‘I happened to observe Swiss bank account mandates on Herr Dietrich’s desk. I can’t think of any reason why he’d have such forms.’
The lie fell easily from Schmidt’s lips, but his fingers tightened on the brim of his hat.
The Nazi, still expressionless, gazed at the auditor. ‘Have you disclosed your suspicions to anyone else?’
‘No, Herr Minister.’
Schmidt did not know if he was a Minister; where he fitted into the Nazi machine.
‘If what you say is true – how could these gentlemen expect to get away with it?’
‘Sir, the bonds surplus to a working balance are sealed under their joint control. A deficiency might go undetected for a good while.’
‘But ultimately, it would be?’
‘Funds come in each day to build up the working balance. The sealed envelope in their joint names might not need to be disturbed for some time. I can’t imagine what is in their minds as to the ultimate situation.’
‘What use are German bonds to them in Switzerland? I fail to see what their plan might be.’
With his one eye Schmidt stared steadily at the Nazi. Friend or foe? The question echoed in his head. ’There are people who run clandestine discount markets in all European bearer securities. It’s a matter of smuggling them back to source. Swiss nationals are crossing our borders every day. German businessmen, too. As to their plan …’ He shrugged the slightest of shrugs.
Von Streck’s glance flicked along the edge of his desk, shot to the auditor’s face. ‘By what means could they’ve got the bonds to Switzerland? Opened these accounts?’
Schmidt pursed his lips: an earnest man seeking an elusive explanation. Von Streck had found his gap, the gap that any court or Party tribunal would surely run up against. Strangely, he still had that ‘all clear’ feeling.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
Von Streck brooded on framed photographs of the Nuremberg Rally of 1937, a slight, cynical smile now on his lips. ‘An outside audit could open up this imbroglio – if it is such?’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably these accounts would be numbered – to keep the account-holders’ identities secret.’
‘I’m afraid do.’
The Nazi brooded on this, and then abruptly spun his chair to survey another part of the room. Without looking at the auditor he said, ‘I find this unbelievable, Schmidt. That those men would act in such a way.’
Schmidt stared steadily at the Nazi’s profile. ‘The fraudulent acts of trusted officials are always “unbelievable”, mein herr.’ He paused. ‘I should report, also, that Herr Dietrich has instructed that 500 marks be paid to him each month from the Party’s Number Four cash account. He calls it a commission. I believe this was also his practice in Berlin.’
He spoke in the tone which he used when addressing the board. This was minor and makeweight – yet it added another bad odour.
‘A commission,’ the Nazi repeated.
‘He demanded I take an amount for myself but I have not, for obvious reasons.’
Von Streck raised his eyebrows again and softly cracked his knuckles. He abruptly swivelled his chair again to face the auditor. Were these intimations of excitement? This process was like tapping brass nails into a coffin. Schmidt selected another nail. ‘Herr Dietrich is a homosexual. He’s made that very clear to me.’
The Nazi’s face suddenly showed animation. ‘What an interesting experience the gathering of all this knowledge – that, in particular – must’ve been for you, Schmidt?’
Schmidt didn’t respond; sat there, the steadfast auditor grounded in his professionalism, at the minister’s service.
‘You’ve suspicions, and certain evidence of a possible crime, Herr Schmidt. Is that what you’re saying? If it’s factual, if a crime has been perpetrated, of course a criminal and grossly traitorous act. However, if upon investigation it can’t be proved I trust you understand the consequences?’ Schmidt nodded. ‘All right, Herr Auditor. Your message has been received. Not one word to anyone else. You may go.’
Schmidt left, glad to be out. As he walked quickly away in the chilly afternoon from the nondescript building, he pondered what von Streck’s reaction would have been if he’d dropped the words ’Teutonic Knights’ into the interview. His instinct had held him back. Yet it had seemed close to the surface. Periscope depth, he thought. His mind was hyperactive after the interview. A vision came to him of a panorama of the nation viewed from the stratosphere, cities, towns, black and brown stained countryside, forest and fallow – or SS and SA, frozen under the season – and the march of history. He saw no sign of life. His eye began to weep copiously; routinely he padded his handkerchief to it, drawing the glances of passersby, the sentimentally inclined of whom imagined they were witnesses to a personal tragedy.
