by Glenn Meade
Erica shook her head. “If that’s true, why didn’t Hitler have her abort the pregnancy?”
“Maybe she didn’t tell him until it was too late. Maybe she wanted the child. And even if she did commit suicide, she must have been desperate over something. She also could have been depressed after the birth. If Hitler had refused to marry her and wanted the whole affair covered up by sending the boy away, it might have been enough to send her over the edge.”
“But there must have been people who knew. It couldn’t have been kept secret after all these years. It just couldn’t.”
“Geli Raubal was a medical student, Erica. She would have known people in the profession. People who helped with the birth and kept it secret. And you heard what Hanah said about the journalist sent to Dachau. What if he had heard the truth? What if that was the reason he was killed?”
Erica shook her head. “Joe, there are too many ifs. Believe me, part of me wants to accept what you’re saying, because it makes some kind of sense. But another part of me is saying it’s crazy.”
Volkmann heard his own labored breathing, the thought of what he had said dizzying. “Then consider this. Why did the Nazis destroy the part of the cemetery in Vienna where Geli was buried? Why did they want to destroy all traces of her grave? There could only be one reason. A secret someone wanted to hide. Geli Raubal’s secret. A postmortem could have determined if she had given birth. Destroying the grave meant destroying the evidence.”
Erica was pale. “To keep the secret, why didn’t they simply get rid of Geli Raubal’s body? Why didn’t they destroy the evidence that way?”
“Maybe they did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“By removing the body and destroying the graves nearby, it would make it impossible to know whether her corpse was removed from the grave or not. All that remained would have been a tangle of unidentifiable bones. No forensic examination could ever have determined identities.”
Perspiration beaded his brow as he looked at Erica. “Consider all I’ve said and how it connects to everything that’s been happening. To Rudi’s death, to the other deaths. Why sanitize a house in a remote jungle? Why destroy all traces of occupation in the Chaco property? Why be so obsessive about secrecy? What had those people in the Chaco really got to hide, Erica? Not a simple smuggling operation. Not simply a connection to Rudi’s death and the others. But something that goes far deeper. Not only about the present, but the past. You sensed something at the Chaco house, remember? We all did.”
“Joe . . .” Erica opened her mouth to speak, but she broke off.
He saw the tension in her, her mouth set grimly, before the blue eyes looked away. There was a hopeless look on her face that said it all, as if she had tried hard to convince him he was wrong and failed.
He knew that what he was suggesting was unreal, but it had a strange ring of truth and his voice was thick with emotion. “There’s only one possible answer that can explain Karl Schmeltz’s identity, Erica. Karl Schmeltz is Adolf Hitler’s son.”
For a long time neither of them spoke, as if the awesome possibility that had joined them in the stillness of the room lingered like a living thing.
“What are you going to do, Joe?” There was no emotion in her voice, and he looked back at her.
“Tell Ferguson and Peters, and just hope they believe me.”
“You think they will?”
“When they hear the evidence, yes, I think they will.”
Erica said flatly, “And then?”
“Find Karl Schmeltz. Because he’s part of what’s happening, Erica. He’s part of everything that’s happened and is about to happen.”
He held her stare, spoke quietly, and for the first time he heard real fear in his own voice. “The voices on Rudi’s tape and what Busch said was promised in Hitler’s bunker. They’re talking about the same thing, Erica. They’re talking about the same Brandenburg. What happened all those years ago in Germany when the Nazis came to power.” Volkmann paused, looked into her face. “Somehow I think it’s going to happen all over again.”
STOCKHOLM. DECEMBER 23, 6:15 A.M.
The young woman behind the SAS check-in desk at Stockholm’s Arlanda airport watched as the man approached.
He wore an expensive camel-haired overcoat and a pale gray Armani suit that complemented his dark complexion. Good-looking, maybe thirty, good figure, but sad eyes.
The woman smiled. “Good morning, sir.”
The Turk nodded silently and handed across his first-class ticket.
