Heidrich sensed there was more, hesitation in the man’s voice. “And?”
Luzzatto looked about again. “Well, the next day the body was gone from the morgue and the case reassigned. My notes were confiscated and my captain told me to never mention the case again or I’d go to prison.”
Heidrich’s eyes narrowed. “That seems odd.”
“I’ve never encountered anything like it since.”
“And where was this body found?”
“Outside the walls of the Vatican.”
OVRA Headquarters, Rome, Italy
July 7th, 1941
“He had help, sir.”
“You are certain?”
Heidrich nodded, the phone pressed against his ear. “Yes, sir. He was met in Rome by three people, two dressed as Italian police, a third in civilian attire with a Christian symbol tattooed on his chest.”
“What symbol?”
“I’m told it is the cross of Saint Peter.”
“Upside down with two keys?”
Heidrich’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, yes. You’re familiar with it?”
“Of course I am. And you should be too. You’re seeking out religious artifacts, familiarize yourself with the damned religions.”
Heidrich felt his balls shrink. “Yes, sir! We’re continuing to canvass the area, but I’m not optimistic. They were disguised as police so most people look away.”
“They probably did that on purpose. But you assume they were disguised.”
“Sir?”
“What if they actually were police? That is where I would start. And Sturmbannführer?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t bother coming back to Berlin without it. The Führer wants that portrait. Failure is not an option.”
Every muscle in Heidrich’s body momentarily contracted. “Yes, sir.”
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!”
The call ended and he hung up the receiver, noting his hand was trembling. Dr. Mengele was the most terrifying man he had ever met, and he had met the Führer himself. The Führer was a terrifying man to those who didn’t devote their lives to him, and Heidrich had no doubt of his loyalty to the man. And it would never be the Führer that would kill him should he fail. It would be someone like Mengele who would be given the task.
And that was far more terrifying than the Führer’s bark.
The question he had to now face was how he was going to find a small self-portrait hidden in a city of millions.
By a group of people who seemed well connected and well protected.
I guess we bring in the bakers.
“That’s one of them.”
Heidrich peered at the photo the baker’s wife was pointing at. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Yes. He was the one in charge. He did all the talking, except for the one who wasn’t police. Once the boy arrived, he did almost all the talking.”
Heidrich turned to his liaison officer, Captain Luzzatto. “I want his file and photos of everyone he works with, now!”
Luzzatto nodded, taking the binder of police personnel files and leaving the room. Heidrich turned to the woman and pointed at the stack of binders. “Keep looking, there’re two of them.”
She gave him a glare that would have withered any other man, especially a husband, then returned to flipping through the pages. He stepped outside and headed for the office assigned to him while he was here. Sitting behind his desk, he propped his feet up on the corner as his secretary brought in a cup of espresso. It was a guilty pleasure he had developed a taste for while here, one he feared he’d never be able to continue when he returned home.
If you don’t find that damned portrait, you won’t need to worry about going home.
He wondered how long Dr. Mengele would tolerate failure. He doubted long. He couldn’t expect to be simply exiled to Rome. Eventually he’d be called back to Berlin to explain himself, then probably sent to one of the good doctor’s laboratories, to be experimented on.
He shivered, setting aside his cup.
He closed his eyes and there was a sudden knock on the door, startling him awake. He checked the clock to see how long he had been out.
Almost an hour.
He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was, his chase after the portrait now in its third day with only a few hours sleep squeezed in while travelling. Luzzatto stood in the doorway, holding several file folders.
“I have what you asked for, sir.”
Heidrich motioned for Luzzatto to hand the files over. He flipped the first one open as Luzzatto gave him a summary.
“Lt. Lupo. He’s the one she identified. He’s on duty now. I’m having him picked up. He should be here shortly.”
Heidrich cursed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Luzzatto immediately paled. “Why?”
“We should be following him, to see where he goes. Picking him up means any chance of finding out who he’s involved with is now impossible.”
“I-I’ll call it off.” Luzzatto turned to leave when Heidrich waved off his departure with a flick of the wrist. “No point. It went out over the radio, I assume?”
Luzzatto nodded.
“Then he knows, or someone he’s connected with knows.”
“I-I’m sorry, sir.”
A young officer poked his head inside the office. “Excuse me, sirs, but Lt. Lupo is here.”
Heidrich rose, straightening his uniform before grabbing his hat. “Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”
He stepped out into the hallway to see the officer being led down the hallway, flanked by two of his colleagues. Lupo didn’t seem nervous at all, there no fear in his eyes. He stared directly at Heidrich as he approached, a slight smile on his face.
We’ll see if you’re smiling after I’m done with you.
