Brandenburg (24 page)

Erica put down her glass. “You mean records are kept that far back?”

“There are two German agencies that kept records of former Nazis and SS personnel like Reimer. The first is the Document Center in Zehlendorf in Berlin. It’s originally an American institution, and a repository of Nazi Party organization documents.”

He explained that in 1945, American troops had captured almost the entire records of SS personnel and the Nazi Party and its organizations in various locations throughout Germany. Those and other party records were later stored in Berlin in special underground vaults, to aid in the prosecution of war criminals.

“The second agency is run solely by the German government. It’s known as the Z-Commission and located in Württemberg. Its staff consists of a small number of operatives and attorneys whose function it is to investigate, and prosecute if necessary, known war criminals.” He told Erica that whereas the Berlin Document Center was a repository of Nazi organization documents, the Z-Commission had actually hunted down Nazis and SS guilty of war crimes and mass murder, and most of the documented files it kept were copies of the ones in Berlin. But because many of those wanted for war crimes were either dead or had been prosecuted, government funds had gradually diminished as the Z-Commission was wound down.

He took a sip of wine. “So the files and records of most former Nazis or SS will still be documented, but Berlin has all the original documents, so that’s our best bet. They may have no record of Erhard Schmeltz, because he left Germany before the Nazis came to power in 1933, but it’s worth a try.”

Erica considered. “Sanchez mentioned an aircraft in his report. Could he find out where it landed?”

“If it was anywhere other than a regular airport, I doubt it. It could have been another helicopter. In that case, it could have landed anyplace there was a clearing big enough. And we’re assuming it was the people from the Chaco house. We could be wrong.”

Erica put down her glass. “So we really have nothing to go on.”

“We’ve got Winter’s old friends at Heidelberg University. People he associated with. Did you know any of them?”

“I moved in a different crowd. But there were a few I knew in Winter’s circle. Why?”

“Anyone close to him?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Actually, there was Wolfgang Lubsch from Baden-Baden. You may have heard of him—the terrorist?”

“I know of him,” Volkmann acknowledged. “Last I heard, he was wanted by the German police and leading an offshoot of the Red Army Faction. But I can’t say I know much about him or the organization he runs. I haven’t had much to do with German terrorists, thankfully. They can be pretty nasty people.”

“Back when I knew him, Lubsch was terribly passionate and intense. I’m not surprised he’s become so extreme.” She caught Volkmann’s eye. “Anyhow, I used to see Lubsch and Winter together now and again. It was kind of a funny relationship. Lubsch was very far to the left, and Winter was extreme right. I guess they liked to spar.”

“Terrific. The one man who might give us a line on Winter turns out to be a terrorist and probably unreachable.”

Erica said, “Maybe not. I knew his girlfriend, Karen Holfeld. We roomed together one year. I think she’s living in Mainz somewhere.”

“You think you could find her?”

“I could telephone some old friends who might know. She may have lost contact with Lubsch. But if I do find her, what do I say?”

He thought for a moment. “How about telling her you want to write a story with a colleague from one of your magazines . . . a human-interest piece about those involved in left-wing politics? Tell her you want to talk with Lubsch in confidence. And that you won’t use his name. Maybe he’ll bite at the chance of some positive publicity. Your old school ties may help. But keep it low-key. And if you can’t find this Karen through your own friends, I’ll put my people on it.”

He fell silent, then said, “I’d like to ask you a question. Did you sense anything strange about the Chaco house?”

“In what way strange?”

“Apart from the way it was left. A feeling. Like an atmosphere.”

She put down her fork. “I sensed something. But I’m not sure what. The small house, the one next to the hacienda . . . I remember that I shivered when I stepped inside, even though it was a hot day.” Erica shrugged. “It was kind of like the feeling you get when you step into a house in which someone has died.” She looked at him. “Is that what you mean?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. All I know is that it felt kind of weird.”

When the waiter took away the dishes, Erica reached across and touched his hand. “Thanks, Joe. Thanks for your help.”

Volkmann looked over at the blue eyes and the pretty face and wondered if she meant it, or if she was just a good actress.

•   •   •

He was awakened by the telephone ringing in the next room. It was midnight, the bedroom curtains lifting and falling in a soft breeze. He dressed and went into the living room.

Erica was sitting by the telephone, a notepad open beside her.

“I’ve made a lot of calls. I think I’ve managed to trace Wolfgang Lubsch.”

“How?”

“Someone I knew in Heidelberg . . . she gave me Karen’s phone number.” She caught Volkmann’s eye. “When I called her, she seemed wary about talking to me.”

“That shouldn’t come as a surprise—especially if she and Lubsch are still friends.”

“I asked her if Lubsch was open to an interview. She told me he wasn’t eager to talk to reporters these days. So I tried the approach you suggested—with a few embellishments. I said I wouldn’t use Lubsch’s name but that the article was very important to me. She seemed to think Lubsch might be interested in a story like that. She told me she’d phone and ask him. She called back just now and said it was okay.”

“Good work. So when do we get to meet him?”

“Tomorrow afternoon we’re to be in a bar called the Weisses Rossl at four o’clock. It’s in an old wine town on the Rhine called Rüdesheim, about an hour’s drive from Frankfurt. Karen asked me not to involve anyone else, apart from us. I assured her she could trust me.”

He waited until Erica had gone, watching her retreat into the spare bedroom before he telephoned the night-duty officer, Jan de Vries, and requested the files for Wolfgang Lubsch of Baden-Baden, a graduate of Heidelberg. De Vries promised to get back to him by eight that morning.

