‘I believe you’ve met my dog trainer Olek before? As well as a winning way with animals, Olek knows one or two things about arthritis. I see you have it in your hands,’ Janus said.
Olek lurched across the bed and grabbed Christoph’s right hand. With a sickening pop he broke the index finger. Christoph’s screams filled the room.
‘Tell me where the key is or Olek will break your middle finger next,’ Janus whispered in his ear.
‘It’s not here… please,’ Christoph, to his own chagrin, found himself whimpering.
‘This is so unnecessary; we all need our hands.’ Janus nodded and Olek, with another snap, broke Christoph’s next finger – both digits hanging at nauseatingly odd angles. The company director fainted with the pain, the blackness closing over him a blissful void.
When Christoph came to, the room was smashed up, books and vases lay torn and broken across the carpet, the drawers had all been flung open and emptied. Miraculously the pot plant was the only thing that had been left alone. He listened for a minute; Janus and Olek were gone, the rest of the house silent. Now gasping for air, he deliberately threw himself out of the bed. He lay on the floor for a second, then began hauling himself along by his elbows, his shattered hand useless, to the bedroom door. Halfway down the marbled corridor he could see the splayed figure of Bertholt, blood pooling black against the marble tiles from the assistant’s gaping throat and chest. The hand closest to Christoph was stretched out, the fingers frozen around a pill packet. Knowing he only had minutes, perhaps even seconds, he began dragging himself towards the corpse. Damn Janus, if Death was going to get him this time he would take Janus and the rest of them with him to hell.
The Volkswagen pulled out into the narrow country road, its bald tyres spinning against the ice. Ulrich took no notice; he knew this stretch by heart. Perhaps it was because of this nonchalant familiarity that he failed to notice the Lada hidden behind a copse of trees, or the recent tracks of footfall just visible where the road met the private driveway of his farmhouse. Or perhaps it was that he never imagined anyone would bother finding him after thirty years in this remote corner of East Germany, a terrain that most would regard as too obviously dangerous for an ex-Nazi to hide in. Whatever the reason, Ulrich was completely oblivious to the presence of the gypsies as he drove over the muddy tracks that seemed to have deteriorated in the hour he’d been out of the house, swearing gently at the ice and the snow he’d given up clearing – having surrendered to the inevitability of bad weather in the manner he so often surrendered nowadays, as if bad fortune and monotony had been a choice and not a question of survival.
He pulled up in front of the farm; he’d chosen the old gatehouse not just because of its isolation but also because of its decrepit grandeur. It was a remnant of a former era, like him – a time he regarded as the apex of Germanic civilisation, an epoch he had fought hard and long to restore. The events of his lifetime had taught him perspective, and the promiscuous transience of political regimes. This regime would fall, like the Third Reich he had dedicated both his youth and ambition to – it was just a question of time and whether he would live long enough to witness the downfall.
Ulrich picked up the copy of the Neues Deutschland. Soviet propaganda, but it was easy to read between the lines. There was a new war brewing between America and the Middle East. The upheavals in Iran meant the emergence of a new world war with oil at its heart. Natural resources – energy – were key to military success, something the Führer had always underestimated, in Ulrich’s opinion, and the scientist in him had always regretted the fact the Party hadn’t accelerated its nuclear programme. If they had they would have won the war – of this Ulrich had no doubt.
He turned off the ignition, then wound down the window, letting the sounds of the snow-laden forest that surrounded the house fill the car. A soldier’s training – what you don’t see in the field you might hear. His ears strained against the thick, still air. And then he heard it – change, a difference in the ambience of his arrival. He looked out, studying the terrain – the old unloved yard with the abandoned wheelbarrow, the shovel buried in the pile of coal beside the back door from the last time he had carried coal inside for the fire, the wooden vegetable rack with a couple of frozen cabbages from last summer – nothing had been moved but something was different, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach.
He swung round and stared at the row of chestnut trees, their naked black branches stretching like men pleading to heaven. Now he saw it – the usual resident flock of crows were missing; someone or something had made them fly off before he’d arrived home. He reached into the glove box.
Matthias sat facing the door of the living room. He’d heard the car pull up, the slam of the door, then the curious shuffle of the driver as he made his way across the gravel. Did he have a walking stick? Matthias wondered, adjusting to the idea that the man who had been his biological father was now old, mortal – ordinary in his vulnerability. Matthias tried not to think, emptying his mind of anything but the vividness of the moment – the frayed edges of blue velvet cover coming off the sofa, some dead embers that had burned into the wooden floor in front of the fireplace, the musky smell of stale pipe tobacco. It was a skill he’d trained himself in, developed from the hours waiting for the outcome of painstaking experiments – a way of dampening down emotion and elevating his powers of observation – essential in a scientist. But it had become his way of psychologically preparing for any outcome – an emptying out of the ego, of any expectation, of being entirely in the moment. It was how he made himself razor-sharp.
