Brandenburg (40 page)

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 smiled. “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.

The old castle on the hill was lit up, and Volkmann realized that there was nothing to suggest to the casual visitor the brutality that had taken place in the nearby camp.

A small town in Germany like so many others, with young people in good spirits filling the streets and inns in the days before Christmas. He looked at them as he passed the crowded bars, their glasses raised, their voices loud and harsh and full of confidence.

It was almost midnight when he got back to the hotel. As he lay in bed in the darkness, he could hear the voices in the street below as the bars emptied. They carried up to his window, some of them shouting drunkenly. Then they faded, and a little after midnight a train rumbled past in the station across the street.

MEXICO CITY. 1:02 A.M.

Kruger stood beside the shimmering turquoise water of the swimming pool in the darkness as he smoked a cigarette, thinking of the
telephone call from Asunción. He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed.

Disturbing. Most disturbing.

So close.

And now this.

He would have to wait until Lieber arrived to hear the full story, but what he had heard had unsettled him. Unsettled all of them. Haider said Brandt had left saying they would be back for the meeting with Lieber. The others had gone to bed, leaving Kruger alone.

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the poolside table, then walked through the villa to the rear gardens.

Five rooms through to the kitchen, then he stepped outside onto the back lawn. He checked his watch, noted the time, and then began to walk across the moonlit grass at a smart pace.

Balmy. The sound of crickets and the smell of eucalyptus. But Kruger’s mind was on security. Once Lieber arrived in Mexico City, he would have him checked for tails before he brought him here. He couldn’t take any chances.

Kruger reached the clump of trees at the end of the back lawn and checked his watch again, holding the face up to the moonlight.

Two minutes exactly.

Already he had timed how long it took to cross the expansive rear lawn to the old concrete garage behind the clump of trees, but he wanted to be certain. He passed one of the armed guards halfway across, acknowledging the man’s nod.

He reached the old garage and stepped inside. Darkness. The smell of grease and oil. The large double wooden doors at the end were bolted.

He crossed to the doors, past the dark form of the vehicle, and pulled back the bolt, swung the doors out and open. An unlit alleyway lay outside, overgrown with weeds.

Haider had told him about the garage exit. A hundred yards from the villa proper, half hidden behind a clump of eucalyptus trees, the alleyway cut down to the maze of back roads in
Chapultepec. Unlikely that it would be needed, but it was an ideal emergency exit.

He bolted shut the garage doors again, then flicked a wall switch. A blaze of light flooded the room, and the dark, anonymous Ford stood waiting in the center of the garage.

A full tank of gas and a fresh battery. He made sure Schmidt took the car for a daily run since their arrival. All part of the contingency plan.

Kruger took one last look about the room, then switched off the light, closed the door, and walked back across the lawn toward the villa, counting his steps.

36

MEXICO CITY. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 3:15 P.M.

Chief Inspector Eduardo Gonzales was a thin, energetic man of fifty with the gnarled face of a tough street fighter.

His office overlooked the Plaza de San Fernando and had an excellent view of sprawling Mexico City. On his desk were two ashtrays to assist his three-pack-a-day habit. One of the ashtrays was made of glass; the other a beautiful, ornate affair of quebraco wood in the shape of a half-cut coconut shell, carved by the Indians in Paraguay’s Chaco. A present from his friend, Captain Vellares Sanchez.

Ugly, brooding faces were cut into the dark quebraco; the receptacle clasped by a perfectly carved wooden hand that was so in contrast to the ugly carved faces that it resembled on first sight some hedonistic chalice. The faces looked like the shrunken heads of
Amazonians one saw in the museums. But not frightening. Rather, they served to remind that evil had to be held in check by a strong hand.

According to the Indians.

So Sanchez had told him when he presented the gift in Caracas years ago.

Now strong December sunlight poured into the office. Hot, despite the season. A freakish warm front in from the Gulf of Mexico. An air-conditioning vent in a wall below the ceiling blew out a faint stream of chilled air.