After Volkmann replaced the receiver, he crossed to the bookshelves. He found the
Times Atlas
and flicked the pages. He traced with a finger to the place on the border between Paraguay and Brazil named Bahia Negra, where Sanchez had said the radar picked up the aircraft signal. From the map, it looked like a small, insignificant town straddling the border on the banks of the Rio Paraguay. He wondered if Sanchez had made any further progress, but knew the man would make contact if he did.

He replaced the atlas on the shelves, then went back into the bedroom and found the Beretta 9 mm service pistol, removed it from the holster, and checked the action. There was a full clip of shells
and a spare magazine. He read through Hernandez’s tape transcript again. When he finished, it was cold outside and raining now, fine needles scratching at the glass. He lit a cigarette, inhaling slowly.

20

RÜDESHEIM. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 3:00 P.M.

The town faced the riverfront, a maze of cozy inns and narrow, cobbled streets.

In summer, the pretty wine town would have been flooded with visitors, the Rhine banks awash with the floating hotels and tourist barges. But in winter, the visitors trickled to a few hardy weekenders.

Volkmann drove through the town to get his bearings, then made his way down toward the waterfront and parked the Ford. He left the Beretta and his DSE identity card tucked under the driver’s seat; Facilities had provided him with a press ID card.

A couple of squat tourist ferries were tied up for the winter season. It didn’t feel like Christmas, but decorations hung in shop windows, and in the central platz colored lights winked in the fading afternoon light.

They walked through the cobbled alleyways toward the center of the old town. Most of the
weinstuben
were closed, but they found a café open and ordered coffee and pastries.

Erica’s blond hair was tied back and she wore hardly any makeup, but her face was still strikingly pretty. Volkmann said, “You better describe Lubsch to me. If I’m going to meet a dangerous, wanted terrorist, I want to know as much as I can.”

Erica sipped her coffee. “He wasn’t the kind of guy most women would find attractive. Small. Thinly built. Glasses and red hair. But he looked kind of vulnerable and at the same time arrogant, if you know what I mean. A dreamer. But very bright. Does that help?”

He smiled. “It’s enough. Does your friend Karen still have a relationship with him?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But Karen always had a reputation as a man-eater. Even though she’s married now.”

“Tell me more.”

“She and her husband run a business together. It’s in the center of Mainz. And her name’s no longer Holfeld, but Gries.”

“What kind of business?”

“A sports boutique. You know, high-end athletic shoes, designer active wear. Very fashionable. Very chic. Business is booming, Karen claims.”

“Which department was she in on campus?”

“Politics, the same as Lubsch.”

“So how did she get into sportswear?”

“Apart from politics, Karen was very physical—into running, swimming, hiking, climbing. At university, she always had lots of boyfriends.”

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?” she answered, coloring a little.

“At the university. Did you have lots of male friends?”

“A few,” she said carefully.

“You don’t like to talk about that part of your life?”

She shrugged. “Not to someone I’ve just met.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a slight smile. “Tell me about the right-wing groups Winter belonged to.”

She paused for a moment to collect her memories. “I don’t think they were particularly organized. Just guys who got together to drink and tell each other how brilliant and deep they were and—what’s the expression in your language—to throw the bull?”

He laughed. “Close enough.”

“They’d throw the bull about the state Germany was in,” she went on. “They liked to scapegoat immigrants. In their view, Germany had become a half-breed state because of its five million immigrants. When they were drunk, they might shout insults at foreign-looking students. There were fights, too, a few times, but nothing serious.”

She paused. “And when they were very drunk, they’d beat their beer mugs against the tables and chant, ‘Germany for the Germans.’ I saw a Nazi salute or two now and again. But most of us just thought that these guys were being stupid and silly.”

“After they graduated, what became of them? Did they stay involved in extremist politics?”

Erica shook her head. “I really can’t say. I didn’t pay them a lot of attention—except when I was in the same beer hall or at a party and couldn’t avoid them.” She looked at him. “You know, Joseph Volkmann, you’re a very strange man.”

“Tell me why you think so,” he said softly.

“You make me want to fill the silence by answering your questions. To confide in you. I’m the journalist. And that’s supposed to be my strategy. It’s rather absurd.”

“What is?”

“I spend the night in a man’s apartment about whom I know nothing. It’s not the kind of thing that usually happens, Joe.”

“And what does usually happen?”

“Nothing to write home about, I assure you. I have my work. I listen to my music. I go out with friends. But mainly my work. I’m afraid I’m not
hausfrau
material.”

“You have a boyfriend, Erica?”

She shook her head. “There’s no one special right now.” She looked across at him. “Don’t I get a chance to ask some personal questions?”

He smiled. “What would you like to know?”

“Do you like your work?”

“It’s what I’m trained to do.”

She smiled again. “Was that a yes or a no?”

“I guess it’s a yes.”

Dusk was falling. Lights coming on in the cobbled street outside.

He said, “I had Lubsch checked out. No surprises. His group’s been involved in at least two kidnappings and the murder of an industrialist. He also likes making withdrawals from German banks without having an account. All in the name of freeing the downtrodden and protecting the defenseless, no doubt.”

He looked hard at her. “But he’s no ivory-tower intellectual, Erica. He’s a dangerous, wanted man. Maybe even a killer. If you decide you’d rather not go with me . . .”

“If it means finding the people who killed Rudi, I want to meet him.”

“Good. Just remember, he can’t know that I’m with DSE.” Volkmann produced his press ID. “It’s genuine. So what you told Karen ought to hold up. No matter what happens, stick to our cover story.”

“What about when we have to ask Lubsch about Winter?”

“Leave that to me. You’re sure you can go through with it, Erica?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s go find this bar and pray we’re not walking into big trouble.”