The Doomsday Testament

by James Douglas

  ‘But they were Jews.’

  ‘Yes, they were Jews. So they had no future. Not in Walter Brohm’s Germany.’

  She nodded and stared at the distant bulk of the Brocken, the signpost that had brought them to this dread place.

  ‘Promise me something.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No, wait until you know what I am asking. It’s important.’

  He stared at her for a moment. Her face was unnaturally white. Pale as death. ‘Ask then.’

  ‘Promise me that if we find out that Walter Brohm is still alive you will use whatever money you get for the recovery of the Raphael to hunt him down.’

  He didn’t even have to consider it. ‘I promise. If Walter Brohm is alive, I will follow him to the ends of the earth and bring him to justice.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I don’t want justice. Promise me that if Walter Brohm is still alive, you will kill him.’

  At first, her words sent a shock of revulsion through him. The man who died at Wewelsburg had been more or less an accident and the hunter in the woods pure self-preservation. Did she really believe him capable of cold-blooded murder? Then he remembered the long rows of corpses in the chamber and the girl with the musician’s hands. Walter Brohm had been responsible for their deaths and if Walter Brohm was alive, it had been Matthew Sinclair who had kept him that way.

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘If we find Walter Brohm, I will kill him.’

  XLI

  ‘YOU ARE FREE to go.’

  Jamie opened his eyes to find the door of the cell open. and a tall, dark-haired woman studying him with the expression of someone who had just found a dead rat in her kitchen. She was in her mid-forties and dressed in a smart business suit that was as much a uniform as anything with badges of rank. ‘Polizeihauptkommissar Lotte Muller.’ Jamie got to his feet rubbing his spine as she introduced herself. ‘And you are Mr Jamie Saintclair. You have spent a comfortable night?’

  ‘As comfortable as can be expected.’ It had been fully dark by the time they got back to Braunlage and another hour before Jamie located the local police office. The patrolman who had listened to their story had been first annoyed, then perplexed and finally bewildered, before they produced the Raphael. That was when he decided to hedge his bets and arrested Jamie on suspicion of something and told Sarah to go back to the hotel and stay there.

  Lotte Muller produced a thin smile. ‘Perhaps you are surprised that you are to be freed?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, as I explained to the officer last night, we did nothing wrong. This is just a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Of course, a misunderstanding.’ She had a policeman’s way with words. Disbelief was her default position. ‘Naturally, there will be certain conditions to your release.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘My colleague from the Landespolizei had dismissed you and your . . . travelling companion as publicity-seeking fantasists, but then there was the question of the painting.’ What might have been a twinkle appeared in Lotte Muller’s hard little eyes and a slight uplift at the corners of her mouth accompanied the word painting. Clearly, the Raphael had made a suitable impression. ‘He did not dare open the package, of course, but the more he studied it the more concerned he became. So concerned that he rather belatedly found the courage to disturb my sleep. Since dawn, I have spent a rather trying morning in the Oder gorge attempting to verify, or otherwise, your unlikely story. Fortunately, I found no terrorists with machine guns. No dead men among the trees, or bodies in the river. No blood trails or spent cartridges.’ The dark eyes held Jamie’s. ‘But then my officers discovered the entrance to the bunker precisely where you and Miss Grant said it would be.’

  ‘May I ask how Miss Grant is?’

  Lotte Muller’s expression softened. ‘As far as I know she is well. She should be here in a few minutes. Perhaps you would like to freshen up a little and we can continue this conversation in the interview room when she arrives?’

  Sarah Grant might have spent the previous day at a spa rather than being chased around a forest by machine-gun-toting killers. She had relinquished her usual jeans and leather jacket for a candy-striped summer dress that made her look about eighteen. When Jamie rose to give her a restrained hug her perfume smelled of crushed lilac.

  ‘I didn’t even know you owned a dress,’ he whispered.

  ‘A girl has to have some secrets, Saintclair.’

  ‘May we begin?’ Lotte Muller interrupted.

  They took their seats on the other side of the desk. The room was like police interview rooms everywhere: small, sparse and functional.

  ‘I understand you are comfortable in German, Miss Grant?’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘You slept well?’

  ‘Very.’ The accompanying smile hid the fact that she’d spent the night with a chair jammed behind the door of the hotel room wishing Jamie hadn’t persuaded her to dump the pistol she had carried since Wewelsburg. She had passed the time working on a synopsis of the Raphael story that she’d e-mailed to a selection of newspapers and magazines and eventually fallen asleep to wake up to an inbox full of offers that took her breath away.

  The policewoman adjusted her reading glasses as she studied a piece of paper on the desk. ‘I have read your statements and I must admit to being somewhat perplexed. You say you were hunted through our forest by men with guns, but, as I have already informed Mr Saintclair, there is no evidence of this. No reports of gunshots. No shell cases. No bodies. No signs of any violence whatsoever.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,’ Sarah interrupted.

