The Bergamese Sect (23 page)

‘
I didn’t know what you were up to. You could have been one of the people trying to protect Schlessinger’s past.’

Trust was coming hard to Castro. The pit of his stomach ached with the enzymes of fear still running through his blood. He cleared his dry throat. ‘What are they protecting?’

‘
I’m not sure. I don’t know what Schlessinger was involved in, but it was something these men are prepared to kill for. I’m sorry I left it long enough to put your life in danger. I still wasn’t sure about you until those assassins showed up tonight. I’ve seen them before.’

‘
Who told them I was here?’

‘
Don’t know, but it was lucky I was following you.’ Koestler turned his head toward Castro hesitantly and glanced briefly at the weapon trained on his skull.

‘
Sure,’ said Castro. He shook the gun. ‘You still haven’t explained what this is all about. What’s your interest in Schlessinger?’

The German hesitated. ‘What’s yours?’ he replied.

‘
I’m holding the gun,’ said Castro, forcing a grim smile.

Koestler conceded. ‘I’ve been researching a book about the SS. A few years ago, I started looking at Gerhard Schlessinger’s military history. I visited the
Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv
, the Münich Archives, to gather documents. Then I came to Murnau to look into his background. Michael Schlessinger gave me access to his grandfather’s wartime journals.’ The German paused but Castro continued staring at him. ‘I studied the papers closely,’ Koestler went on, ‘and noticed something strange.’

‘
What was that?’

‘
Well, missing periods of time. There were huge gaps in his diary entries.’

‘
Is that so strange? Schlessinger was in the middle of fighting a war. Perhaps he couldn’t write every day.’

‘
No, it wasn’t that. He wrote every day without fail, even during the fiercest fighting, even if it were only a few words.’ Koestler paused again. ‘There was something else,’ he said. ‘Each time the journal stopped the last entry was always very cryptic.’

‘
Cryptic? How?’

‘
It would say something like ‘the sect calls’ or ‘searching for
metusor
’, always something out of context, confusing.’

There was that word again. Castro felt a finger of cold trace the length of his spine.

‘
That word,
metusor
, do you know what it means?’

‘
I’ve no idea. Schlessinger’s diary contained many of these strange phrases. They were always followed by months of silence. It was as if he had just vanished. I went back to the military records to see if he was on secret missions, espionage or surveillance, whatever. To see if there was anything to account for these gaps in his personal journals, maybe even explain the strange messages. That’s when I started getting suspicious.’

‘
Suspicious of what?’

‘
I found that the documents relating to those times were now missing. There were no gaps in the official documents when I first visited the Archives. But now I found nothing existed for those times when Schlessinger’s diaries were empty. The people at the Archives denied the material had been tampered with.’ Koestler was staring at Castro, his expression one of astonishment. ‘There’s no reason for anyone to cover up legitimate wartime operations, even covert ones, so why had they been removed?’

Castro relaxed his grip on the weapon. ‘People can be very touchy about dragging up the past, particularly if it involves wartime careers. Schlessinger was, after all, a strong nationalist. Perhaps he was involved in some atrocity that someone wants kept quiet.’

‘
Well, that’s what I thought. But then I started receiving threats. Messages left on my voice-mail, that sort of thing. It was quite clear that someone wanted me to forget Schlessinger. Why? Even if he did commit some war crime, what’s the point of protecting him? He’s been dead many years, his family unlikely to suffer for his actions, whatever they were. No, it would have to be something more for them to make threats on my life. Something that would make a difference to someone still alive.’

‘
Didn’t you go to the police? I’m sure they’d take such threats seriously.’

‘
No, to be honest I didn’t really take them seriously myself, at least at first. I just became more determined to find out what Schlessinger had been up to. I returned to Murnau, to Michael Schlessinger, and got another surprise. Schlessinger’s diaries had been changed.’

‘
Changed? How?’

‘
They weren’t the ones I’d first looked at. Someone had substituted forgeries.’

