He looked again at Nick. “So many inconsistencies. A car was heard pulling away in the night. Was someone there? We’ll never know. You see, Mr Warren, the mistake I made was thinking that a criminal investigation would tell us everything. But this was a political crime. We can reconstruct the evidence–what must have happened. But what I want to know is, was he planning to leave?”

Nick looked at him, quiet.

“You can’t ignore the passport,” Anna said.

“What must have happened?” Nick said.

Zimmerman rolled his cigarette against the ashtray, methodically tapping the ash. “Masaryk had had a full day. A meeting with Beneš, the President, his father’s old friend. Very depressing, I’ve no doubt. Beneš may have told Masaryk he was going to resign. But that would work either way, as the last straw or an incentive to go. Either way. He had a meeting the next day with a Polish delegation, a speech to write. So he goes to bed early to work on the speech. He frequently did that, worked in bed. A bottle of beer and a sandwich. These details we know. The servants retired. Very heavy sleepers, unfortunately. Of course, the Czernin Palace is a large building and their quarters were not close. No one heard the lift being used. The guard at the front door reported no visitors. There is a side door for deliveries, unguarded. This much we know as fact.”

“Go on,” Nick said. Had they used the elevator at Holečkova? He thought of the milky light through the glass brick on the landing, enough to see by, even at dawn.

“Masaryk was a big man. There must have been two, perhaps more, a team. The side door, the stairs. Quiet. Perhaps they were surprised to find him still up, working so late. There must have been fighting. The room is knocked about, papers all over. In the bathroom, more smashes. They must have been angry at his resistance. But he’s fighting for his life and he’s strong. He must have knocked against the medicine chest, causing the bottles to fall on the floor. Then he is pushed, or falls, into the bathtub. And there someone must have held him down with a pillow over his face. He must have kicked, trying to get out, while they held him down. Until he stopped kicking.” Zimmerman looked up from the ashtray, his voice dropping, almost husky now. “Of course, he was a vigorous man. Had he been older, it would have been easier. Not such a struggle.”

Nick turned away, sick.

“Then they must have pulled him out–he would have been heavy–and dragged him over to the window, perhaps stepping on the bottles, kicking them out of the way. A high sill, the men grunting, propping him up. From the angle of the fall, they must have pushed him out back first. That was the first inconsistency. No one jumps backward. In its own way it’s a brave thing, suicide. His fingers scrape the sill as they push him out. It’s possible that the scraping happened earlier–that they tried to force him out the window and he resisted, holding on while he kicked them away. Then the same fight. No matter. He went out. That is the criminal evidence. That is what must have happened.”

For a moment, no one spoke. “How do you know it was a pillow?” Nick said quietly.

“There were no signs of strangulation. Were there marks on your father’s neck?” Zimmerman said, no longer pretending to be in the past.

“No.”

“But he soiled himself. That’s very rare in someone who jumps.”

“If he was frightened—” Nick began.

“So rare as to be almost nonexistent. It is, however, a common occurrence in cases of suffocation. It happens most frequently when people are hanged–that’s why we have connected losing control of the bowels to fear. But jumpers don’t do that. They are not afraid. But it would happen if he were smothered. During the struggle.”

Clearly, as if in slow motion, Nick saw his father on the bed, gasping, his feet moving, then giving in. His papers ready. Nick touched the envelope. Nothing else, no list.

“Who?” Nick said finally.

“Who. Mr Warren, do you blame the gun for going off? These men are tools. They are nobody. I’m not going to know who entered the Czernin Palace. I’m not going to know who went to your father’s flat on Holečkova. I accept that.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“So you will accept it too. So you are not tempted. To play the detective.”

“My father wasn’t Masaryk. He wasn’t going to set up a government in exile.”

“Then why was he killed? You see, I accept the limitations. How far we can take a criminal investigation–we’ve had to learn that. But it’s still important to know, to protect ourselves. One day, you know, the Russians will leave –yes, I believe that. We can be policemen again, solve real cases. But meanwhile we have to know what they’re doing. To hide, to play the fool if it’s better. To survive them. This is what we do.”

“Soldier Schweik.”

“If you like. A man is killed. If I know why, then I know how far I can go. Contain the situation.”

“By pretending it didn’t happen.”

“If that’s necessary.”

“Why do you want to protect them?”

“Mr Warren, I want to protect you.”

“Me?”

“Has it occurred to you how dangerous this might be for you? I came here to talk to you as a friend. I think you did not, at the station, understand how things are.”

“And how are they?”

“They must protect the lie. They’ll do anything to do that. Look at Masaryk–a crime twenty years old, yet still the lie. It’s a curious thing, to care so much what people think when you have all the power anyway. Maybe they need to believe it themselves. So they stage a simple case of suicide. Who would doubt it? But you are there, something unexpected. Now there are questions, accusations, the Americans calling. If they feel the lie is threatened, they will have to protect it. So now a crime. But the most obvious person to have done it, Mr Warren, is you.”

“You know I didn’t. The evidence—”

“Can be made to fit. It’s not a criminal case, Mr Warren. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. A political crime. All that matters is what they want people to believe. You were there, you had the motive.” He paused. “And you cannot explain yourself.”

“But you know—”

“If you are charged, there’s nothing I can do. You must see that. Of course, it’s a complication to arrest you. It becomes an incident. So many people involved. But they will do it, if they have to protect themselves. And you will be convicted. All proper and legal.” He lowered his voice. “You will be your father’s murderer.” Nick raised his head.

“Yes. They can do it. The question is, is it worth it to them? That’s what I don’t know yet. And I can’t know that until I know why he was planning to leave. Why he was stopped. I can’t help you if I don’t know that. If you don’t tell me.”

Nick, shaken, said nothing.

“Will they accuse you? Is it that important to them?”

“I don’t know.”

Zimmerman sighed and reached for another cigarette, taking his time. “Of course, there is another possibility. The easiest way to avoid everything–no incident, no trial. What do you know, Mr Warren? They were willing to kill him. Why stop? They killed people in the Masaryk case–oh yes, even years later. If they thought you knew the reason. It would be easy, to make a new lie. A family tragedy. You found the body. Who can say how people react to such a terrible thing? Sometimes they blame themselves. It would be easy. If they thought you knew.”

Nick stared at the precise, glowing ash of Zimmerman’s cigarette. “Maybe they sent you to find out.”

Zimmerman looked at him for a second, then nodded slowly. “Yes, maybe. In that case, I seem to have failed. You decide.” He stood up, scraping the chair. “But I see I have accomplished one thing–to make you suspicious. Even of me. Good. You need to be careful.”

“Like you.”

“Yes, like everyone here. But we’re still alive.”