The Grave of Truth (16 page)

‘They never found him,' she said. ‘Sigmund was convinced of that. And not just Sigmund. I had a visitor tonight. Your friend Albert Kramer.'

‘
Your
friend,' he corrected.

She nodded. ‘I want to ask you something. Why is he on your list of people connected with the Bunker?'

‘You won't like this,' Max said. ‘He may have been a friend of your husband's, but he wasn't always one of the bright lights of German liberalism. He was in the Hitler Jugend with me. We grew up together, and he was one of the most fanatical bastards in the unit. His father was in the Waffen SS, and Albert Kramer was just like him. He took over the firing squad when I refused; I saw him standing over Fegelein, pumping bullets into him as he lay dying.' He saw the look in her eyes, and said, ‘Maybe he changed after the war. People can change. But that's how I knew him.'

She got up and stood by the fireplace, facing him. ‘He
was
a Nazi?' she said. ‘He's kept that hidden very well. Sigmund trusted him and liked him. He came here and said he wanted to go into politics and carry on Sigmund's work for Germany. He asked me to help him.' She leaned against the mantelpiece, one foot balanced on the fender. The line of the thigh was provocative; Max forced himself to look at her face.

‘He talked about loving my husband and wanting the same things for Germany. He was very convincing. Except that only two months ago Sigmund asked him to join him and he refused. Now he wants to take his place. Which is a lot of nonsense; he wanted an excuse for going through his papers. He said that—“I'll need to co-ordinate his policies through his personal papers.” That's why he came here and told a pack of lies. He wants to see the file. He knows what Sigmund was looking for, and he's trying to find it too. I realized that, suddenly, tonight. I didn't know his background. I didn't know he'd been a Nazi.' She stepped away from the fireplace and stood in front of Max. ‘Don't you see—that boy has never been found by the Russians or anyone else. But people know he exists. Albert Kramer knows, and he saw a chance to follow up on Sigmund's leads. And he was ready to throw everything in the balance to get his hands on the information Sigmund had collected.'

‘He hasn't changed,' Max said slowly. ‘He's just gone under cover for the last twenty years.'

‘If he's a neo-Nazi,' Minna said, ‘that means
they
haven't got the boy. I don't think you should wait to see Mühlhauser; I think we should fly to Munich tomorrow and see Gretl Fegelein in that convent. I believe she has the secret.'

‘All right,' he said. ‘We'll go to Munich. Why don't we go to bed now?'

She didn't step back when he put his hands on her shoulders; she didn't move when he brought his body close and bent down to her mouth. ‘Don't hold back from me,' he said. Her lips were open and her eyes were shut. He kissed her slowly at first, and then harder, his hands bending her in to him. He felt her nails digging into his neck. There was a moment when he was undressing her when she broke free and said, ‘I hate myself … I hate you.…' He put his hand over her mouth.

Chapter 5

It was the first time Maurice Franconi had seen Kesler despair of an assignment.

‘We've tried everything,' he exploded. ‘I've spent a small fortune bribing the tradesmen who deliver to the convent, I've hung about for days on end in case she came out, they hung up on me when I phoned and said I was a relative! There's no way we can get to her!'

When in difficulty Maurice favoured what he called a blanket operation. ‘We could set the place on fire,' he suggested. He had a weakness for this method.

‘Don't be a fool,' Kesler snapped irritably. ‘With our luck, she'd be the one to get rescued. I don't know how to tackle this—I really don't.' He slumped down on the bed and swore in Polish. Maurice put an arm round him.

‘Come on,' he said. ‘Cheer up. We've never failed yet. And anyway we can't afford to fail on this one. Think of all that money!'

‘I am thinking of it,' Kesler said. ‘It was your bloody greed got us into this in the first place!'

‘Oh, all right, blame me—' Franconi turned away.

‘If you're going to bite my head off, I'm going out!'

Kesler threw up his hands. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I didn't mean to take it out on you. But this one's getting on my nerves. It's not like any ordinary woman working in a convent. They're not an enclosed order, she could come and go and see visitors. They've built a wall round her. If we do get inside, we're not going to be able to fake an accident like the other two. And the orders specified that. Make them look accidental. No police, no investigations. You realize we won't
get
the money unless we carry through the whole contract?'

