The door was opened only slightly. “Ja?” came a woman’s voice. The accent was Bavarian.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Edwards, using the most polite form of German address. “Does the honourable Dr Wolfgang Schreiber live here?” The woman, noting the foreign accent and the good manners, opened the door a fraction wider. Edwards could see the white of a nurse’s uniform.
“I’m very sorry to bother you, but I’ve come a very long way to see the good doctor. I’ve come from London.”
“Who is that, Hilde?” came a rasping voice from within.
“I don’t know, Dr Schreiber,” she replied. “A minute, please, Herr Doktor.” She opened the door fully and faced the reporter. “Can you say who you are and why you are here?” she said sternly.
Edwards’ mind raced. The nurse was a formidable-looking battleaxe in her mid-fifties.
A real blonde Brunnhilde. Like any good reporter, he was trained first to get his foot in the door. “Please tell him my grandfather was German and knew him before the war.”
“Wait here,” said the battleaxe.
Edwards was prepared to force an entry should her answer have been negative. A few seconds later she was back.
“You may come in. But please keep it brief. He is a very old man and must not be subjected to too much excitement.”
“I assure you I will, madam,” said Edwards, and crossed the threshold.
“Wait in the hall, please. I will just prepare him.”
The first thing Edwards noticed was that the house had that sort of mustiness that one always associates with the elderly. The second was the ticking sounds that seemed to emanate from every room. Suddenly the gongs of the grandfather clock opposite him sounded. They were followed quickly by more highly pitched chimes and bells. Edwards glanced at his watch automatically and then smiled to himself at his foolishness. It was already five in the evening.
“Clocks,” said the nurse on her return. “He loves clocks. Not that he can hear them very well. You may go in now.”
Edwards followed the heavily starched uniform as it swished along a short corridor and into a room to his right. Dr Wolfgang Schreiber was sitting in a wheelchair silhouetted against a pair of large French windows. He was facing the garden.
“Lavender’s going to do well this summer,” he said. “I’ve had three more bushes planted.” As soon as the old man had finished speaking, the reporter sensed the heady scent of lavender in the room. It was all around. Soferman had mentioned how much Hans Schreiber loved lavender and Danielle had said that Sonntag’s house had stunk of it, even though he had later claimed that it was to focus his hate. No, this was too much of a coincidence. The man before him had to be Hans Schreiber’s father.
“Good evening, Herr Doktor,” said Edwards warmly.
“Please, sit down young man,” the old man gestured, swivelling round to face him.
As Edwards’ eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that the man before him was truly ancient. His skin was pallid and blotchy and wiry tufts of hair sprouted from his nose and ears. He wore a hearing aid and thick-lensed spectacles. There was little overt resemblance to Henry Sonntag.
“Now what’s this I hear? Your grandfather was an acquaintance of mine?”
“Yes. Ludwig Braun.” It was the first name that came to mind.
“You’ll have to speak up, young man. I’m afraid I’m half deaf. And these glasses are just for show. I’m almost totally blind as well. I can see only shadows. I don’t remember any Ludwig Braun, though. You’re from England, you say.” Edwards, realizing that the photographs of Henry Sonntag he carried were totally useless, raised his voice by several decibels. “Yes, my grandfather was a German prisoner of war. He used to mention that you were his family doctor and how good you were. I told him before he died that if I ever visited Straelen, I’d look you up. Frankly, I didn’t believe you’d still be alive.”
“Hmm, I did have a few Braun families on my list, but I don’t remember any Ludwig.”
Edwards realized that the conversation was going nowhere. It was best to come to the point sooner rather than later. He could not bring himself to play games with the old man.
“There’s another reason why I’m here, Herr Doktor.”
The old man’s ancient features took on an odd expression, as if he knew he was about to be faced with an unpalatable truth.
“If you have seen or heard the media you will know that there is a major court case going on in London at this moment.”
