Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  “What sort of proposition?”

  “He said he could offer us weapons and explosives. Whatever we needed.”

  Volkmann paused. “Did Kesser say where he got the weapons?”

  “No, only that the offer was genuine.”

  “And what did you think?”

  Lubsch smiled grimly. “I thought it was crazy. A right-wing radical supplying a left-wing terror group with weapons. Where’s the sense in that?”

  “You didn’t accept?”

  “Of course I did. I might have thought Kesser was crazy, but I wasn’t. We always needed weapons. The Russians stopped supplying groups like ours after the Wall came down.”

  “What kind of weapons did Kesser’s people deliver?” When Lubsch hesitated, Volkmann prodded him with his shoe. “I asked what kind, Lubsch?”

  “Small arms and explosives mostly. Machine pistols, assault rifles, handguns. Grenades and Semtex. And once a rocket launcher we needed to take out a politician’s car.”

  Volkmann looked down at the terrorist. “You’ve been a bad boy. Didn’t your people question Winter’s motives?”

  Lubsch shook his head and laughed quietly. “Volkmann, we would have taken weapons from the devil himself, as long as they were reliable and shot straight. But there was a condition. Every time we’d get a supply, we’d get a request. A favor to do in return. They’d suggest we hit certain targets.”

  “What sort of targets?”

  “Those American and Allied bases still on German soil. Banks. State property and institutions. Some of the hits fit in with our scheme of things, and we were happy to oblige. But then about six months ago, Kesser’s requests became more outrageous. He wanted us to start bombing immigrant hostels. And he wanted us to hit some people. He gave me three names he wanted killed. He didn’t say why, just that they were part of the deal.”

  “Who were the people?”

  “One of the names on the list was a liberal politician I knew in Berlin, and I wouldn’t go along with it. I told Kesser it wasn’t our style. We’d only hit targets we thought deserved to be hit. Big businessmen who corrupt this country. Politicians who support them. But we wouldn’t do the names on the list.”

  “What did Kesser say?”

  “He just smiled and said he’d handle it himself. But after that, things were strained between us, and then the weapons stopped.”

  “Who did Kesser want dead?”

  Lubsch paused. “A guy in East Berlin. His name was Rauscher, Herbert Rauscher. Another was a woman in Friedrichshafen, near the Swiss border.”

  “Her name?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Think, Lubsch.”

  “Hedda something. Pohl or Puhl. I’m not sure.”

  “Who was she?”

  “A nobody. The widow of a businessman.”

  “And the man in East Berlin, Rauscher?”

  “A small-time businessman. Another nobody.”

  “Your people checked their backgrounds?”

  “Of course. We weren’t going to kill just for the sake of it, Volkmann.”

  “Who was the politician in Berlin?”

  “His name’s Walter Massow.” Lubsch looked out at the cold lake and his teeth chattered. “He’s not a political animal, just a good and honest man trying to do his best for the downtrodden in this country. That’s why I told Kesser, ‘No way. If Massow was hit, I’d take it personally.’ ” The terrorist looked back. “And after that, I told you, the supplies halted.”

  “Did you ask why they wanted you to carry out the attacks on the immigrant hostels?”

  “Kesser was a right-wing fanatic. It was the sort of thing you’d expect from someone of his background.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That time on Lüneburg Heath, I overheard him talk about his father. He was some big-shot SS man during the war. I heard him say the old man had helped draft the Brandenburg Testament for Adolf Hitler, whatever that was. But Kesser said it like a boast, as if it were proof enough of his pedigree.”

  Volkmann remembered the words on the tape. And there was that other word as well, pedigree.

  “The Brandenburg Testament. What is it?”

  “I just told you. I have no idea.”

  “The politician, Massow, what happened to him?”

  Lubsch shook his head. “Nothing. He was left alone.”

  “And the others?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Lubsch shivered as a gust of icy wind blew in off the lake.

  Volkmann said, “Why do you think Massow wasn’t killed?”

