Collision of Evil (24 page)

The sound of the prisoner’s labored breathing filled the room.

The blond man stroked his square chin and considered. “You admit to belonging to a group, a secret group you called it. Where is the group located?”

Ibrahim looked at the dirty floor beneath his feet, still shocked that he had given in to the infidel, but terrified at the prospect of becoming a disfigured cripple. “The group is in Bavaria, Germany.” Perhaps torture could be avoided, Ibrahim reasoned, by parceling out generalities that would not endanger his brothers. He would try to satisfy his interrogator while revealing little.

The Mossad man nodded slowly. “All right. Your group is in Bavaria. Where exactly”?

“We come from around Gamsdorf, about an hour from Munich.”

The questioner removed a small pad of paper from underneath his smock and made a note with a ballpoint pen. “Good. Where are your friends now? At what address can they be found?”

Ibrahim swallowed bile. “I don’t know. I would tell you if I knew, but I don’t know where they are.”

The blond man grimaced. “Bad answer. Not the type of cooperation I had in mind, Ibrahim. But let’s see if we can’t still do business. Answer this for me: What is the name of the leader of your group? You certainly would have to know that, wouldn’t you?”

Ibrahim’s eyes darted around the room. “He uses many names. Aliases. He calls himself Omar mostly. Due to secrecy, the rest of us don’t know his real name.” Ibrahim tried to breathe evenly, hoping that the deceit worked.

The interrogator smiled. “A plausible answer, suggesting concern for security. Nonetheless, you’re lying to me, which is unfortunate. I
know
that you know the name of the cell leader. You’ve decided not to tell me. So, rather than waste time with fantasy, we’ll return to more corporeal pursuits.”

Without a glance to determine how the prisoner reacted, the officer picked up an electric drill. A second later he located a long drill bit and inserted it into the device with an audible click. After ensuring that the orange electric cable was connected to a wall socket, the Mossad officer pressed down on the trigger.

The drill emitted a high-pitched whine that jolted Ibrahim in his shackles. His mind fought unsuccessfully to block out contemplation of what might happen next.

“This, Ibrahim, is a Black and Decker drill, housing a very solid bit. It can bore quite nicely through a concrete wall. Have you ever seen what a drill does to human flesh? You are about to. Consider it a learning experience.”

The Israeli again moved to the prisoner’s side, the drill cord following in his wake. “We’ll begin by drilling a hole in your thigh; I anticipate hitting bone. At that point, you’ll most likely pass out from the pain, which is a common, involuntary physical response. I will revive you, however, and we’ll continue. I recall one particularly stubborn gentleman that I worked on this way. By the time he finally decided to talk, his legs and arms looked like a wool coat that had been hit by a cloud of moths. He required a wheelchair after that, of course. Let’s see how many holes we need to punch into you. Right about here would be fine, I expect.”

Ibrahim heard and felt the drill shred through his denim trousers. At precisely that moment his bladder gave way and his legs were swept by a warm, damp wave.

“His name is Mohammed al-Assad! Our leader is Mohammed al-Assad, Allah forgive me! He lives in Germany. He’s registered there, you can check! Please don’t use the drill, not the drill.” The prisoner breathed in the stench of his own urine and began to sob.

The intelligence officer observed him carefully. Yes, he concluded, the clinical point of humiliation and self-loathing has been achieved. He can’t go back; he will answer any question now. The man let the prisoner continue to weep and returned the drill to the table.

He was pleased with how the ploy had gone. The American was certain that posing as a Mossad officer had been a propitious start. Terrorists feared the Israelis even more than they did the Americans. Still, the interrogation could have failed. If Ibrahim had been a man of more fortitude, the game would have been up soon enough. There was never any question of actually applying crude physical torture. The screams from the adjoining room were the result of acting at its finest; a Turkish guard had supplied the voice. And other than a light squeeze with the pliers and the theater with the drill tearing the prisoner’s trousers, all of the methods employed had been psychological.

Still, the CIA track record with such practices was positive; most suspects ending up babbling away, frightened to death by their own imaginings. The reason was simple. The terrorists themselves would not have hesitated to employ the most vicious methods to an “infidel” prisoner and automatically assumed the same techniques would apply to them.

The interrogation for actionable intelligence could continue. The CIA officer left the room and its weeping prisoner behind, advising his Turkish colleague Ahmet that they could begin with their list of questions.

Kommissar Waldbaer and Robert Hirter stood silently, contemplating the rectangular granite gravestone before them. The name of the man who lay in the Bavarian earth beneath the stone was engraved in gold leaf. Dr. Johann Anton Bergdorfer. A smaller line of script beneath the name provided the bookends of his life:
12 October 1908–22 January 2003
. Affixed to the polished granite surface was a small, framed oval photograph from which the face of the deceased peered out at visitors. The face was long and angular, eyes deeply set. The visage beneath the swept-back gray hairline spoke of earnestness; the portrait selected to greet the ages betrayed no smile on the thin lips of the deceased. The man in the photograph appeared to be in his sixties. Whoever had chosen the image had decided to forego a
memento mori
recording the remorseless decrepitude of advanced old age that a more recent picture would have betrayed.

“We’re too late,” Hirter said, breaking the silence.

“So it would seem, but perhaps not entirely,” the detective responded softly, almost reverentially. “He’s beyond our reach. But our information indicates that his widow survives and lives here in Freilassing. It would make sense to have a few words with Frau Bergdorfer, don’t you agree?”

Hirter shrugged, signaling skepticism. “I suppose. It’s funny, isn’t it? That’s Kaltenberg buried there, under an assumed name. He carried a lie with him to the grave. Did his wife know that? How much help do you think some ninety-year-old woman, probably half-senile, can really provide?”