Three gunshots rang out from behind him. Heidrich stepped to the side, his head spinning toward the shooter as he reached for his own weapon. But it was too late. The man turned the gun on himself, tearing a hole through his own head before collapsing to the floor. Heidrich turned back to see Lupo on the ground, a large pool of blood oozing out on the tile floor, the same smile still on his face, as if he died contented.
Heidrich leaned over and tore open the Lupo’s shirt, but found no tattoo.
He stood, cursing as he looked from one body to the other, realizing his case had just died with these two men.
Two men willing to die for their cause.
A cause he knew nothing about.
Except that it had just sealed his own death warrant.
Reich Air Ministry, Berlin, Nazi Germany
April 4th, 1945
One month before the official surrender of Nazi Germany
Heidrich resisted cringing as the Russian shells bombarded the city overhead. Germany had lost, yet the Führer held on, refusing to admit defeat.
And it was the people who were paying the price for it.
And Heidrich felt no sympathy.
If the people had been more committed to the war effort, had thrown themselves into the fight as he had, body and soul, Germany would have been victorious, of that he had no doubt.
She had to win, for she was the home of the Master Race.
A home overrun with vermin who had weakened her in her time of need.
They had exterminated over eleven million, displaced millions more, and if they had just had another few years, the final solution would have been successfully completed, and the world a better place for it.
And then phase two could have begun.
For the problem went far beyond the Jews and the Gypsies. They were merely the tip of the iceberg. Russians, Africans, Orientals, Muslims. They all needed to be eliminated to make room for the Aryan race.
Though that wouldn’t be today.
Not now.
Now that they had been betrayed.
Now that they were defeated.
But this was a war, and what had been go
ing on for the past six years was merely a battle.
Germany would win the war. The Third Reich may be about to fall, but the Fourth Reich would someday rule the world, the Swastika proudly fluttering over the capitals of every nation the new empire allowed into the fold, willingly or not.
And from what he had just heard, he had every confidence this new empire, this new plan, would work.
It would just take time.
Perhaps a very long time.
It was sad to think he probably wouldn’t see it, though he was honored he had been chosen to take part. He had been officially executed yesterday for his failure in Rome, but instead of dying, he had been given whispered instructions as the blindfold had been put in place.
“Play dead.”
And now he found himself in a room with young SS officers, much like him, fine examples of the Master Race, with the Führer himself at the head of the table, Dr. Mengele and other senior staff on either side.
He was fiercely proud.
“We have failed you, Mein Führer.”
Hitler looked at Mengele and nodded. “Yes, you have, but we have been betrayed as well.”
Mengele bowed slightly in his chair. “Yes, we have. But no matter what happens here in the coming days, the eugenics program must continue so Germany may one day rule the world as it should. The Master Race must continue, even if silently in the background so that one day she can fulfill her destiny.” Mengele looked at those gathered then back at their Führer. “The Third Reich has failed, long live the Fourth Reich!”
“Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!” cried those gathered, outstretched arms stabbing toward the heavens.
Mengele turned toward the Führer. “And you, Mein Führer, will be at its head.”
The Führer nodded then rose, the entire room leaping to their feet. “Gentlemen.”
“Heil Hitler!” shouted the enthusiastic group, the Führer returning his trademark version of the salute, bent at the elbow, before leaving the room. When the door closed, everyone returned to their seats, Dr. Mengele taking the seat at the head of the table. He turned to one of the senior scientists on his team.
“Your research?”
The man nodded. “We are limited by the times we live in, however I am one hundred percent confident we will succeed in time.”
“How much time?”
“I cannot say. It could be years, decades even. It may not be we who succeed, but our children or our grandchildren. But eventually we will succeed, and the Fourth Reich will be born, an unstoppable army its sword.”
Mengele’s head bobbed slightly, as if pleased with the words. He looked at those gathered. “Germany is about to fall, but you will go on. Every one of you are loyal to the Führer, loyal to his dream, but none of you are known. You are all dead as far as the world is concerned, so you can continue the fight long after men like me are dust. It will be up to you to keep the fight alive, in the background.
“Provisions have already been made so you will have enough funding to last several lifetimes. All of our research has been copied and moved to secret locations that the files in front of you contain. You will be split into three units, each working independently, compartmentalized, so should any one unit be captured, the others will continue on.” He looked about the room, his eyes coming to rest on Heidrich for a moment before continuing down the table. “Some of you have been gathering religious artifacts for some time. Those have mostly been moved to these locations, however the allies have intercepted some of these shipments. But it is of no matter. You will recover these artifacts when the time comes that they are needed.”
Mengele rose, as did everyone else.
