the French law courts for months and years, with the spiralling fees of the lawyers eating up more and more of the disputed capital.

  ‘How did we permit such a thing to happen? Who was responsible?’ François de Wendel addressed this question to Artyom at dinner one evening. ‘Somebody somewhere has to shoulder the blame. Was the revolution inevitable, as the Bolsheviks claim?’

  ‘Circumstances, fate and fluke were responsible,’ answered Artyom, aware that the guests around the table were all listening. ‘The Jews and the communists are the only ones who crow insufferably about the supposed inevitability of it all.’

  ‘Circumstances, fate and fluke,’ echoed Madame de Wendel sadly.

  ‘A man of no substance like Kerenskii can certainly shoulder his share of the blame,’ added Artyom, stubbing out his cigar. Of course the revolution hadn’t been inevitable.

  ‘How to make sure that such a thing is never allowed to happen again, that’s the most important thing,’ said François de Wendel.

  Pauline’s home was a tasteful house on the Avenue du Parc-Monceau. Her three main pastimes were horse-racing, the ballet, and learning to fly. Artyom often accompanied her to the races in the Bois de Boulogne, and there he saw the Comte de Quincey riding Golden Hope – the horse which had already won the Prix de la Plage Fleurie in Deauville. Pauline was convinced she would win again, and bet heavily on her, but Golden Hope came in third, much to her chagrin. Then she betted on Sourbier and Zariba, but her luck did not improve.

  That day had been her twenty-third birthday, although with her short blonde hair and little snub nose, Pauline looked even younger. She had been married for two years, but had separated from her husband because he beat her, and was now in the process of trying to divorce him. Artyom bought her a Louis XV locket inlaid with twenty-three gems as a birthday present. She was thrilled with such a pretty thing, and kissed him lovingly.

  ‘A little memento of my love,’ he told her.

  ‘Thank you, Artyom,’ she murmured, and kissed him tenderly again.

  The 1929 Wall Street Crash didn’t reach the shores of France until the last months of 1930. That’s when the franc collapsed, and Artyom’s bank with it. In no time at all, he was nobody, and after so much effort to lift himself up, to be dragged down, to lose everything, was devastating. He was every bit as unemployed and every bit as hopeless as millions of others all over Europe. There was no refuge or present help in trouble. François de Wendel’s businesses had also been badly affected. With a feeling of dread, Artyom realised his only option would be to return to smuggling heroin. But this would be highly problematic, as in the short time since he had disentangled himself from that side of his business, everything had changed. By now, his men were all working for other gangs, there were different men in charge at the docks, and the system for unloading the ships had changed, too. Most of the cargo was now sent straight out of the docks to warehouses on the outskirts of the city, where the various companies employed their own men to guard their goods.

  Gangs from Sicily had invaded the heroin trade, but the Corsicans had fought back. After a couple of shootings in broad daylight, the flics had decided they needed to assert their authority, and there had been a few raids and several arrests. Things were in the balance for a while, but Meme gained the upper hand. Unfortunately, the violence had alerted the authorities to the scale of the problem, and the French government were putting a considerable amount of pressure on the Sûrété to restore law and order in the city.

  Artyom nevertheless saw returning to Marseille and the drugs trade as his only option.

  55.

  Artyom arranged a meeting with L’Oreille in the Stockholm, but even here, things had changed, as Doña Rosa and her son, Camilo, had gone home to Andalucía. The place was now kept by some real low-life who some called Shari and others Sidi, and yet others called Mohammed. He claimed he was Algerian, but L’Oreille said he’d heard he was Syrian.

  Perhaps the greatest change was in L’Oreille himself. He seemed far warier now, his eyes constantly checking the comings and goings at the door. He told Artyom he feared he’d end up the same way as Pierre, who was already in the grave. He’d been stabbed in the back one night, over some woman. That, at least, was the story, but nobody had ever been caught and punished.

  Over a cigarette and a pastis, Artyom was eager to discuss his new plan, but L’Oreille interrupted him.

  ‘Who are you with? Corsica or Sicily?’

  ‘I’m still with Lolole and Meme.’

  ‘Their protection isn’t as good as it used to be.’

  ‘I need the money, so I’ll have to risk it. Let’s just get the first shipment in, through the Orphans’ Friend like before. Once I’m in funds again, I can decide who needs paying off. But I need that first shipment. They’re going to take everything I have, otherwise.’

  ‘This is asking for trouble, Artyom.’

  ‘We’ll still need the labs. That’s where you can help me. We’ll have to find somewhere out of the way, and find the right people to work there. What do you think? Are you in?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I’m in.’

  56.

  Alyosha was having a coffee in the Laurentzsch on his day off, when he happened to bump into an old friend, Heinrich Erkleytz, a taxi driver who had lived in the same block as him when he’d first moved to Berlin. Alyosha had been trying to put Kaspar’s murder out of his mind, but it had been weighing heavily on him, and he ended up telling Heinrich about it.

  ‘I don’t care how well they pay you, what the fuck good is money when you’re kaput?’ asked Heinrich. ‘You’re risking your skin every time you get behind the wheel for those bastards. You’ve already had one lucky escape. Think how close that bullet came to your skull.’

  ‘Where would I find other work though?’

  ‘As it happens, our firm are looking for somebody right now.’

  ‘Am I in with a chance of getting the job do you think?’ asked Alyosha.

  ‘As good as any other fucker who goes for it.’

  Heinrich drained his glass of Bock, leaving a trace of white foam on his abundant moustache.

  ‘Go over this afternoon and ask the boss. You should leave it till he’s had his lunch, he’ll be in a better mood with a full belly.’

  ‘You’ve told me often enough how bad-tempered he is.’

  ‘He’s a bad-tempered cunt, true enough, but what boss isn’t? Oy!’ The bartender was deep in conversation with a blonde young woman and didn’t take any notice. ‘Fucking hell, come on…’ Heinrich said impatiently, tapping his empty glass against the side of the bar. ‘Oy! Can you do your work and serve me, instead of flirting. I’m dying of thirst here.’