Waldbaer raised a finger in mock admonition. “You didn’t read
the information at the police station thoroughly, Herr Hirter. The widow Bergdorfer is not the same age as her husband. She is nineteen years younger. This means that the chances of her being firm of mind are statistically rather high. Whether she’s willing to be cooperative is a separate matter. But let’s determine that ourselves.”

The two men turned from the grave, Waldbaer giving the glass-encased photograph a last fleeting look. Their shoes crunching on the white gravel of the pathway, they left the tree-shaded cemetery behind. Waldbaer had noticed that there were fresh-cut red roses carefully placed on the burial plot.

Frau Sieglinde Bergdorfer was tall and thin, her back unyieldingly straight, her face still handsome, if severe. She betrayed no evident sign of encroaching decline. Neither did she try to mimic vanished youth; her cheeks were bare of rouge and her mouth bore no trace of lipstick. She wore a traditional Bavarian dirndl, a conservative pattern of black and deep red, and a high-collared white blouse with puffed sleeves.

Frau Bergdorfer had not invited the two men into her home, but had led them into the garden behind the rustic Bavarian house, complete with its carved wooden balcony. The garden was walled and private, with a small bronze fountain as a centerpiece, the metal long since concealed beneath a green patina. A gray fieldstone walkway traversed the garden, which was half-wild, by design or neglect. Herbs cascaded from a small knoll in thick bundles, roses and tiger lilies had staked out their own separate spaces, and low-lying heather fought with the grass for dominion.

“Thank you for permitting us to take some of your time, Frau Bergdorfer,” Waldbaer intoned.

“I have lots of time, Herr Kommissar,” the gray-haired woman replied, absent discernable emotion.

The Kommissar noted that the woman had been nonplussed at the arrival of the police at her door. Even the comment that they wanted to discuss her late husband had not prompted any apparent anxiety. She is hard to read, Waldbaer judged, but she might respond to direct questioning, no games required.

The trio walked slowly through the garden, taking in its sights. Hirter remained silent, and the elderly woman seemed to presume that he was Waldbaer’s assistant.

“What did your husband die of, if I might inquire, Frau Bergdorfer?”

The tall form of the woman stopped in its tracks, and she lifted her chin a degree, as if to sniff the air. “You may inquire. My husband died of advanced stomach cancer. He never knew that he was ill until a few weeks before his death. By the time it was discovered, there was nothing to do, except limit the pain. He was old and had enjoyed a very long life. Right up until that final illness he had been quite fit. He walked everywhere—and didn’t need a cane.”

Waldbaer nodded sympathetically. The trio resumed their stroll through the garden. “Let me speak frankly, Frau Bergdorfer. You are aware, I presume, that your husband was in fact named Kaltenberg and changed his identity after 1945. As far as I am informed, your husband achieved high rank in the
Schutz Staffel
during the war. I must assume that activities he engaged in during his SS career motivated his later change of identity. Did he speak of these things?”

Frau Berdorfer reached out a slender arm and inspected a tiger lily. “He didn’t speak much about the war. Perhaps he might have, had I expressed interest in it. But I didn’t. Those were difficult times for everyone of my generation. My husband and I tried to focus on more joyful things. The reasons for his name change didn’t interest me either; he was escaping from things past, I suppose, and I never wanted to know the details. Why should I? But you are speaking imprecisely, Herr Kommissar. What exactly is your interest? Not history, surely. You are a policeman, which means you deal with those who break the law. Are you here to resolve old, alleged SS crimes involving my husband? Crimes from over half a century ago? I would think that whatever he did during the war was buried with him. My husband was a front soldier and he spent years fighting in the east, in the most inhuman of circumstances. For me, he was a German hero, and will remain so, especially in this age of German self-absorption and cowardice—these days everyone has angst about
everything. Whatever my husband did, under whatever name, he did for Germany. What are your true interests, Herr Kommissar?”

“A fair question deserves a fair answer, Frau Bergdorfer.” Waldbaer pushed a hand through his hair and frowned. “My colleague and I don’t care about whatever transgressions Herr Kaltenberg might have engaged in with the SS. You’re quite right—it’s too late for any settling of accounts. My interests are not war crimes. I am interested in solving a recent murder, and your late husband’s final mission of the war, odd as it might seem, could help shed light on that murder. I need to explore your husband’s activities in 1945 to the extent that I can. That is, to the extent that you will permit.”

The old woman shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t imagine that anything that happened in 1945 could have relevance to a contemporary crime. That doesn’t make sense. Still, I don’t mind talking to you, Herr Kommissar, but it’s unlikely that I can tell you much. Horst seldom discussed those times.”

Waldbaer kicked his scuffed shoe at a large pebble. “I understand, Frau Bergdorfer. But let’s see what you might recall.” He employed his most solicitous tone, aware that the woman could at any time decide to say nothing, and he would be powerless to force her cooperation.

“You are aware perhaps that Herr Kaltenberg was in Berlin in early 1945. He was ordered to lead a convoy to southern Germany. That much is documented. The convoy made it to Austria. Did your husband mention that episode to you?” Waldbaer had toyed with revealing a few more details, but decided to hold off. No sense displaying your cards too soon, he had long ago learned.

Frau Bergdorfer sighed, with a sound like dry leaves propelled by a breeze. “Yes, I know something about that journey. It was, after all, his last experience in uniform, something anyone would remember.” She turned and looked Waldbaer full in the eyes, assessing him with her sharp orbs. “He told me the journey had been hugely risky, he wasn’t sure they would make it south, things were collapsing so rapidly along the Berlin front. The Red Army was moving westward, and American and British planes ruled the skies day and night.

Everything in Germany was falling apart.” She stopped, mute for a moment in the dark recollections of a much younger girl.

“Yes, so I understand,” Waldbaer added, his words a device to move the woman’s narrative along.