‘I know that.' Franconi still sulked. ‘I had an idea, that's all.'

‘Tell me, for Christ's sake,' Kesler said. ‘What have you thought of—come on, don't be sulky. I said I was sorry.'

‘They must have a priest who hears confessions,' Franconi said. Kesler looked up. ‘Yes, they must. So?'

‘So we find out who he is,' Maurice said, ‘and we make a substitution.'

‘That's very clever,' Kesler said warmly. ‘Very clever thinking. Something happens to the regular priest and a strange one goes instead. He asks to see Gretl Fegelein and, because he's a priest, she'll come. Maurice, you're a genius!'

‘I'm a Catholic,' he grinned. ‘I know a bit about convents and the way things work. So do you, you old sinner. I'm surprised you didn't think of it.' He was delighted by Kesler's praise. ‘It shouldn't be difficult to find out who the regular chaplain is. I think we should try the nearest parish church.'

Kesler got up. ‘We will,' he said. ‘starting today. I'm sick of this place. I want to get it over as quick as we can, and move on to the next one.'

Franconi nodded. ‘Bonn,' he said. ‘I've never been there.'

‘I have, once,' Kesler said. ‘It's a dreary hole—we won't want to hang around there for long. Now, let's get a street directory and find the nearest church.'

Twenty-five minutes later he circled the Church of St John the Apostle with a green biro pen. ‘There we are. Two streets away from the Convent of the Immaculate Conception. We'll try there first. Then this one—St Gabriel—that's about a block away. Look up the telephone number, Maurice. We can call through from downstairs.'

They went out and took the lift to the hotel foyer, and while Kesler slipped into the half cubicle and dialled the presbytery of the first church they had chosen, Maurice pretended to read a copy of
Die Süddeutsche Zeitung
, and watched the reception to see if the woman clerk was taking any notice of them. She wasn't.

Kesler came out and shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘They don't serve the convent. Give me the next number.'

‘I'll try,' Franconi said. ‘I'm feeling lucky today.'

When he came to join Kesler a few minutes later, he was grinning. ‘You got it?' Kesler asked.

‘They don't go to the convent either,' he said. ‘But they told me who did. He's a retired priest, and all he does now is say Mass for the nuns and hear confessions. He lives in a hostel on the Burgstrasse.'

‘How did you get all that?' Kesler asked. He was genuinely pleased when Maurice showed initiative and skill in his work.

‘I said I had a sister who wanted to become a nun. I wanted to talk to a priest with experience of convent life, because the family was worried. The man I talked to went out of his way to be helpful. I had a feeling he wasn't too fond of nuns and convents. Probably one of the new “progressive” priests—'

‘Huh,' Kesler snorted. ‘I know the kind. Folksongs and guitars on the altar, and no celibacy. I don't know what's got into the Church these days.'

‘I quite agree,' Franconi said. ‘No wonder we don't go any more.'

They went out of the hotel into the morning sunshine, and took a bus to the Burgstrasse and the hostel for retired and aged Catholic priests.

Albert Kramer got the telephone call at seven in the morning. He was shaving; in spite of being fair he grew a tough beard, and he preferred the old-fashioned method of lather and blade to the electric razor. He wiped the soap off his face and picked up the phone in his bathroom. There was no preamble from the caller. ‘Two comrades are going to have visitors,' the voice said. ‘The day after tomorrow.'

‘Who are they?' Kramer said.

‘Josef Franke and Günther Mühlhauser. The Chief and a CIA visitor; very senior, all stops being pulled out for him.'

‘Thank you,' Kramer said. ‘I'll warn our friends.' He hung up. He went back to the mirror and resoaped his chin and shaved himself. The old ties of loyalty still operated, even in the heart of Holler's Intelligence kingdom. A schedule had been seen and the warning phoned through. Kramer had been an active member of the Odessa organization since the end of the war. He had run messages for them during the early days of the Occupation; his house had been used as a refuge for fugitives, and he himself enrolled under the most solemn oaths when he was eighteen and a student.

