Brandenburg (47 page)

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 21

It was almost five-thirty when Volkmann’s Ford drove up the gentle slopes toward Waldweg.

He consulted Ivan Molke’s drawing. It placed the monastery eight miles going southeast.

Volkmann found it on a desolate road as the Ford’s headlights swept across a narrow granite bridge. Beyond it were two massive wooden doors of the monastery entrance, set in high sandstone walls.

Some instinct told him to take the Beretta. He slipped the pistol in his pocket, and took the flashlight and the spare batteries.

The sandstone walls around the old monastery looked pretty solid. A metal crucifix hung above the ancient wooden gates. A judas gate was set in the middle, and Volkmann doused the headlights.

He shone the flashlight and when he pushed in the judas gate, it swung open on creaking hinges and he stepped inside.

He found himself in a cobbled courtyard. An ancient rusted handcart and mounds of debris littered the cobble. The flashlight picked out arched cloisters that ran along the sides. His footsteps echoed as he stepped under the dark archway.

The plaster was crumbled in places, and a door hung on broken
hinges. Volkmann flashed the light inside an old office, cluttered with rotted furniture.

Nearby was a garden with a scattering of withered fruit trees. An old fountain stood in the center, its stone bowl filled with rainwater. Volkmann’s flashlight swept over a belfry tower.

It was all part of the monastery church and graveyard, overgrown with withered ivy. He pushed open the church door, and the sound cracked inside like a roll of thunder. The place smelled of rot and decay. Broken stained-glass windows were set high in the walls, and a couple of ancient pews rested on their sides.

The wash from Volkmann’s flashlight caught a stairway to his left. Stone steps led down into darkness. He followed the steps warily, until he found himself in the cellars beneath the church.

Bags of plaster and cement were stacked against the walls, along with cans of paint piled neatly. The storeroom was filled with building materials. Volkmann knelt and examined them. They appeared fresh and unused. As he stood up again, he heard a noise.

He froze.

Footsteps echoed from somewhere in the church above.

He flicked off the Beretta’s safety and carefully climbed the stairwell. At the top, he heard a noise like the click of a shoe. He raised the Beretta. From somewhere outside he heard footsteps echoing hard on cobblestones. Volkmann raced back toward the courtyard.

He saw a figure dart between the cloisters. At that precise moment, the figure halted, turned, fired twice, all in one fluid movement. The bullets cracked into the wall above Volkmann’s head.

He brought up the Beretta and fired off three quick shots into the dark, the bullets smacking into sandstone and ringing about the courtyard. The figure vanished.

Volkmann raced toward the monastery gates, and as he stepped through the judas gate, he saw the taillights of a car disappearing down the roadway. Some instinct told him to check the Ford, and when he reached it, he saw that the two front tires had been shot through.

He swore aloud as he saw a pair of red taillights fade through the trees before they disappeared into darkness.

It took him almost an hour to reach the service station on the autobahn, driving on one flat tire after fitting the spare. By the time he had two new tires fitted it was almost nine, and he drove back to the monastery to take another look around. This time he left the Ford three hundred yards from the road and walked back, taking the flashlight and spare batteries with him. Marks scarred the gravel where the fleeing car had burned rubber, but apart from that, he found nothing. At the stone bridge he shone the light and noticed a stream that ran in a moat around the perimeter.

He shone the flashlight where the fleeing figure had fired, but found no spent cartridge shells. He estimated that the monastery stood on several acres walled with sandstone and that despite its years, it was still in solid condition, and he wondered again what significance it must have to be drawn in Kesser’s notebook.

He walked back up to the cemetery and flashed the light between the rows of headstones. Most of the monastery graves dated from before the war, and the most recent bore an inscription dated twenty years before. He saw no evidence of any freshly dug soil, and none of the graves appeared to have been disturbed.

•   •   •

It was almost three in the morning when he let himself into the apartment. The early morning traffic was thin and he spotted no one tailing him.

Erica was asleep, her blond hair strewn about the pillow. He realized that she was the only one who knew he was driving down to Dachau. He stood looking down at her face, doubt gnawing at him, wondering if he had been reckless in trusting her.

In the kitchen, he saw the note by the telephone: “André rang. He said to phone him.”

He made the call to the duty office, and the Frenchman answered sleepily.

“The two names you gave me—Trautman, Klee—didn’t turn up
on our computer, Joe. So I passed them on to the German desk like you said. They came back pretty quick.”

“And?”

“They wanted to know what the story was. I told them I didn’t know, but if we came up with anything, I’d get back to them.”

“So what did the Germans say?”

“The two turned up as homicides.”

“How did they die?”

“Trautman was a hit-and-run victim but they suspected homicide, three months ago. Klee was shot, two days later. In each case, the victims had no criminal background. Elderly middle-class men with no police records. No witnesses, no suspects. That’s why the Germans were so interested to know if we had anything.” The Frenchman paused. “What are you on to, Joe?”

“I don’t know, André.” He jotted details on the pad beside the phone. “Anything else?”

“Klee was a retired army major from Rostock, sixty-seven years of age. Trautman was a businessman, a year older, from Essen.”

“What about a connection, André?”

“Apart from the homicide link, the German desk knows of no connection between both men, but they’d be very interested if you’ve found one. Does any of that help?”

“I don’t know, André. What about Hanah Richter?”

“She retired some years ago, to Berlin. But I got a phone number and address.”

Volkmann jotted them down on the pad. “Thanks for your help, André.”

