{"product_id":"prussian-blue-isbn-9780399185205","title":"Prussian Blue","description":"\u003cb\u003eWhen his cover is blown, \u003cb\u003eformer Berlin bull and unwilling SS officer Bernie Gunther must re-enter a\u003c\/b\u003e cat-and-mouse game that continues to shadow his life a decade after Germany’s defeat in World War 2...\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e The French Riviera, 1956\u003c\/i\u003e: Bernie’s old and dangerous adversary Erich Mielke, deputy head of the East German Stasi, has turned up in Nice—and he’s not on holiday. Mielke is calling in a debt and wants Bernie to travel to London to poison a female agent they’ve both had dealings with. But Bernie isn't keen on assassinating anyone. In an attempt to dodge his Stasi handler—former Kripo comrade Friedrich Korsch—Bernie bolts for the German border. Traveling by night and hiding by day, he has plenty of time to recall the last case he and Korsch worked together...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Obersalzberg, Germany, 1939\u003c\/i\u003e: A low-level bureaucrat has been found dead at Hitler’s mountaintop retreat in Bavaria. Bernie and Korsch have one week to find the killer before the leader of the Third Reich arrives to celebrate his fiftieth birthday. Bernie knows it would mean disaster if Hitler discovers a shocking murder has been committed on the terrace of his own home. But Obersalzberg is also home to an elite Nazi community, meaning an even bigger disaster for Bernie if his investigation takes aim at one of the party’s higher-ups...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1939 and 1956: two different eras about to converge in an explosion Bernie Gunther will never forget.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003ePrussian Blue\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[B]risk and agile...Gunther is one of crime fiction’s most gratifyingly melancholy creations, and in \u003ci\u003ePrussian Blue\u003c\/i\u003e we watch him match wits with the officialdom of two Germanys, pre- and postwar.”\u003ci\u003e—The Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bernie Gunther—sly, subversive, sardonic, and occasionally hilarious—is one of the greatest anti-heroes ever written, and as always he lights up this tough and unflinching novel. We're in good hands here.”—Lee Child\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Once again Kerr leads us through the facts of history and the vagaries of human nature. His Bernie Gunther thinks he’s seen it all. But he hasn’t, and luckily, neither have we.”—Tom Hanks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003ePrussian Blue\u003c\/i\u003e, Philip Kerr once more shows himself one of the greatest master story-tellers in English. The narrative is swift and adept, and so well-grounded in the history and custom of the period that the reader is totally immersed.”—Alan Furst\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kerr once again brilliantly uses a whodunit to bring to horrifying life the Nazi regime’s corruption and brutality.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“In this skillfully plotted thriller, Kerr punctures the present with the painful past. Fans of the series won’t be disappointed.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMore Praise for Philip Kerr and the Bernie Gunther Novels\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A brilliantly innovative thriller writer.”—Salman Rushdie\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Philip Kerr is the only bona fide heir to Raymond Chandler.”—Salon.com\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “In terms of narrative, plot, pace and characterization, Kerr’s in a league with John le Carré.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Every time we’re afraid we’ve seen the last of Bernie Gunther, Philip Kerr comes through with another unnerving adventure for his morally conflicted hero.”—Marilyn Stasio, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Just as youth is wasted on the young, history is wasted on historians. It ought to be the exclusive property of novelists—but only if they are as clever and knowledgeable as Philip Kerr.”—\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Kerr quantum leaps the limitations of genre fiction. Most thrillers insult your intelligence; his assault your ignorance.”—\u003ci\u003eEsquire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A richly satisfying mystery, one that evokes the noir sensibilities of Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald while breaking important new ground of its own.”—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Part of the allure of these novels is that Bernie is such an interesting creation, a Chandleresque knight errant caught in insane historical surroundings. Bernie walks down streets so mean that nobody can stay alive and remain truly clean.”—John Powers, \u003ci\u003eFresh Air\u003c\/i\u003e (NPR)\u003cb\u003ePhilip Kerr\u003c\/b\u003e was the\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the acclaimed Bernie Gunther novels, three of which—\u003ci\u003eField Gray\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Lady from Zagreb\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003ePrussian Blue\u003c\/i\u003e—were finalists for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. Kerr also won several Shamus Awards and the British Crime Writers’ Association Ellis Peters Award for Historical Crime Fiction. Just before his death in 2018, he was made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. As P.B. Kerr, he was the author of the much-loved young adult fantasy series Children of the Lamp.one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e October 1956\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was the end of the season and most of the hotels on the      Riviera, including the Grand H™tel 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 SŸtterlin      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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 m‰itre 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 m‰itre 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Don't leave yet,\" one of them said quietly in thick,      Leipzig-accented German. \"The comrade-general wouldn't like it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's right,\" added the other. \"So you'd best sit down like a      good boy and avoid making a scene.