‘
I saw the diaries myself. They looked genuine.’

‘
Yes, they’re pretty convincing, but I assure you they’re fakes. The periods of silence from Schlessinger were no longer there. There are now diary entries for every day from 1932 to 1945, without fail. All pretty inane stuff, too. And of course, no cryptic phrases.’

‘
Are you sure?’ asked Castro, knowing Koestler’s discovery explained Lanza’s apparent mistake with the dates.

‘
Absolutely. I can’t prove it of course.’ Koestler looked out the window again. ‘It was stupid of me. I should have taken them when I had the chance.’

‘
Did you ask Michael Schlessinger about it?’

‘
Well, I didn’t mention it explicitly. But it was clear he was unaware of any tampering with his grandfather’s possessions.’

‘
Perhaps he swapped them himself? Perhaps he’s protecting his grandfather’s name.’

‘
No, I’m positive he isn’t part of this. Why would he be willing to let me see the real diaries in the first place? He’s a dizzy academic, his head in the clouds. Not someone who’d put a gun to your head to protect the family name.’

‘
Someone put a gun to your head?’

‘
Yes, that’s when I realised this was bigger than just a cover-up of war crimes. I stepped back, out of the limelight, but kept a watch on the Schlessinger house. I recruited one of the servants to sniff about for me. In the meantime, I began piecing together what information I could find. I’m confused, I have to admit. Some of the stuff I’ve gathered seems so arcane – seems to suggest Schlessinger was a religious nut with an obsession for the unexplained. On my first trip to Murnau, I’d read an old scrapbook of Schlessinger’s. It wasn’t there when I returned. It contained news cuttings, pages torn from books, that sort of thing. It was all very weird stuff, not the sort of thing you’d expect a successful military man to collect, particularly in the middle of a war.’

Castro was frowning again. ‘What sort of stuff?’

‘
Reports of strange happenings from all over the world. Hauntings, telepathy, witchcraft, everything and anything. One whole page was full of news reports about the
Pulaski
. It’s a well-known story in certain circles. In 1941, a ship called the
Pulaski
, a British troop carrier, was sailing in the Indian Ocean. Two sailors reported that in the early hours of the morning they’d seen a strange green globe following the ship. It followed them for hours. It’s one of the first modern reports of what we’d now call a UFO. Whatever those men had really seen, Schlessinger was obviously interested in the story. He also had reports from Allied airmen about unexplained objects, silver disks and so on, encountered over occupied Europe. The so-called Foo Fighters. I’m not sure how he got hold of them; they must have been classified at the time. These days of course you’d call him a nut. But in the ‘40s? I didn’t think there was such a thing as the man Schlessinger had become.’

Castro was astonished with Koestler’s words, just sat staring at him, unable to make sense of the implications. He shook away the thoughts racing through his mind. ‘What do you think he was up to?’ he said.

‘
I’ve no idea, but I’m convinced there’s a story in all this. I have a few leads. One important one I think.’

‘
What’s that?’

‘
I found that Schlessinger didn’t actually disappear after the war. That was a story put about by the Allied occupation forces. In fact, it seems he was secretly helped out of Germany in 1945, and some very powerful men had a hand in his extradition.’

‘
Really? Where did he go?’

‘
To America, and someone in the CIA knows why.’

The two men went silent, the faint light of the dashboard picking out their stern features.

‘
So, Mr Castro,’ said Koestler a minute later, ‘I’ve told you what I know. I followed you to see what you were up to, and realised you were in danger when those two thugs showed up. Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re after Schlessinger?’

‘
That’s an even longer story,’ Castro answered. ‘If you’re on the next flight to Washington, perhaps I’ll tell you.’

Koestler smiled faintly and held out a hand. Castro slipped the gun back into his jacket, took Koestler’s hand and shook it.