Outside in the corridor there was the click of the front door followed by footsteps. Matthias tensed as the living-room door swung open, waiting for the man to appear. Instead, to his astonishment, several old glass marbles rolled out from behind the door, the tiny swirls of yellow and blue within each twisting like miniature whirlwinds as they came to a halt a couple of feet in front of him. Matthias dared not breathe, dared not move.
Finally a man – tall but stooped, his white hair an angry mop, stepped into the room and Matthias found himself looking down the barrel of a revolver.
The two men stared at each other. The man before him, his arm outstretched, hands clasped around the gun, crouching like an experienced soldier despite his age, was instantly and disturbingly recognisable: the chin was Matthias’s chin, the same high-bridged nose, prominent cheekbones and jawbone, the eyes – heavy-lidded – now creased with age, a pale blue in contrast to his own green eyes. A scar ran across the forehead and disappeared into the thick hair, the bone structure was heavier than his own, the older man’s frame broader, but the genetic connection was indisputable. Matthias felt as if he were looking at himself thirty years on, a surreal break in the continuity of life.
‘Move and I kill you.’ The voice was quiet, devoid of emotion.
He stayed absolutely still as Ulrich Vosshoffner walked slowly round him, gun still aimed directly at his head. Finally he came back to the front of the chair Matthias was sitting in.
‘They said you looked like me but I didn’t believe them. But it’s true, a testimony to the genetic superiority of the Aryan race. We are stronger in every way.’
‘We? I have nothing to do with you.’
‘Really? Then why are you here?’ He stared at Matthias, as if he were an object – a curious apparition that was not fully human. Matthias decided not to answer his question directly.
‘Why didn’t you have me killed? I must have been an embarrassment, my very existence an admission of weakness.’
Ulrich laughed, a short coughing bark. ‘What did they call you?’
‘Matthias.’
‘Matthias… not bad, a little effeminate, but it will do. Well, Matthias, I could lie. I could say I saw you and your little blond head and that even I, the one the prisoners called the Soul-less one, even I softened at the sight of my own child. But I would be lying. There was no such sentiment; it was simply a case of wanting to le
ave something of myself – even in a half-caste bastard like you. You see, by the time you were born, most of us officers knew it was a question of days; if we were lucky, weeks. I didn’t expect to live once Berlin fell. In fact, I’d planned a noble suicide. So I let you live. But if you like I could kill you now. There would be a strange poetry in that, don’t you think? A genuine Greek tragedy.’
‘I didn’t come here for either your blessing or your condemnation.’
‘So what was it, curiosity? Meet your father the monster? You’ve come a long way just for that.’
‘I need some information.’
‘Really? How did you find out I existed? Did my dear cousin finally confess?’
‘My real mother found me.’
To Matthias’s surprise, Ulrich seemed to falter.
‘The gypsy is still alive?’
‘She has a name – Keja.’
Ulrich lowered the gun to his side. ‘What does it matter? It was a long time ago. But if you think I have regrets you’re wrong. I was serving my country! An ideology that was perfect in its thinking. You think the world is a better place now?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Matthias stood up and took one step towards Ulrich, who immediately pointed the revolver back at him.
‘How do I know you haven’t got a weapon?’
‘You don’t.’
‘Stand over there with your hands over your head, palms flat on the wall,’ Ulrich ordered.
Matthias glanced at the coat cupboard by the door, then moved to the wall, his hands above his head as ordered. Ulrich frisked him.
‘So, you really didn’t come to kill me. You would be one of the few.’ Grabbing Matthias by his jacket, Ulrich pushed him back into the armchair. For nearly seventy he was surprisingly strong and Matthias wondered whether his shuffling gait wasn’t a way of tricking people into thinking he was far weaker than he actually was. ‘What did you become?’ Ulrich asked softly.
‘A physicist.’
‘So we share more than just a face – what area?’
‘Magnetism. I specialise in superconductivity.’
Ulrich nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is ironic. I was in my first year of university when the war began. I was to be a scientist, but I volunteered. Now here you are – living out what I would have become if history had been different. Are you good?’
‘One of the best.’
‘Extraordinary. So what is the information that you need?’
Matthias reached into his pocket and pulled out the two metal symbols and held them up – one a simple blank triangle, the other the shape of a smaller hourglass.
‘You know what these are?’
‘You broke into my safe? Thirty years ago I would have killed you for walking into my office without knocking… To think my life —’
‘They’re clues to the location of the artefact you stole,’ Matthias interrupted. ‘A location in Zürich?’
‘Maybe. Think about what the hourglass means – what is endless, what rolls on regardless of everything else?’
‘Time. You knew about the statuette, didn’t you? You knew about its connection to Kali the goddess?’
