Back from the Dead (2 page)

Sooner than you think, Hess wanted to say.

“I want you to find Ernst Hess,” Gerhard Braun had said when they were sitting across from each other in armchairs in the salon at Braun’s estate, a room the size of a gymnasium. “He’s disappeared. I would have too if an article like this had been written about me. Have you seen it?”

Braun was strange looking: long face, big nose, eyes bulging out of their sockets, boring into him. He tossed an issue of
Der Spiegel
on the coffee table in front of Zeller.

Zeller nodded. “Quite an exposé. I have to say, I was surprised.”

“About what in particular?” Braun blew a cloud of cigar smoke into the open room that drifted and disappeared.

“His alleged war crimes, although after seeing the photograph of Hess smiling in front of the mass grave, his guilt seems a foregone conclusion.”

“Ernst Hess’ orders were to kill Jews. He did it and did it well.” Braun paused, placed his cigar in a crystal ashtray, and sipped his whisky. “His political career is finished. When, and if, Hess is caught, he will be prosecuted. But there is more to it than that.” There usually is, Zeller was thinking. He wondered what Hess had on Gerhard Braun. He knew Braun had not served the Reich in any military capacity other than supplying the German army with weapons and ordnance. But whatever Hess had on him, Braun was concerned.

Zeller said, “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“If I did I wouldn’t need you.”

“Any girlfriends, mistresses?”

“A model named Anke Kruger.”

“Any hobbies, addictions, unusual proclivities?”

“I don’t care if he has his way with goats,” Braun said. “I want you to find him before the Nazi hunters and the Bundeskriminalamt do.” He paused, picked up the cigar, puffing on it.

Zeller was intrigued. He sat, glancing at a Van Gogh framed on the wall – the
Portrait of Dr. Gachet.
Zeller knew the painting. He had studied art at the university, tried to imagine what it was worth. “I read that it was lost during the war.”

“Well evidently it has been found.” Braun poured whisky from a decanter into a lowball crystal glass and handed it to him.

Zeller had been contacted by Horst Neubauer, an attorney representing Gerhard Braun, saying Herr Braun wanted to talk to him.

“About what?” Zeller had said.

“Herr Braun will explain everything. He will pay you five thousand Deutschmarks for your time. If you listen to his proposition and say no, the money is yours. If you agree to work for him, he will deduct it from your fee.”

This is what Zeller knew about Braun. The only son of a wealthy industrialist, he had taken over the family business in 1942 at age twenty-seven after his father died of a heart attack. Braun had joined the Nazi party in 1934, believed in the cause but refused to wear a uniform, salute or click his heels. Working with Albert Speer and Ferdinand Porsche he retooled his father’s factories to produce military vehicles for the Reich. Braun built tanks and tractors, and eighty-eight-millimeter anti-aircraft guns. At the high point of the war he had forty-seven factories and sixty thousand Jewish slave laborers from concentration camps, cranking out weapons. “Why kill them? Let’s put them to work,” Braun had said. His representatives went to the camps and handpicked the laborers they wanted.

After the war Braun was arrested by the Americans and charged with crimes against peace and crimes against humanity. He was found guilty. The judges on the tribunal sentenced him to ten years in prison on July 31, 1947. He also lost his factories, homes, art collection and money – over a hundred million Deutschmarks. Stripped of everything except his red-and-white-striped prison uniform, Braun was sent to Landsberg in Bavaria, where Hitler had written
Mein Kampf.

That was before the Allies realized that getting Germany back on its feet required resources. They needed men like Braun, leaders to help restore industry. In 1951, John J. McCloy, high commissioner of the American occupation zone, released Braun from prison, returned forty million Deutschmarks in property and cash, and gave him control of ten of his former companies. Fifty pieces of art that had been confiscated by the Allies were also returned to him.

Zeller tilted his glass and rotated it, the whisky coating the sides. He sipped the amber liquid, tasting spice and nuts, intense citrus, lemon and orange and then hints of vanilla and roasted coffee. “Remarkable. What is it?”

