Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  “Why is it such a mess?”

  “Believe it or not, it used to be worse. A few years ago, a brave soul named Chela alphabetized the cards year by year. They call this the Chela room now. The immigration cards for 1963 are over here. Follow me.” Ramirez paused and pointed toward the floor. “Watch out for the catshit.”

  They walked half a city block. The immigration cards for 1963 filled several dozen of the steel shelves. Ramirez located the wooden boxes containing cards with passengers whose last name began with K, then he removed them from the shelf and placed them carefully on the floor. He found four immigrants with the last name Krebs. None had the first name Otto.

  “Could it be misfiled?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is it possible someone removed it?”

  “This is Argentina, my friend. Anything is possible.”

  Gabriel leaned against the shelves, dejected. Ramirez returned the immigration cards to the box, and the box to its place on the steel shelf. Then he looked at his watch.

  “We have an hour and forty-five minutes till they close up for the night. You work forward from 1963, I’ll work backward. Loser buys the drinks.”

  A THUNDERSTORM MOVED down from the river. Gabriel, through a broken window, glimpsed heat lightning flickering amid the cranes of the waterfront. The heavy cloud blocked out the late-day sun. Inside the Chela room it became nearly impossible to see. The rain began like an explosion. It swept through the gaping windows and soaked the precious files. Gabriel, the restorer, pictured running ink, images forever lost.

  He found the immigration cards of three more men named Krebs, one in 1965, two more in 1969. None bore the first name Otto. The darkness slowed the pace of his search to a crawl. In order to read the immigration cards, he had to lug the boxes near a window, where there was still some light. There he would crouch, his back to the rain, fingers working.

  The girl from the registrar’s desk wandered up and gave them a ten-minute warning. Gabriel had only searched through 1972. He didn’t want to come back tomorrow. He quickened his pace.

  The storm ceased as suddenly as it began. The air was cooler and washed clean. It was quiet, except for the sound of rainwater gurgling in the gutters. Gabriel kept searching: 1973…1974…1975…1976…. Nomore passengers named Krebs. Nothing.

  The girl returned, this time to chase them out for the night. Gabriel carried his last crate back to the shelf, where he found Ramirez and the girl chatting away in Spanish.

  “Anything?” Gabriel asked.

  Ramirez shook his head.

  “How far did you get?”

  “All the way. You?”

  Gabriel told him. “Think it’s worth coming back tomorrow?”

  “Probably not.” He put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  The girl collected their laminated badges and accompanied them down in the freight elevator. The windows of the Sirocco had been left open. Gabriel, depressed by failure, sat on the sodden car seat. The thunderous roar of the engine shattered the quiet of the street. Chiara followed as they drove away. Her clothing was drenched from the rain.

  Two blocks from the archives, Ramirez reached into his shirt pocket and produced an immigration card. “Cheer up, Monsieur Duran,” he said, handing the card to Gabriel. “Sometimes, in Argentina, it pays to use the same underhanded tactics as the men in charge. There’s only one copier in that building, and the girl runs it. She would have made one copy for me and another for her superior.”

  “And Otto Krebs, if he’s still in Argentina and still alive, might very well have been told we were looking for him.”

  “Exactly.”

  Gabriel held up the card. “Where was it?”

  “Nineteen forty-nine. I suppose Chela stuck one in the wrong box.”

  Gabriel looked down and began to read. Otto Krebs arrived in Buenos Aires in December 1963 on a boat bound from Athens. Ramirez pointed to a number written in hand at the bottom: 245276/62.

  “That’s the number of his landing permit. It was probably issued by the Argentine consulate in Damascus. The ‘sixty-two’ at the end of the line is the year the permit was granted.”

  “Now what?”

  “We know he arrived in Argentina.” Ramirez shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Let’s see if we can find him.”

