Brandenburg: A Thriller Paperback Read online

  After dinner, they walked back through Petite France. The old town with its pretty period houses and its narrow, cobbled streets and babbling river was deserted, and at one of the weirs Volkmann stopped to look down at the water. He was aware of her looking at him, and when he turned to look back, he saw the blue eyes linger on his face.

  Before he could speak, she had stepped closer, and as her lips brushed his cheek, he could smell her perfume.

  She slid her arm through his, and they turned and walked back through the empty cobbled streets.

  He looked back twice, but could see nobody following them.

  35

  STRASBOURG. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20

  On Tuesday morning, Volkmann went into the office at ten and found two telephone messages on his desk. One was from Ted Birken in Zurich, asking to be called back, and the second was from Ivan Molke, urging him to contact him right away.

  He tried Molke’s number first, but the voice mail kicked in and he left a message to say he returned the call.

  When he telephoned Ted Birken’s number in Zurich, he heard the polite, cheerful voice of Birken reply.

  “I’ve made a little headway, Joe. Have you got a pen and paper ready?”

  “Is it good news?”

  “Hard to say. The director of Berlin Document Center, a chap named Maxwell, is an old friend. I asked him to check back through the early Nazi Party numbers and try to come up with a list of anyone close to Erhard Schmeltz’s.

  “Maxwell wanted to know what it was about. I told him the story, that you needed to find anyone still living who had had a number close to Schmeltz’s. He agreed to have his people go through the files of a hundred numbers: fifty numbers above Schmeltz’s party number and fifty below.

  “Then I checked with the WASt. Out of the hundred names, only two are still alive. The first is a man named Otto Klagen, born in Berlin in 1910. He was a young man when he joined the party. His membership application was dated November 1, 1929.”

  “Where’s Klagen now?”

  Ted Birken sighed at the other end. “That’s the problem. He’s in an old folks’ home in Düsseldorf. I telephoned the home, and they said Klagen had a stroke months ago and his mind’s not the best, so I doubt he’d be of much use to you even if he has heard of Erhard Schmeltz.”

  Volkmann said, “What about the second man?”

  “Wilhelm Busch. He’ll be pretty old by now. Like Schmeltz, his place of application was given as Munich. He joined the party as a youth.”

  “Have you got an address?”

  Ted Birken gave Volkmann an address in Munich’s northern suburb of Dachau. “I hope he’s in better shape than Klagen. Otherwise you’ll be completely wasting your time.”

  “Have you got a telephone number for Busch?”

  “I’m afraid not. But you’d probably be best just calling cold and catching him unawares; otherwise he might not even consider talking to you.”

  “What was his war record like, Ted, any idea?”

  “According to Maxwell, Busch ended up in military intelligence—the Abwehr. He wasn’t wanted for any war crimes, and his rank in 1945 was Hauptmann—captain.”

  “What’s his background after 1945?”

  “Busch spent ten years in the Gehlen Organization, the forerunner of the German security services. It was riddled with ex-Nazis, as you probably know, so his credentials would have served him well. But he’s a very old man now, long retired and living on his pension. If you need any more help from the Berlin Document Center, you can mention my name.”

  “Thanks, Ted, I appreciate your help.”

  “Not at all, my boy. It’s been good talking with you.”

  • • •

  Five minutes later Volkmann’s telephone buzzed. It was Ivan Molke returning his call.

  “We need to meet and talk, Joe.”

  He heard the urgency in Molke’s voice. “Is there a problem, Ivan?”

  “I think you could say that. I’ve pulled off my men watching Kesser.”

  “What the devil’s wrong?”

  “I’d rather not talk about this over the line, Joe. Can we meet? There’s something I think you ought to see.”

  “I could drive down to Munich, be there after lunch.”

  “Let’s meet in Augsburg. It’ll shorten your journey, and besides, I need to get out of the office. You know where the main railway station is in Augsburg?”

  “No, but I’ll find it.”

  “Two-thirty, in the main bar. Do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “When you drive down, check your tail.”

  Volkmann frowned. “What’s up, Ivan?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you, but just do as I ask,” answered Molke, and then the line clicked dead.

  • • •

  Volkmann stepped into Augsburg’s main railway station. It was almost two-thirty.

  On the drive down, he watched in his rearview mirror but no cars were tailing him, and he had stopped at half a dozen filling stations en route to be certain.

  He saw Ivan Molke hunched over a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette in a corner of the bar. He appeared tired, his face tense. Volkmann joined him, ordered a beer.

  Dark rings stained Molke’s eyes. “No tails on the way down?”

  “Clear all the way. What’s up, Ivan?”

  Molke stubbed out his cigarette. “You came clean to me on Lothar Kesser, Joe? You told me everything I needed to know?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “I put two of my men on Kesser. One of them managed to get into the guy’s apartment yesterday evening. Kesser’s girlfriend’s name is Ingrid, and she’s his live-in. By the look of her, she’s about six months pregnant.”

  “Go on.”