“1926 Dalmore. What if this was your job, making the best aged single malt in the world? How satisfying, I would imagine.”

First Zeller called Fuhrman, an old friend, who worked for customs and immigration. Zeller had used him on occasion, to locate high-profile defectors. This time he asked Fuhrman to find out if Ernst Hess had been on a flight leaving Germany in the past three weeks.

“Leaving Germany for where?” Fuhrman said.

“South America.” It was conceivable Hess had been in contact with former Nazis who had escaped prosecution after the war. “I would try Rio, Buenos Aires, Santiago, Lima, and maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Any flight to South America would probably make a connection in Lisbon, and then fly non-stop. You’re talking about a lot of flights. It’s going to take time, and it’s going to cost you.” A few days later Fuhrman reported back, saying he had checked the airline manifests of every flight from Germany to a South American city since September 20th. Hess’ name did not appear. But Hess could have chartered a plane or chosen another mode of travel. Zeller asked Fuhrman to check with charter aircraft companies and ship lines.

Next on Zeller’s list was Hess’ mistress, Anke Kruger. She was a former model and looked it, five ten, long blonde hair, wearing skintight blue jeans and a revealing brown tank top, breasts loose under the soft fabric. Anke lived in a posh apartment building near Leopoldstrasse in Schwabing.

“A glass of wine?” Anke said.

“Well it is five o’clock, isn’t it?”

She went to the kitchen, poured two glasses of white wine, brought them to the salon, handed one to Zeller standing at the window, watching the action on the street below.

“Would you care to sit?”

“This is fine,” Zeller said. “I’ve been driving for three hours.”

“I will tell you what I know.” She sat on the windowsill, long legs in black knee-high boots angled to the floor. “But it’s not much.”

“How long have you known Herr Hess?”

“About three years. Ernst hired me to work at a Hess AG airship exhibition. I was a model at the time. We became good friends. Later when Ernst and his wife separated we became romantically involved. We had fun, spent a lot of time together. It was serious, we talked about getting married, having children.”

“When did you last see Herr Hess?” He heard a horn, glanced out the window. It was rush hour, cars creeping by on Leopoldstrasse.

“I know exactly, it was the third of October. My birthday is the fifth and Ernst was telling me he had something special planned. I could tell he was excited, but then I did not hear from him again for ten days.”

“What was his excuse for missing your birthday? What did he say?”

“He had something to take care of. An emergency. He had to leave town, and apologized.”

“Was this before or after the article in
Der Spiegel
?”

“At least a week before.”

“Where was he calling from?”

“He didn’t say. But listen to me,” Anke Kruger said. “I know this man. He did not do these things they said in the magazine.”

She obviously didn’t know him well enough. “Is there anything you can think of that will help me find Herr Hess?”

Anke shook her head.

Zeller arrived at Hess AG the following morning at 9:30. Gerhard Braun, a member of Hess’ board of directors, had contacted the manager, Herr Rothman, and explained the situation. Rothman was expecting Zeller, escorted him to Hess’ office, and told him to take his time. If he needed anything, dial extension 12.

“I’ll want to speak to Herr Hess’ secretary.”

“Ingrid Bookmyer. I’ll ask her to stop by.”

Rothman walked out and closed the door.

Zeller studied the room, which was ten meters by seven and a half, with a wall of windows that looked out at the concrete landing area. He watched a Zeppelin, skinned in silver, rise hovering above the tarmac, engineers in white shirts and dark trousers, making notes on clipboards.

He looked around. The furniture was custom-designed in light-colored wood. Hess had a big desk with a credenza behind it. On the paneled rear wall behind the conference table were six framed pictures showing the evolution of the Zeppelin, from the LZ1, photographed over Lake Constance in 1899, the Graf Zeppelin, and the Hindenburg, to smaller, sleeker, current-issue Hess AG airships. Along a sidewall, matching wooden file cabinets were lined up. There were flat files against the opposite wall, and in the middle of the room, a drafting table that displayed blueprints showing the interior skeleton of a Hess AG airship.

