by Mark Young
As Pascal entered the lift, her phone buzzed. She hesitated for a second, but then habit kicked in and she snapped it to her ear as the lift doors closed. All she could hear initially was an indistinct, muffled voice, then as she focused, straining her ears, her eyes narrowed as she suddenly recognized it and realized where she had heard it before, way back in England, at Hannah’s care Home. It was John Schmidt, saying, “Where’s the phone, sweetheart?” Then, “You were holding it earlier. Where is it?”
She looked at the phone, puzzled, then heard the unmistakable sound of a slap or punch, hand or fist against flesh, and a gasp. Then, “I said, where’s the—’, and then, just as abruptly, nothing, just dead sound. Then a blip as if the phone battery might have died or the connection had been terminated. There was only one person who might have her number and would call like that.
Christoff was running back-up and answered instantly. ‘Where’s Cara?’ she asked without preamble. He recognized the urgency in her voice and explained the mornings events of Cara crying off School, then changing her mind. He added, ‘I did happen to look out when she left and saw her get into a black car, and I just thought it was parents of school friends giving her a lift. What with Emilio arriving I didn’t think,’ he said, but he was talking to a dead phone.
As the lift came to a halt, Pascal’s mind was in turmoil, and she was scared. Scared for Cara and what could happen, knowing what Schmidt was. She tried to calm herself as she knew losing it wasn’t going to help. First principles; if Schmidt had Cara, and that now seemed a racing certainty, in terms of probabilities, the most likely place he would take her would be the tower. Sooner or later, he’d have to take her there, and probably sooner, so she was in the right place, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. But where else could they look anyway? She had no location, just a muffled voice, overheard on a phone. There was no time to triangulate, so they had jackshit. In the end she had to believe they’d turn up there. All she could do was get on with the plan and watch out for the little girl.
Pascal steeled herself as the lift doors slid apart. Standing there to meet her was a Hispanic maid in black and white livery who smiled gently at her and then gestured that she should follow. As they walked Pascal had the floor plan spread out in her head, so she knew they were headed for the kitchen. The place seemed to have cameras everywhere, and she’d bet there were plenty more concealed.
The kitchen when they reached it was vast, with no windows and illuminated entirely by artificial lighting. It didn’t look as if anyone ever ate there, but there was a long table in the centre of the room obviously used as a work surface to prepare meals. Pascal placed her basket down on the table, and the maid said, ‘you want your usual, Emilio?
‘Sure,’ Pascal said. ‘You join me?’
‘I have my coffee,’ she said.
As the maid went to the fridge Pascal looked around and saw the cup of coffee on the table. She had no set plan, essentially making it up as she went along, but she had brought along a few things that might help. She moved to the table quickly, two tabs of gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, or GHB, held between her fingers. As the maid reached into the fridge to get the orange juice, Pascal crumbled the tablets into the coffee, her actions shielded from the camera, which was behind her.
The maid brought over the orange juice, handed it to Pascal and went over to retrieve her coffee. They both drank together as Pascal continued to look around, now worrying about the maid simply collapsing if they stayed there too long. At the side of the kitchen was a walk in pantry. As Pascal sipped her orange she walked over and casually opened it and looked into the dark interior
‘You seem very strange today, Emilio,’ the maid said absently. Then she sat down abruptly at the table.
‘You okay?’ Pascal asked, going over to her. The maid looked okay, if a bit drowsy, eyes drooping, ready to close. ‘Look, I better leave the bread and go,’ Pascal added, lifting the bread out and placing it on the table and moving to the door. She opened it, went out, but then leaned back in and switched the light off plunging the room into complete darkness. She quickly retraced her steps to the table where the maid was now gently snoring, lifted her up and maneuvered her into the pantry. She would be okay there for a while, as it was not airtight. She closed the pantry door and then she was moving again, quickly retracing her steps to the door, going out, reaching in again and switching on the light. She knew it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out what was going on, if anyone happened to be watching the security camera’s in real-time. But it would have to do for now.