  Lubsch shrugged. “Maybe Winter thought it more tactful to let Massow live after he heard my views. I don’t know, Volkmann. Either way, I was out of the game.”

  Volkmann stepped down to the edge of the jetty, felt the icy wind slash at his face.

  “What you’ve told me, none of it makes any sense, Lubsch. What was in it for Winter and his buddies? Why did they want you to play hit man? They could have done it themselves. They had the weapons.”

  Lubsch smiled bitterly. “I have a theory. Maybe it makes sense.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Maybe the plan was to spread anarchy. Blame the left wing for hits like that, and the right-wing groups gain more support. But whoever was behind Winter, they sure had money and good organization to buy and ship arms and supplies in such quantities.”

  “Did your people kill Winter?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. Winter had a big mouth, especially when he was drunk.” Lubsch shrugged. “Maybe he talked too much and somebody didn’t like it.”

  “How do I find Kesser?”

  The terrorist looked up, his face blue and cold. “I’ve no idea but I’ll give you some advice, Volkmann. The advice I gave you before. Keep away from him and his friends. Unless you and Erica want to end up dead.”

  “Do the names Karl Schmeltz or Nicolas Tsarkin mean anything to you? Were they ever mentioned?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve never heard those names.” Lubsch’s teeth chattered again. “I’ve told you everything. Are you going to untie me now, Volkmann? Or am I going to sit here all night and freeze to death?”

  Volkmann shone the flashlight slightly to the right so it didn’t shine in the terrorist’s eyes, but so that he could still see the man’s reaction. “One more question. Erica Kranz.”

  “What about her?”

  “How well did she know Winter at Heidelberg?”

  “What are you asking me for, Volkmann? Ask her yourself.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Lubsch shrugged. “I saw them talking together at parties a few times.” The terrorist’s face looked frozen. “Why? I thought she was a friend of yours.”

  Volkmann ignored the question and stood. “I enjoyed our talk.”

  “Don’t push it, Volkmann.”

  He saw the rage in Lubsch’s eyes. As he moved away, Volkmann hesitated, shone the light in Lubsch’s face.

  “I did you a favor tonight, Lubsch. By rights, you ought to be behind bars for the rest of your life. But if I learn you’ve been lying to me, or if you try to come after me, the police will pay your friend Karen a visit. One more thing: keep away from Erica Kranz.”

  Volkmann flicked off the flashlight, and the wooden walkway plunged into darkness.

  “You’ll find the car somewhere near Karen’s place. I’ll leave your friend behind to keep you company.”

  As he walked back toward the Opel, he heard the wind raging across the lake in the freezing darkness, and Lubsch grunting as he struggled with the belt on the pier.

  25

  When he let himself into the apartment, it was almost midnight and Erica was asleep in the spare bedroom.

  He telephoned Peters’s home number and told him what had happened with Lubsch.

  “You took a big risk, Joe. You want me to pass Karen Gries’s name to the Ge
rman counterterrorist people?”

  “Not for now. If Lubsch tries to come back at me, we’ll do it then.”

  “You think he told you the truth?”

  “Maybe, but I’ll have to check it out.”

  “Okay. I thought you’d want to hear—we got some information about Erhard Schmeltz from the Document Center in Berlin.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They’ve got records of the Nazi Party going back to 1925. There’s an Erhard Johann Schmeltz, born in Hamburg and listed as party number six-eight-nine-six. His party application was made in Munich in late November of 1929, and his year of birth is the same as in Sanchez’s report. Considering the date he applied and the fact that the party had over ten million members in Germany at its peak, Schmeltz would have joined pretty much at the start.”

  “What else did they say?”

  “They have his original application and his file and photograph from the master files of the Nazi Party. He was also a registered member of the Brownshirts. But there’s the interesting thing—Schmeltz didn’t quit the Nazi Party when he went to South America. His party dues were paid in absentia until his death in 1944.”

  “How can they know that for certain?”