Now the father was dead. Herr Wertheim thought: This affair of the Dresslers is like a Greek tragedy. But the performance has ended – nothing else can be done to them. An all-pervading fate beyond any control has ruled off their lives. ’Beyond any control?’ The question echoed in his mind – as did Lilli Dressler’s voice in certain phrases which she’d commonly used as they’d worked side by side.
But always compensations; he felt empowered by his risk-taking, the new course for the Wertheim with battle flags up. Nothing seemed fixed or unchangeable in his mind. Even his precept to maintain the value of clients’ capital was now a shadow of its former significance. Through – going into battle for whom? Right now he felt his brain to be as sharp as ever, yet there were phases of a confused nature. He admitted that.
Thus, it was Herr Wertheim’s turn to gaze into the abyss. He did so by gazing at The Eye. Gradually his mind seemed to levitate, to be looking down on his life and times, miniaturised by distance. These days, his mind did shift gears unexpectedly. Slow down, pick up speed. And yes – the bank was forging ahead on well-oiled, well-tuned engines. Not only had the Aryanisation business given it a fresh impetus, but their old industrialist clients were thriving, and each week came windfalls of Jewish clients leaving the scores of Jewish private banks, which were being forced to close down. Given the Aryanisation deals which Otto was pursuing, the chickens rushing into the fox’s den! He rubbed his hands to stimulate some warmth.
His room was as quiet as a cloister. He lifted his head from its gaze, to listen. The phone rang. ‘Von Streck here, General-Director, please be at the bank tomorrow at eleven with all your directors. I wish to review certain aspects of the Party’s business.’
The phone went dead. The briefest of exchanges. The G-D replaced the receiver. Did Dietrich know of this? Von Streck. A man with power which was the more formidable because of its mysterious nature. ’Certain aspects’ – what was the nuance there?
He pondered the shadowy power of von Streck. Real power, though. He recalled their meeting at the Party’s headquarters in Berlin. He’d been in no doubt that von Streck was the key decision-maker in the transfer of the investment business. At one stage, he’d been high up in the Ministry of Economics …
‘Who is master here?’ Herr Wertheim realised that he’d spoken aloud to the painting.
He smiled, pleased by how often he was surprising himself lately.
Schmidt sat in his study in an attitude of listening. Maria had finished the dinner dishes and gone to the cinema. In recent days he’d shut himself into a world concentrated on the devious passage of events in which he was engaged. Tonight, he’d poured himself a brandy. Doubtless, the shock of Dressler’s death, the day’s tension …
Wagner was due back at noon tomorrow. In the brief, guarded phone conversation he’d reported ‘the task at hand’ completed. The deputy foreign manager’s experiences on the mission would be narrated another time, and he’d sensed there was much to hear. But would he ever hear it?
What would von Streck do? The consummation was now in the hands of the Nazi functionary. The next move might be the Gestapo knocking on the door of Franz Schmidt.
‘We’ll see,�
�� he said to the knight engraved in his perpetual patrol. Delineated with increasing clarity he could hear in his head the clatter of hooves, the creak and jingle of harness — ‘and as he rode his armour rung’. His reservoir of the Order’s history, of current dangerous events was continuously circulating in his mind. Circling back, he returned to von Streck. Had the Nazi, in directing him to the specific era of the Order’s history, wherein the knight, Eric Streck, had struck at its evil and corrupt strategies from within, intended it as a guiding light? He sipped brandy. He was gambling that he had. Did the story run like this: Von Streck, the insurgent, the speculator, casting his eye over the Party’s banking affairs, had alighted on Schmidt in his new pivotal role, dredged this auditor’s past – discovered the incident with the SA, and, above all, his connection with the Order?
Had a man who did not love the Nazis found a tool to damage them? A tool of opportunity: himself! What if this was rubbish?! The product of his warped and wishful thinking? Tension crawled over him afresh; he’d lost his taste for the brandy. And Dietrich – at this moment? The thought scraped like a dead leaf blown over cobbles to a hidden corner. Did the Nazi suspect the forces running against him, was he engaged in counter-actions?
