The Bergamese Sect (21 page)

‘
Okay, Troy, thanks for that. And one other thing. Don’t mention this to anyone, and I mean
anyone
. As far as you’re aware, the assignment is going to plan. Got that?’ Walsh was nodding, listening to Neumann’s assurances. ‘I hope you have, Troy, I really do. I won’t clean up for you again. Remember Las Croces?’ A smile came over Walsh’s face. ‘Sure. Okay. Bye.’

Walsh tapped the phone’s screen. He turned back to Turner who was staring at the dirty floor of the hangar, confused.

‘
Convinced now?’

‘
Sure, what do you want us to do?’

Walsh handed the phone back to Turner. ‘Your unlisted number – ring it.’

The agent keyed in a number, waited for an answer, then reported that his mission had been successful. He tossed the phone back to Walsh who stood and slipped it in his pocket.

‘
Good man. You’ll be released Friday. Until then, these men will be protecting you.’ Walsh pointed at the six tall men who watched over them. ‘Don’t mention this incident to anyone, forget it ever happened. Troy will confirm that for you if you like.’

Walsh turned, signalled to Petersen, and both men stood. They ignored the tall guards and the captive FBI men and walked slowly back through the hangar doors toward the waiting Lincoln.

Once inside, Walsh unbuttoned his jacket and rubbed his tired eyes. ‘Serious trouble,’ he said as Petersen made himself comfortable. The car took off slowly toward the broken gate of the abandoned airfield. ‘We’re in real danger,’ Walsh went on. ‘We’ve got to get back to DC lightning quick.’

‘
What about the Feds?’

‘
Order your men to keep a close watch on them. I don’t want our saboteur to find out he’s been discovered. They can be released Friday, by which time he’ll know what’s happened, and who’s responsible.’

‘
So you know who it is?’

Walsh smiled. ‘It couldn’t be more obvious.’

‘
Should I arrange to have Troy Neumann picked up?’

‘
Neumann? No! Neumann’s got nothing to do with this.’

‘
But he ordered the swoop. I thought…’

‘
No, Neumann’s just following orders. We’d be wasting our time following his chain of command. There’d be no way of telling where the real responsibility lay, where that order originated. Besides, I already know where that would lead. Yesterday, I told my suspect that Sebastian had made another contact in Dana Point. I made sure I gave him enough information – names, places, and times – for him to grab this fictitious contact. And right on cue, up show a bunch of Feds and bundle him into a van. It couldn’t be plainer if the guy had ‘traitor’ tattooed on his forehead. It doesn’t matter who showed up, or who gave them the order, the fact they showed up is enough.’

‘
So what next?’

‘
I’m not sure. We’ve bought ourselves a couple of days. But I’m worried about this guy’s next move. Once he knows I’ve exposed him, he could run or he could fight.’

‘
Which do you think?’

‘
I think he’ll fight. And he’s obviously got enough authority to cause us real problems.’

‘
Who is it, Larry?’

‘
You wouldn’t know him.’

‘
Are you sure?’

‘
Absolutely.’

The sun was now heading toward the horizon, a cool summer evening rapidly approaching. They joined the road that led westward toward San Bernardino. It was almost empty.

Walsh leant forward and tapped on the glass screen behind the driver. He pressed a button and drove the partition down. ‘Get us to San Bernardino International as quick as you can. Executive departures.’

The driver nodded as Walsh closed the screen again.

Turning, Walsh looked out at the scenery speeding by. He felt troubled again, that lump in his throat growing harder with each mile that passed. Things were worsening rapidly. He could feel the landslide coming, but had nowhere to jump once the avalanche started.

Chapter 13

The mountains filled the window perfectly, framed like a painting. From where he sat, in the hotel lounge, Castro could see a nearby promontory of grey rock, the snowy Alpine peaks visible beyond. They reminded him of his escape from that festering desert. The Rockies had stood in his way, a barrier easily crossed, but somehow representing his struggle to find purpose. Only after he’d leapt over them, speeding his Dodge through mile after mile of flat Kansas farmland, did he feel released. The mid-west had opened out before him, inviting, comfortable, offering him a goal to follow.

