The Death Mask Murders

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘He was very helpful.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He provided the missing breadcrumbs that showed me the way.’

  ‘Way to where?’

  ‘Ronan O’Hara. I believe I know who he really is, and where he fits into all this.’

  ‘You do? Care to explain?’

  ‘I will, as soon as we get there.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The cemetery. The same one you visited with Frau Reiter yesterday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look, we are almost there,’ said Jack, ignoring the question as the car pulled up in front of the Franziskaner Kirche. ‘Wait here, please,’ he said to the driver. ‘We won’t be long.’

  ‘It’s all coming back to me,’ said Jack as they walked through the cemetery gates next to the church.

  ‘What exactly?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Christmas Eve 2008. It was snowing and candles had been lit on most of the graves here. It was a magical moment, very emotional. I was looking for the grave of Brother Francis.’

  ‘Described in his letter?’ said Tristan. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Jack. ‘This one?’

  Jack looked at it, his eyes misting over. It was the copy of Brother Francis’s letter that Tristan had brought with him from London. ‘You are a remarkable young man, Tristan, you know this, don’t you? You too recognised that the Berghofer grave here held the key to all this, didn’t you? Both of us sensed it, perhaps for different reasons.’

  Jack walked along the narrow gravel path between the rows of graves and stopped. ‘Here it is, just as I remember it. Johann Berghofer. This is where I found the Francis diary concealed under the headstone.’

  ‘That showed us the way to the Imperial Crypt in Vienna.’

  ‘And led to the discovery of the lost Monet hidden in that sarcophagus you identified because you could see and feel what others couldn’t,’ said Jack. ‘The whisper of angels ...’

  ‘It’s all about voices reaching out from the past. All you have to do is listen.’

  ‘Few know how. And that’s why I’ve asked you to come here with me, because I want you to listen to what this grave is telling us. Not only this one, but one other as well. The important one.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The grave of his wife, Elfriede, who died in 1984.’

  ‘Did Wagner tell you about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is this relevant?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a moment. You’ll remember a while back I thought I had finally discovered who Brother Francis really was.’

  ‘Yes. You concluded that he must have been SS Sturmbannfuehrer Franz Berghofer, the son of Johann Berghofer.’

  ‘Yes. It all made sense at the time, but as it turns out, I was wrong. Franz had a brother, you see: Heinrich, also SS.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘In light of what Wagner told me, I think I now know who Brother Francis really was and why, and how, he ended up on the Coberg Mission in Australia with Sister Elizabeth.’

  ‘Your grandmother?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Are you going to tell me?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Yes. It’s all about Elfriede Berghofer. Come.’ Jack pointed to the next row of graves. ‘She’s buried with her parents in the family grave over there.’

  Slowly, Jack walked over to the grave, his eyes moist with emotion.

  ‘Here it is. Elfriede Berghofer. Born in 1890.’ Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a box of matches and a small candle and lit it. Then he bent down and placed it carefully into the small lantern attached to the headstone.

  ‘Now let me tell you a remarkable story about Elfriede Berghofer and her other son, Heinrich,’ said Jack. ‘And while I do, I would like you to listen and tell me if you can hear the whisper of angels, because what I’m about to tell you is all about destiny.’

  64

  Palazzo da Baggio, Venice: 11 November

  Isis was greeted with great fanfare at Marco Polo airport as soon as Pegasus landed. She was well known in Italy and still had a huge following. Customs officials and excited airport staff came running from all sides, asking for an autograph from their idol. Dressed in an Austrian designer Dirndl and a cute hat with eagle feathers she had bought in Salzburg, Isis was enjoying the attention. For an ageing rock star who craved the limelight, this was the oxygen that kept her creativity, and her memories, alive.

  Countess Kuragin was waiting with Bartolli and Darrieux on the small pontoon in front of the palazzo, with its traditional striped gondola mooring posts, for the water taxi to arrive. Darrieux and Bartolli had arrived on an earlier flight from Paris. Having only heard snippets of the dramatic events of the past few days, they could barely wait to hear the full story.