A sharp vision came, doubtless sponsored by innumerable newsreels, of the Fuehrer, quite alone, pacing back and forth in the shadowy great hall of the Berghof, his mind locked in fantastic thoughts. Schmidt felt he could reach out and tap him on the shoulder.
He cut this off and thought of Dresden, of Helga and Trudi. He glanced at his watch – pictured them in his mother-in-law’s familiar house, storytime, bedtime. He heard his daughter’s childish voice repeating her prayers.
35
NEXT MORNING IT was windless, with fog. Walking quickly around the bend in the street Schmidt’s eye went to the two flags drooping from the flagstaffs. The bank looked becalmed, waiting for a breeze, maybe a new course. The head messenger’s hacking cough echoed in the foyer’s gilded cupola. The auditor said, ‘You need medicine, Herr Berger.’
Berger nodded respectfully. ‘I’m taking medicine, Herr Schmidt.’ Breathlessly he proceeded Schmidt to the lift.
The usual stack of post, the usual quiet room, the customary atmosphere. He swiftly opened and sorted the post. He glanced up at the clock: 8.45 am; for him, tension vibrated in the air. For others? His inner calm seemed to be faltering.
If von Streck believed his story —if he chose to act – how long? The confidence he’d felt as he’d left the Nazi functionary’s office had thinned. But hadn’t the man sought him out for a watchdog role, presumably had his reasons for doing so? To this point, he’d given his plan a good chance of unfolding as it had, but everything now felt well beyond his control. In the hands of fate.
Was his nerve beginning to crack?
The morning stretched ahead. He went out into the corridors, and glanced in at Wagner’s vacant room. Otto came out of his office and without a word or a look swaggered from sight. The younger Wertheim’s mind was focused on 11.00 am, on the brilliant accolade which he expected to receive from the Nazi leader.
Schmidt smelled the peculiar odour which Otto, frequently, left in his wake: a touch of normality.
Dietrich, shining with grooming and health, smoked a cigarette. Herr Health and Sunshine. The nickname hadn’t reached his ears. The fingers of his right hand drummed softly on polished wood. The meeting at eleven was an enigma. Worriedly, he wondered why von Streck hadn’t brought him into the picture. Von Streck’s power-base was one of the Party’s myriad secrets, but clearly formidable, given the fear which it generated. He’d heard he was a personal confidant of Himmler. That he was attached to the Chancellery of the Fuehrer. But one heard many things.
Still, he was lucky to be alive. That madman had killed six of the Gestapo, virtually wiped out the local post’s operational group. His own standing must be enhanced by the way he’d dealt with the incident. Perhaps he was to be congratulated before the board; or Otto was, for his Aryanisation work. Otto would certainly be thinking along those lines. Perhaps they were both to be congratulated! The Party moved in unpredictable ways.
He smiled tensely: Its façade was steel-clad, inspirational, but behind that it was relentlessly the sum of its human parts. You had to be a little cynical about certain things, alert for your own self-interest. He was confident of the good work he’d done, that it was being noticed in the right quarters. And – he’d six o’clock this evening to look forward to! He felt a stirring in his loins. He visualised Franz’s body, smooth skin, his intriguing, mysterious personality. He was going to bust that little virgin wide open in two ways. Make him sing like a choir boy.
With the forcefulness of a gale coming onto the Baltic coast, von Streck, at the head of four black-uniformed SS men, boots clattering, strode into General-Director Wertheim’s anteroom. The SS were a head taller than he, but his muscular body was broader than any of them. He glanced back, as if to confirm the aggressive suspicion set on their faces.
He swept past Fräulein Blum, who stood by her desk, gave her a grin, and arrived at the double doors at the precise instant that they sprang open, orchestrated by Dietrich, who’d been standing by.
Herr Wertheim to the fore, the directors stood in a crescent in the inner sanctum. They sprang to attention, startled at the velocity of the visitors’ entrance. Von Streck pulled up, beaming.
‘Heil Hitler!’
‘Heil Hitler!’ — a ragged chorus rang out.
