‘It is a journalistic conceit to pretend you are unmoved by people. But I am not a journalist and I am not superior to this encounter.’ ‘I didn’t die,’ says Jeanmaire proudly. ‘They wanted me to, but I wouldn’t do them the favour.’ It is evening. We are alone in his tiny flat on the eastern outskirts of Bern. He is cooking cheese fondue for the two of us. On a shelf in the kitchen stand the steel eating bowls he used in prison. Why does he keep them? ‘For memory,’ he replies. In the tiny corridor outside hang the dagger and sabre that are the insignia of a Swiss army officer’s dress uniform. The drawing room is decorated with a reproduction medieval halberd and his diploma of architecture dated 1934. A signed photograph from General Westmoreland, commemorating a goodwill visit to Bern, is inscribed ‘General, Air Protection Troops’, Jeanmaire’s last appointment.