I could tell him all that, but I won’t because I know it won’t do any good. Whatever the mission, I am the best man to complete it. I know it as well as he does.
Jamie paused and re-read the last passage. He had believed he had no illusions about war, but the war Matthew fought was one he struggled to comprehend. This was victory, the Allies had cut deep into the Third Reich and the outcome was no longer in doubt. Yet his grandfather recorded it with all the pain and despondency of a defeat. Travelling in two armed reconnaissance jeeps, a subdued Matthew and his five companions – two British SAS men, an American, a Frenchman and a German-speaking Pole, who had to be Stanislaus Kozlowski – had set out at dawn.
Progress is slow because the Yank columns we drive past are nervous. Like us they feel it would be silly to be killed when the war is almost over. The remnants of the Fourth Panzer Army are heading our way with the Russians on their tail and we are meeting local opposition. Some of the Gerries still don’t know when they are beaten. Our American allies have an interesting way with snipers. We were stopped for an hour near Jena while they dealt with some chap who’d taken a potshot at a convoy from an isolated farmhouse. A British unit would have sent in a patrol to flush him out. The Yanks called in an air strike by three rocket-firing Typhoons and then sent in Firefly tanks to finish the job with their flame-throwers. By the time the shooting stopped, the farmhouse was just a blackened pile of bricks. A GI major emerged grinning from the smoke with the sniper tied to the front of his jeep like a hunting trophy. The Gerry must have been thirteen years old.
Their destination was close to a pretty Bavarian town that had been left eerily untouched by the war.
We drove west out of Coburg into a heavily wooded area where the Americans have set up a reception centre. It isn’t a prison camp, at least not so you’d recognize it. No machine gun towers or searchlights, just a group of wooden huts hidden behind a barbed-wire fence among the trees. I handed over my orders at the gate and was told to report alone to a building at the far side of the complex. The officer behind the desk had the coldest face I’d ever seen; a long nose and thin lips, eyes like ice-chips. The kind of face that would send a man to his death and not even blink. He wore the uniform of an American colonel, but I doubt he’d ever been on a parade ground. I loathed him on sight. Behind him stood two others, dressed in civilian suits but with military haircuts. I recognized the breed immediately. I was back in cloak and dagger land, but these cloak and dagger types weren’t the usual enthusiastic SOE amateurs, they were genuine hard-eyed, government-sponsored killers. The officer didn’t introduce himself. ‘You’re familiar with the area around Lake Constance, Captain.’ I admitted I’d done some walking there before the war and he nodded. He handed over a sealed envelope and without another word one of the civilians escorted me to a door at the rear. Beyond the door, three seated figures in khaki overalls were waiting on a bench by the far wall. One had a leather briefcase perched primly on his knees and looked up with a wide smile. Two of them were the most evil men I would ever meet. The third was Walter Brohm.
X
JAMIE PAUSED. WALTER brohm? The context and the way the name was mentioned suggested it should be significant – someone well placed in the Nazi hierarchy – but it meant nothing to him. His research into looted artworks had given him a working knowledge of the coterie of top Nazis around Hitler and he could name every senior officer in Herman Goering’s semi-official looting organization, but that was the limit of his expertise.
He needed more information.
He checked out of the hospital after a brief physical inspection, but didn’t feel ready to go back to work. Instead, he retreated to his flat in Kensington High Street. When he opened the door he had a sense of things not being as they should be, a kind of alien presence hovering over the multitude of books and pictures stacked carelessly in every room apart from the kitchen. A quick check showed no evidence of anything missing or noticeably out of place and he shrugged off the feeling as a symptom of attack-induced paranoia.
He reached for the laptop, then had a better idea. He picked up the phone and dialled the university friend who had first put him in touch with Emil Mandelbaum.
‘Simon?’
‘Jamie! I heard you were in hospital. Bloody awful thing to happen, and in your old granddad’s house, too. I meant to visit, but you’re out, so you must be feeling OK. I hope you are?’