“I told you, I am blind and I cannot hear well,” said the doctor defensively. “What is this court case?”
Edwards took a deep breath. “My name is Mark Edwards. I am an English journalist. There’s a man named Henry Sonntag who is on trial for murdering two Jews in London. The prosecution is claiming that this man is really Hans Schreiber, who was an SS officer at Theresienstadt. I believe that he is your son. The problem is that Sonntag claims that the main prosecution witness against him is in fact the real Hans Schreiber. I’m afraid it’s very complicated.”
Wolfgang Schreiber remained silent for what seemed an eternity. “Go on,” he said simply.
“I have checked all the records and they seem to point conclusively to the fact that Hans Schreiber is your son.” Edwards’ heart was in his mouth as he prepared to state the true purpose of his visit. “I know how difficult this must be for you. But if we can check your DNA against that of the two men, it will prove conclusively who is your son and may save an innocent man from being punished.”
Once again there was a long silence before Wolfgang Schreiber replied.
“I have no son, Herr Edwards,” the old man rasped. “My son was killed on the Russian front. He is dead. He no longer exists. You understand?”
“But ...”
“Nurse! Nurse!”
“Please go, sir,” ordered the battleaxe as she scurried into the room. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting him? He’s a very old man.”
Mark Edwards, nonplussed, allowed himself to be shown the door without objecting. There was simply nothing he could do. He could not force a man of ninety-five to cooperate. The only avenue now left open to him was the Brandt family in Düsseldorf.
Danielle Green had never felt so alone. The events of the third day of the trial had been testing enough. The fact that she had not had the familiar figure of Dieter Müller next to her was like losing a confidant when she needed one most.
By six o’clock that morning, her lover had already left their flat for Heathrow with instructions to inform his office that he was suffering from a severe bout of flu. He had assured her that Nick Logan would find plenty of people willing to replace him. She had expressed her trepidation, but Mark had been determined to check out the newspaper story. “I owe it to Bill Brown.” He had been adamant that the police should not yet be called in.
She could not get back to sleep and for the next two hours had sat up in bed worrying about him. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she had telephoned the only other person in whom she felt she could confide. But after she had told him about Mark, the professor had said that he was suffering from a stomach bug himself and might have to miss the day’s proceedings. He had blamed the illness on the Old Bailey’s cottage pie.
Müller had missed perhaps the most fascinating day in court yet, as Henry Sonntag parried all attempts to faze him. The closing speeches by Blomberg and Scrivener, though, had been predictable. The former had played on the fact that only Sonntag had had the motive to kill Plant, that he had been identified positively as Schreiber, and that his defence that he was Soferman had been a scurrilous lie, a “red herring” to deflect the truth. Sir John, for his part, had made great play of the fact that everything in the case seemed to cut both ways; that no one could be sure who was Schreiber and who was Soferman; that both looked alike, spoke alike and professed a loathing for all things German. Scrivener’s last words rang in her ears: “The law dictates that where there is doubt, there must be a
cquittal.” She glanced at her watch as she sat by the telephone. It was already seven in the evening and Mark had not rung. She watched the television like an automaton, unable to concentrate even on the leading item on the Channel Four news.
“In another sensational day in the Old Bailey trial of ...” the newsreader began. The only factor that focused her mind was the artist’s impressions of the main characters in the trial. Soferman and Sonntag looked more alike in the drawing than they did in real life.
The phone rang.
Danielle jumped. She stared at it in shock before picking up the receiver. “Hello,” she said apprehensively.
“Hello, darling,” came the reply, setting her heart thumping.
“Oh, Mark, I’ve been so worried.”
“Everything’s okay with me, Dani. Don’t worry. As long as you’re okay. I heard all about the trial on the news here.”
“Yes. I think the judge will begin his summing up tomorrow. By the way, where are you?”