There was a knock on the door, it opened and a big-boned woman, early thirties, stepped in the room. “I’m Ingrid, Herr Hess’ secretary.” Ingrid Bookmyer, whom everyone called Booky, wearing black horn-rim glasses, blonde hair tied in a bun.

“Come in and sit, won’t you. My name is Albin Zeller. I have been retained by the CSU to find Herr Hess.” It was an exaggeration of course but Ingrid Bookmyer would have no idea. He led her to a furniture grouping. She sat in one of the chairs and he on the couch across from her. She was all buttoned up in a dark suit, breasts bulging against the jacket, hemline of the skirt past her knees. Zeller was trying to decide if she was attractive or not. Wondering what she would look like without the glasses, with her hair down, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.

“How long have you worked for Herr Hess?”

“Since he purchased the airship company in 1964.”

“Are you close to him?”

She blushed. “What do you mean?”

“Are you friends? Does he confide in you?”

“I have worked for Herr Hess seven and a half years. I would say I know him quite well. I admire him. Ernst Hess is a brilliant man.”

Ingrid Bookmyer was clearly nervous, rubbing her hands together. Zeller now wondered if their relationship had been intimate. “Have you been to Herr Hess’ apartment?”

“At times he worked from there and I would drop off test results,” she said, knees together, hands flat on her thighs. Zeller said, “When did you last speak to him?”

“Twenty-ninth of September.”

“How do you remember the date?”

“I have a good memory.”

“Where was he calling from?”

“Detroit, Michigan. I didn’t know at the time, but he gave me the number at the hotel where he was staying. I phoned Herr Hess the next day to tell him about the death of Arno Rausch.”

“And you haven’t spoken to him since?”

Ingrid Bookmyer shook her head.

“You know Herr Hess is a fugitive from justice, wanted for crimes against humanity. Aid him in any way,” Zeller said with more authority, “and you will be prosecuted. Do you understand?” He could see tears in her eyes, so unless she was acting he had gotten through to her. “When you hear from Herr Hess, and I believe you will, I want you to call me at this number. It is my answering service. You can contact them any time day or night.” He handed her a card.

Zeller spent two more hours in the office. He found an address book in the desk. Opened it and scanned the entries. Hess, not surprising, was well connected. He recognized the names of well-known judges, politicians, scientists, doctors, industrialists. Gerhard Braun was included, as was Willy Brandt. But it was Leon Halip’s name that jumped out at him for being so unexpected. Leon was the best forger on the European continent, a craftsman, an artist. Zeller was under the impression Halip, a Hungarian, had retired. He was sixty-two, with crippling arthritis in his hands. Zeller would have to drive to Wiesbaden and pay him a visit.

In the credenza he found a Luger, circa ’37, and a box of nine-millimeter cartridges. The gun smelled as if it had recently been fired. That in itself didn’t mean anything. He had probably gone to a shooting range. He might even have one at his estate. Zeller found Hess AG bank statements in a file cabinet. Hess’ business account was at Deutsche Bank, listing a balance of DM270,000. Zeller checked statements going back six months and didn’t see any large cash withdrawals or wire transfers. If Hess were planning to go somewhere and start over he would need money.

Mail was piled up on the desk in Hess’ apartment, envelopes and magazines. The manager told him Herr Hess was frequently out of town, so the building concierge brought his mail to the apartment.

“Who else has a key?”

The manager said, “I have the only key, and I can assure you I monitor very closely anyone who uses it.”

Zeller opened the phone bill and scanned the calls: a dozen to a number in Schleissheim he assumed was Hess’ estate, several to a Munich phone number, a long-distance call to Wiesbaden, quite a few to Anke Kruger and half a dozen to a phone number in New York. He checked the address book he had brought from Hess’ office and traced the number to someone named J. Mauer with an address on Park Avenue in New York City.