‘Good morning, gentlemen! Herr Wertheim a pleasure … Everyone may go – with the exception of yourself, Herr Otto Wertheim and Herr Dietrich.’ Methodically, he stripped off the black gloves.
Wertheim showed polite surprise. Something highly unusual was in the air.
‘Of course …’ He turned to the other directors. ‘Mein herren?’They took their cue and filed out with palpable relief, led by the formidable Director Schloss, who darted a concerned look at the G-D.
The doors swung shut. Von Streck, his olive features still wreathed in a smile, standing at the head of the SS, said, ‘Now to business. I’m here to personally audit the Party’s portfolio of bonds. Please make arrangements.’
Wertheim’s surprise went up a notch; he tilted his head in a calculating way. After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘I assure you—’
‘Immediately,’ von Streck said, his eyes narrowing.
‘Of course, if that is your wish.’The general-director turned to a stunned Otto.
‘They’re kept in the vault,’ the younger director stammered, disappointment plain on his face.
‘We’ll go there,’ von Streck said. He was a reasonable man again.
Otto advanced with sudden energy. ‘I am a custodian, and I will summon our auditor. The third custodian is absent on duty, we’ve his safe-combination in a sealed envelope under double custody. I will get it.’ He hurried out as though his commitment to this errand, this inexplicable situation, would win back his accolade.
Von Streck watched Otto leave, raised an eyebrow, glanced around the room. ‘Mmm. You’ve an interesting taste in art, Herr Wertheim.‘The G-D bowed slightly. He thought: Yes, I do. I doubt it has a high priority in your mind this morning. ‘What is the architecture of your fine building. Baroque classicism?’
Wertheim nodded. He said, ‘Shall we go to the vault?’
Searching his mind for a gleam of light, Dietrich had been a silent witness to these exchanges. He was staggered by the development, by its implications, though his face remained calm and he was keeping quiet. What, in God’s name, was it all about? Whatever it was, it reflected disastrously on his supervisory status, his standing at the bank. He, the director seconded by the Party, totally ignorant of what was afoot! Grimly, he thought of enemies he’d made, felt his apprehension rising. Yet, everything would be in order.
The iron cage arrived with a clank and a shudder, and politely Wertheim ushered von Streck and Dietrich into it. Dismissively, the high Nazi signalled the SS to take the s
tairs.
‘Quite an antique,’ von Streck said, nodding benevolently at the lift. He’d become an instant connoisseur of the Wertheim province; but the general-director detected a mocking edge. His father had installed the lift in 1902, and to the despair of the manufacturer’s mechanics, he insisted on its preservation.
He bowed again, thought: Yes, he’s playing with us. But which of us doesn’t have our secret games? He was impervious to such tactics, found at some point he could often turn the tables. Again he went over his knowledge of von Streck – but abortively – much as Dietrich had done. Again that whiff of mystery. If the Nazi had worked behind the scenes to effect the transfer of the NSDAP business, what were the implications of that? What suspicions had now been raised in his mind? The bank’s systems were as good as any for security, everything would be in order.
Otto and Schmidt were waiting in the vault; the auditor had placed the big ledger on the table. The party from the lift entered and in a wind of body odour the SS came clattering down the stairs.
Dietrich flicked his eyes at them, and continued to analyse the situation. Why did von Streck have the SS on hand? Grounded in the party’s ways he didn’t like this one bit. He glanced at sober-faced Schmidt, then stared at the safe.
At a stroke, Schmidt’s overnight and early-morning doubts had been swept away. His heart had soared when Otto had burst into his room and demanded his presence in the vault. Von Streck had acted! Now they stood before the safe like an assemblage of city dignitaries at the unveiling of a plaque.
The high-ranking Nazi, as he’d been shown in, ignored the auditor, and didn’t appear to notice the G-D’s polite introduction.
‘Go ahead, gentlemen,’ Wertheim said.
Breathing audibly, Otto stepped forward to the safe, peered hard at the calibrated marks, turned the tumbler. Success first time! His several chins were atremble as he stepped back from the ordeal. He produced a sealed envelope and presented it with a flourish to Schmidt. ‘Herr Deputy Foreign Manager Wagner’s combination,’ he announced.
The Eye of the Abyss Page 23