She made her way down the corridor. Then she turned sharp left and made for Angel’s study.
* * * *
Southern District Court
‘Mr. Milken,’ Morganna asked, still doggedly pursuing her quarry, but with the hope of landing a punch receding fast. ‘Do you accept that Hannah Palmer’s family did originally own the Pendant and Brooch that are the subject matter of these proceedings?’
‘Simple answer, Miss Fedler. I don’t know. I’ve seen Hannah Cohen’s testimony and depositions. I Don’t believe she’s lying to the extent that she believes that what she is telling us is the truth, but most of it of course isn’t. But then again the Jews have always owned and dealt in jewellery, diamonds and gold,’ he said, with another playful smile. ‘But the rest of what she said was pure fantasy. And of course even if her family did own these items, who’s to say they didn’t sell them legitimately, as many Jews did during that awful time. The fact is, as I have already testified, I purchased the pendant and brooch perfectly legitimately in 1953.’
‘Yes, so you’ve said, and we’ll get to that in a minute,’ Morganna said. She was starting to feel now, with things going so badly, that she didn’t have much to lose, so worrying so much about what questions to ask was pretty pointless. She needed to just kind of hunker down and grind out the questions, try and find a rhythm and a way forward. Maybe something would come up and she’d get to pick him open. She had to believe that. From hereon in she would just trust to intuition and follow her gut. ‘Tell us about the displaced persons camp at Seedorf.’
‘Gladly, but I have already testified about it. What in particular would you like to know, Miss Fedler?’ he asked, enjoying himself. It seemed like it was a game to Milken now, a type of sport.
Morganna steeled a concerned glance at Hannah sitting next to her, because for the last few moments she had felt the old lady becoming restless, fidgeting, and moving around in her seat. It was clear she was becoming upset and angry at Milken’s evasive answers. Morganna lightly squeezed Hannah’s arm as she asked her next question
‘Well, for example, did you meet August Matthes there?’ she said
Milken turned to the jury and raised his arms slightly in a kind of shrug. ‘Who was August Matthes?’ he asked of no one in particular. Then, ‘was there ever such a person? Or,’ he said, turning to face Hannah, voice rising, ‘is he the creation of a dishonest and vengeful mind, intent on blackening my name, calling me a monster, a murderer even, and a thief?’
‘Nehmen Sie Ihre Augenklappe weg,’ Hannah said calmly, eyes riveted on Milken’s face.
Morganna whipped around to look at Hannah, whose gaze remained locked on Milken, and then she looked at Milken too, and just for a second it was like a net curtain twitching and she saw something, a glimpse of what looked like naked fear. But then it was gone, replaced by an unconvincing smile. What the hell had Hannah just asked him, Morganna wondered, but she didn’t have time to stop and ask. She scribbled a note and slid it across the table to Hannah as she asked her next question. ‘So that’s a no is it, Mr. Milken? You didn’t meet August Matthes at the DP camp. Could that be because you are in fact August Matthes?’
Milken laughed, but it seemed to Morganna to be a little less confident, but maybe that was just wishful thinking?
‘Nien,’ he said. Then, ‘No, that’s not true, and I’ve answered that question more than once,’ he added, looking to Fried
man for support.
The judge nodded, looking pensive, but then said, ‘a few moments ago, Miss Fedler, your client addressed the witness in German. Now, maybe it was just an insult,’ he said with a smile, ‘but I can see that the jury want to know what was said. No doubt because of the quite obvious reaction your clients words seemed to engender in the witness.’
Morganna watched the jury as they nodded their heads acknowledging the truth of what the judge had said, then she looked down at the scribbled note Hannah had slid back across the desk to her. But as she read the words, Hannah was already addressing the judge herself. She said, ‘I asked Mr. Milken to remove his eye patch.’
‘And why is that, Miss Palmer?
‘Because it will identify him,’ she said, calmly pointing at Milken, ‘as August Matthes, the man who murdered my sister and grandfather and stole our jewellery.’
