‘I’m sorry.’
‘But that’s not why I called you. It’s what we found under her body you’ll find interesting,’ said Will, barely missing a smouldering tree trunk.
‘What is it?’ asked Jack, frowning.
‘Wait and see. We’re almost there.’
A shiver raced down Jack’s spine. Often the best stories found him in the most unlikely places. He was wondering if he was heading for just such a place.
What was left of the body of the young woman was covered with a wet tarpaulin. A group of dejected looking fire fighters stood next to it, staring into space – waiting.
‘The police chopper’s on its way,’ said Will. He guided Jack through the smoking ruins of the cottage towards a brick chimney leaning precariously to one side – the only structure still standing. The corrugated iron roof had collapsed and all the walls had burnt to the ground.
‘That’s what we found when we moved the body,’ said Will, pointing to a small green tin lying in the rubble next to the fireplace. ‘I think it was hidden somewhere inside the chimney – that’s why it hasn’t buckled.’ Will cleared away the ash next to the tin with the tip of his boot. ‘We’re supposed to leave everything just as we find it,’ he continued, lowering his voice, ‘but, well, you know how it is ... curiosity ...’ he said, picking up the box and opening it. ‘Here, have a look at this.’
Jack stared at a sepia photograph, slightly singed around the edges but otherwise undamaged.
‘A bit brutal, wouldn’t you say?’ said Jack, holding up the picture. ‘He’s only a kid, for Christ’s sake.’
Will pointed to the back of the photo. ‘Look, there’s a date here – November 1944.’
‘Anything else in the box?’ asked Jack.
‘Yep. All this weird stuff here, look.’
‘Interesting ...’
2
Jana Gonski peeled back the ivy, opened the iron gate, and walked up the moss-covered stone steps. Then she pressed the doorbell, and waited. She wasn’t surprised when no-one answered. In one way, she was quite relieved. She hadn’t seen the guy in years, and their parting had occurred under circumstances – she was sure – he’d prefer to forget. Taking a deep breath, Jana looked around: the terrace house appeared deserted. Crumpled envelopes – chewed around the edges by snails – bulged out of the letterbox. Several mouldy, rolled-up newspapers were rotting on the landing.
‘I don’t have to remind you how important this is,’ she recalled her boss saying. ‘The press is having a ball, the minister is screaming for answers and the Director of Public Prosecutions is breathing down my neck. Need I go on? As usual, the journalists seem to know a lot more than we do. We must get to the bottom of this – now. Do what you have to do, but do it fast – I need results!’
As the agent in charge of Special Projects Jana was used to pressure. She dealt almost exclusively with the sensitive and the unusual.
Jana was just about to leave when the door opened and a man in faded jeans, torn at the knees, and a striped pyjama top unbuttoned to the waist, squinted out at her.
‘I can’t stand getting up this early in the morning. What do you want?’ he demanded, running his fingers through his unkempt hair.
‘Still chasing that big story, Jack?’
‘Jana?’ asked Jack, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Well, what a surprise! What have I done wrong this time?’
Jana laughed. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong except not returning my calls,’ she said. ‘I’ve left several messages on your answering machine.’
‘Is that a federal offence now?’ he asked.
‘Seriously, Jack, I want to talk to you about a dead fire fighter, a newspaper article, and a photograph.’
‘You’d better come in,’ he said. ‘But I have to warn you, my cleaning lady took the week off ... ’
‘I can see ...’ said Jana, smiling.
The tiny lounge room on the ground floor looked like it hadn’t seen a cleaner for at least a year. A scratched coffee table was covered in empty beer cans, bottles and crushed milk cartons, and the sofa in front of the fireplace was barely visible under layers of old newspapers, magazines and various items of crumpled clothing. A lonely ironing board stood in the middle of the room with a basket full of limp washing nearby. Newspaper cuttings littered the floor.
‘It’s been, what, five years?’ asked Jack, clearing a space on the sofa for Jana to sit down. ‘I was just making coffee – would you like some?’
‘Let me help you. Is this the way to the kitchen?’ asked Jana, pointing to the back of the house.
‘It is, but even I’m a little afraid to go in there just at the moment,’ said Jack. ‘You stay right here. And besides, I make excellent coffee ... remember?’
‘Sure,’ said Jana, crossing her legs and smiling at him.
‘Poison,’ said Jack, touching his nose with his finger.
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘Dior, you’re wearing Dior’s Poison. I hope it’s not an omen.’
He’s good, thought Jana, sitting down on the sofa.
She’s obviously working out. She looks great for the wrong side of forty, thought Jack. Her simple black dress accentuated her trim, athletic body, and her short honey-blonde hair showed off her dark tan.
After a lot of clattering around and cursing, followed by a long silence, Jack swept into the room balancing a steaming coffee plunger and two mugs on a tray. He’d put on a fresh shirt and combed his hair, Jana noticed.
‘When I take on an assignment, I often work through the night nowadays,’ he said, pouring the coffee and searching the room in vain for a cigarette. ‘I hate distractions. I haven’t listened to my answering machine since my divorce last year. My ex and her lawyers used to call all the time and leave messages. Every time I called back, it cost me money. Then I just stopped listening,’ he rambled on. ‘It worked, you see. They don’t bother me anymore.’ Jack drained his mug of black coffee and sat down next to Jana.
