The Jewish Candidate
Page 14
“I am here to point out recent failings.”
“Do you have a team here?” Schmidthuber demanded.
Stein said nothing.
“Herr Stein, do you have a team here?”
Stein stood up. “I came to inform you. If you change your mind and request our help, we will provide it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nice, Wednesday, August 29
Carver and Renner gorged themselves on an exquisite, €150-per-head lunch menu in the wood-panelled Regency dining room of the Chantecler, the Michelin-starred restaurant attached to Hotel Negresco, a Belle Epoque palace on the Promenade des Anglais. The foie gras and grilled Sea Bream on base of fried red onions and chicoree salad were out of this world. Carver wondered what the Chronicle’s accountants would say when they saw the bill. After the Roquefort cheese and the coconut soufflé with fried exotic fruits, he no longer cared whether they’d pay up or not. They walked along the seafront in the afternoon sun, past skateboarders, joggers and elderly madames walking their toy dogs. Down on the beach, the occasional swimmer was hardy enough to brave the autumn coolness. Two petite women joggers in tight shorts and tops bounced past them. Renner turned and walked backwards for a few steps, gazing at the brown legs disappearing down the Promenade.
They were about to meet the lawyer who handled Siegfried Stahl’s will. Renner suggested posing as FNP members, but Carver refused. Too risky. Monsieur Fabius was reluctant to see them. But Carver offered an “information exchange, mutually beneficial, completely off the record.” Fabius, intrigued, had relented.
It was market day on Cours Saleya, the long square that led into the old part of Nice. Locals sipped their pastis in the outdoor cafes. Tourists strolled past the market stalls under a sea of colourful striped awnings, picking up French Provencale herbs and soaps, and admiring the displays of candied fruit glistening in the sun. Restaurant waiters chalked up the evening’s specials. They made their way through the old town, a graceful jumble of fading facades and narrow alleys, towards the port. Monsieur Fabius had his office in a grand, dark red-fronted 19th century building facing the quayside. Millionaires’ yachts were reflected in the burnished brass sign that said: Nicolas Fabius. Avocat. Renner was about to ring the bell when Carver stopped him. “Hold on.” He got out a digital dictaphone, attached a microphone, switched it on and slipped it in his jacket breast pocket. “OK. Ring it.”
For some reason he had expected Fabius to be short and dapper with a waxed moustache turned up at the ends. But the tall man who got up from his desk to greet them had a military air and a broad frame, and looked fit for someone in his late 60s. A young woman was standing by his desk when they walked in. She nodded at them, grabbed a folder and left through a side door. “My daughter Isabelle, she is a lawyer too,” Fabius said. “We work together.”
Carver wondered whether the nude study behind Fabius was a real Matisse. And whether the clinking of the yacht masts in the harbour through the opened window would interfere with his recording.
“Messieurs, how can I help you?” Fabius inquired in fluent English. “I am not accustomed to meeting journalists. This is strictly off the record, as agreed, d’accord?”
“D’accord,” said Carver. “We are researching possible irregularities in the payment of donations to the German FNP party. We have a couple of questions regarding the estate of Siegfried Stahl.”
Fabius frowned. “I can assure you that the handling of his estate was totally proper. I’ve had the local press on my back about this too. There was no irregularity on my part.” He started tapping his fingers on the desk.
“Of course not!” Carver replied. “We’re not suggesting you broke any laws. It’s just that we know that the party has come into a large sum of money this year, and we would like to check whether any of it came from Siegfried Stahl. You see, we believe it could eventually be channelled into the financing of criminal activity.”
Fabius bristled. “If you think I can give you any information on the private matter of an inheritance, then I’m afraid your journey has been wasted, messieurs! If you suspect any irregularity, you must go to the police!” He looked at his watch. “Do you have any evidence of wrongdoing?”
Renner took over. “I don’t understand why you are denying that the money was bequeathed to the FNP.”