“Gentlemen, you are the Congress. Like a congress of ravens picking at the corpses littering a battlefield, you will take what is left of the Fatherland and ensure that the Germany we tried to create lives on. It is up to you to keep the dream alive. My generation has failed, but you, or your progeny, will succeed. Learn from our mistakes, and the Fourth Reich will not be just a dream, but a reality that will bring stability and order to the entire world. And with science and the will of the gods, the Führer will once again stand in the Reichstag, and the world will tremble at the might of the Fourth Reich! Long live the Congress! Long live the Führer!”
Shouts of Heil Hitler erupted, Mengele joining in before leaving with the senior staff. The exuberance among the young men still in the room continued for several minutes before they returned to their seats and opened the envelopes in front of them.
And what Heidrich read filled him at once with hope and awe, the might and superiority of the Third Reich clear.
And Operation Raven’s Claw was proof.
Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
September 17th, 1998
Carmine Donati stared at the envelope, debating on whether to bother opening it. He had sorted through the day’s mail long ago, setting anything aside he felt wasn’t urgent. Now it was the end of the day and it was time to file most of the pile in front of him into the recycling bin.
Yet this wasn’t some flyer, it was something different.
It was a high quality envelope, the stock not a discount store brand, though what had him curious was the fact the return address was the museum he was now sitting in, addressed to that same facility.
He sighed, his eyes closing slightly as the day caught up to him. It was always a struggle keeping a small museum going, especially in these times when people seemed to be losing interest in their history. He tried to keep the interest alive, urging the schools to come and visit their modest collection as often as possible, and he’d recount the story of how his grandfather had helped hide a portrait of Leonardo da Vinci himself from the Nazis.
And had died for it.
His father had instilled in him an interest in the arts and history, and though his father hadn’t gone into the business, he had gone to university and eventually obtained his doctorate, returning to his hometown to work at the museum, and eventually run it, keeping his grandfather’s memory alive as best he could.
And it troubled him every time one of the young children asked to see the portrait for which his grandfather had died.
For he couldn’t.
It had never been returned.
Lost to history.
Lost to a war that had yet to give up all it had stolen.
He shoved the letter opener into the top of the envelope, slicing it open. Fishing out the single sheet of paper, he gasped, having to read it several times before he fully believed what he saw.
It is time for the portrait to be returned. Call when you are ready.
He looked at the number and reached for the phone, stopping just before gripping the receiver, his cynical mind taking over. He examined the letter again. A plain piece of heavy stock, the message typewritten with no identifying marks on it whatsoever. He held it up to the light, a watermark evident, but nothing that he recognized as important.
It must be a hoax.
But what if it isn’t?
No one ever knew what had come of the portrait. His grandfather was dead, and the young man who had helped, Nicola Santini, had returned to the town after the war, refusing to talk of what had happened, living out his days on the family farm, almost a hermit, ashamed of something he had done.
His involvement had been forgotten by most.
He grabbed the phone and quickly dialed before he could change his mind.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I, um, received a letter?”
“Is this Doctor Donati?”
“Yes.”
“Stay where you are.”
The call ended and he stared at the receiver, not sure what to make of what had just happened, though the shivers racing up and down his spine suggested his subconscious was terrified of what it might be. He hung up the receiver and looked about, it suddenly feeling as if he were being watched.
Stay where you are.
That meant someone was coming.
>
But who?
And what was their motivation?
It suddenly occurred to him that they might think he had the portrait, and they wanted it returned. It wouldn’t be the first time the idea had been floated that his grandfather had actually stolen the portrait and died before he could profit from his actions.
It was an accusation that enraged him every time it was suggested.
A knock on the front doors of the museum startled him and his heart leapt into his throat as he slowly rose. The museum was closed at this time, the hours clearly marked out front. It had to be them, but if it was, it meant they had been waiting nearby for his call.
He glanced at the postmark.
Two days ago. Rome.
So they could have been waiting all day today and yesterday.
They might be mad you didn’t open it this morning.
He pushed his chair back, fear gripping him at the thought of upsetting them any further. He exited his office and strode through the small gallery, unlocking the front door. Holding his breath, he pulled open the heavy door and his eyes opened wide.
Nobody was there.
He leaned out and looked to the left and right. There were plenty of people on the street, though none seemed like they had just knocked, and none paid him any mind. He was about to close the door when something caught his attention.
A small box sat by the other half of the door.
And by its shape, he knew immediately what it was.
He eagerly grabbed it, looking again for whoever had left it, then stepped back inside, bolting the door and rushing toward the workshop in the back. Placing the box on a workbench, he sliced it open and pulled out a small crate, handcrafted some time ago by the looks of it, exactly the size he would expect the self-portrait to be.
Carefully prying it open, he lifted the contents out of the wood crate then gently removed the brown paper that wrapped it, brittle and dry, it so old he could picture his grandfather packaging it so long ago.
Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) Page 6