  “My man had maybe ten minutes in the place before Kesser arrives back. The second man kept watch and alerted him. My guy in the apartment hadn’t much time, but he managed to find a notebook belonging to Kesser and a spare set of keys to the apartment. He didn’t have time to plant a bug on the landline, but he photographed a couple of the notebook pages and got out just before Kesser came up the stairs. My men gave me a mold of the keys and the photo prints they took of the pages in Kesser’s notebook.”

  Molke quickly lit another cigarette. “Then, in the middle of the night, I get two calls within the space of ten minutes. It’s the two guys I put on Kesser. One of them says his wife wakes up about three o’clock and goes downstairs for a glass of water. She sees the door to the study is open. She flicks on the light, and there’s this guy searching through her husband’s briefcase. She screams. The guy pulls a gun and points it at her like he’s going to blow her head off. By the time her husband gets down the stairs, the intruder’s gone, and his wife’s fainted.”

  Molke registered the look on Volkmann’s face, before he went on. “The next time the phone rings, it’s Pieber, the second man. He’s at his girlfriend’s place, and he leaves late. He notices he’s being followed home. Two guys in a dark-colored Volkswagen. When he gets to his apartment, he goes to his bedroom and checks the window but sees no one below. But half an hour later, he hears whispered voices outside the apartment door. He puts on the TV, walks around the apartment, making noise like he’s very much awake, then he calls me. I get there ten minutes later, but there’s no one outside the apartment. But someone’s been at the door lock, no question.”

  Volkmann said, “You’re certain this has something to do with watching Kesser?”

  “Joe, there’s nothing my men are working on at present that would involve guns.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “My men are off Kesser. Your people have authority, and they carry weapons. My boys can’t, and it’s getting too dangerous.” Molke crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “I just won’t risk them getting hurt, Joe. You understand?”

  Volkmann nodded. “You think Kesser knew your men had been in his apartment?”

  “That’s the funny thing. I asked them
the very same question. They said they were sure Kesser suspected nothing, didn’t know he was being watched. But obviously my men were.”

  Ivan Molke removed a notebook from his pocket, flicked it open. “I’ve got a record of Kesser’s movements. Twice he’s driven up to Kaalberg Mountain. Yesterday and the day before, he drove up there about seven in the morning, and left about noon.”

  “Did your men see any other activity there?”

  “No one came or left apart from Kesser, and the armed guards are still there.”

  “What about checking out the place like I asked?”

  “I talked with a few guys I know at the ministry. They say that there’s maybe a dozen places in Bavaria used for military research. But they didn’t want to talk in detail. So I went back to the village where I bought the mountain gear and asked around.”

  “And?”

  “Nobody I spoke with seemed to know anything except that there’s a lot of private land up there. Maybe a couple of square miles. There’s a big mountain house, the one we saw. And a flat, concrete building directly behind the house that could be a laboratory. Someone bought the site a couple of years back, but none of the locals seem to know who it belongs to now or what goes on. They say the site’s been marked off with ‘Entrance Forbidden’ and ‘Private’ signs all over the place.”

  “What do you think?”

  Molke shrugged. “You said there were some books in Kesser’s place, military communications stuff, so it’s possible he might be involved on some government hush-hush project when you consider his background. And after what happened to my two men, I’d say it’s likely. I can’t stick my nose in there, Joe. I could have my license pulled.”

  Volkmann considered. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would Werner Bargel let me see Kesser’s file if the man’s a government employee working on a secret project?”

  Molke shrugged. “Unless Bargel suspected that your people were onto something. Did he ask you to get back to him if you came up with anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe that’s it.” Molke hesitated. “Though something’s pretty weird. The pages in the notebook my men found in Kesser’s apartment. There were maybe a couple of dozen pages of lists of names and what looked like some pages of diagrams of some sort. But my men only had time to photograph a couple.”

  The lady serving behind the bar came to replace the ashtray with a fresh one and wipe the table, and when she had gone, Ivan Molke took out an envelope and shoved it across.

  “Maybe you ought to take a look at the photographs.”

  Volkmann slid out the envelope contents. Inside were two enlargements of narrow, faint-ruled pages. One of the pages had two names with an X marked beside each. The second contained what appeared to be a roughly drawn map of some sort of building. Beside it was another map, this one giving directions, and underlined were the names of several towns. On closer examination, Volkmann saw what looked like the word Kloster circled in ink above the drawing. The German word for “monastery.” Volkmann looked at the names again.

  Horst Klee.

  Jürgen Trautman.

  He looked up at Molke. “Any idea who they are?”

  “None. And like I said, there were lots more names. My man only had time to shoot one of the pages with names on it.”

  “What about the map?”

  “I checked it out this morning.”

  “And?”

  “The directions were clear enough. It’s an old deserted monastery near Salzburg, over an hour’s drive from Munich. There’s no one there, check it yourself. I’ve drawn you a proper map with directions on how to get there.” Molke tore a page from his notebook and wrote on it.

  Volkmann accepted the page. “Who owns the monastery? Do you know?”