Fabius looked flustered. “I am not denying anything …” – Carver’s heart leapt – “and I’m not confirming anything.” His heart sank again. “I’m not commenting at all. You said you had information for me? You talked about an information exchange?”
“Well, that was our information,” said Carver. “That the money left by Herr Stahl may have been channelled into illegal, far-right activities.”
Fabius pursed his lips. “My instructions were to arrange for the inheritance to be passed on to the beneficiary of the will. I fulfilled those instructions. That is where my involvement ends. Whether the beneficiary broke any laws is really not my affair, messieurs!”
“I understand. As I say, we’re not accusing you of anything – we just need some information. Was there a bank transfer or a face-to-face handover?” asked Carver.
“There was no transfer. It was handed over in person,” said Fabius. He started rearranging papers on his desk.
Renner raised his eyebrows. “Wow. How do you hand a large inheritance over in person? What did it consist of? A suitcase of cash?”
Fabius shook his head and stood up. “My God! Too many questions! I will not say any more. Excuse me, messieurs, I have another appointment.”
“What was his name? The man who collected the inheritance,” asked Carver.
Fabius ushered them to the door.
“One last question!” Renner pulled out a photo of Tietjen. “This was the man who picked it up, wasn’t it? All you have to do is say nothing, and we’ll take that as confirmation. ”
Fabius studied the photo and handed it back. “It was not.”
Carver made one last try. “Monsieur Fabius. You are a Frenchman. Are you proud of your country?”
Fabius looked surprised. “Indeed I am.”
“You know Stahl is believed to have been in the SS, don’t you? Do you know much about the FNP? They have recently been exposed as Nazis. Much worse than your Front National. They have links with violent groups. This entire conversation is off the record, of course. But if you could just give us the name of the man who picked it up, it would help us to check if any German laws were broken. By the FNP or members of it. Not by you, of course. You see, if the bequest wasn’t reported as a donation … I’m sure even Herr Stahl would not have wanted laws to be broken.”
Fabius opened the door. “I regret your trip has been wasted,” he said. “Good day to you.”
Isabelle was in the corridor. “I’ll show them out, Papa.”
They walked down the stairs. Renner muttered a low curse. She opened the front door. Carver nodded at her. He was on the threshold when she tapped his arm. “Monsieur?”
He turned round.
“Why don’t you give me your card, monsieur? For future reference?”
Carver looked surprised, but opened his wallet and handed one over. They walked along the quay and headed back into Vieux Nice.
“Well that was a fucking waste of time,” said Renner.
“Oh I don’t know. I’d say the Sea Bream was worth the flight,” said Carver.
The sun set behind the hills to the west of Nice, but the sky was still a rich blue. The elegant old lanterns on the old town facades came on, piercing the gloom with a cheerful orange glow.
“We’ve got no leads, nothing,” Renner grumbled, kicking a football back to some children playing in an alley. “And have you seen Tietjen’s latest poll results? The FNP still at eight percent! Despite everything! Despite being shown doing “Sieg Heil” in a Nazi castle. He’s still going to get into parliament!”
“OK, we’ve got the Berchtesgaden option left,” said Carver. “We’ve been sidetracked. But
we’ve got to get down there and dig. Who did Tietjen meet in the Goldener Bär that night?”
“Wewelsburg threw us off course,” Renner agreed. “But it was worth it.”
The memory made them both grin. Carver’s phone vibrated. Number withheld. It was a woman’s voice, sounding rushed and nervous. “Monsieur Carver? This is Isabelle Fabius. You forgot something at the office.”
“Did I? What …”
“I’ll give it to you tonight. Can you meet me tonight?”
“Certainly, but …”
“We can meet at a bar called Distelleries Ideales, in the old town. Rue de La Prefecture. Seven o’clock. We should try to sit upstairs, where it’s quieter.” She rang off.
Carver turned to Renner. “Strange. We might yet be in luck.”