  ‘No, it does not,’ Muller agreed. ‘But I would have preferred some further evidence. However, we also have the painting . . . and the bunker. You say that you were led to the bunker by indicators provided in this journal left by your grandfather, but only stumbled upon the entrance when you were being pursued.’ She turned a page and Jamie recognized a photocopy of the tightly written text of Matthew Sinclair’s diary. ‘A remarkable document, and even more remarkable that you were able to decipher the clues, if clues they are.’ The long pause that followed was an invitation to provide an explanation, but neither Jamie nor Sarah responded and she was forced to continue. ‘Still, what matters is that the bunker does exist, and that it provides us with a crime scene for which there is substantial evidence.’

  ‘You mean the dead prisoners?’

  ‘That is correct, Mr Saintclair. Just because a murder was committed many decades ago does not mean we can ignore the fact that it happened. I visited the site this morning. Quite astonishing. One does not expect to be confronted with such barbarity. Perhaps one should not be surprised that these things emerge from time to time, but still . . . Even for someone like myself, who has seen many difficult things, it was an emotional moment. To think that this could happen so close to this beautiful place is disturbing. There must be a full investigation, even though the perpetrators are most probably dead themselves. It may be many months before we can even identify the victims.’

  Jamie allowed his surprise to show. ‘You think you’ll be able to find out who they were?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I don’t doubt it. In your very concise report to my colleague last night you mentioned the Uranverein project. If you are correct in that assumption, it narrows the field considerably. Those involved in the Uranverein who survived the war made very detailed statements about their work to the Allied authorities. We have lists of people who were removed – as was thought then – to the concentration camps. By matching physical details and using the latest DNA techniques we should certainly be able to identify most of those in the bunker.’

  ‘They were Jews.’ Sarah’s voice cut the cosy atmosphere like a chain saw. ‘You seem reluctant to mention that.’

  Lotte Muller’s lips tightened. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There is a probability that most, if not all, are Jewish; that would certainly correspond with the times in which they died and the
situation in which they are found. But for me, Miss Grant, they are all victims, whether they are black or white, male or female, Christian, Muslim or Jewish, and I will do everything in my power to apprehend whoever perpetrated this atrocity. Does that satisfy you?’

  Jamie glanced at Sarah and she nodded, he thought reluctantly.

  ‘Good. Now we may turn to the more pleasant part of your discovery. You will be aware that there are other bunkers in the Harz, at Nordhausen, in particular, where the V2 rocket was manufactured. But Nordhausen cannot boast a famous masterpiece. You have placed Braunlage firmly on the international map, Mr Saintclair, you and Miss Grant. Of course, we must carry out a detailed check to confirm its authenticity, but if, as I have no doubts will be the case, this is the lost Raphael painting, there will be huge international interest. The Polish ambassador is already on his way here. You know, of course, that Portrait of a Young Man was removed from the Czartoryski Museum, in Cracow? The trust which now runs the museum is very eager to see its return and is sending a representative to witness the unveiling of the painting, which will be carried out by conservators from the Staatliche Museen in Berlin. I am sure the Princess Czartoryski Foundation will be most grateful for the Raphael’s return, but that is something you must discuss with the trustees personally. Already,’ her face hardened again, ‘we have had calls from the press, many calls, regarding the discovery. You are a journalist, I understand, Miss Grant?’

  ‘What about these men who tried to kill us? You seem to have forgotten them.’ Jamie interrupted.

  Lotte Muller pursed her lips. ‘Naturally we will continue to investigate, but unless there is further evidence . . .’

  He opened his mouth to argue, but Sarah kicked him below the desk.

  ‘What will happen to the bunker now, I mean in the long run?’ she asked.

  ‘I think that will depend on the structural condition,’ the kommissar sounded unconvinced. ‘As you no doubt saw, the lower floors were quite badly damaged by an explosion. But if it is structurally sound there is already talk of the Federal government turning the bunker into a museum and, naturally, a memorial to those who died there. In the circumstances we are very fortunate that it is there at all.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Of course, you would not know.’ Kommissar Muller studied their faces. ‘The whole complex was wired to explode thirty minutes after you opened the door behind the falls. The only thing that saved you was the rodent that ate its way through the main cable.’

  XLII

  ‘HERE’S TO THE mouse that chewed.’ Jamie raised his glass and took a deep draught of dark Gose beer as they sat outside a bar across the main square from their hotel.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Sarah acknowledged. ‘And to not being blown all over the Harz Mountains.’ The grin they exchanged was of the sickly variety and they sat for a while enjoying the novelty of still being alive. ‘I was surprised when she started quoting the journal at us. I didn’t think you’d let it out of your sight.’

  He shrugged. ‘They gave it back quickly enough and I didn’t think I had a lot of choice. They confiscated the rucksack as possible evidence. It didn’t seem to matter much, because the journal has taken us as far as it’s going to.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  It was an odd question. In theory, at least, the Raphael would change their lives. Yet he had an odd empty feeling of anticlimax that he sensed Sarah Grant shared. It was as if the hunt had been their true purpose and the discovery only mattered in the abstract. Even then any joy they could take from it had been overwhelmed by the enormity of the other things they’d found in Walter Brohm’s bunker.