The woman typed in the details on the computer, Stockholm to Amsterdam, noticed the man had an onward connection to Berlin. As she checked in the man’s leather suitcase, she smiled up at him. It was a pity he couldn’t see her long legs tucked behind the desk; maybe she could have coaxed a date.
She completed the details on the computer and handed the man back his boarding card. As the man took it she noticed his hands. Strong hands, but crisscrossed with a web of thick pink scars that made her shudder inside. A definite turnoff.
“You may board straightaway, Mr. Kemal.”
“Thank you.”
She forced a smile. “Are you traveling on business or pleasure, Mr. Kemal?”
“Business.”
“I hope you have a nice trip.”
“I’m certain I will,” the Turk replied, and turned toward the boarding area.
46
GENOA. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 11:57 P.M.
“Franco . . . ?”
The voice came to him out of the darkness.
Franco Scali turned over sleepily in the warm bed and muttered, “What . . . ?”
A finger prodded him. “Franco, there’s someone at the door.”
Franco opened his eyes. The bedroom was pitch black.
“What time is it?” he called out to his wife.
“Midnight.”
Franco moaned as he heard the buzzing doorbell in the distance. The bedroom curtains were closed, but through a chink he could see the moonlit sky. He and Rosa had gone to bed early after spending the day Christmas shopping. Now he felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
“Franco . . . ?”
“I heard you, woman.”
Franco threw back the sheets and dragged himself from the warm bed, felt the chill. He flicked on the bedside lamp, blinked as the harsh light flooded the bedroom. Rosa moaned as she pulled back the bedcover, and the bell rang again downstairs, a couple of short, urgent bursts.
“Who the devil is it at this hour?” Franco grumbled.
“I think it’s Aldo Celli. When I heard the bell I got up and thought I saw his car outside.”
“Then why didn’t you answer the door?”
“I said I think it’s him. I’m not sure,” his wife grunted, then turned over again, dragging the covers with her.
Franco sighed and scratched himself.
Aldo. Aldo the Eagle. The craneman at the docks. What did he want at this hour? Franco dragged on his dressing gown and went downstairs. When he unlocked the front door he saw big Aldo standing under the porch light, his collar pulled up against the cold.
“What is this, Aldo? You know what time it is?” Franco shivered.
“Can I come in, Franco?”
Franco sighed and led the big man into the sitting room. He turned on the light first, then dragged up a chair for Aldo.
Franco said, “So what’s up?”
Aldo’s big, fleshy face showed concern. “One of the juggernauts brought in a container this evening. Il Peste was on the late shift. After I dropped the container, Il Peste came and looked at the number. Then he had us open the container, and he started using the duster and sniffing around.”
“So?”
Aldo blinked. “I asked him what was up. He said it was the same container that came in from South America twelve days ago. One he wanted to recheck.”
Franco’s stomach jolted.
“He found something, Franco,” Aldo wen
t on.
Franco raised his eyes in mock surprise. “What do you mean?”
“The side of the container, there was a hidden compartment held in by some screws. Pretty neat job, you never would have thought it was there. But Il Peste kept tapping away until he found it.”
Franco tried to hide his fear. He felt his palms sweat. “Why you telling me?”
“The cops came. They took all our fingerprints. Said they want us to stay back after our shift if necessary, in case they needed to talk with us. Something about the container . . .”
Franco swallowed. “Go on . . .”
“Then Il Peste wanted to know when you were rostered on again. I told him you had a couple of days off. I heard him mention your name to one of the cops. A detective named Orsati. Then I heard one of them say they’d call on you sometime this morning.”
Franco felt his stomach churn, tried not to throw up all over Aldo’s shoes.
The big craneman stood. “I just thought I’d slip out and tell you, seeing you’re the boss. I told no one I was coming. But I got a feeling there’s going to be trouble, Franco. The cops and customs, they’re swarming all over the place like flies on dung.”