Jamie looked at himself in the living-room mirror. His face was comically one-sided because of the swelling to his right eye and the pain in his ribs made him move with a slight crouch. ‘I look a bit like Quasimodo’s uglier aunt, but apart from that I’m fine. Nothing that a good belt of Macallan won’t cure.’
His friend laughed. ‘If you feel up to it we could go somewhere tonight, somewhere quiet?’
Jamie winced. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. Look, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I’m after a favour.’
‘Nothing new there, old son. I’m your man.’
‘Er, I’m trying to find someone in London with a specialist knowledge of high-ranking Germans during the war, maybe even some kind of Nazi hunter.’
‘And you think that because I’m one of Abraham’s chosen I might know someone like that?’ Jamie sensed an unfamiliar wariness in Simon’s voice.
‘It was a long shot,’ he admitted. ‘If I was wrong, I apologize. It really doesn’t matter. I can look it up on the internet, or something. I’ll give you a bell about that drink another time . . .’
‘No, wait. Look, there is somebody, but he’s often out of the country. Old Nazis and their whereabouts are a kind of hobby of his. It depends if he’s around?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So I’d have to check with him to see if he’s willing to talk to you.’
‘Any time would be perfectly fine with me.’
‘Great. Let me have a word with him and I’ll get back to you.’
Jamie thanked him and when he’d hung up he returned to the journal. With the war drawing to a close, the danger less ever-present and more time on his hands, Matthew seemed to have a desperate need to record the final days in the kind of detail that had been denied to him for five years. He’d been reading for half an hour when the phone rang.
When he picked it up it was Simon. ‘That was bloody quick.’
‘He was very keen to see you after I explained about Uncle Emil and the Rembrandt, and he’ll be happy to help in any way he can, although, naturally, he can’t promise anything.’
‘That’s brilliant, Simon, I owe you one.’
‘Do you know the Builders Arms on the corner of Thackeray Street and Kensington Court Place?’
‘Sure, it’s just along the road.’
‘Of course it is . . . Can you meet him there in half an hour? He’s off on a business trip first thing tomorrow, but he can spare an hour this evening.’
Jamie hesitated. He’d been thinking in terms of days, possibly weeks. ‘It’s a little sooner than I expected, but sure. I’ll grab a quick shower. How will I know him?’
Simon thought for a few moments before Jamie heard him laugh. ‘He’ll be the one all the girls are eyeing up. He answers to David.’
Despite the name, the Builders Arms had long since cast off its working-class origins. Now it was comfortable and trendy, tight-packed leather sofas nudging glass-topped aluminium tables, with an emphasis on food and the designer beers that Jamie loathed but always found himself drinking. The place was almost empty when he arrived, with the few staff gratefully taking advantage of the lull between the lunch crowd and the after-office crowd.
A casually dressed, tanned young man sat at a table against the far wall with a perfect view of the door. When Jamie walked in he looked up and smiled in recognition even though they’d never met. Jamie saw immediately what Simon had meant. ‘David’ was of medium build but had the kind of strong features that would appeal to the ladies, thick dark hair and a chin that needed shaving twice a day. He
rose from his seat and shook hands with a weightlifter’s iron grip.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me at such short notice,’ Jamie greeted him. ‘What can I get you?’
They settled for two Stellas and wandered back to the table, where David took the seat with the same view of the door he’d had earlier. As they sipped their beers the younger man studiously avoided mentioning Jamie’s battered face and chatted in accent-free English and with a diplomat’s ease about the weather and London and the world in general. It became clear he was Jewish, but that came as no surprise given his friendship with Simon.
Jamie was perfectly happy to allow David to make the running and it was a few minutes before he quietly steered the conversation to business.
‘Simon said you were interested in Nazis. May I ask why?’
Jamie surprised himself with his reply. ‘I specialize in hunting down artwork stolen during the war. Perhaps Simon mentioned the Mandelbaum Rembrandt?’ David nodded. ‘This is in connection with another missing painting, but I’m afraid my agreement with the client means I can’t say for whom.’