  “After the religious order moved out ten years ago, the German government bought it, but it hasn’t been put to any use since.” Molke shrugged. “If Kesser’s still working for them, it could be someplace they’re planning to set up and use. So I’d tread carefully, Joe.”

  Volkmann tapped the photographed pages from Kesser’s notebook. “Mind if I keep these, Ivan?”

  “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If state security comes knocking on my door, I want your word you’ll explain that I was working for you.”

  “You have it, Ivan.”

  Molke reached into his pocket, slid across a set of keys. “They’re for Kesser’s apartment. I had them made from the molds.”

  Volkmann slipped the keys into his pocket. “Thanks for your help.”

  “One more thing. The photograph of the woman. The one you found in the Chaco.”

  “What about it?”

  “I checked up on the specialist people our government used during the Nazi trials.” Molke paused. “There was a historian. She specialized in the Nazi period and pretty much knew all the players. She just may be able to help with the photograph, or know someone who can.” Molke shrugged. “It’s all I can come up with, Joe.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Hanah Richter. She was on the history faculty of Stuttgart University. But that was over twenty years ago and she wasn’t young even then, so I’d say she’s well retired by now. And I’m assuming she’s still alive.”

  “Okay, I’ll have my people check on her.”

  • • •

  Volkmann walked back to the underground garage.

  The streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers but no one was tailing him, and when he reached the car, he sat there for ten minutes, thinking over what Ivan Molke had told him. None of it made any sense, none at all.

  All the clues seemed to suggest that Kesser was still involved in government research work and there was little to implicate the man.

  He decided the best thing to do was to concentrate on the information he had: the two names Ted Birken had come up with, whose Nazi Party numbers had been close to Schmeltz’s—Otto Klagen and Wilhelm Busch—and the sketch Ivan Molke had given him from Kesser’s notebook.

  Next, he called Erica at his apartment. He explained about Ted Birken’s information, but he made no mention of what Ivan Molke had told him. She said, “What about this old man, Busch, who was close to Schmeltz’s party membership number?”

  “That’s where I’m headed. He lives not far from Dachau.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “That depends on whether I can locate Busch or not. And even if I do, he may not even want to talk. You’re sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

  “I’m going to take a long walk in the Orangerie and then come back and drink your wine and watch television. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  Volkmann smiled. “Keep your fingers crossed that Busch is alive and kicking. Talk to you soon.”

  • • •

  It was almost four when he reached the old town of Dachau. Dominated by an ancient castle, it looked a picture of Bavarian rural charm. It seemed somehow absurd to Volkmann that the place that had once lent its name to the infamous concentration camp should be lit up with glittering seasonal lights.

  He found the address in a street of prewar detached houses, a ten-minute walk from the road that led down to the old concentration camp. As Volkmann went to ring the doorbell a young woman pulled up in the driveway in a white Audi. She carried several shopping bags up to the door, and Volkmann went to help her.

  “Danke schön.” The young woman smiled as she reached in her purse for her key. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “I’m looking for Wilhelm Busch. I believe he lives here.”

  “Are you a friend of my grandfather’s?”

  “No, we’ve never met.” Volkmann produced his ID, and the woman stared at it for a moment.

  She turned suddenly pale. “Are you with the police? My grandfather isn’t in any sort of trouble, is he?”

  Volkmann smi
led. “No trouble at all, I assure you. May I speak with him?”

  “He’s not here. My boyfriend’s driven him to Salzburg to visit a relative. My aunt hasn’t been well.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Sometime tomorrow. Perhaps you can call back. Can I tell him what this is about?”

  “It’s a private matter. I’d really rather discuss it with him.”

  The woman shrugged. “Very well, I’ll tell him you called.”

  And with that, she turned the key in the door and stepped inside.

  • • •

  He found a small hotel opposite the park near the S-Bahn station and checked in for one night. His room overlooked the park facing the station, and when he had shaved and showered, he phoned the duty officer in Strasbourg.

  It was a young French officer named Delon who came on the line, and Volkmann explained that he wanted two names checked. He read out the names from Kesser’s notebook.

  “You’ve got addresses or descriptions?”

  “Sorry, André. But see if either name comes up on our files. And if there’s any connection between the two men.”

  “Which area—criminal?”

  “I don’t know, so you better leave it open.”

  The Frenchman sighed. “If you’re trying to link them, that means we will have to do a random check on the names first. It may take some time.”

  “If you have no luck, ask the German desk to help. It’s more than likely their territory, anyway, judging by the names. But there’s a chance the three are government research employees, so if the Germans say their files are restricted, back off and don’t explain.”

  He paused. “One more thing. A historian, Hanah Richter, who used to work on the faculty at Stuttgart University. She’s long retired but see if you can locate her.”

  “Okay. This ought to keep me busy for the shift.”

  “Be good, André.”

  He took a walk through Dachau town to get some air, aware of his restlessness, and wondering if Sanchez had made any progress. He hoped so; he still felt he was floundering.