He stared at the granite pillars above the town. Over that rocky barrier, thought Castro, not so far away, sat Marcello Lanza, huddled in his old age, frightened, trying to accept the actions of a man probably long dead. A man who remained an enigma, whose purpose and final fate were a mystery.

Castro turned away from the postcard scene. On his lap was a notebook, his untidy lawyer’s scrawl covering the pages. He glanced over the notes he’d gathered on Schlessinger.

Born in Münich, 1895, Schlessinger had an uneventful upbringing, a traditional schooling in a comfortable middle-class Catholic family. He showed an early aptitude in languages and by his teenage years was fluent in Italian, Spanish and English. But his desire to become a foreign correspondent was shelved as the clouds of war gathered over Europe in 1914.

Schlessinger served for a short time as a junior infantry officer, winning the Iron Cross for his unselfish actions on the Russian front. Eventually his language skills got him assigned to espionage activities in Spain and Italy. The Great War left Schlessinger with a deep scar, a scar carved by the embarrassment of defeat, which shaped his mind for the coming expression of Aryan supremacy.

A noise in the hotel foyer caught Castro’s attention. He looked up from the notebook, instinctively reaching forward, feeling for his beer glass. He drank and watched a German family checking in. The children, a young girl and two boys, were chasing each other around the entrance lobby, hiding behind the potted ivy tree.

The girl was so like Castro’s own daughter. She was about that age, full of mischief and energy, busy with exploring the world. Suddenly he missed them, Holly and the kids, an almost painful pang of longing enclosing in on him. He put the glass down and watched the girl.

Was this insane quest worth it? he thought. Couldn’t he return to them, pick up where they’d left off, rebuild a life of security away from the memories of the past? What he’d give for those early days. A time when his business was booming, the kids growing so fast, he and Holly in a state of bliss. Sure, they missed the East Coast, but it was safe there in that desert.

A shout from the girl’s irate father shook Castro free of his daydream. It was no use kidding himself. Sure, he could go back, but it would be just like before. He’d feel like he teetered at the end of a rapturous symphony, the music poised for a final chord that would never come. His life would hang, waiting, desiring an answer. He had no choice – he had to keep probing.

Her father was leading the girl away, talking sternly but quietly. Castro watched them disappear toward the stairs. He downed the last of the warm beer and looked again at his notebook.

Along with thousands of other demobilised troops, the end of the Great War saw Schlessinger prostituting his fighting skills in the Bavarian Freikorps. The social turmoil of the nation, the thick post-war fog that smelt of revolution, drew him inexorably toward the burgeoning right-wing groups. He became a strident nationalist. In 1922, he was an early recruit of the Nazi Party and the newly formed storm troopers. During this time, he was rumoured to have links with the Bavarian political police, but what duties he performed are unknown.

It is almost certain that Schlessinger was among the rampaging brownshirts storming the Beer Hall during Hitler’s putsch of 1923. But he was not a leading figure in the Nazi movement and made no contribution to their attainment of power. However, he was a useful and effective figure and was almost certainly known to Hitler personally.

A man walked into the lounge, his head nodding from side to side as he inspected the layout of the room. He was middle-aged and well-dressed, rather over-dressed thought Castro. He looked like a bank manager, had an air about him that made casual observers think ‘punctual’ and ‘organised’. The suit was jet black, the hems and folds precisely starched and pressed. His face was German – hard features and chiselled eyebrows.

The man walked past the barman and sat at a window on the other side of the bar. From under his arm, he took a newspaper, flicked it upright and disappeared behind it.

Castro returned to his notes.

In 1933, Schlessinger joined the elite 1st Division of the SS and stayed with them for the rest of his career, rising as high as the rank of SS-Oberführer. During the Second World War, he took part in the invasion of Poland and later saw action in the Netherlands and France. He was known to have links with the intelligence corps of the Abwehr, but in what capacity is also unclear.