An eruption of noise rolled across the courtroom and it took a good minute before Friedman was able to restore the court to order. ‘I will not tolerate these outbursts,’ he said, looking sternly around the court. Then he turned to Morganna and said, ‘I know its a little unorthodox, Ms Fedler, but might it be worth you having your client sworn again? Mr. Milken can remain where he is, as there will be more questions for him.
‘Certainly, your honour,’ Morganna said, watching as Hannah was sworn again, in her chair at the plaintiff’s table.
The judge turned to her. ‘Remember, Mrs. Palmer, I have thrown out all your testimony derived from your hypnosis sessions with Mr. Wisliceny and—’
‘That’s just it, your honour,’ Hannah said, breaking in on him. ‘My memory of this aspect has nothing to do with hypnosis, it comes directly from simply seeing this witness again, after more than 70 years.’
The judge watched her for a moment, then as Browder rose from his seat full of bluster, he turned to him and said with a noticeable edge to his voice, ‘sit down, Mr. Browder.’
Friedman looked back at Hannah, ruminating. What was now taking place in his courtroom was pretty much unprecedented. It was almost a casual two way conversation between two witnesses, both sworn, and in front of the jury. But Friedman, some of whose distant family had died in the Holocaust, was getting old and wasn’t scared of the appeals process anymore. Maybe he wanted to see justice done for a change, rather than just seeing lip service being paid to the principle. As Browder subsided into his seat in sulky silence, Friedman said to Hannah, ‘go on.’
Hannah swallowed, then began to speak slowly. ‘Your honour, seeing Mr. Milken again, has… How can I put it? Restored my memory, and its crystal clear.’ She closed her eyes and began to speak again, eyes still closed. ‘You see, when we were in the Lazarett. That’s what they called the fake infirmary where they murdered the old, the sick and the very young - they were shot there and thrown into the pit just as we were. When we were there - and I can see it now, in my mind, clear as day - after he had shot grandpa, Matthes had to remove his black aviator goggles, because they had been sprayed with grandpa’s blood when he shot him at close range.’ Hannah swallowed again. ‘You see, when he took his goggles off, I saw his eyes. And I will never forget that because they were so beautiful. Such a contrast to all that death, murder and horror all around us.’
‘What do you mean, so beautiful?’ Friedman asked, puzzled.
‘You see they were, how can I put it. They were a different color. You see,’ she said, looking over at Milken. ‘His visible eye is grey. But I can tell you, if you were to order him to remove his eye patch, you won’t see an empty socket. You will see a bright blue Aryan eye.’
This time the court really did erupt.
Chapter 31
In Angel’s study Pascal made straight for the bookcase at the rear of the room. That’s where Chantelle had said the secret space was located. She ran her hands over the spines of the books on the shelves, feeling for anything that didn’t belong there, but she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get the thought of Cara out of her head, and what Schmidt might be doing to her - it made her blood run cold.
But she had to keep going, doing something, anything to keep her mind running, occupied, praying Schmidt would bring Cara there. She checked her watch, sweat starting to stand out on her forehead. She looked back at the door to the study and then up at the camera looking down at her with its dark, black, searching eye. She turned back to the bookcase.
She needed to calm down. She started again over the book covers, taking a bit more time, feeling more carefully, and then she felt the surface of one of the books that didn’t feel right. It was hard and shiny, like plastic, and then she could see a join. She worked her finger nail into it and prized the back cover out, until it opened on a hinge. Underneath there was just a small panel containing a red and a black button. She pressed the red button. Nothing happened for perhaps 5 seconds, during which Pascal worried it might be a secret alarm, but then there was a satisfyingly loud thunking sound, as if gears were engaging, and then the whole panel of the bookcase began to move sideways. She was in.