  THEY DROVE BACK to San Telmo through the wet streets and parked outside an Italianate apartment house. Like many buildings in Buenos Aires, it had been beautiful once. Now its façade was the color of Ramirez’s car and streaked by pollution.

  They climbed a flight of dimly lit stairs. The air inside the flat was stale and warm. Ramirez locked the door behind them and threw open the windows to the cool evening. Gabriel looked into the street and saw Chiara parked on the opposite side.

  Ramirez ducked into the kitchen and came out holding two bottles of Argentine beer. He handed one to Gabriel. The glass was already sweating. Gabriel drank half of it. The alcohol took the edge off his head ache.

  Ramirez led him into his office. It was what Gabriel expected—big and shabby, like Ramirez himself, with books piled in the chairs and a large desk buried beneath a stack of papers that looked as though it was waiting for the match. Heavy curtains shut out the noise and the light of the street. Ramirez went to work on the telephone while Gabriel sat down and finished the last of his beer.

  It took Ramirez an hour to come up with his first clue. In 1964, Otto Krebs had registered with the National Police in Bariloche in northern Patagonia. Forty-five minutes later, another piece of the puzzle: In 1972, on an application for an Argentine passport, Krebs had listed his address as Puerto Blest, a town not far from Bariloche. It took only fifteen minutes to find the next piece of information. In 1982, the passport was rescinded.

  “Why?” Gabriel asked.

  “Because the holder of the passport died.”

  THE ARGENTINE SPREAD a dog-eared roadmap over a table and, squinting through his smudged reading glasses, searched the western reaches of the country.

  “Here it is,” he said, jabbing at the map. “San Carlos de Bariloche, or just Bariloche for short. A resort in the northern lake district of Patagonia, founded by Swiss and German settlers in the nineteenth century. It’s still known as the Switzerland of Argentina. Now it’s a party town for the ski crowd, but for the Nazis and their fellow travelers, it was something of a Valhalla. Mengele adored Bariloche.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “The quickest way is to fly. There’s an airport and hourly service from Buenos Aires.” He paused, then added, “It’s a long way to go to see a grave.”

  “I want to see it with my own eyes.”

  Ramirez nodded. “Stay at the Hotel Edelweiss.”

  “The Edelweiss?”

  “It’s a German enclave,” Ramirez said. “You’ll find it hard to believe you’re in Argentina.”

  “Why don’t you come along for the ride?”

  “I’m afraid I’d be something of a hindrance. I’m persona non grata among certain segments of the Bariloche community. I’ve spent a little too much time poking around there, if you know what I mean. My face is too well known.”

  The Argentine’s demeanor turned suddenly serious.

  “You should watch your back, too, Monsieur Duran. Bariloche is not a place to make careless inquiries. They don’t like outsiders asking questions about certain residents. You should also know that you’ve come to Argentina at a tense time.”

  Ramirez rummaged through the pile of paper on his desk until he found what he was looking for, a two-month-old copy of the international edition of Newsweek magazine. He handed it to Gabriel and said, “My story is on page thirty-six.” Then he went into the kitchen to fetch two more beers.

  THE FIRST TO die was a man named Enrique Calderon. He was found in the bedroom of his town-house in the Palermo Chico section of Buenos Aires. Four shots to the head, very professional. Gabriel, who could not hear of a murder without picturing
the act, turned his gaze from Ramirez. “And the second?” he asked.

  “Gustavo Estrada. Killed two weeks later on a business trip to Mexico City. His body was found in his hotel room after he failed to show up for a breakfast meeting. Again, four shots to the head.” Ramirez paused. “Good story, no? Two prominent businessmen, killed in a strikingly similar fashion within two weeks of each other. The kind of shit Argentines love. For a while, it took everyone’s mind off the fact that their life’s savings were gone and their money was worthless.”

  “Are the murders connected?”

  “We may never know for certain, but I believe they are. Enrique Calderon and Gustavo Estrada didn’t know each other well, but their fathers did. Alejandro Calderon was a close aide to Juan Perón, and Martín Estrada was the chief of the Argentine national police in the years after the war.”