  The kitchen staff had assembled on the terrace facing the Grand Canal, and waved excitedly as soon as Isis stepped off the taxi. Delighted by the warm welcome, Isis waved back and blew kisses to her adoring fans.

  Countess Kuragin, the consummate host, was in her element. After showing her guests to their rooms, pre-dinner drinks were served in the large salon on the first floor. It was the same room where only a short time ago, Lorenza had been farewelled by mourners. Because the palazzo and the restaurant, Osman’s Kitchen, were still closed to the public after the funeral, the countess had the kitchen staff’s undivided attention and had therefore been able to arrange a feast fit for a doge. She knew that Lorenza would have wanted it that way. After lengthy consultation with the head chef, a special menu had been chosen, with Hunkar Begendi, Osman’s Kitchen’s famous signature dish, the centrepiece.

  When Bartolli heard what was planned for dinner, she was in raptures. She was shown the famous Ottoman recipe gracing the restaurant walls, introduced to the kitchen staff, and given a tour of the kitchen.

  Dupree, who had arrived in Berchtesgaden with Lapointe the day before to join the investigation, had spent the whole day, and half the night, in meetings with the police, interviewing Dragan. They were trying to arrange his extradition to Paris to face trial for the murder of two police officers and related offences. When Dupree heard that Jack, Isis and even Cesaria were going to Venice with Isis, he asked Lapointe for permission to accompany them. Lapointe agreed, as Dupree was no longer needed in Berchtesgaden and the rest of the complex matter would now be up to him and the Prefect in Paris to unravel. And besides, he had a special assignment in mind for Dupree.

  Cesaria, who was urgently needed in Florence because the Mafia trial in Calabria was about to start, had come along for practical reasons. She could stay overnight in Venice, and then catch an early train to Florence. And besides, she didn’t want to miss what she realised would be a special occasion. She had seen enough of the Palazzo da Baggio and Countess Kuragin’s hospitality to realise that this would be a celebration dinner not to be missed.

  The countess walked over to Jack standing by the open window overlooking the canal. ‘You and your escapades, Jack. Must have been quite something. Cesaria just told me all about the rescue. Sounds unbelievable, like a movie. It’s a miracle you made it out alive.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I’m here. That’s all that counts.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  The countess handed Jack a glass of champagne. ‘I understand. Welcome back, Jack. You look remarkably well, all considering.’

  They touched glasses.

  ‘Anna looks happy,’ said Jack. ‘I haven’t seen her so animated for a long time.’

  ‘She loves it here. It’s an artist’s paradise. She hasn’t stopped painting. Something to do with wonderful childhood memories, I think; we often visited here during the holidays, and she and Lorenza were close. And Bobby loves school ...’

  ‘You are staying here, then?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Leonardo seems much better.’

  ‘You think so?’
<
br />   ‘Definitely. You bring sunshine wherever you go, Katerina. It’s a gift.’

  The countess leaned across to Jack and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks Jack. Tristan hinted that there’s something you want to—’

  ‘Get off my chest? Perhaps. I’m still thinking about it.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to see everybody here, don’t you think?’ said the countess, changing the subject because the expression on Jack’s face told her not to probe further. ‘Especially after all that’s happened. I still can’t believe that two police officers were gunned down in front of the cottage, and Landru ...’

  ‘That was dreadful. We are dealing with some very dark people here. That’s why I’m still hesitating.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Getting certain things off my chest.’

  ‘I see.’

  Dupree, who was standing in front of the fireplace, tapped a small spoon against his glass. ‘May I have your attention please?’ he said. ‘I have something important to tell you before we go and have dinner. It’s a message from Chief Superintendent Lapointe. He just called me and sends his regards, and regrets not being able to be here tonight. But there was another reason for his call: a disconcerting breakthrough in the investigation,’ said Dupree, speaking softly.