David smiled, a man who could appreciate confidentiality. ‘Nazis in general, or a particular Nazi?’
‘Not Nazis in general, no, I could get that information from a book. A particular Nazi, but not one of the better known names.’
‘And the name is?’
‘Walter Brohm.’
The two words hung in the air between them like a dangling noose.
‘Walter Brohm?’
Jamie nodded. ‘The name is familiar?’
The other man studied him before making up his mind to continue. ‘Not one of the better known Nazi personalities, but an interesting character, nonetheless. Yes, I am familiar with Brigadeführer Walter Brohm.’
‘Brigadeführer?’
‘The SS equivalent of a brigadier in your British army. Son of a pastor, born in Dresden, nineteen thirteen. University educated. Joined the Nazi party in nineteen thirty-one at the age of eighteen and was accepted into the SS in September nineteen thirty-four; his SS number, by the way, is 39520. You are impressed so far?’
‘Very.’ It struck Jamie that whatever other talents he possessed, David was one of those extraordinary people blessed with a photographic memory.
‘Such information is available if you know where to look,’ he said modestly. ‘It is a little hobby of mine.’
Jamie accepted the unlikely statement without comment. ‘Please carry on.’
‘Brohm studied applied physics under Erich Schumann at the University of Berlin – Schumann was one of the top Nazi physicists – graduated in nineteen thirty-four, and was awarded his doctorate two years later. In nineteen thirty-nine, along with other Nazi scientists, he began work on the Uranverein project at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. Simon said you speak German, you understand Uranverein?’
‘Uranium Club?’
‘Correct, and you make the proper connections from this, yes?’
‘The Nazi nuclear project.’
David took a sip of his beer. ‘Ten out of ten, Mr Saintclair. Brohm continued to work on the project until nineteen forty-one, at which point it was downgraded when it became clear the Uranverein would not bear fruit in time to help the Nazis win the war.’ He noticed Jamie frowning. ‘You are surprised?’
‘Yes, I thought the nuclear race continued right up to the last days of the war.’
‘A popular notion, but not correct. The Nazis critically damaged their nuclear effort in nineteen forty-one. That was the year they sent many of their best scientists to Auschwitz.’ His smile lost its warmth. ‘You see, their fondness for killing Jews may actually have lost them the war.’
‘Do you know what happened to Brohm after nineteen forty-one?’
David hesitated and his dark eyes narrowed. ‘I still don’t quite understand your great interest in this man. There is no record of him being involved in any of the art theft or looting that so many high-ranking German officers carried out. No link to any particular painting.’
Jamie smiled disarmingly. ‘Come on, David, we both know that just because there aren’t any records doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened. There are still thousands of pieces of art that haven’t been traced. Probably nothing will come of it, but if my clients say it’s possible, it’s my job to follow it up.’
He could see David was unconvinced, but after a moment’s hesitation the younger man nodded. ‘Very well. We have very little information about his work. There are fragmentary records, including a suggestion he may have been in Poland in nineteen forty-four, but they are too limited for our purposes.’
‘Then why do you know so much about him?’
‘A good question. You ask why, not how. I congratulate you. Why? Because Walter Brohm was a fanatic, one of their worst. Because one of those fragments, though unsatisfactory, is extremely important. In late nineteen forty-two, just before the camp was cleansed of Jews, Brigadeführer Walter Brohm supplied radioactive material and carried out certain experiments on female inmates at the Ravensbrück concentration camp. The women involved in these trials wore a yellow triangle, denoting their Jewish origins. The experiments resulted in the sterilization of all the subjects and the death of many. We know so much about Walter Brohm because he is a war criminal, Mr Saintclair, and he is still wanted by Israel, Russia and the United States.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a business card with his name and phone number. ‘Should you discover anything more about Walter Brohm or require any further assistance, please contact me.’
‘You say he is still wanted. Does that mean you believe he’s still alive?’