  “The Nazis had something called the Gau Ausland. The best way to describe it is as a department that dealt with party members in foreign regions, people who had left Germany but still kept up their party membership. Committed Nazis. Schmeltz was registered with the Gau Ausland from November of 1931.” Peters hesitated. “There’s something else. The Document Center said Erhard Schmeltz’s party application had a recommendation attached to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently every application for party membership had to be recommended by the local leadership. But in Schmeltz’s case, there was a letter sent from Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse in Berlin, the SS headquarters. It was signed by Heinrich Himmler, and it recommended Schmeltz’s immediate acceptance. It suggests that maybe Schmeltz had contacts pretty high up in the party.”

  Volkmann let the news sink in. “Anything else?”

  “The information on Tsarkin, alias Reimer. The Document Center had him on its list of SS officers. But there’s really nothing much more in their files that could help us. I’ll have their information on your desk tomorrow. You need anything else?”

  “Lothar Kesser, scientist from Bavaria. I want him checked out. And I’ll need a return ticket to Zurich, first available flight tomorrow morning.”

  “Why Zurich?”

  “Remember Ted Birken?”

  Peters laughed. “I thought they put that wily old fox out to grass years ago.”

  “They did. But he may be able to help.”

  “Okay. I’ll organize the ticket. Keep in touch. Good night, Joe.”

  When he put down the telephone, Volkmann heard a sound and saw Erica standing in the doorway. She wore a dressing gown, and her eyes had a hint of anger.

  “I heard you talking on the phone. You said you wouldn’t contact Lubsch or Karen. Is that where you went today?”

  Volkmann said nothing, and she looked at him accusingly. “You know what kind of man Lubsch is. What he’s capable of. Why do it, Joe? Why put us both in danger?”

  “He won’t come back at you, Erica. I’ve made sure of that. If he does, I tell the police about Karen.”

  “I think there’s something that worries me more, Joe.”

  “What?”

  “That you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what you were going to do.”

  When Volkmann didn’t reply, she sat down. “Tell me what Lubsch said.”

  He told her, and she watched his face. “Do you trust him?”

  “Trust him, no. Believe him, yes.”

  Erica shook her head. “Don’t you think he could have been trying to mislead you? Why would Winter’s people want Lubsch to carry out racist attacks on immigrants? To attack state institutions? The targets seem so diverse. There’s no sense to it.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think the guy lied. You want to find the people who killed Rudi. Getting Lubsch to talk was the only way.”

  She looked away. The anger had subsided, but she didn’t speak. Volkmann said, “Do you have access to any newspaper libraries?”

  “The one at the Frankfurter Zeitung. Why?”

  “I’ve got a job for you. Could you look through the files there? The people Winter wanted killed. Rauscher, and the woman Hedda Pohl or Puhl. See what you come up with.”

  “Can’t your people check on that?”

  “It would mean going through the German desk. And I’d prefer we kept it to ourselves for now.” He paused. “The politician in Berlin—Massow. See if you can arrange a meeting for me.”

  “What do you want to talk with him about?”

  “If what Lubsch said is true, there must have been a reason Winter’s people wanted Massow dead. Maybe Massow knows why. I’ll give you a number where you can reach me. If I’m not there, you can contact Peters or leave a message.”

  “You won’t be in Strasbourg?”

  He shook his head. “We know almost nothing about Erhard Schmeltz, or his son. But the information Sanchez sent—about the money transferred from the Reichsbank to Schmeltz in Paraguay—there’s someone I’d like to talk to about it in Zurich. Someone who may be able to help.”

  He told her Peters’s news and a frown creased Erica’s face.

  “You really think Schmeltz’s past has anything to do with all of this? But it’s such a long time ago.”

  “I know, Erica. But he’s a big piece of the puzzle, so let’s see what I can turn up in Zurich tomorrow.”

  ZURICH, SWITZERLAND. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13

  He made the telephone call to Ted Birken early that morning, and Peters arranged a ticket for the first flight out of Strasbourg to Zurich.