  ‘I made you a promise last night on the way back here, but it’s a promise that may be difficult to keep,’ Jamie admitted. Privately he was having second thoughts about his rash pledge, but that could wait for another day. ‘I’d like to be able to finish what we started and take the story right to the end. We found the Raphael, but we still don’t know what happened to Walter Brohm. My grandfather’s last mission has a beginning and a middle, but no end. The answers are out there somewhere, but if there’s no more to the diary I’m not sure where else we can go.’

  A porter from the hotel approached the table holding a package. ‘This arrived for you this morning, sir. Express delivery.’

  Jamie frowned, then remembered his phone call to David and the text he’d sent confirming their new location. With the excitement of the last two days he’d forgotten the young Jew’s promise to dig for more information. He accepted the padded brown envelope and tipped the young man.

  ‘I hope you’ve not been holding out on me again, Saintclair.’

  He saw himself smile in the mirror of her sunglasses. ‘Just a little additional research I commissioned.’ He tore open the envelope and spread the contents out on the table top. Four or five photocopies of faded cuttings from German newspapers with the dates they were filed and the name of the publication apparently written in ink on the original. They were all from the mid to late 1930s. On each of the photocopies, someone had highlighted two words with a yellow marker pen. Walter Brohm.

  Sarah dragged her seat round the table so they could read the cuttings together. ‘Tibet?’

  ‘Yes. Brohm told my grandfather that he had walked in a land of giants and that was where he found it. I asked a friend to check the story out and this is what he came up with.’

  ‘A well-connected friend?’

  ‘It looks like he got lucky.’

  The reports all documented the same 1937 expedition by a group of German scientists. He scanned the photocopies one at a time in no particular order, but Sarah organized them chronologically and leaned forward in her chair to study them with a scholar’s intensity.

  ‘Do you notice anything?’ she asked after a few minutes.

  ‘Only that the papers all hail the triumph of German stamina, ingenuity and scientific achievement over great odds and some of the most difficult terrain in the world. I keep looking for Joseph Goebbels’ byline. The main aim of the trip seems to have been to study the natives. No mention of the occult or seeking the origin of the Aryan race. Why?’

  ‘In the earliest cutting, which is the announcement that the expedition is going ahead, the report is quite specific about the aims, but, more importantly, the destination, the Guzong crater. But the later editions, after the scientists return, only mention the Changthang Plateau in a wider sense, an area of thousands of square miles. It’s as if they wanted people to forget the original destination.’

  ‘Or to hide it.’

  ‘What made you ask for this?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Because Walter Brohm also said he was certain there was more to find.’

  She saw what he was thinking before the idea had fully formed in his own head.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  But he was.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ his voice quickened. ‘This is where it all started. It’s where Walter Brohm made his discovery that could change the world. We can’t just stop now. We owe it to my grandfather to find the answer. We owe it to all those people who died in the bunker. We have to find a way to get to this Guzong crater.’

  ‘It’s crazy.’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s the logical next step. We can’t go forward, so we retrace Walter Brohm’s steps until we find what he did.’

  ‘But you don’t have the resources, or the money to finance that kind of trip. Walter Brohm was sponsored by one of Adolf Hitler’s cronies. Somehow I don’t see any rich folks queuing up to hand you cash.’

  He’d thought about that. ‘My grandfather’s house will sell eventually. There’ll be some sort of finder’s fee for the Raphael, probably a substantial one. I’ll fund the trip from that.’

  ‘You are the most obstinate, pig-headed—’

  ‘I thought you liked the new adventurous me?’

  ‘Tibet isn’t a place you can just walk in to. The Chinese run i
t now, and they don’t encourage visitors.’

  ‘I’ll find a way.’

  She shook her head and for a moment he thought he’d lost her. ‘No, we’ll find a way. The Raphael story may not make me rich, but it will help stake an adventure holiday with an eccentric idiot.’

  He stared at her. ‘I thought you had what you came for?’

  Sarah Grant pushed the sunglasses into her hair and the challenge in the hazel eyes raised the stakes. ‘I thought so, too. Have I?’

  For a moment he felt as if his soul had been stripped bare. He’d become closer to this woman in a few short weeks than to anyone he’d ever had a relationship with. The thought of losing her chilled him to the depths of his being. Yes, he had doubts, but about what she was, not who. Finally, he nodded. ‘If you want it.’

  ‘I thought I’d made that pretty clear, Jamie.’

  ‘You—’

  ‘Hi, Miss Sarah Grant, right, and Mr James Saintclair?’

  Jamie glared at the intruder, but the tall man who stood a few feet from their table was unruffled by the coolness of his reception. He had dark, almost Polynesian good looks and a helmet of sun-bleached hair that would stay in place even in the highest winds. The smile that showed off his perfect white teeth didn’t budge or the amused – a less trusting person might say mocking – blue eyes lose their sparkle. The tan suit he wore over a cream shirt would have cost Saintclair Fine Arts the best part of a year’s profit and fitted tightly across a swimmer’s muscled shoulders. He spoke English with an American accent. Jamie took one look at him and couldn’t keep the words snake-oil salesman out of his head.