  “So why were the sons killed?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I haven’t a clue. In fact, I don’t have a single theory that seems to make any sense. What I do know is this: Accusations are flying among the old German community. Nerves are frayed.” Ramirez took a long pull at his beer. “I repeat, watch your step in Bariloche, Monsieur Duran.”

  They talked a while longer as the darkness slowly gathered around them and the wet rush of the traffic filtered in from the street. Gabriel did not like many of the people he met in his work, but Alfonso Ramirez was an exception. He was only sorry he’d been forced to deceive him.

  They talked of Bariloche, of Argentina, and the past. When Ramirez asked about the crimes of Erich Radek, Gabriel told him everything he knew. This produced a long, contemplative silence in the Argentine, as if he were pained by the fact that men such as Radek might have found sanctuary in a land he so loved.

  They made arrangements to speak after Gabriel’s return from Bariloche, then parted in the darkened corridor. Outside, the barrio San Telmo was beginning to come alive in the cool of the evening. Gabriel walked for a time along the crowded pavements, until a girl on a red motorbike pulled alongside him and patted the back of her saddle.

  25

  BUENOS AIRES • ROME • VIENNA

  THE CONSOLE OF sophisticated electronic equipment was of German manufacture. The microphones and transmitters concealed in the apartment of the target were of the highest quality—designed and built by West German intelligence at the height of the Cold War to monitor the activities of their adversaries in the east. The operator of the equipment was a native-born Argentine, though he could trace his ancestry to the Austrian village of Braunauam Inn. The fact that it was the same village where Adolf Hitler was born gave him a certain standing among his comrades. When the Jew paused in the entrance of the apartment house, the surveillance man snapped his photograph with a telephoto lens. A moment later, when the girl on the motorbike drew away from the curb, he captured her image as well, though it was of little value since her face was concealed beneath a black crash helmet. He spent a few moments reviewing the conversation that had taken place inside the target’s apartment; then, satisfied, he reached for the telephone. The number he dialed was in Vienna. The sound of German, spoken with a Viennese accent, was like music to his ears.

  AT THE PONTIFICIO Santa Maria dell’Anima in Rome, a novice hurried along the second-floor corridor of the dormitory and paused outside the door of the room where the visitor from Vienna was staying. He hesitated before knocking, then waited for permission before entering. A wedge of light fell upon the powerful figure stretched out on the narrow cot. His eyes shone in the darkness like black pools of oil.

  “You have a telephone call.” The boy spoke with his eyes averted. Everyone in the seminary had heard about the incident at the front gate the previous evening. “You can take it in the rector’s office.”

  The man sat up and swung his feet to the floor in one fluid movement. The thick muscles in his shoulders and back rippled beneath his fair skin. He touched the bandage on his shoulder briefly, then pulled on a rollneck sweater.

  The seminarian led the visitor down a stone staircase, then across a small courtyard. The rector’s office was empty. A single light burned on the desk. The receiver of the phone lay atop the blotter. The visitor picked it up. The boy slipped quietly from the room.

  “We’ve located him.”

  “Where?”

  The man from Vienna told him. “He’s leaving for Bariloche in the morning. You’ll be waiting for him when he arrives.”

  The Clockmaker glanced at his wristwatch and calculated the time difference. “How is that possible? There isn’t a flight from Rome until the afternoon.”

  “Actually, there’s a plane leaving in a few minutes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How quickly can you get to Fiumicino?”

  THE DEMONSTRATORS WERE waiting outside the Hotel Imperial when the three-car motorcade arrived for a rally of the party faithful. Peter Metzler, seated in the back of a Mercedes limousine, looked out the window. He’d been warned, but he’d expected the usual sad-looking lot, not a brigade-strength band of marauders armed with placards and bullhorns. It was inevitable: the nearness of the election; the aura of invulnerability building around the candidate. The Austrian left was in full panic, as were their supporters in New York and Jerusalem.