Franco nodded, managed a faint smile. “You did right, coming here, I mean. If there’s going to be trouble, I’ll need to be prepared.”
“That’s what I thought. I’d better be getting back. The cops might get suspicious if I’m away for long.”
Franco pushed himself up from the chair. He put a hand lightly on the craneman’s big shoulder. “You’ll tell no one you came here, right?”
“Hey, what are friends for?”
“Thanks, Aldo. I owe you.”
• • •
Franco went back to the bedroom, threw off his dressing gown, and dragged on his clothes, feeling ill, like he wanted to die.
Rosa came awake. “What’s wrong? Who was at the door?”
“No one. You must have been dreaming, woman.”
“I heard the bell, voices downstairs.”
“You heard nothing. I gotta get some air. I’m up now, I can’t sleep.”
Rosa protested, but Franco wasn’t listening. It took him less than three minutes to dress, get down the stairs, lock the front door, and reach the Fiat. He had told Rosa not to answer the door if anyone called. The woman knew better than to argue.
He drove to the deserted Piazza della Vittoria, found a kiosk, and used one of the phone cards he kept in the glove compartment. He punched in the number from the slip of paper in his wallet.
The number rang. A couple of seconds of fearful, crushing silence before the receiver was lifted and Franco heard the voice at the other end.
“Ja?”
Franco didn’t speak German. He felt his legs shaking as he panicked.
Again, the voice said, “Ja?”
Franco said, “You speak Italian?”
A pause. The voice said, “Sí.”
“Then listen, amico. We’ve got us a big problem . . .”
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23
They managed to get seats on the 7:00 a.m. shuttle from Berlin.
He parked the Ford in the DSE underground garage, and when they went up, he left Erica waiting in his office while he went in search of Peters.
He found him in his office.
“Joe, I’m glad you made it back, something’s come up—”
“We need to talk, Tom.”
Peters saw the look on Volkmann’s face. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Where’s Ferguson?”
“Gone to a meeting with the section heads.”
Peters saw the look of frustration on Volkmann’s face. “What’s this about, Joe?”
“I’d prefer if Ferguson was here. I’d like to discuss it with you both.”
Peters recognized the stress in Volkmann’s voice but said, “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. Something’s come up, something important maybe. And Ferguson won’t be back until later.”
“What’s come up?”
“You’re going to love this. I got a call from the Italian desk. The police in Genoa may have found something that fits in with our request. They want us to take a look at a container that came in on a ship called the Maria Escobar on the ninth of this month.”
“Where from?”
Peters smiled. “Montevideo. I told them you’d be on the next available plane.”
“How long have I got?”
“There’s an Al Italia flight from Frankfurt in under three hours. A return flight tonight at nine. You ought to just make it back unless something develops. I’ve arranged a private charter from Strasbourg to Frankfurt. It’s waiting at the airport now.”
“What about our meeting?”
“I’ll set it up for this evening. Phone me the minute you get back.”
Volkmann said, “Do me a favor. While I’m gone, stay with Erica.”
Peters frowned. “Any particular reason?”
“This thing I’m working on—it’s beginning to make sense, Tom, but it’s looking more bizarre and dangerous by the second. She could be at risk. I want someone I can trust to watch over her. I’ll explain when I get back.”
He spoke with Erica, told her not to talk with anyone about the case until he returned.
Peters came into the office and he introduced them.
Peters said charmingly, “How about I take the young lady to lunch, Joe? Then I can drive her back to your place.” He smiled. “Pretty much everyone’s finishing early for the holidays. I’ll leave a note for Ferguson about our meeting, tell him it’s imperative we talk.”
Five minutes later, as Volkmann drove to the airport, there was a knot of tension in his stomach like a ball of steel.
47
BONN. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23, 9:30 A.M.
Chancellor Franz Dollman grimaced as he sat in the back of the black Mercedes. Beyond the bulletproof windows of the stretch limousine, a police escort guided the car through the streets of Bonn.