“I’m in a public telephone box right now, but I’m staying in a hotel in Straelen, a small bed and breakfast. I phoned the Brandts and they’ve agreed to see me at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Düsseldorf’s only about forty miles away. I told them I was a colleague of Bill Brown ...” He hesitated. “He’s dead, Dani. My hunch was right.”
“Who could have done such a terrible thing?”
“It may just have been an accident,” he said unconvincingly. In his heart, he was sure it was the work of Odessa or some rightwing fascist group.
“Oh, Mark. Please be careful.”
“I will, Dani. Don’t worry.” It was understandable that she should be afraid. He was scared himself. He tried to hide the fear in his voice as he told her about his meeting with old Schreiber. “He’s convinced his son died on the Russian front. I just don’t believe him. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the tone of his voice.”
“Please ring me as often as you can, Mark.”
“Of course I will. Listen, Dani, I forgot. Take my pager into court with you tomorrow. It’s on the middle shelf of the bookcase.”
She glanced up at the small rectangular miracle of the modern age. The device was ideal for a court reporter. It alerted its carrier by flashing a tiny red light and vibrating before delivering a short message on the liquid crystal display.
“I see it.”
“Don’t forget.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
Danielle sighed heavily. “I love you too, with all my heart.” It was only after he had rung off that she realized that he had not given her his hotel telephone number. And that she had not told him about Dieter Müller.
The following morning, Edwards checked out of his hotel at seven o’clock. He was eager to reach Düsseldorf. He had decided to forgo breakfast in Straelen and have it instead in an old haunt he used to frequent in the plutocratic Land capital. The small bistro just off the Königsallee had always been open for early birds. He hoped it was still there.
He glanced down at the map by his side. It looked fairly straightforward. He would take the country lane that would lead him to the main drag. He swung the black BMW into the lane, which was barely wide enough for two vehicles. The road was empty and he would have enjoyed hurling the car at speed through the cut in the countryside. But the German police were nothing if not efficient and he did not want to risk being stopped for reckless driving.
He thought about the Düsseldorf he had known six years earlier. To some, the town held little charm. But he believed this was probably attributable more to envy than to aesthetics. The plain fact was that a city that had almost been destroyed totally had picked itself up by its bootstraps to become the epitome of the Economic Miracle. In his student days, everything in Düsseldorf had breathed money. This was hardly surprising, considering that it had become second only to Frankfurt as a centre of international banking and finance. He had enjoyed the buzz of a place where in smart society people were judged by their money and how well they flaunted it. But Düsseldorf was also the birthplace of Heinrich Heine, and it could afford to promote the arts like almost no other city. Continuing to drive steadily through the country lanes, the reporter reminisced on his visits to the opera and the theatre and the unrivalled joy of the Grosses Schützenfest, the hugely popular rifleman’s festival held every July along the banks of the Rhine. He had gone there with the Hartmanns, the family with whom he had spent two idyllic summers. He knew he should pay them a visit.
Edwards was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not notice the red coupé that had been following him for the last mile. Suddenly it started to hoot urgently, seeking to overtake. Well, thought Edwards, if the guy wanted to kill himself, it was up to him. He had already lowered his passenger window to allow more of the fresh morning air into the car. Now he pressed the button to lower his own in order to wave the guy past. He baulked at the sudden gust of cold air. “Go on, you bugger,” he muttered. “Pass me, then.”
He took his foot off the accelerator and waved frantically, but the red car, a Toyota Celica, did not shoot past him as he expected.
“Here, hold on, mate,” he muttered as he tried to keep his eyes on the road ahead and at the same time confront the driver who had pulled alongside him. It was only then he noticed that the other man was wearing a balaclava. His first thought was that, although the morning was fresh, it wasn’t that fresh.
“Pillock,” Edwards shouted at the man through the open window. “Fucking overtake me, then.”
Suddenly he saw the gun levelled at his head. In the next split second there was a flash as a bullet whizzed past his eyes and through the open passenger window.