They got there 10 minutes early. The evening was so balmy that most of the drinkers were sitting at outside tables in the narrow street, and it was quiet inside. They climbed a wrought-iron spiral staircase to a small indoor balcony overlooking the bar. Carver inspected the strange assortment of Heath Robinson-type pulleys and ropes running along the walls. They ordered a couple of large Affligems, a high-octane, Belgian beer, and waited. Isabelle Fabius arrived 10 minutes late. She was in her mid-20s, probably straight out of law school. Her immaculate skin was bronzed by the Cote d’Azur sun. She was still in her business suit. Her light hair was cut short in a bob that was a little too severe, and her clear grey eyes betrayed a gravitas beyond her years. She ordered a glass of red wine.
“What did we forget, mademoiselle?” said Carver with a questioning look.
“I take it my father refused to tell you anything this afternoon?”
“Only that the inheritance was handed over in person,” said Renner.
Her wine arrived. She took a sip and looked at Carver. “What can you tell me about Siegfried Stahl?”
“Not much,” said Carver. “Only that there was a Siegfried Stahl who served as an SS officer in the 8th SS Cavalry Division ‘Florian Geyer,’ which committed atrocities in Poland and Russia. But it’s not that uncommon a name. It might not be him. And he might have changed his name to Siegfried Stahl from something else.”
“But if it is the Siegfried Stahl we found, he was never pursued or prosecuted,” said Renner. “We checked with the Central Office for the Investigation of National Socialist Crimes in Germany. And with the Simon Wiesenthal Centre in Jerusalem. They’ve got no Siegfried Stahl as a real name or as an alias on their wanted lists.”
“But,” Carver added. “He could have simply slipped through the net … lived a quiet life. The Florian Geyer division was almost entirely wiped out in Hungary in early 1945. He might have just ditched his uniform and joined a trek back west.”
“Well, there was an article about him in Nice Matin after he died,” said Isabelle. “It said he was in the SS. That there were rumours he took part in killing Jews in the east.”
“We saw it. That’s why we’re here,” said Carver.
“I think Stahl may really have been an evil man,” said Isabelle. “I wish my father had not done business with him.”
“Why do you think he was evil?” Carver asked. “Did you meet him?”
She shook her head. “I saw part of the inheritance on my father’s desk.”
She hesitated. “I think I shouldn’t have come. I don’t want to get my father into trouble.”
“He wouldn’t get into trouble,” said Carver. “We wouldn’t quote you. We just want the truth. We would never divulge you as a source. We could keep it vague, we could say ‘the Chronicle has learned,’ or ‘sources told the Chronicle,’ whatever you like. What did you see?”
“It was a red velvet bag,” she said. “There were many precious stones in it. But it was strange. They had been taken from jewellery. Maybe violently, you know? I am pretty sure, actually. Some stones were still in their settings. They had been twisted off rings, necklaces. All kinds of stones, big, little. Some diamonds. After I read about Stahl and the SS, I thought …” –she bit her lip – “… I thought, they must have been taken from Jewish people.”
Carver’s pulse was quickening. This was gold dust. He and Renner looked at each other and remained silent. Probing too insistently could make sources clam up. Sometimes it was better to wait and let them spill the beans at their own pace.
“And then I found out that the beneficiary was a German party.”
“You mean the FNP?” asked Carver.
“Yes, the FNP. They are Nazis, aren’t they?”
Carver nodded.
“Well then I got very worried. But my father said he had agreed to handle the will and was bound by that. He said it wasn’t our business where the stones came from or where they went. We had a big argument. Then in July, a man came to pick them up.”
Renner and Carver spoke in unison. “Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Do you know his name?” Carver demanded.
“He was German. His name was Kunz. Stefan Kunz”
“Do you have an address? Phone number? Email?”
She shook her head.
“Can you find that out?”
“I tried. I couldn’t. Nothing in the computer, just the name.”
“But your father must know,” Renner said.