“Any time. Send my love to the woman. She sounds okay.”

•   •   •

He sat on the couch sipping a scotch, thinking over André’s information.

There was no doubt about Kesser now. He was definitely connected with the people in the Chaco, no question. The deaths of the two men on Kesser’s list implicated him.

But why were the men killed?
he asked himself. The only way to find out was to pull Kesser in.

He searched for any kind of pattern to the puzzle. The murdered men—Trautman, Klee—were middle class, with professional or business backgrounds. Like Rauscher and the woman, Hedda Pohl. The only connection Volkmann could see was that they would all have been born while the Nazis were still in power.

As he lay back on the couch, he thought again of the shadowy figure in the monastery courtyard. The car could have followed him on the main autobahn and then tracked him at a distance with its lights off, and he guessed that was what had happened.

He found the tape in his briefcase. He listened to it play through a half-dozen times, knowing the words before they came, knowing each inflection.

“The shipment . . . ?”

“The cargo will be picked up from Genoa as arranged.”

“And the Italian?”

“He will be eliminated, but I want to be certain we don’t arouse suspicion concerning the cargo. It would be prudent to wait until Brandenburg becomes operational. Then he will be dealt with along with the others.”

Pause.

“Those who have pledged their loyalty . . . we must be certain of them.”

“I have had their assurances confirmed. And their pedigree is without question.”

“And the Turk?”

“I foresee no problems.”

“The woman in Berlin . . . you’re absolutely certain we can rely on her?”

“She won’t fail us, I assure you.” Pause. “There are no changes to the names on the list?”

“They’ll all be killed.”

Tiredness overcame him, and he removed the headphones.

He decided to sleep on the couch, too tired to move into the spare bedroom. He didn’t want to wake Erica or talk with her just then, his mind too troubled and confused.

As he lay back, he massaged his temples and tried to empty his mind, but the recorded voices came in on him again. What was the shipment? Who was the Italian? The Turk? And who were the people to be killed? The people in Kesser’s notebook list?

And who was the woman in Berlin?

As he lay there on the edge of sleep, he thought of the images on the Blockhaus walls at Dachau: the big, dark, lifeless eyes of the woman clutching her dead child to her breast, the grinning face of the SS man looking down at her.

He closed his eyes as if to erase the sight.

But the last thought on his mind as he lay on the edge of sleep was a line on the tape.

It came like a click in the back of his head, so obvious he wondered why it hadn’t come to him before now.

Pedigree!

It was too late to do anything about it, and he would have to wait until morning to check with Berlin. But he wondered if it might be a glimmer of light in the darkness.

42

STRASBOURG. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22

The business hours of government agencies in Germany are normally eight to four, and when Volkmann made the telephone call to the Berlin Document Center, it was exactly 8:00 a.m.

He asked to speak with Maxwell, and Volkmann explained the information he needed.

“What the devil’s up with DSE that you’re checking all these names?”

“I’m afraid it’s classified right now, Mr. Maxwell, but Ted Birken told me to contact you if I needed any information. You think you could check?”

Maxwell sighed. “Well, I guess . . . but it may take a little time.”

“How long?”

“It’s Christmas. We’re winding down. Can it wait until after the holidays?”

“I realize I’m asking a lot, but I need the information today. You think it can be had?”

Maxwell sighed again. “What you’re looking for is a connection between these names, right? Klee, Trautman, Pohl, Rauscher, and the others. Where these people were stationed in the period you specified. And if they had any children, their names and dates of birth.”

“That’s it.”

“It means going back through a whole bunch of files. You realize that? All you’ve given me is names. No dates of birth, no rank.”

“I realize that, Mr. Maxwell. But as I say, it’s important.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise I’ll get through them all.”

Volkmann thanked the man and then punched in the number for Hanah Richter. She lived in Berlin’s Nikolassee. A woman’s voice answered, deep and commanding. She introduced herself as Hanah Richter.

“What’s this about, Herr Volkmann?”

He explained he was with DSE and learned that she once worked for the German government during the Nazi trials of the 1970s, and that she was an expert on the period. “I have a favor to ask, Frau Richter. Would you take a look at a photograph of a young woman taken during the 1930s?” He explained about the Nazi armband in
the picture. “Perhaps you might be able to identify her, or might know someone who could help.”

“Is this something official?”

“Yes.”

“Are you trying to track some Nazi?”

“No, Frau Richter. I can’t explain any more than I have but I’d appreciate your help.”

“You’re going back a long time, Herr Volkmann. A very long time indeed.”

“I realize this might be an inconvenience, but what if I flew to Berlin this evening?”

“Is this really that important?”

“Yes, it is.”

“This young woman . . . you’ve no idea who she might be?”

“Perhaps the wife or girlfriend of a senior SS officer or Nazi official. But I’m only guessing. The photograph was taken in 1931.”

He heard a deep sigh at the other end.

“I may be an expert, but my depth of knowledge does not extend to every friend of every Nazi. And you’re talking about two years before the Nazis came to power, you realize that?”

“I appreciate that,” Volkmann persisted. “But if you’d just take a look . . .”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line, and then finally the woman gave in.

“Very well. I better give you directions to my home.”

•   •   •

He organized a return ticket to Berlin on the six o’clock shuttle out of Stuttgart. It was almost two when he got the return call from Maxwell.

The Document Center director gave him the information, and when he finished, said to Volkmann, “You still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here.” Volkmann jotted down everything Maxwell told him.

“Does the information help any?”

“I think you could say that.”