by Ace Collins
20
CURTIS STUDIED THE IMAGE THAT SOMEHOW PUT breath into the corpse they had found.
Wilshire said, “The picture was taken at Berchtesgaden.”
“The Eagle’s Nest.”
“You are a student of history. That was what many called Hitler’s retreat in the Bavarian Alps. I’ve tried to find the exact spot where the snap was taken, but never could. Time changes things, especially when nature is allowed a free hand.”
“What’s it feel like…” Curtis allowed the rest of the question to stick in her throat. She quickly regretted saying anything.
Wilshire’s eyes grew sad. “You were going to ask, what does it feel like to find out your father was a member of the most monstrous group in the history of the world?”
She nodded.
“If you actually dwell on it, then you can’t sleep. Remember the old line, ‘the sins of the father’—well they have visited me often, at least in my nightmares. But no matter what he might have done, even though I don’t remember him, he was still my pop. So I just keep digging, trying to find at least one good thing he did. And I wonder, of all the thousands of SS men, why is his name missing? I still hope one day to run into someone who can give me a bit of insight into him. I have long prayed that before I die I could learn a wee bit about his personality and his goals. And on that day, if it ever comes, I just might be closer to understanding his motives and his relationship with this fiend who ordered the death of millions in concentration camps. When I consider that fact, the haunting begins all over.”
Curtis studied the pained expression etched into his face. For the first time, he looked his age. She suddenly felt sorry for Wilshire. “Most people would run from the facts,” she pointed out, “or ignore them. Maybe even try to bury them so deep that no one could ever dig them up. Your father has been erased from the history books. Except for your pictures, he never did exist. They can’t trace his sins to you. At least he’s not one of the names that shows up on the History Channel once a month. At least no one is knocking on your door asking about him. That has to be some comfort.”
“He’s been erased, all right. And it’s not just his war records. There are no birth records either. Isn’t that amazing? You can find birth records on Eichmann, Barbie, and Mengele, but not my dad. Why do you think that is?”
Curtis shrugged.
“My mum, on her deathbed, told me that not long before the end of the war, several members of the Gestapo forced their way into our home and took everything that was his. That included all his papers, his clothing, his books, his jewelry, even their wedding certificate. They missed a couple of photographs hidden in my mother’s sewing basket. It was as if he never lived.”
“Why? Do you have any idea?”
“Mum never told me. Guess it caused her too much pain. Looking through a few old letters, I found out my father was a member of the SS and was Hitler’s associate, but that’s all. I’ve no idea why every sign of his existence was removed by the very people he once called his friends.
“Diana, I’ve told you a great deal. What I want to know is why are you, only the second person in more than thirty years, trying to find information on Henrick Bleicher?”
It was a fair question. She was researching his father, so he had a right to know. He also had a right to know that Bleicher hadn’t just disappeared, that he’d somehow made it to America. But how much should she reveal? “Can I see some form of identification?” He reached into a pocket of the tweed jacket. Retrieving a billfold, he tossed it on the table. Curtis picked it up and as it opened she noted a name as legendary as the FBI.
“Interpol. That explains how you were able to fly with a gun.”
“You’ll find papers inside the right pocket that will also prove I work with Scotland Yard. In truth, if I hadn’t been looking for answers about my father, I’d have retired years ago. Working on what you Americans call ‘cold cases’ is all about contacts. As long as I’m active in these two law enforcement agencies, I can tap into sources.”
She glanced through the rest of his identification, noted the photos of his children and grandchildren, and slid the billfold back his way. She then pulled the gun from her lap and set it on the table.
He took both, carefully tucking them under his coat. “Why are you looking for information on my father? I think you realize that I can’t leave here without finding out.”
What should she admit to knowing? What were the limits? The prudent course seemed to call for wrapping a bit of the truth in a white lie and waiting for his reaction.
“On a piece of property in Arkansas, at the home of an old German immigrant, a friend of mine found a book with your father’s name and SS serial number written in the pages. I’m an investigator, and the man who now owns that property paid me to find out who owned this book. There’s not much more than that.”
Her twist of the details caused a brief twinge of guilt. Yet there was enough truth in the tale for her to judge if Wilshire’s story would hold together. If he proved to be honest and offered to share other elements of what he knew, then maybe she’d come clean as well.
“What was the German immigrant’s name?” he asked.
She smiled. “Do you have a guess?”
The reply was direct, the tone flat. “Schleter.”
She nodded. “How did you know?”
“It was a name Mum once mentioned when she spoke of my real father. It was unusual, so it stuck with me. But until this moment I never understood the connection. In my research, the only Schleter I uncovered was a simple truck driver. Without a first name, I didn’t have much to go on. I just guessed he’d died in the war and been buried in an unmarked grave. America…Arkansas, you say? He made it that far from his home?”
“Yes, he lived there for almost fifty years. Kept to himself. Kind of a hermit.” She waited for a few minutes to allow him to digest what had to be surprising news. “Peter, you said there was another person who also searched the archives looking for information on Henrick Bleicher.”