She gave a resigned shrug. “He refuses to talk about it. After our argument, he kept me out of it.”
“We think these stones are being used to finance a crime in Germany,” said Carver. “And we think we could stop it happening if we could find out where it ended up.”
“What crime?” Isabelle asked.
Carver looked at Renner. His partner nodded.
“You have been frank with us. We will be frank with you,” said Carver. “But you mustn’t tell a soul. We think this money has gone to a secret group to pay for the assassination of Rudolf Gutman, who is Jewish and who is campaigning to be the next chancellor of Germany.”
She went pale. “My God.”
“How much were the stones worth? Do you know?” said Carver.
“The valuation was at 3.2 million euros. Conservative,” said Isabelle. “There was also cash, but I don’t know how much.”
Renner whistled.
She looked upset.
Carver tried to reassure her. “You’ve been a great help, you know. And your father was probably bound by his agreement to carry out the probate.”
She stood up suddenly. “I must leave now. Promise me you won’t mention my name or that of my father.”
“You have our word,” said Carver. “And if you find out more about Kunz … maybe you can get your father to change his mind? To give you some information on Kunz?”
She looked sceptical. She turned, climbed down the steps and rushed out of the bar. Carver suspected that was the last they would be seeing or hearing from Mademoiselle Fabius.
They sat for a few seconds in stunned silence.
“Fuck me,” Renner said.
“Not such a waste of a trip, then,” said Carver, extracting his dictaphone from his jacket pocket and playing back a few seconds to check it had picked up the conversation. “Loud and clear. Great, these little things.”
They clinked their glasses.
“At last,” said Carver. “We’re in business.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Berlin, Thursday, August 30
The Free National Party (FNP) has been bequeathed €3.2 million worth of precious stones by a suspected former SS officer, Siegfried Stahl, who died in March, the Chronicle has learned.
Stahl is believed to have been a member of the SS during the Second World War and moved to France in the 1960s where he worked as an antique dealer.
A well-placed source said Stahl arranged for his estate to be passed on to the FNP, the German far-right party whose leader, Hermann von Tietjen, was exposed by the Chronicle last month giving the Hitler salute at a torch-lit neo-Nazi ceremony in a castle that used to be the spiritual sanctum of Hitler’s SS.
A donation of that size would be the biggest payment to the FNP since Tietjen founded the party two years ago. The German parliamentary office, in charge of overseeing private donations to political parties, said the FNP had not registered any donations in excess of 50,000 euros this year.
Failure to disclose a donation exceeding 50,000 euros is illegal under German law, and carries a major fine.
Kunz could not be reached. A spokesman for the FNP denied that the party had received such a sum and declined to comment on whether Kunz is a member of the party.
“We don’t divulge information on party membership. And believe me, if we had been given so much money, we would have registered it properly and would be putting it to very good use spreading our message,” the spokesman said.
It is unclear where the gemstones are now or how they came into the possession of Stahl. According to unconfirmed French media reports, Stahl may have been involved in rounding up Jews in eastern Europe and occupied parts of the Soviet Union during the war. The Chronicle has so far been unable to verify these claims.
Carver sent the story to London. Ten minutes later he rang the desk to check it had arrived.
“We’ll try to fit it in,” said Plough. “If we can’t, maybe the website will use it.”
“Try to fit it in? But this is the start of the money trail! It’s big! This is a scoop!”
“Exactly, just the start, Frank. Where’s the finish? We still haven’t found anything linking the FNP to any assassination plot, have we? I’m sure this story will play well in Germany, but you’ve got to admit, it’s a bit domestic, isn’t it? Beedham is anxious to see results soon.”
“He’s anxious, is he? This will get the party into a lot of trouble! It might even get them banned! It links them to an SS guy …”
“Alleged SS guy,” Plough interjected.
“… OK, an alleged SS guy who bequeathed them dodgy diamonds taken from jewellery! Doesn’t that get your bells ringing?”