  Dieter Graff, seated opposite Metzler on the jump seat, looked apprehensive. And why not? Twenty years he’d toiled to transform the Austrian National Front from a moribund alliance of former SS officers and neo-fascist dreamers into a cohesive and modern conservative political force. Almost single-handedly he’d reshaped the party’s ideology and airbrushed its public image. His carefully crafted message had steadily attracted Austrian voters disenfranchised by the cozy power-sharing relationship between the People’s Party and the Social Democrats. Now, with Metzler as his candidate, he stood on the doorstep of the ultimate prize in Austrian politics: the chancellery. The last thing Graff wanted now, three weeks before the election, was a messy confrontation with a bunch of left-wing idiots and Jews.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Dieter,” said Metzler. “You’re thinking we should play it safe—avoid this rabble by using the back entrance.”

  “The thought did cross my mind. Our lead is three points and holding steady. I’d rather not squander two of those points with a nasty scene at the Imperial that can easily be avoided.”

  “By going in the back door?”

  Graff nodded. Metzler pointed to the television cameramen and still photographers.

  “And do you know what the headline will be tomorrow in Die Presse? Metzler beaten back by Vienna protesters! They’ll say I’m a coward, Dieter, and I’m not a coward.”

  “No one’s ever accused you of cowardice, Peter. It’s just a question of timing.”

  “We’ve used the back door too long.” Metzler cinched up his tie and smoothed his shirt collar. “Besides, chancellors don’t use the back door. We go in the front, with our head up and our chin ready for battle, or we don’t go in at all.”

  “You’ve become quite a speaker, Peter.”

  “I had a good teacher.” Metzler smiled and put his hand on Graff’s shoulder. “But I’m afraid the long campaign has started to take a toll on his instincts.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Look at those hooligans. Most of them aren’t even Austrian. Half the signs are in English instead of German. Clearly, this little demonstration has been orchestrated by provocateurs from abroad. If I’m fortunate enough to have a confrontation with these people, our lead will be five points by morning.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”

  “Just tell security to take it easy. It’s important that the protesters come across as the Brownshirts—and not us.”

  Peter Metzler opened the door and stepped out. A roar of anger rose from the crowd, and the placards began to flutter.

  Nazi pig!

  Reichsführer Metzler!

  The candidate strode forward as though o
blivious to the turmoil around him. A young girl, armed with a rag soaked in red paint, broke free of the restraint. She hurled the rag toward Metzler, who avoided it so deftly that he barely seemed to break stride. The rag struck a Staatspolizei officer, to the delight of the demonstrators. The girl who had thrown it was seized by a pair of officers and hustled away.

  Metzler, unruffled, entered the hotel lobby and made his way to the ballroom, where a thousand supporters had been waiting three hours for his arrival. He paused for a moment outside the doors to gather himself, then strode into the room to tumultuous cheers. Graff detached himself and watched his candidate wade into the adoring crowd. The men pressed forward to clutch his hand or slap his back. The women kissed his cheek. Metzler had definitely made it sexy to be a conservative again.

  The journey to the head of the room took five minutes. As Metzler mounted the podium, a beautiful girl in a dirndl handed him a huge stein of lager. He raised it overhead and was greeted by a delirious roar of approval. He swallowed some of the beer—not a photo opportunity sip, but a good long Austrian pull—then stepped before the microphone.

  “I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight. And I also want to thank our dear friends and supporters for arranging such a warm welcome outside the hotel.” A wave of laughter swept over the room. “What these people don’t seem to understand is that Austria is for Austrians and that we will choose our own future based on Austrian morals and Austrian standards of decency. Outsiders and critics from abroad have no say in the internal affairs of this blessed land of ours. We will forge our own future, an Austrian future, and that future begins three weeks from tonight!”

  Pandemonium.