‘Single again?’
‘Sure am. So, what would you like to know?’ asked Jack.
‘Your article in last Sunday’s Herald ruffled a few feathers in Parliament ...’
‘That’s gratifying; I like my readers to show interest.’
‘Your pictures were rather provocative.’
‘Quite deliberately so; it was a shocking death.’
‘Surely your point wasn’t the death of the unfortunate woman, but where and how she died. “Whose property was this brave young volunteer trying to save? What is the meaning of the Nazi memorabilia found in the ruins of the house? Who is the SS officer in the photograph?”’ said Jana, quoting from the article.
‘Not bad. A little selective and out of context perhaps, but still impressive,’ Jack replied. ‘It’s just an interesting story to be read on a Sunday morning on the terrace with your latté and croissants, that’s all. In a week or so it’ll be forgotten. It’s always the way.’
‘Really? Then why are you working on a follow-up article?’
‘We are well informed.’
‘Your editor talked ...’
‘I should have known. The old fart could never resist a pretty face and a short skirt.’
‘Spoken like the true blue chauvinist you are. Honestly, you haven’t changed at all, Jack. In actual fact, my tools of trade are a little more sophisticated than that.’
‘You’re the one leaning on me,’ Jack replied, pointing to the door.
‘All right, all right. Truce please?’ said Jana, holding up her hands.
‘It’s your call.’
‘You seem convinced that there’s a connection between the officer in the photo and the owner of the cottage,’ said Jana, coming straight to the point. ‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Instinct.’
‘Instinct alone isn’t enough, you need proof.’
‘I’m aware of that, but in my line of work instinct is important.’
‘Let me think ... what was it la
st time? Accusing the Archbishop of paedophilia without sufficient evidence? I stopped you just in time, remember?’
Jack frowned, annoyed. ‘Thanks for reminding me; I was just wondering when you’d get around to that.’
Taking chances – often big ones – was part of Jack’s makeup. If it wasn’t risky, it wasn’t fun. If it wasn’t fun, he lost interest. Jack was used to being in trouble.
Jana put her hand on his arm and smiled at him. ‘It’s okay. I think your instincts are right, by the way, this time.’
‘And what makes you so sure?’ Jack asked.
‘Instinct,’ she replied, and they both burst out laughing.
‘Okay, we both agree instinct is important,’ Jana continued, ‘but we do need more. So what have you found out so far?’
‘Why should I tell you?’ asked Jack. ‘If I remember correctly, last time I took you into my confidence, I almost got my balls cut off.’
‘Oh yeah? I’d have thought a few little bruises to that tiny little ego of yours was preferable to a couple of years in the clink. Get over it, Jack!’
‘Shit, here we go again ...’ said Jack, shaking his head.
‘You don’t have to, but I think you will,’ said Jana, changing tack.
‘Am I that predictable?’
Jana shrugged. ‘No. I think you will because of what I’m about to propose.’
‘You certainly don’t waste time do you?’ countered Jack.
‘I suggest we share information,’ said Jana. ‘If I come up with something worthwhile, you get more material for your article.’
‘And you, what’s in it for you?’ asked Jack.
‘I move a little closer to ... let’s call it, my subject, so we both get what we want,’ said Jana.
‘What exactly are you investigating? The fiery death of a young volunteer? Come on ...’ said Jack.
‘That’s a matter for the coroner.’
‘My point exactly. What then?’ asked Jack.
‘My brief is wider than that,’ said Jana.
‘What are these Special Projects you’re in charge of anyway?’
‘I investigate ... sensitive matters ... usually involving politicians, judges, high-profile individuals, even police officers ...’
‘Or possible war criminals?’
‘Yes,’ Jana conceded.
‘What, like Special Branch or Internal Affairs ...?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Sounds a bit cloak and dagger to me,’ said Jack, raising an eyebrow.
‘Of course there would have to be certain conditions about how you use the information I give you – understand?’
‘Bossy as usual,’ mumbled Jack.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. I think you forgot something rather important.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Trust. It won’t work without trust ...’
‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘And trust has to be earned.’
‘Quite.’
‘About earning trust ...’ said Jana, reaching for her briefcase and taking out a silver ring, which she passed to Jack. ‘We found this near the fireplace in the cottage. I’m surprised you missed it. You’d been through everything else before the police arrived, right? What do you make of it?’
Jack took the ring and walked towards the window. Just as he reached it, the window exploded, splinters of glass whistling through the air like jagged missiles, one of them imbedding itself in Jack’s cheek, barely missing his eye. A house brick landed on the floor in front of him.
‘What on earth was that?’ cried Jana, jumping up and running towards Jack. Glancing out of the broken window she caught a glimpse of a boy pedalling away on a pushbike.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ said Jack, pulling the splinter out of his cheek and trying to stem the flow of blood with a handkerchief.
‘Let me have a look.’
‘It’s nothing, just a scratch.’