Schlessinger was an exemplary commander. But prior to World War II, something changed him almost overnight. He no longer thought of himself as the Aryan conqueror. Those who knew him during the early years of the war testified to his brutality, but his motivation no longer came from the bunkers of Berlin. He was openly critical of the Reich’s racial propaganda. He’d turned from a fascist revolutionary, bent on extermination, to an aggressive militant with unclear motives. Later, he was rumoured to be a member of the Canaris circle and was certainly under suspicion after the failed attempt on Hitler’s life in July 1944. He escaped reprisals, however, and continued to fight during the retreat from Italy, eventually surrendering to American troops in Austria in May 1945. After this, all trace of him was lost.

Something interrupted Castro – like he’d sensed an arm hovering above his shoulder. He looked up, but the scene outside was unchanged. The Bavarian mountains still stood in all their splendour, the neat hotel lawns devoid of people. Turning his head, Castro caught sight of the man across the room. For an instant, he thought the man was staring at him, inspecting him. But the bank manager was still engrossed behind the headlines of his paper.

Schlessinger was never brought to book for war crimes. There were some allegations that his division had rounded up Jews at Lake Maggiore for shipment to Germany, but these were never substantiated. Schlessinger’s name even appeared on the indictment, but the case, to be tried in Münich, was never brought to bear. Besides, by that time Schlessinger had disappeared without a trace.

Castro repeated the words to himself.
Disappeared without a trace.
 

He threw the notebook on the table and stared out the window. He rubbed his eyes, realising his temples were wet with sweat. It was very hot for Bavaria, the summer sun beating down torturously – reflecting on the wide waters of the Staffelsee.

‘
Herr Castro,’ a voice said. It was the barman, standing over his shoulder.

‘
Yeah?’

‘
Your taxi has arrived.’

‘
Oh, thanks,’ Castro said. He grabbed the notebook, slipped it into his black shoulder bag and walked out of the lounge.

As the taxi span around the circle of road in front of the hotel, Castro saw the bank manager standing in the foyer. He was staring out the window, his face blank, emotionless. The man’s eyes followed Castro as they sped off.

―
§ ―

The house was vast in comparison to those that nestled below the Zugspitze Mountain. A converted mill house, the walls were whitewashed and glowing among the dark surrounding trees. A vast garden was terraced into the side of the hill, overlooking the sodden, brown Moors of Murnau, dotted with barns. In the distance, the wide Staffelsee shone in the sunshine, tiny islands jutting skyward across its expanse.

The taxi drew up outside a small portico entrance, the door a solid, dark wood with ancient black rivets holding it together. Castro paid the driver and rang the bell. After a moment, the door opened and a short, thin man peered out.

‘
Herr Castro?’ he said in a weedy voice, his accent thick with Bavarian gutturals.

‘
Yes,’ replied Castro as he reached out to shake the man’s hand.

‘
Welcome, I’m Michael Schlessinger.’

The German was about Castro’s age. He was gaunt, his face drawn out and sallow, looking almost terminally ill. His eyes were small behind the tiny, frameless round spectacles, his brown hair short but untidy. He wore an ancient style of dress – a thin chequered shirt and a tweed-like jacket, a huge silk bow tie. The man looked and smelt of academia.

Inside, Castro was led into an enormous study. The walls were covered from top to bottom with dusty bookshelves. Here and there portraits hung. An arching stone fireplace dominated the room and the windows looked out over the blooming terraces.

‘
I was very interested to hear about your book, Herr Castro,’ the man said. ‘Not much has been written about my grandfather.’

‘
Perhaps I can put that right. I think it’s very important to record the careers of everyone involved in the conflict, Axis as well as Allies.’

‘
And how can I help?’

‘
Well, I thought it might be possible to read his papers.’

Schlessinger raised his eyebrows. ‘As I pointed out in my letter, most of my grandfather’s documents went to the international tribunal at the end of the war. I believe most of them would be found in the
Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv.
’

Castro raised his hand, acknowledging the fact. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said.

‘
All that remains are his diaries and some of his personal correspondence, but you are welcome to read them.’