“Jesus Christ!” he screamed, his first instinct being to slam on his brakes. The Toyota shot past him. There was the pungent smell of burnt rubber as it screeched to a halt at an angle that effectively blocked the road.
Mark Edwards sat rooted in his car seat as the hooded man climbed out of the red car and, gun in hand, walked purposefully towards him. The inertia brought on by abject fear was leaving him a sitting target. He was still motionless when the assassin aimed his weapon.
Suddenly the instinct for survival returned. He slammed into reverse and, gearbox screaming in protest, began careering back along the lane. The engine whined with the overload of revs, the din masking the sound of several rounds that the attacker had loosed at his receding prey. Edwards did not look to check whether the man was shooting, or doing anything else for that matter. His only concern was to continue reversing at top speed until he could find a gap to back into and turn around.
He must have covered at least a quarter of a mile before he sighted an entrance to a farm track on what was now his right. As he swung into it and came to a halt to change into first, he noticed that the red car was copying his manoeuvre. Edwards didn’t know which road would lead to civilization. All he was interested in was getting the hell out of there.
He accelerated up through the gears faster than he had ever done before. But a grand prix driver he was not. His pursuer may have been a lousy shot, but he was already gaining.
“Bastard!” screamed Edwards as the adrenalin pumped through his veins. He negotiated the bends with all the expertise he could muster, yet still the Toyota gained. He slammed into third and then down into second as he fought to negotiate a double chicane. A quick glance in his mirror confirmed his worst fears. The Toyota was right on his back bumper. “Jesus!”
The BMW shrieked as he put his foot to the floor, once more creating a precious gap between pursued and pursuer. But then his heart plummeted. He appeared to be in a cul-de-sac.
“Oh, shit!” he screamed, slamming on the brakes. The G-forces sent his stomach into his mouth.
The driver of the red Toyota, also seemingly unaware of the topography of the area, did not react with a response commensurate with the circumstances. His car swerved first to the left and then to the right before hitting the lip of a ditch and hurtling into the trunk o
f a giant oak.
Edwards sat motionless for a few minutes as his addled brain tried to make sense of what had just taken place. Beads of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose onto his dry lips. He stared ahead, unappreciative of the idyllic country scene facing him: blue sky above, cows grazing in the meadow, their concentration suspended only temporarily by the follies of human beings. Had this gunman killed Brown? Why was somebody so interested in preventing them from knowing more about Hans Schreiber? Why was old man Schreiber so reticent? Was Henry Sonntag manipulating events from behind bars? There were a thousand questions. And he did not have the answers.
He climbed groggily from his car, checking that there was no damage to the vehicle. Miraculously, the BMW had escaped without a scratch. He peered at the twisted heap of the Toyota. It resembled a crushed beetle. His first instinct was to get the hell out. Then curiosity took over. He walked the ten yards between him and his adversary with more than a little trepidation. The man might be alive and ready to gun him down.
On closer inspection, Edwards could see that no one could have survived this wreck. The whole front of the car had caved in, smashing the windscreen. The driver was slumped over the hideously twisted steering wheel. Blood had oozed in patches over a wide area of the balaclava. The reporter placed two fingers under the base of the woollen helmet and felt for the pulse in the man’s neck. There was none. He then cupped the man’s shattered head in his hands and slowly shifted him back into his seat. Carefully, he raised the balaclava to just above the hairline.
Despite the mess of blood and broken bone, he could make out that the dead man was young, probably in his early twenties, and that his head was shaven. It was then that he noticed the tattoo on the man’s uncovered right arm which confirmed him as a neo-Nazi. It read “Die Juden sind unser Unglück”, the Jews are our Misfortune – a favourite slogan of Der Stürmer.
Beneath the words was a swastika.
CHAPTER 17
While Mark Edwards was driving urgently towards Düsseldorf, others connected directly with the trial of Henry Sonntag in the United Kingdom were still asleep. London was one hour behind the Continent.
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