‘Jesus, Jack. You could have lost an eye. Still treading on the wrong toes?’
He shook his head. ‘Just street kids, leave it alone. I had a problem here the other night ...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone vandalised my car. You know, scratches, smashed brake lights, slashed tyres, stuff like that. I asked around ...’
‘And?’
‘Nothing; forget it.’
‘Let me get this straight: someone throws a brick through your window in the middle of the day, barely missing your head, and you just want to forget it?’
‘Exactly.’
‘As you wish,’ said Jana, shaking her head.
Jack bent down, picked up the ring, and held it up to the light as if nothing had happened. ‘Well, well,’ he said after studying it for a while, ‘how extraordinary. This is a Totenkopf ring, the honour ring of the SS. Usually awarded personally by Himmler for special services for Reich and Fuehrer. It was extremely rare and highly prized.’
Jack proffered the ring to Jana. ‘It’s made of silver. Look, you can see the skull and crossbones and there are some runic symbols engraved on the band. It was manufactured by a firm in Munich – Otto Gars.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said Jana. ‘You’ve certainly done your homework on the SS.’
‘Sure have. My first assignment as a rookie journalist was tracking down an SS thug living in Queensland. You never forget your first assignment, especially one that went spectacularly wrong,’ replied Jack, laughing. ‘Have you checked the inside of the band? The inscriptions?’
‘Of course.’
‘The band should be engraved with the letters “S.lb”, which stands for Seinen Lieben, the date of presentation, a facsimile of Himmler’s signature, and most importantly ...’
‘The recipient’s name,’ interrupted Jana.
‘Well?’
‘See for yourself.’
‘Bummer! The name’s been chiselled out.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘That would have been too easy, I suppose. In any case, this ring shouldn’t be here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it should either be on the left ring finger of the recipient, if he’s still alive that is, or ...’
‘Or what?’
‘In the event of death, the ring should have been removed for preservation at Himmler’s castle at Wewelsburg in memory of the ring holder.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘You know, the rings of SS officers fallen in battle were kept at a special shrine at the castle. In 1944, Himmler ordered the rings to be sealed inside a mountain near Wewelsburg to prevent their capture by the advancing Allies. The rings have never been found.’
‘What a story.’
‘I think it’s my turn now,’ said Jack, handing back the ring. ‘Let’s go upstairs to my study. I want to show you something.’
‘How exciting, not etchings I hope,’ Jana joked, following Jack up the narrow stairs leading to the attic.
‘No. I only show my etchings to young chicks.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’
3
The study was tidy and well designed, with lots of light flooding in through a large dormer window facing the courtyard. ‘Welcome to the engine room,’ said Jack, pointing to a long work-bench crammed with computer screens, laser printers, a fax machine and an array of photographic equipment. Several large photographs were pinned to a whiteboard next to the window.
‘How come your study’s so tidy and the rest of the place is such a mess?’ said Jana, looking around.
‘Priorities. It still amazes me what you can do with computers these days,’ said Jack, ignoring her. ‘Let me show you what I’ve found out so far,’ he added, reaching for a laser torch and pointing it at one of the photographs on the whiteboard.
‘As you can see, this is an enlargement of the photo from the cottage. I took a close-up of it with my digital camera and enhanced it. This is it here.
Let’s begin with the man in the uniform. Tell me what you see,’ Jack suggested.
‘I see a German officer wearing the uniform of the SS. Highly decorated, with a Ritterkreuz – a Knight’s Cross – right here.’ Jana pointed to the throat of the officer in the picture.
‘Rank?’
‘Sturmbannfuehrer – Major.’
‘Age?’
‘Young. Early thirties I’d say.’
‘Go on, how tall?’
‘Quite tall, but I’d have to guess of course ...’
‘I can tell you he’s at least five foot eleven inches,’ Jack explained.
‘How can you be so precise?’
‘Do you see this arm band?’ he asked, holding up another enlargement showing only the upper body of the officer. ‘This is the Adolf Hitler arm band on his cuff. It was worn only by members of the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler – Hitler’s bodyguard, the pride of the Waffen SS, the cream of the Aryan super race. They had to be at least five foot eleven to be eligible to join. Tall lads, as you would expect. Goose-stepping shorties just wouldn’t have been quite the same – right?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘This is interesting. Come, look at the hand holding the gun.’
‘He’s wearing a ring. This one you think?’ Jana asked, holding up the Totenkopf ring.
‘Looks like it. I didn’t notice it before. This ties in with the other contents of the box. I took photos of everything.’ Jack pointed to a group of smaller pictures on the board in front of them. ‘The most impressive item is the medal – the Ritterkreuz. See, the officer in the photo is wearing one just like it – here.’
Jana nodded.
‘It was awarded for acts of great courage,’ said Jack. ‘Now, what about the unfortunate boy. What do you see?’
‘I see a naked youth – about fifteen I’d say – hanging upside down from a tree branch with the rope or wire wound around his testicles. It’s the only thing holding him up. It’s horrific. Also, his hands are tied behind his back and his head is shaved. He’s frightfully thin. Look at his ribs,’ she said, and shuddered. ‘You can count them!’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 2