As the car passed the Münsterplatz, Dollman looked up from his paperwork. The lights of a Christmas tree winked on the platz. The thought of Christmas approaching normally depressed him, but this time he looked forward to a few relaxing days away from his grueling state duties. Already his cabinet was a week behind the scheduled holiday recess; so many problems remained to be dealt with.
Dollman massaged his temples as he sat back. He had been up since six assembling his paperwork, then breakfast, followed by a quick glass of schnapps to help brace himself for the emergency cabinet meeting.
The Wednesday morning meetings in Bonn’s Schaumburg Palace were always the same of late, had been for the last year—an utter shambles. Dollman expected the same of this one, wondered how the country had managed to survive, put it down to the resolute, hardworking nature of the German people. They had seen adversity before and were certainly seeing it now.
As the car sped past the Marktplatz, Dollman glimpsed the broken shop windows, the littered glass, the paint daubed on walls. All the hallmarks of another riot. He turned to Ritter, his personal bodyguard, sitting beside him. The man was disrespectfully chewing gum.
Dollman nodded gravely toward the scene beyond the glass. “What happened?”
Ritter’s jaws moved slowly as he chewed. “It started off as a protest march about unemployment. Then the right-wing groups joined in. Before long, it was a riot.”
Dollman sighed. “Anyone killed?”
Ritter shook his head. “Not this time. The riot squad cracked a few skulls, that’s all. If you ask me, these demonstrators ought to be locked up.”
It was getting out of control, Dollman reflected as the Mercedes headed south toward the Schaumburg Palace. More shattered windows along the route. Pavement slabs had been torn up, shopfronts vandalized.
Dollman didn’t bother replying to Ritter’s remark. The man was an excellent bodyguard, tough and discreet, but he had a limited intelligence, and so Dollman always kept their conversations to a minimum. If Ri
tter had his way, half the world would be behind bars.
And it was the same everywhere these days: Riots. Marches. Protests. The immigrant problem.
“Lock the lot up and throw away the keys. That’s the answer,” Ritter added.
If only it were possible, Dollman reflected. He’d start with half of his bickering cabinet.
The Mercedes turned slowly into the courtyard of the Schaumburg Palace and slid to a halt outside the imposing entrance. His wife would be in their residence on the grounds. There would just be time to see her after the cabinet meeting before he left for Berlin. Another boring function to attend, before Weber’s special security meeting the next morning. Still, Weber’s meeting suited him perfectly. He would spend the night in Wannsee with his mistress, and that at least Dollman looked forward to. The thought briefly lifted his spirits as the chauffeur stepped out smartly and opened the rear door. Dollman gathered up his papers, closed his briefcase, and handed it to Ritter.
As he climbed out, he saw a sober-looking Eckart, the finance minister, waiting in the doorway to greet him. No doubt there was more bad news even before the meeting began.
Dollman sighed and strode grimly toward the palace entrance.
• • •
The meeting was no different this morning as Dollman observed the drawn faces of the men seated at the large oval table.
Riots the previous night in Berlin, Munich, Bonn, and Frankfurt. And the latest financial news was depressing. Eckart wrung his hands in despair as he imparted the details.
Dollman removed a fresh white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow; the cabinet room was hot, the heating turned up to counter the chill outside. Beyond the bulletproof windows, he glimpsed a harsh wind whipping the trees.
A tall, distinguished-looking man in his early sixties, Dollman had been chancellor for eighteen months. He would gladly have resigned but knew that he was the only one in the room capable of leadership in these difficult times.
He looked up now from the reports lying in front of him on the polished oval table and replaced the handkerchief in his breast pocket. All of the ministers were present—except for Weber, the vice chancellor, who was expected later. A fresh outbreak of rioting in Leipzig had demanded his presence. He didn’t envy Weber his task of overseeing federal security. He suited it because he took no nonsense, but a security job was just asking for trouble. Still, that was Weber’s problem.