He nodded. “About ten years ago. Helga called me then too. But I didn’t get here in time to visit with Mr. Helmut Spiel. Even using my connections, I couldn’t track him down. The name and the identification he used were evidently fakes. When he walked out the door, he simply vanished. All I have known for the past decade is that he was an older German who acted very nervous whenever Helga spoke to him. I assumed it was Schleter. Then, today—and I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me before—I realized I had his identity within my grasp. I was stupid to never understand how close I was to it. Diana, tell me how Helga made you sign in to do your research.”
She was tired, suffering from jetlag and long hours of fruitless research. In the last two days she had barely eaten. What Wilshire had told her was interesting, but worth little. Now the man was posing a question that seemed to have no significance. But he had saved her life, so she said, “I had to sign a note card, which she dropped in a box.”
“Exactly. You not only left your name, you left your fingerprints When Helga told me she was holding your card when she called me, I realized I had missed the most important clue in my own investigation. Sherlock Holmes I am not. Sadly, I seem to be much more like Dr. Watson.”
“Fingerprints.” Diana smiled. “So all we have to do is go back to the archive tomorrow, retrieve the card, and check for prints. The only two that should be there are Helga’s and the disappearing man.”
“You’re half right,” he said. “The card does contain two sets of prints. Helga was kind enough to drop that card into an envelope and leave it for me at the Interpol office here in Berlin. The prints were being run as I left to meet you. My associates sent me a text two hours ago giving me the real man’s name and address.”
“So he has a record.”
“In a way. He’s been treated several times for mental disorders.”
“Well,” she replied, her energy level rising with her curiosity, “let’s get moving.”
“Otto Mueller lives about sixty kilometers from here in a nursing facility for the elderly and mentally disturbed. It will do us little good to go there now. Let’s get some sleep, let the skies clear, and drive up there tomorrow. I’ve access to an automobile.”
Wilshire was nice, he seemed sincere, he appeared to be what he said he was, but…“Peter, could I see your billfold again?”
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out the stuffed leather wallet. He watched as she picked it up but didn’t bother opening it.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“I have a room here. That’s the irony I mentioned earlier. I always stay here when I’m in Berlin. What are the odds of you and me ending up looking for the same man and staying in the same place?”
“Long.” She smiled. “What time do you want to leave?”
“The café across the street serves a good German breakfast. The sausage is excellent. Why don’t we meet there, around nine? That’ll give us both an opportunity to grab some sleep.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
“Ah, Diana, you have my wallet.”
As she rose, she unzipped a pouch on the side of her briefcase and dropped the billfold into the compartment. “You’ll get it back when you pay the bill for breakfast.”
He smiled. “You don’t trust me.”
“A wise woman trusts no one, not even a man who saved her life. Thank you again and good night.”
“Before you leave, would you tell me what book you found in Arkansas? If I knew what he was reading, it might help me understand him a bit better.”
She nodded. “The King James Bible.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She felt his eyes on her as she crossed the room to the stairs, but she never looked back.
21
THE NURSING-CARE FACILITY THAT WAS NOW HOME TO Otto Mueller was anything but first class. Located on the outskirts of Beeskow, the facility was sterile and uninviting, as was the staff. It was one of the coldest places Curtis had ever visited, and that included several maximum-security prisons. No one smiled. Few of those in the lobby even spoke. Hopeless. That word covered the look of the patients, both young and old, being guided down the hallway by the staff. Most appeared almost catatonic, as if they were floating in a plane of existence not of this earth. It was an incredibly sad and gloomy place.
As Curtis waited, Wilshire went to the desk to ask to see Mueller. A desk nurse bluntly rejected his request. She explained firmly that the man was mentally unstable and was kept in an isolated room. Only relatives and staff allowed. When Wilshire inquired as to when the last family member had visited, the woman shrugged, as if no one had ever come to see the resident. It was as if he had been removed from the world, had died, and no one told him.
Wilshire flashed his Interpol credentials. That bought their escape from the desk nurse and entry into the office of the home’s supervisor, a short, fat man with thick glasses and dyed black hair. He eyed them suspiciously for several minutes, questioning again and again their motives for the visit. Finally, convinced they weren’t government health inspectors, he said they’d have to obtain orders from a doctor in Berlin. He pointed to the door.
Curtis was about to protest, but before she could open her mouth, Wilshire grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the hallway.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “I didn’t come this far to give up.”
“We’re not giving up, young lady.” He smiled. “We’ll get what we need. We just have to go about it in a different fashion.”
“You mean get permission from the doctor. Who knows how long that will take. I need to get back to the States. I can’t hang around here! I’m not waiting around for a written statement from the doctor.”
“Not the doctor,” Wilshire corrected her, “but rather a doctor.”
The Brit dragged her down the hall, stopping only when they’d reached the front desk. In German, Wilshire thanked the grumpy matron for her time and inquired if he could use the restroom. She waved toward a far hall.
“Diana, you stay right here. Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be back in just a moment.”