  Everyone in the room stopped talking and looked at Dupree, the tension growing by the second.

  ‘What kind of breakthrough?’ asked Jack, sounding apprehensive.

  ‘The police divers have just found the wreck of the helicopter in the lake. That by itself is unremarkable, but what they didn’t find, is.’

  ‘What didn’t they find?’ asked Tristan, who already knew the answer.

  ‘A second body.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ said Jack quietly, breaking the silence.

  ‘Most of the cabin was still intact. The body of the pilot was still strapped into his seat, but the seat next to him was empty, with the seatbelt still attached. The passenger wasn’t there.’

  ‘Could he have been thrown out of the cabin during the explosion?’ asked Isis.

  Dupree shook his head. ‘The experts don’t think so. As I said, the cabin was more or less intact.’

  ‘What does this mean?’ asked Cesaria.

  ‘The current thinking is this: we know that the helicopter made a brief landing at a farmhouse close to the lake, and then exploded moments later while making a turn over the lake. An eyewitness saw it all.’

  ‘The passenger got out before the helicopter disintegrated and plunged into the lake. Is that what you’re saying?’ asked Jack.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ said Dupree. ‘According to the Adler staff at the compound, who have now all been interviewed, the passenger was a “Tobias Berghofer”, an electronics genius and managing director of Adler Security, who lived in the house that was blown up. An eccentric recluse, so it seems. People rarely saw him; some of them didn’t even know what he looked like. I believe by now Europol has every country in Europe looking for him,’ said Dupree.

  ‘So, the man we believe was behind the Death Mask Murders, the Dark Net Bazaar with all that depraved gambling, and everything that happened in the salt mines, got away again?’ said Cesaria, shaking her head.

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Dupree.

  ‘Astonishing, but in a way it all fits,’ continued Cesaria. ‘According to Samartini, the DNB and the gambling site she was monitoring went off the air at about the same time the house in the compound exploded—’

  ‘Destroying the dark net server,’ interjected Jack. ‘Are we saying that blowing up the house with all its underground installations, and then blowing up the chopper after this Tobias Berghofer got out and disappeared was all part of a sophisticated, well-planned getaway?’

  ‘That’s the way the police are looking at it at the moment.’

  Reading the mood in the room, Countess Kuragin, an experienced host, could see her dinner plans drifting in the wrong direction. It was time to intervene and restore the congenial atmosphere before gloom and doom spoiled the evening. Bad news rarely enhanced the appetite. She clapped her hands together, trying to break the spell.

  ‘We can talk about all this later, my friends. Dinner is about to be served. Please follow me.’

  65

  Palazzo da Baggio, Venice; the dinner: 11 November

  The dining room with its original seventeenth-century solid-oak dining table and intricately carved high-backed chairs was lit entirely by candles, making the large room with its paintings and tapestries appear intimate and inviting. The shadows dancing along the walls as the waiters served the food, made the da Baggio ancestors come to life in their portraits lining the walls, witnesses one and all of a memorable evening about to unfold in the dining room where cardinals, European royalty and even two popes had enjoyed da Baggio hospitality over the centuries.

  A floral display in the middle of the table added colour, and the rare Meissen china plates and stunning antique Austrian solid silver-gilt and enamel cutlery added opulence and style, ensuring that the dinner would be a truly memorable occasion.

  ‘You must have culinary magicians working in the kitchen, Katerina,’ said Bartolli after Hunkar Begendi, the main course, had been served. ‘I have never tasted anything quite like this. Amazing.’

  ‘That’s what the pope said,’ said Jack, smiling.

  ‘He should know,’ added Tristan. ‘It saved his life, after all.’

  ‘All the dishes served this evening are Lorenza’s creations,’ said the countess, ignoring the remark. ‘She found ways to fuse classic Ottoman cuisine with contemporary Venetian cooking.’