A metal tray cluttered with bottles of sparkling water and a jug of fresh, iced lime juice and four glasses lay on Gonzales’s desk. Despite the heat, they had remained untouched since a young policía had brought them in fifteen minutes before.

Four men sat around the desk. Gonzales and his senior detective, named Juales, a rugged, short-necked man with a squat body and bushy eyebrows, sat on one side, Sanchez and Cavales on the other.

Eduardo Gonzales inhaled on a cigarette, coughed throatily, then looked across at his two visitors. Both men were tired, their eyes red-raw after their long journey.

A police car had taken them directly from the airport, siren blaring, lights flashing. The formalities had been dispensed with, the greetings and well-wishings over. Sanchez briefly explained his reasons for wanting Franz Lieber, alias Julius Monck, followed.

Gonzales listened, his brow furrowed in concentration while Sanchez spoke. Now it was Gonzales’s turn. He coughed, nodded to his detective, Juales. “Okay. Let’s tell our visitors what’s been happening.”

Juales leaned forward. He wore a shirt and tie, and a portable phone was clipped to his belt, near his holstered Smith & Wesson. Juales spoke slowly as he read from written notes.

“The subject, Julius Monck, alias Franz Lieber, arrived in Mexico City two hours ago. One-sixteen local. I had six men watching him in the arrivals terminal, another two on the airport ramp, dressed
as airport staff so we could identify him as soon as he stepped off the plane, from the photograph you sent.” Juales glanced at Sanchez, then back at his notes.

“Once he collected his luggage, he went straight through customs. I’d briefed one of the customs men to stop him, and he checked the luggage thoroughly. Nothing of interest. There’s a list of the contents of the single suitcase, if you want it.”

Sanchez waved his hand in reply. “Later, please go on.”

Juales looked down at his notes again. “The subject went to the exchange counter, changed U.S. bills into pesos. Then he made one call from a public kiosk at one-forty-seven. The officers said the call lasted just under one minute. Lieber seemed anxious. Soon as he finished the call, he went to a taco stand outside the terminal and bought a glass of fresh fruit juice, drank it, then went to the taxi stand. At one-fifty-seven, he took a taxi to the City Sheraton, arrived there at two-forty, and booked in straightaway under the name of Julius Monck.” Juales looked up from his notes. “He was still there as of fifteen minutes ago. Room two-fifteen.”

“And now?” Sanchez asked.

Juales tapped the portable phone clipped to his belt. “I’ve got six undercover men at the Sheraton. If Lieber goes in or out, gets visitors, or makes a call, my men will let me know—”

Gonzales interrupted. “The call Lieber made, you’ve got something on that yet?”

Juales shook his head. “Not yet.” He turned to Sanchez and Cavales. “After Lieber made the call at the airport, I had one of my men wait by the telephone until a colleague from the technical division came. They hit the
REDIAL
button and recorded the digital dialing pips. They can play it back and decode it in the tech lab and find the number. Then we can trace to wherever it was called.” Juales glanced at his wristwatch. “We ought to have that soon.”

Sanchez nodded, saw Gonzales smile through stained-yellow teeth.

“Technology,” said Gonzales, waving his cigarette. “It’s beyond
an old policeman like me. These young guys in the basement lab are like Einsteins. They play with computers all day. Me, I’d go nuts down there.” He smiled.

Sanchez nodded his head and smiled faintly. His bones ached to the marrow, the city’s high altitude making his chest hurt when he breathed, and fogging his brain. He glanced at Cavales. The detective stared ahead blankly, then rubbed his raw eyes.
He must be feeling the same,
Sanchez thought. A bed would be welcome; a cold shower first, then sleep. But there was no time for that. Not yet.

He turned to look at Gonzales. “The passport Lieber used—did he ever use it to visit Mexico before?”

Gonzales went into a fit of coughing, pounded his chest with his fist before he replied. “We checked, Vellares. The answer’s no. Never. No Julius Monck with that number passport.”

Sanchez addressed Juales. “How many nights did Lieber book at the Sheraton?”