True to his word, a minute later the Englishman strolled back to Curtis and quickly escorted her out of the building and to their rented Mercedes. “Get in,” he said. When she had fastened her seat belt, he started the white sedan, put it in gear, and drove over the rise and into the parking lot of a small grocery. “Now get out.”
“What?”
“Lassie, we’re going back, but we’ll be taking a different route and using a much more discreet entrance.”
“Which one?”
“Through the staff’s locker room. It’s by the men’s restroom. I stole in there and unlocked the outside window, which we will soon be climbing through. Come on, we need to make the short hike through the city park and then stroll across the employee parking lot.”
Five minutes later, the pair arrived unnoticed at the designated window. Wilshire slid it up, grabbed onto the sill, and swung up. He was not only strong but very agile for a man his age. He reached back through the opening, offering Curtis his hand for a boost. After he’d pulled her shoulders through, he went over and locked the door. After a few seconds hanging halfway in and halfway out, she shimmied through the window.
“Go through the lockers until you find a uniform you can wear,” he said. “I’ll check the left side for something for me.”
Now she understood what Wilshire had meant when he told her the doctor would allow them to visit Mueller. “You really do look like a distinguished physician,” she noted a few minutes later.
“And you give all the appearances of a sympathetic nurse.”
“I’ve still got a concern. How long can we walk around before someone realizes we don’t belong? I’m more than a bit uneasy.”
“I take it you haven’t done much cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
She shook her head.
“Lassie, I’ve pretended to be other people so many times I could go on stage as a character actor. You ought to hear my accents. Might even try to get some roles on the telly when I finally retire.”
“I like the personality and accent you have when you’re just being you. They’re charming.”
“I don’t have an accent, you do.”
She smiled.
“We don’t need much time. Mueller’s on the second floor. I checked a patient list when I took my washroom trip. Security is pretty lax. As big as this place is, I doubt anyone will finger us very quickly. Are you ready, nurse?”
22
PETER WILSHIRE DIDN’T WAIT FOR AN ANSWER. HE unlocked the door of the locker room, glanced up and down the hall, and confidently marched out. Diana quickly followed, trying her hardest to appear as if she knew what she was doing. When they came to the elevator, he pushed a button and waited. Before the doors opened, three staff members came toward them, discussing a reality show on TV and laughing as they walked past. The elevator doors opened. They had cleared their first obstacle.
A short ride took them to the second floor. A nurse stepped on as they got off, but she was reading a chart and didn’t bother looking up. Curtis glanced both ways and kept her head down as she stepped into the hall. Behind her a smiling Wilshire, his head held high, waved at two members of the staff and, acting as if he knew what he was doing, quickly walked to room 271. When he pushed on the door, it didn’t budge. A major roadblock. But if the locked door perturbed him, it didn’t show.
“Stay here and look busy,” he said. Before she could reply, he was strolling back toward the floor’s central command center. He stopped at a housekeeping cart and said something to an Asian woman. She laughed, reached into her pocket, and handed him her keys. Wilshire then walked back to 271 and unlocked the door.
“Be right back,” he said. After handing the keys to the housekeeper, he returned and the two slipped into Mueller’s tiny cubicle.
The I
nterpol agent’s smile was gone. He walked over to the window and opened the blinds to allow daylight to enter the gloomy room. He walked to the bed and took a long look at the man they had come to see.
“He doesn’t even know we’re here,” Curtis said.
“He’s probably heavily sedated. It’s easier to manage a large caseload if you keep the ones who have no family in a daze. Look, he’s restrained. Must be a handful when he’s awake.”
Acting very much the doctor he wasn’t, Wilshire pulled the chart from the plastic file holder mounted on the door. He studied it for a moment, then said, “I’ll be right back,” and left Curtis alone with the feeble patient.
Cautiously, she moved to the side of the bed. Mueller’s skin was almost transparent and so tightly drawn she could make out the distinct shape of his skull. He was bald, with only wisps of gray hair clinging to a few places above his ears. No one had shaved him in days. His fingernails needed clipping. It was as though he’d been pushed into a corner and forgotten. No dignity. No respect for this man who was helpless.
Looking at his emaciated body, she wondered how Mueller had the strength to lift his chest to breathe. Was he starved? Were they simply waiting for him to die? Why wasn’t this man being given better care? And why was he restrained? She didn’t figure he could lift his head, much less a fist.
Hearing steps, she nervously looked over her shoulder at the door. She tensed as it opened, then relaxed. In walked Wilshire.
“Just what we need,” he announced, holding up a vial. “Smelling salts.”
“Are you sure that’ll work? Could it cause some medical issues?” she asked.
“No, I’m not sure, and I doubt if he has any medical issues left.”
Maybe Mueller could help them understand why people were being killed on the other side of the Atlantic. Maybe this man knew Bleicher and would solve that mystery. But were they risking his life? Did the good of the many outweigh the needs of the one? It was an age-old question. Hillman would be on the side of the many, regardless of the cost. And that was probably the belief of this Interpol agent. But did she believe it?