  ‘Genius,’ said Bartolli, enjoying her second serving.

  ‘I thought we’d have a little break before dessert is served,’ said the countess. She knew that breaks between courses were not only essential to allow the palate to adjust, but added to the enjoyment of the dishes by encouraging conversation between courses.

  Tristan turned to Jack sitting next to him. ‘Are you going to tell them? This would be a good moment, don’t you think?’

  Jack had been in two minds all night about whether to talk about the disconcerting discovery he had made in Berchtesgaden the day before that had rocked him to the core, and he was still struggling to come to terms with. The reason for his hesitation was due to the fact that some of the conclusions he had reached were still speculative. Not everything was clear. He knew that interpreting the past was never black and white, only shades of grey at best.

  Discovering what has been hidden for so long and interpreting it correctly is always fraught with danger. It is easy to fall into error because of what one wants to see rather than what one should, based on the facts. Because of the staggering implications – should his interpretation of the facts turn out to be correct – Jack had hesitated. Yet he knew that Tristan was right. Everyone present had played a part and therefore deserved to know. It was the right moment. The breadcrumbs of destiny might never align again, and missing that moment could result in serious regrets later.

  When Jack looked at Lorenza’s coffin photo on the mantelpiece, he thought he could hear her whisper: ‘Tell them, Jack. Now’s the time. Do it for me.’

  ‘You’re right, Tristan,’ said Jack and stood up. ‘May I have your attention for a moment please, my friends.’ Jack looked pensively around the dining table, collecting his thoughts. As his eyes drifted from Isis sitting opposite, to Lola, Cesaria, Bartolli and Darrieux looking at him expectantly, and then came to rest on Dupree, Anna and Countess Kuragin sitting next to Leonardo at the head of the table, he knew that he had made the right decision.

  ‘I have something important to tell you. Something very personal that is a direct result of the extraordinary events we have witnessed recently. Tristan and I went to a little cemetery next to the Franziskaner Kirche in Berchtesgaden last night. You will remember that I visited that cemetery on Christmas Eve in 2008, and retrieved Brother Francis’s diary hidden in a grave
identified by him. You all know what followed after that. Tristan and I discovered the hidden Monet in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna.

  ‘The grave in Berchtesgaden belonged to Johann Berghofer and what I’m about to tell you has to do with the Berghofer family, with destiny, and with fate. It’s all about four friends who lived on the Obersalzberg we just visited. All four left their farms and their families, joined the Nazi party and went to war. They were dazzled by Hitler’s charisma, followed the siren call of the Third Reich and had illustrious careers in the SS.’

  Everyone around the table was listening intently, captivated by Jack’s storytelling.

  ‘As all of you are familiar with my books,’ continued Jack, ‘you already know what happened to three of them. Wolfgang Steinberger migrated to Australia; his brother Erwin, a surgeon, went to live in Kenya; and Anton Hoffmeister ended up in Argentina. All were senior SS officers with blood on their hands, who received help from the Vatican to leave Europe after the war and start a new life. You know their remarkable stories, so I will not repeat them. But what you do not know is the story of the fourth one, Heinrich Berghofer.’

  I wonder where he’s going with this, thought Countess Kuragin, watching Jack carefully.

  ‘Ever since I met Brother Francis at the Coberg Mission in Queensland as a boy, and then years later located his diary hidden in the Berghofer grave I just mentioned, I wondered who he really was. At the Coberg Mission he was known only as Brother Francis, a gentle man who had joined the Pallottines after the war, worked in the fields, and was close to Sister Elizabeth, my grandmother. How I found out about that is another story most of you are familiar with, and I will not go into again right now. Brother Francis’s real name and identity, however, had remained a mystery for years, until after some careful digging I concluded that he must have been Franz Berghofer, the son of Johann Berghofer. The diary hidden in the grave in Berchtesgaden strongly supported this. But as it turns out, I was wrong.’