David frowned. ‘No one knows whether Walter Brohm is alive or dead. He escaped from a prison camp in April nineteen forty-five and has never been heard of since.’
XI
We left the camp at dusk, nine of us in two jeeps, with the three Germans now dressed in British battledress, but without rank or unit insignia. The instructions pointed us south, towards Nürnberg, but only I knew our final destination. I had orders to avoid contact with military officials of any nation or service. We were on our own. Cut adrift in a Germany tearing itself apart in its final death throes.
JAMIE TOOK A deep breath and laid the journal down. He had returned from the interview with David more disconcerted than illuminated and with the feeling of having thrown a stone into a dark and dangerous pool. Walter Brohm’s past both fascinated and horrified him. He’d heard about the experiments carried out on inmates in the concentration camps, but the thought of Matthew riding in the same jeep as a man such as Walter Brohm brought the war – and its atrocities – closer than he felt comfortable with. It was as if a door had blown open to allow in the smoke from a crematorium chimney. There was also the puzzle of the amount of information David had provided. The sheer detail was astonishing, yet, like the missing years of Matthew’s diary, it left a large gap in the story that needed to be filled. What had Brohm done in the three years after he left the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute? And if his fate was such a mystery, what had been the purpose of Matthew Sinclair’s mission? He stared at the book. Were the answers in those final few dozen entries?
He picked it up again and scanned the pages, not reading now, searching, but his brain must have continued to soak up the words because, gradually, he became consumed by a sense of impending disaster that crept up his spine like a python slithering towards its prey. The realization grew with each page he turned. It couldn’t be? Not Matthew, the man whose newly discovered heroism had given Jamie a whole new belief in his own worth. But there couldn’t be any doubt. It was all there in those neat, tightly spaced sentences, as good as a handwritten plea of guilt.
Captain Matthew Sinclair and his men were helping three notorious Nazi war criminals to escape justice.
He flicked through the pages again, desperately hoping to find something, anything, that would prove him wrong, but there was nothing; no plea in mitigation apart from the five mealy-mouthed words of th
e Nuremberg defence – ‘I was only obeying orders’.
As he read on, a single word leapt into his head and he was astonished that he could have missed it on the first reading. It was never mentioned specifically by name, but the clues were all there. He felt like a man who had walked into a pyramid and triggered the mechanism that opened the pharaoh’s undisturbed tomb. The pain of Matthew’s betrayal was replaced by a feeling of breathless wonder and his memory took him back to an Italian hilltop town; cool, narrow streets beneath a sun-baked henna roofscape, and a house with a brass plaque engraved with the same word that now made him react like a love-struck teenager.
Raphael!
Raffaello Sanzio di Urbino. Artist and architect. The only man who could stand side by side with Leonardo and Michelangelo and not be dwarfed by their greatness. Raphael’s name might not be as well known, but those with vision recognized his genius and his paintings were characterized by a serenity that was unmatched, even in Leonardo’s Mona Lisa. Those paintings were now valued in their tens of millions of pounds, and from what he was reading it appeared that one of them might have been the price of the three Germans’ lives.
More importantly, this wasn’t just any Raphael.
Jamie carried the journal through to the spare room that doubled as a home office and rummaged beside his desk until he found what he was looking for. It was a scrapbook he’d started when he had been commissioned by Emil Mandelbaum to find the Rembrandt. He quickly turned the pages to three cuttings from a Sunday colour supplement on the world’s top ten missing works of art. There, among the Cézannes, the Degas and the Picassos, was a single work by Raphael.
Portrait of a Young Man. Painted in oil on wood panel and regarded as one of the sixteenth-century Italian artist’s finest works. It had been the prize exhibit at the Czartoryski Museum in Cracow, hanging alongside Leonardo’s Lady in Ermine, and another Rembrandt, Landscape with Good Samaritan, until the first week of September 1939, when, along with the rest of Poland, the museum had found itself under new management.
The Doomsday Testament Page 7