Brandenburg (51 page)

“If we’re to believe Busch, Erhard Schmeltz wasn’t a rich man. And a man who’s fallen out of favor with the Nazi Party doesn’t receive money from the Reichsbank. Nor does he keep his party membership.” Volkmann looked intently at Erica. “And I don’t believe Schmeltz was hoarding the money for some other Nazi, either. Or they’d have used some anonymous Swiss bank. Only Hitler or a very high-ranking Nazi would have had the authority to use the Reichsbank. So that leaves one strong possibility. The money was sent to support the boy. Geli Raubal’s and Hitler’s son.

“The very fact that we found the woman’s photograph at the house in the Chaco confirms the link between Schmeltz and Geli Raubal. And you heard what Hanah Richter said: if she had an affair with Hitler, why couldn’t it be possible that she had a child by him?”

Erica shook her head. “If that’s true, why didn’t Hitler have her abort the pregnancy?”

“Maybe she didn’t tell him until it was too late. Maybe she wanted the child. And even if she did commit suicide, she must have been desperate over something. She also could have been depressed after the birth. If Hitler had refused to marry her and wanted the whole affair covered up by sending the boy away, it might have been enough to send her over the edge.”

“But there must have been people who knew. It couldn’t have been kept secret after all these years. It just couldn’t.”

“Geli Raubal was a medical student, Erica. She would have known people in the profession. People who helped with the birth and kept it secret. And you heard what Hanah said about the journalist sent to Dachau. What if he had heard the truth? What if that was the reason he was killed?”

Erica shook her head. “Joe, there are too many ifs. Believe me, part of me wants to accept what you’re saying, because it makes some kind of sense. But another part of me is saying it’s crazy.”

Volkmann heard his own labored breathing, the thought of what he had said dizzying. “Then consider this. Why did the Nazis destroy the part of the cemetery in Vienna where Geli was buried? Why did they want to destroy all traces of her grave? There could only be one reason. A secret someone wanted to hide. Geli Raubal’s secret. A postmortem could have determined if she had given birth. Destroying the grave meant destroying the evidence.”

Erica was pale. “To keep the secret, why didn’t they simply get rid of Geli Raubal’s body? Why didn’t they destroy the evidence that way?”

“Maybe they did.”

“I don’t understand.”

“By removing the body and destroying the graves nearby, it would make it impossible to know whether her corpse was removed from the grave or not. All that remained would have been a tangle of unidentifiable bones. No forensic examination could ever have determined identities.”

Perspiration beaded his brow as he looked at Erica. “Consider all I’ve said and how it connects to everything that’s been happening. To Rudi’s death, to the other deaths. Why sanitize a house in a remote jungle? Why destroy all traces of occupation in the Chaco property? Why be so obsessive about secrecy? What had those people in the Chaco really got to hide, Erica? Not a simple smuggling operation. Not simply a connection to Rudi’s death and the others. But something that goes far deeper. Not only about the present, but the past. You sensed something at the Chaco house, remember? We all did.”

“Joe . . .” Erica opened her mouth to speak, but she broke off.

He saw the tension in her, her mouth set grimly, before the blue eyes looked away. There was a hopeless look on her face that said it all, as if she had tried hard to convince him he was wrong and failed.

He knew that what he was suggesting was unreal, but it had a strange ring of truth and his voice was thick with emotion. “There’s only one possible answer that can explain Karl Schmeltz’s identity, Erica. Karl Schmeltz is Adolf Hitler’s son.”

For a long time neither of them spoke, as if the awesome possibility that had joined them in the stillness of the room lingered like a living thing.

“What are you going to do, Joe?” There was no emotion in her voice, and he looked back at her.

“Tell Ferguson and Peters, and just hope they believe me.”

“You think they will?”

“When they hear the evidence, yes, I think they will.”

Erica said flatly, “And then?”

“Find Karl Schmeltz. Because he’s part of what’s happening, Erica. He’s part of everything that’s happened and is about to happen.”

He held her stare, spoke quietly, and for the first time he heard real fear in his own voice. “The voices on Rudi’s tape and what Busch said was promised in Hitler’s bunker. They’re talking about the same thing, Erica. They’re talking about the same Brandenburg. What happened all those years ago in Germany when the Nazis came to power.” Volkmann paused, looked into her face. “Somehow I think it’s going to happen all over again.”

STOCKHOLM. DECEMBER 23, 6:15 A.M.

The young woman behind the SAS check-in desk at Stockholm’s Arlanda airport watched as the man approached.

He wore an expensive camel-haired overcoat and a pale gray Armani suit that complemented his dark complexion. Good-looking, maybe thirty, good figure, but sad eyes.

The woman smiled. “Good morning, sir.”

The Turk nodded silently and handed across his first-class ticket.

The woman typed in the details on the computer, Stockholm to Amsterdam, noticed the man had an onward connection to Berlin. As she checked in the man’s leather suitcase, she smiled up at him. It was a pity he couldn’t see her long legs tucked behind the desk; maybe she could have coaxed a date.

She completed the details on the computer and handed the man back his boarding card. As the man took it she noticed his hands. Strong hands, but crisscrossed with a web of thick pink scars that made her shudder inside. A definite turnoff.

“You may board straightaway, Mr. Kemal.”

“Thank you.”

She forced a smile. “Are you traveling on business or pleasure, Mr. Kemal?”

“Business.”

“I hope you have a nice trip.”

“I’m certain I will,” the Turk replied, and turned toward the boarding area.

46

GENOA. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 11:57 P.M.

“Franco . . . ?”

The voice came to him out of the darkness.

Franco Scali turned over sleepily in the warm bed and muttered, “What . . . ?”

A finger prodded him. “Franco, there’s someone at the door.”