Suddenly Koestler’s eyes moved to the rear view mirror. A dim light was lighting the road behind them. Headlights appeared from around the bend and Koestler jolted forward, reaching for the ignition, but then sat upright as the car approached. The vehicle came past Castro’s window, slowed, but then continued up the dark lane. The two men nervously watched it disappear around another bend.

‘
I think we should get to Münich,’ Koestler said, watching Castro for agreement.

But the American was deep in thought. Something worrying had occurred to him. ‘Do you think Lanza is in danger?’

‘
Who’s Lanza?’

‘
The curator in Bergamo.’

‘
I don’t know any Lanza. A friend of yours?’

Suddenly a feeling of panic grabbed at Castro’s chest. He looked Koestler squarely in the eye. ‘I need to make a phone call,’ he said hurriedly.

‘
Now?’

‘
Yes, now.’

―
§ ―

On that long drive, down through the hills toward Münich, Castro felt like his life was falling apart. A part of him wanted to be back in that stinking desert, sweating, enduring that awful whining music, but at least free and happy. He’d chosen the place, he had to admit. An adventure, he’d thought, a taste of what made America the power it was. Holly had agreed – it would be an interesting life, away from the clutter of the East Coast. The solitude would give them time just to be – to be with each other. And sure enough, the law business was brisk, even in that forgotten dead-end of the wild. And they
had
been happy, delirious in fact.

But that was before Castro’s change had come. Before those shadowy events that still haunted his mind. What they’d built had fallen apart, brick by brick, decaying away like so many forgotten dreams. It sent him on this crazy chase for truth half way round the world, searching for an answer that could help rebuild that life. And now, even that was shattered. Truly shattered.

‘
Si, Signor,’ the girl had said in Castro’s ear as he’d listened on Koestler’s mobile, her voice crisp over the connection to Italy. ‘Signor Lanza fell from his window, two days ago. There is to be an inquest.’

Chapter 14

Walsh burst into his office on the eighth floor of the Masheder building, Petersen struggling to keep up with him. He slammed the door, threw his coat on the chair and span round.

‘
Okay, Petersen, I don’t want to be here too long. An hour at most. First, I want you to get on the system, delete any file or document that mentions Lewis or Linsky. I want them eradicated.’

‘
Eradicated?’

‘
Yeah, like we’ve never heard of them. They need protecting and the best way to do that is to cut all contact. Make them disappear. Just do it.’

Petersen didn’t say another word, just rushed back out the door.

It was four in the morning. The two men had come straight from Andrews AFB after their small executive jet had touched down from San Bernardino. They’d slept on the plane, but Walsh was feeling sickeningly tired. He was getting too old for this.

He walked over to the wooden cabinet and drew out the bottle of bourbon. He didn’t bother with a glass, just took a good mouthful, almost choking as the burning liquor scraped down his throat. Through the window, he could see the horizon growing light beyond Capitol Hill. It would soon be day. The prospect made him nervous.

Moving over to the desk, he pulled out the chain around his neck and unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside lay the phone with no numbers. A small red light was blinking below the receiver, a signal that Daedalus had attempted contact. It was probably Sewell wondering where his latest update was. Or was it more serious? Had Sewell already learnt of his exposure?

Walsh grabbed a letter knife from the desk and jammed it into the casing of the phone. Levering it, he cracked the plastic and the phone came apart in his hand. He felt inside for a small chip housed on a green component board and pulled it free. He threw it on the floor and with his foot smashed the device into silicon dust.

Walsh returned to the cabinet, this time taking two glasses and pouring large measures of bourbon into each. A minute later, the door opened and Petersen stepped in.

‘
Done?’ asked Walsh.

‘
Doing. It’ll take some time.’

Walsh stepped forward and handed Petersen a glass. They sat opposite each other at the desk, sipping the drinks.

‘
Okay, John,’ said the Assistant Director. ‘We’re in trouble. Hopefully, we’ve bought a bit of time and our saboteur won’t be onto us till Friday. But we have to move quickly. At some point he’ll realise what’s happened, that I’ve discovered him, and when he does he’s likely to shut us down.’