It was a large space, like four ordinary sized rooms joined together. There was art on the walls. Looked like old masters and some modern stuff, all lit with their own lights as if in a museum. But there were also large blow-up photographs, intermingled on the walls between the glorious art, but these photo’s weren’t artistic, they were in the most part graphic depictions of shootings. Mostly groups of naked children, shivering over freshly dug pits, but there were also pictures of multiple hangings, gallows with eight or nine bodies hanging down from the ropes; groups of laughing SS men in the background.
There were also glass cabinets scattered around the room containing gold, silver and platinum pendants, rings, brooches and other types of jewellery
Pascal took it all in, in the space of a few seconds as she moved through the room. Set up at the end of the space was a large screen with some chairs, set up like a private auditorium. Then there was a larger leather recliner chair set out on its own directly in front of the screen, positioned to provide the maximum viewing experience. On the arm of the chair was a control panel. Pascal looked back at the door; nothing so far, and there didn’t appear to be any cameras inside the room. Maybe no one was about; perhaps they were all at court with Angel.
Pascal slumped into the recliner chair, pressed what looked like the power-up switch. The screen lit up with a kind of low glimmer fader effect. Pascal looked down the control panel and pressed “play”.
* * * *
Cara hadn’t been scared when she had climbed out on the ledge, but now she could feel the fear climbing up inside her. She had reached the corner, and couldn’t get around it. Then she looked down and froze, petrified; stuck. She looked to her left at the open window which now seemed a long way off.
Then she remembered the phone. Rupert was held tightly in her lap and it was easy to unzip him and pull the phone out without moving her bottom on the ledge. But when she got the phone out it was dead, just a black, blank screen.
As she looked back at the window John’s head appeared, poking out, looking huge like a giants. For a second she saw screaming rage on his face, almost instantly replaced by that phony smile, but there was also something else showing. Then she realized he was scared. His eyes were locked onto the smartphone she still held in her hand.
He smiled. ‘You want Rupert to die, sweetheart? You’re both going to fall, you don’t crawl back in here.’
‘You killed Daddy, didn’t you?’ she said matter of factly. She looked back at him and now he was leaning out and he had a large gun in his hand. He was looking carefully at the ledge, calculating whether he could crawl out.
Then he leveled the gun at her; at the last moment she realized he was aiming at the smartphone she was holding out face on to him, so she snatched it back as he fired. The bullet went through her sleeve, grazing along her arm and pulling her around sharply, then off the ledge. A world of skyscraper towers seemed to rear up around her head as she swung out into
the void, just one small hand holding onto the edge. She desperately, with the last of her strength, scrabbled around, pulling herself back, grabbing the ledge with her free hand also, then pulling herself up so that now she was facing the wall, resting just on her elbows on the ledge, body dangling down. She turned back and watched over her shoulder as Rupert fell, tumbling head over heels downwards. The smartphone now lay just in front of her, also on the ledge.
* * * *
After five minutes or so of watching clips, Pascal’s eyes looked dead and empty, bled out by sorrow. She dug out her cell phone and began a text message for Morganna, but then she heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, very close, and then she was sprinting towards the sound. It had to be related to Cara she thought desperately as she careened down the corridor, and then she was at the open bedroom door going into the room.
She took in the scene in an instant; Schmidt had his back to her and was leaning out of the window, head turned to the right. But as she came hurtling in, he must have heard her or sensed her approach, because he was instantly pulling back, whirling around at the same time as he leveled the gun at her.
‘Whoa there. Slow down,’ he said with a grin. ‘Just in time for the show. Your little friend’s about to take a dive. One perfect pavement Pizza, coming up.’
Pascal froze, not understanding what he was saying, then it dawned on her and she was brushing past Schmidt, not caring about the gun. She leaned out of the window. Cara was now just clinging on, face to the wall. She was about nine feet away, head down on her elbows, which were what was holding her in place.
Behind her Pascal heard Schmidt say, ‘you get her back in here with the cellphone, you get to live a bit longer.’
She ignored Schmidt and, so as not to scare Cara who hadn’t seen her yet, said, calmly, ‘Cara. I’m here and I’m going to help you in. Don’t move.’