  The plane was full, and when it landed, Volkmann took a taxi out to the house overlooking the Zürichsee. It was bitter cold but the sky was clear, and in the distance he could see the snowcapped mountains beyond the lake.

  The house was pretty and neat and set in its own tidy gardens. Volkmann saw Ted Birken come out to the front door and wave a greeting.

  The old man’s shoulders were hunched beneath a loose-fitting cardigan, and he had aged. Volkmann realized it had been more than ten years since they last met, when Birken had guest-lectured at the house in Devon.

  The blue eyes twinkled as he shook Volkmann’s hand. “Good to see you again, Joe. Come inside.”

  The house was warm, and in the study Birken had set out a small wooden tray with glasses and a bottle of cherry kirsch. A fire blazed in the hearth and the window looked out onto the lake.

  Ted Birken had been an intelligence officer for most of his adult life. A Jewish refugee from Germany, as a child he had escaped with his family to Switzerland in 1940. After the war Birken emigrated to England, where his unique talents—he spoke German fluently and had connections through his father, a once-prominent banker, with many major Swiss banks—were put to use by the British intelligence service.

  Thus began a career that for several years saw Birken track down and interrogate senior Nazis who had secretly helped to dispose of many millions in gold and currency from the German Reichsbank and death camps in the last months of the war. When his work came to an end, Birken became a senior intelligence figure before retiring to Switzerland.

  Volkmann saw the elderly man puff on his meerschaum and fill the two glasses with kirsch before the sparkling blue eyes swiveled to look at him. Birken was a businesslike man; he got straight down to it.

  “You had three questions when you rang, one about the money that was sent to South America by the Nazi Reichsbank. The other concerning these men, Schmeltz and Reimer, and the Leibstandarte SS. Let’s start with the first, shall we?” He took a sip of his drink, then sat back, puffing on his pipe before speaking.

  “First, perhaps I had better explain the background behind Nazi funds so you get a fix
on things. At the end of the war in May of 1945, the equivalent of almost ten billion dollars in today’s terms had gone missing. That included lots of valuable art objects, too, but mainly gold and silver bullion, the so-called property of the Reichsbank. Some of it—quite a lot, actually—had been plundered from invaded countries.” Birken paused to smile. “There was enough to equip another German army, and I think that was the vague intention of the Nazis when the plans to hide the caches were first discussed. But of course as the war situation became more hopeless, that idea was quickly forgotten, and many of the people whose job it was to hide the caches actually started working for themselves.”

  Volkmann sipped his drink. “So what happened to the bullion and money, Ted?”

  “Some of it we located. But a lot of it vanished. It ended up in Switzerland or South America, and some in the Arab countries that had been favorably disposed toward Hitler. A few unscrupulous Americans helped themselves to some of the gold or did deals with the Nazis they apprehended, but it was small scale and to be expected. Quite a number of Nazis escaped to South America, as I’m sure you know. And quite a lot of the bullion and currency went with them. The people involved ranged from lowly privates up to high-ranking SS and Gestapo. They slipped out of ports all over Europe, but mainly from Italy. We tried tracking both them and the caches down in South America, but it proved a rather hopeless exercise. Most of the South American countries still had pro-Nazi sympathies at the time and did nothing to help us.”

  “What were the reasons behind taking the gold and currency to South America?”

  Birken smiled. “It was considered a relatively safe and distant place. Some countries there with large German colonies were openly supportive of the Nazis. Paraguay is a good example. General Stroessner was the military dictator there for quite some time. He was part German himself, and pro-Nazi. Most of the loot that ended up in South America lined private pockets, though a considerable portion of it was controlled by Die Spinne—the Spider—the secret organization of former SS who set up down there. Otherwise known as the Kameradenwerk, and before that, as Odessa. There was a rather loose plan to regroup and eventually finance another Nazi Party in Germany when the time was ripe once again, but of course it came to nothing.”