‘You are intelligent. I was obsessed by that fascinating relic. The others just saw her as a means to an end. They never understood her full potential. They still don’t. She was the greatest failure of my life, greater than the loss of the war. She’s a code – a key to endless power, but I never managed to crack her enigma. I’ll be curious to see whether you succeed – if you ever find it, that is. Those two symbols were to be my insurance plan, but I was betrayed. Someone sent my photograph and details to a Nazi hunter. When that happened escape to the West became impossible. Here I have friends, powerful friends. But the cartel who guard the statuette, I promise – they will kill you.’
‘You’re all still war criminals.’
‘It’s funny, when I look at you I see my younger self – same polarisation of belief, a way of dividing the world into simple dichotomies, beliefs that serve purposes. It is easy for you to take the moral high ground.’
‘It is easy for me because I’m not a murderer or rapist.’
Suddenly Ulrich’s arm lashed out smashing Matthias in the face. A second later Latcos sprang out of the cupboard he’d been hiding in and grabbed Ulrich. In the same instance Vedel emerged from behind the couch. The two gypsies managed to free the gun from Ulrich, pinning him to the floor. As Matthias staggered to his feet, he saw Vedel pull out his knife.
‘No! We need him alive!’ Matthias shouted, grabbing Vedel’s hand.
‘Let go of me, you vermin!’ Ulrich screamed, breaking free. He began scrambling like a crab across the floor towards the door. Latcos followed and yanked him up with Vedel’s help, both of them holding down his arms while Matthias retrieved Ulrich’s gun.
Finally the two Rom pushed the German back into a chair, tying his hands and feet to the metal frame.
For a minute all three men caught their breath, Matthias leaning against the back of the couch, blood dripping from his nose, Latcos nursing an injured arm and Vedel winded, doubled over heaving.
‘Kill me then, you cowards. I don’t want to live any longer anyhow. Just kill me,’ Ulrich groaned, his head dropping down onto his chest – all of his natural authority vanished.
Latcos crouched down, his profile inches from the German’s.
‘You will not have that satisfaction. You will stand trial and will be found guilty by the relatives of the families you destroyed. That will be their justice.’ Latcos spat at Ulrich, the spittle dripping down one cheek, but the German did not flinch.
‘I have absolutely no regrets, except for the fact that we lost the war. That was our only mistake.’
‘Ulrich…’ Again, Matthias held up the hourglass key – the infinity symbol. ‘You told me this represents Time, an element that is endless. What about the other one?’
‘That is obvious, it’s an element.’
The triangle – unmarked. Matthias ran through the elements. ‘Water. So it’s near or under the lake?’
‘You think we would be so simplistically unimaginative? Yes, it is water, but it is only one part of a whole,’ Ulrich replied cryptically.
‘Tell me the location of the vault and I’ll make sure you stand trial in the Hague.’
‘No! He’s ours!’ Vedel snapped.
‘You want my throat?’ Ulrich lifted his head, stretching his bare neck out. ‘You’ve got it.’
Again, Vedel reached for his knife and again Matthias stopped him. He turned back to Ulrich.
‘Father…’ The word sounded strange, foreign, but it was an undeniable genetic truth. ‘This is your last chance to do something good. Redeem yourself, tell us the location of the vault.’
Ulrich stared up at him, his eyes bloodshot. ‘I am sixty-seven. There was a time I thought I’d be dead by thirty. You must make sure I am buried in Munich, my hometown. I have a fear of dying here in this monstrosity the Soviets have made of my country. Promise me? I don’t want to walk this earth as a ghost.’
‘You should have thought of that before,’ Vedel hissed.
Ulrich ignored him. ‘Promise?’ he asked Matthias again.
‘Perhaps.’ Matthias kept his gaze steady and Ulrich seemed to weaken.
‘There were four of us: Water, Fire, Earth and Air. I was Water because of my brother who was in the navy; I had useful links to shipping. We developed a code to protect the Party’s assets – it was a plan drawn up in those last months, when it became apparent all was lost.’
‘It wasn’t just Christoph. Who is the leader?’
‘I don’t know.’
Matthias levelled the gun at him. ‘Liar! Tell me, did they kill my wife?’
‘We had friends there, loyal to the Party. The money was meant to go to Die Spinne, to ex-SS men like me, but our Swiss friends were greedy. Christoph was meant to control them but he was always weak…’
‘Ulrich, the vaults?’
‘There are no v
aults. The property is not hidden in a bank; we were not so stupid.’ Then Ulrich inhaled sharply, as if in pain. ‘My heart… my heart!’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Nein, I need my heart pills.’
‘Let him die,’ Vedel snarled and Matthias pushed him away.
‘No, I need the information. Where are they?’
‘You have to untie me, I need the key… ’
‘It’s a trick!’ Vedel spat out furiously.
But the German appeared to deteriorate, groaning and thrashing about in his chair.
The Stolen Page 28