He had helped Odessa channel wanted Nazi officials of the SS through to Italy and Spain, where they took ship for South America, and in return Odessa had financed his education and his first business venture, as an importer of copper from Chile. That early business had been a cover for the activities of the underground SS escape route, but his natural flair for making money expanded it and added to it, until he was doing Odessa a favour rather than the other way round. Then he had married the nymphomaniac daughter of one of post-war Germany's most important industrialists, ignored her activities and made all possible use of his father-in-law. Now he was free of all but his old associations, and he held fast to them. His belief in the ideology of National Socialism was absolute; it had never wavered at any time throughout his boyhood or his adult life. He believed in the supremacy of the Aryan people and the truth of Adolf Hitler's political creed that Germany was destined to overcome her enemies and rule the world. He hated the English, the Americans and the Russians, and he had a profound physical revulsion from the Jews.

The core of his personality had not altered since his indoctrination in the Hitler Jugend; it was concealed so effectively that no one suspected him of being anything but a contemporary German of the best kind: brilliantly successful in business and widely consulted on government financial policy. A sportsman who sponsored promising young athletes, a patron of the arts, a close friend of one of Germany's most liberal politicians, Sigmund Walther. He was all these things because they were the hard shell that concealed the crab. He was a Nazi and he was waiting for the rebirth of National Socialism in another guise. And because the old links still existed and were strong, the information passed to Sigmund Walther by Heinrich Holler had been whispered to him. Eva Braun had borne the Führer a child. Walther was trying to find it. So he had set out to win the politician's confidence and become his friend. When Sigmund suggested that he join the Social Democratic Party as a candidate he had refused. He didn't want political office; he had enough power as an outside adviser. He wanted Sigmund to tell him about Janus, but Sigmund never did. So he had gone to see the widow, to offer his help and insinuate himself into her trust.

He didn't think Walther would have confided in her, because he personally considered women inferior, and took it for granted that Walther felt the same. He wanted to go to bed with Minna Walther very badly; she was the cool, Nordic type that appealed to him. He suspected that she was very sexual; he had an instinct for women and a lot of success with them. He wasn't deceived by the well-bred airs and graces of that Prussian lady, with her five children, and a husband like Sigmund who hadn't even been unfaithful to her once in nineteen years. He wanted Minna but he wanted to lock himself up with Sigmund's investigatory notes, and when she spoke of a successor to her husband, he had grasped the opportunity and offered himself.

He was confident of success. Not immediately; she might take a little time to convince. And seduce into sleeping with him. Once she had done that, she would be quite amenable to the rest of his desires. He had ordered flowers to be sent the morning after he had called on her. He didn't expect her to telephone; he was prepared to make a second approach, more personal than the first. He patted the aftershave on his cheeks and jaw; it stung pleasantly, and he liked the musky smell.

Mühlhauser and Josef Franke. Fifteen years in a Soviet labour camp for Mühlhauser and he was still being persecuted. Kramer didn't know him personally; he had merely given him a job when he was asked to do so. The same for Franke, who applied to the security service; the personnel officer had been given notice of his application and asked to view it favourably. He got the job through the network, although he didn't know it. Kramer kept a special diary with names and addresses and telephone numbers. He unlocked his dressing-table drawer and took it out, looking for Günther Mühlhauser's phone number. He dialled it, and waited. It rang for some time, before a woman answered. Kramer asked for Herr Mühlhauser and the former Obergruppenführer came to the phone. Kramer didn't give his name.

‘You're going to have a visit, the day after tomorrow. The top man and an American. Be ready for them.'

‘Yes,' the voice said. ‘I will.'

‘Contact a Josef Franke, security services. Warn him.'

‘I will do that. Anything else?'

‘Just be careful,' Kramer said; ‘I'll call you after they've been. Try and find out what they want.' He hung up. Why would Holler and some senior CIA operator bother with a played-out old war criminal like Günther Mühlhauser? He'd been debriefed until there was nothing left to analyse but the dirt under his fingernails. Fifteen years in Soviet hands had made him less of a wreck than most, but he couldn't be of any use to any Intelligence service after all this time.