Franco opened his eyes. The bedroom was pitch black.

“What time is it?” he called out to his wife.

“Midnight.”

Franco moaned as he heard the buzzing doorbell in the distance. The bedroom curtains were closed, but through a chink he could see the moonlit sky. He and Rosa had gone to bed early after spending the day Christmas shopping. Now he felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“Franco . . . ?”

“I heard you, woman.”

Franco threw back the sheets and dragged himself from the warm bed, felt the chill. He flicked on the bedside lamp, blinked as the harsh light flooded the bedroom. Rosa moaned as she pulled back the bedcover, and the bell rang again downstairs, a couple of short, urgent bursts.

“Who the devil is it at this hour?” Franco grumbled.

“I think it’s Aldo Celli. When I heard the bell I got up and thought I saw his car outside.”

“Then why didn’t you answer the door?”

“I said I think it’s him. I’m not sure,” his wife grunted, then turned over again, dragging the covers with her.

Franco sighed and scratched himself.

Aldo. Aldo the Eagle. The craneman at the docks. What did he want at this hour? Franco dragged on his dressing gown and went downstairs. When he unlocked the front door he saw big Aldo standing under the porch light, his collar pulled up against the cold.

“What is this, Aldo? You know what time it is?” Franco shivered.

“Can I come in, Franco?”

Franco sighed and led the big man into the sitting room. He turned on the light first, then dragged up a chair for Aldo.

Franco said, “So what’s up?”

Aldo’s big, fleshy face showed concern. “One of the juggernauts brought in a container this evening. Il Peste was on the late shift.
After I dropped the container, Il Peste came and looked at the number. Then he had us open the container, and he started using the duster and sniffing around.”

“So?”

Aldo blinked. “I asked him what was up. He said it was the same container that came in from South America twelve days ago. One he wanted to recheck.”

Franco’s stomach jolted.

“He found something, Franco,” Aldo went on.

Franco raised his eyes in mock surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The side of the container, there was a hidden compartment held in by some screws. Pretty neat job, you never would have thought it was there. But Il Peste kept tapping away until he found it.”

Franco tried to hide his fear. He felt his palms sweat. “Why you telling me?”

“The cops came. They took all our fingerprints. Said they want us to stay back after our shift if necessary, in case they needed to talk with us. Something about the container . . .”

Franco swallowed. “Go on . . .”

“Then Il Peste wanted to know when you were rostered on again. I told him you had a couple of days off. I heard him mention your name to one of the cops. A detective named Orsati. Then I heard one of them say they’d call on you sometime this morning.”

Franco felt his stomach churn, tried not to throw up all over Aldo’s shoes.

The big craneman stood. “I just thought I’d slip out and tell you, seeing you’re the boss. I told no one I was coming. But I got a feeling there’s going to be trouble, Franco. The cops and customs, they’re swarming all over the place like flies on dung.”

Franco nodded, managed a faint smile. “You did right, coming here, I mean. If there’s going to be trouble, I’ll need to be prepared.”

“That’s what I thought. I’d better be getting back. The cops might get suspicious if I’m away for long.”

Franco pushed himself up from the chair. He put a hand lightly
on the craneman’s big shoulder. “You’ll tell no one you came here, right?”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

“Thanks, Aldo. I owe you.”

•   •   •

Franco went back to the bedroom, threw off his dressing gown, and dragged on his clothes, feeling ill, like he wanted to die.

Rosa came awake. “What’s wrong? Who was at the door?”

“No one. You must have been dreaming, woman.”

“I heard the bell, voices downstairs.”

“You heard nothing. I gotta get some air. I’m up now, I can’t sleep.”

Rosa protested, but Franco wasn’t listening. It took him less than three minutes to dress, get down the stairs, lock the front door, and reach the Fiat. He had told Rosa not to answer the door if anyone called. The woman knew better than to argue.

He drove to the deserted Piazza della Vittoria, found a kiosk, and used one of the phone cards he kept in the glove compartment. He punched in the number from the slip of paper in his wallet.

The number rang. A couple of seconds of fearful, crushing silence before the receiver was lifted and Franco heard the voice at the other end.

“Ja?”

Franco didn’t speak German. He felt his legs shaking as he panicked.

Again, the voice said, “Ja?”

Franco said, “You speak Italian?”

A pause. The voice said, “Sí.”

“Then listen, amico. We’ve got us a big problem . . .”

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23

They managed to get seats on the 7:00 a.m. shuttle from Berlin.

He parked the Ford in the DSE underground garage, and when they went up, he left Erica waiting in his office while he went in search of Peters.

He found him in his office.

“Joe, I’m glad you made it back, something’s come up—”

“We need to talk, Tom.”

Peters saw the look on Volkmann’s face. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Where’s Ferguson?”

“Gone to a meeting with the section heads.”

Peters saw the look of frustration on Volkmann’s face. “What’s this about, Joe?”

“I’d prefer if Ferguson was here. I’d like to discuss it with you both.”

Peters recognized the stress in Volkmann’s voice but said, “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. Something’s come up, something important maybe. And Ferguson won’t be back until later.”

“What’s come up?”

“You’re going to love this. I got a call from the Italian desk. The police in Genoa may have found something that fits in with our request. They want us to take a look at a container that came in on a ship called the
Maria Escobar
on the ninth of this month.”

“Where from?”

Peters smiled. “Montevideo. I told them you’d be on the next available plane.”

“How long have I got?”

“There’s an Al Italia flight from Frankfurt in under three hours. A return flight tonight at nine. You ought to just make it back unless something develops. I’ve arranged a private charter from Strasbourg to Frankfurt. It’s waiting at the airport now.”

“What about our meeting?”

“I’ll set it up for this evening. Phone me the minute you get back.”