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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      nioise, 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I sat down, poured myself a glass of white wine, and tossed my      cigarette case onto the table in front of me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"General Erich Mielke,\" I said. \"What an unexpected pleasure.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is she all right? Elisabeth? Just tell me that and then I'll      listen to whatever you have to say, General.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, she's fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I take it she's not actually here in Nice.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not hungry, thanks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well, there's plenty of food on this table. Are we expecting      anyone else? The Red Army, perhaps?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I picked up the bottle and inspected the label.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I do, and it most certainly is.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I drained the glass and poured myself another. It was excellent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The waiter approached nervously, as if he'd already felt the edge      of Mielke's tongue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The waiter went away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is it just steak you prefer that way?\" I said. \"Or everything      else as well?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Still got that sense of humor, Gunther. It beats me how you've      stayed alive for this long.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who was it said that none are more hopelessly enslaved than those      who believe they are free?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It was Goethe. And you misquote him. He said that none are more      hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"In my book, they are one and the same.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That would be the one book you've read, then.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's a high-risk game. But then you always were a gambler.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Somehow I don't believe that's all you're here for.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're right.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So what the hell do you want?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well, for the sake of argument, let's just say it was you,\" said      Mielke. He finished the piece of chocolate he was eating, forked      some pickled cucumber into his mouth, and then swallowed a      mouthful of white Burgundy, all of which persuaded me that his      taste buds were every bit as corrupt as his politics and morals.      \"The fact is that Hennig's days were numbered anyway. As are      Anne's. The operation to discredit Hollis really only looks good      if we try to eliminate her, too-as befits someone who betrayed us.      And that's especially important now that the French are trying to      have her extradited back here to face trial for Hennig's murder.      Needless to say, that just can't be allowed to happen. Which is      where you come in, Gunther.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Me?\" I shrugged. \"Let me get this straight. You're asking me to      kill Anne French?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Precisely. Except that I'm not asking. The fact is that you      agreeing to kill Anne French is a condition of remaining alive      yourself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e October 1956\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I estimated once that the Gestapo had employed less than fifty      thousand officers to keep an eye on eighty million Germans, but      from what I'd read and heard about the GDR, the Stasi employed at      least twice that number-to say nothing of their civilian      informants or spylets who, rumor had it, amounted to one in ten of      the population-to keep an eye on just seventeen million Germans.      As deputy head of the Stasi, Erich Mielke was one of the most      powerful men in the GDR. And as might have been expected of such a      man, he'd already anticipated all my objections to such a      distasteful mission as the one he had described and was ready to      argue them down with the brute force of one who is used to getting      his way with people who are themselves authoritarian and      assertive. I had the feeling that Mielke might have grabbed me by      the throat or banged my head on the dinner table and, of course,      violence was a vital part of his character; as a young communist      cadre in Berlin he'd participated in the infamous murder of two      uniformed policemen.","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303439847653,"sku":"NP9780399185205","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399185205.jpg?v=1767735188","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/prussian-blue-isbn-9780399185205","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}