Collision of Evil (34 page)

The next day broke wet and gray, laced with a cutting, damp April breeze. The snows were gone, but spring seemed hesitant to emerge in earnest, as if fearful it might be struck down by a resurgent Father Winter. I drove the short distance to the Freilassing train station, a prosaic structure that managed to seem run-down even after a fresh painting.

I entered the building and consulted the large clock in the lobby. It was as I was standing there that the caller’s voice rumbled directly behind me. “Good morning, Mister Bergdorfer, good to see you.” I turned to see a tall man with olive skin and a mane of thick hair, as jet black as the beard beneath. The foreigner had large brown eyes that dominated his face. His demeanor was serious, and I sensed that I was looking at an individual who did not routinely smile. He wore a waist-length black leather jacket and American jeans.

“Prince Hafiz conveys his regards,” the man said.

Even after these initial words, I was a bit shocked to have
him standing there unexpectedly. “Your train arrived early?” I asked, confused.

“No, I took an earlier train.”

“But, presuming you’ve come from Munich, that means you’ve been waiting here an hour. You should have called; I would have come earlier.”

The stranger shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s of no importance.” Only later did it occur to me that the prince’s friend had intended all along to precede my arrival, to observe me and ensure that I arrived alone. I had been under surveillance by this mysterious visitor.

We chatted a bit in the bare station hall, in a stilted way, before I suggested that we start our journey. “It will take time,” I noted, “not the drive but the walk that follows.” The visitor nodded, pointed to the pair of expensive walking boots he was wearing and said, “I am prepared.”

It occurred to me that I still did not know the name of the prince’s friend, and I inquired as to how he would like to be addressed. His brow wrinkled for a second. “Call me Rashid,” he replied. I suspected that Rashid was not his real name.

We drove from the train station, out of Freilassing, and into the countryside. I made a foray into small talk, but this proved unsuccessful, so I concentrated on driving the winding country road lined with linden trees. We headed toward Traunstein and the mass of the mountains beyond, majestically purple in the distance.

“When did you last visit the cave?” Rashid asked at one point, puncturing the prevailing silence.

“Long ago,” I responded. “A decade or longer. Why should I return? The equipment is a footnote to history, an unacknowledged legacy. After the war was long over, I returned to the cavern once; nostalgia, I suppose. The place was undisturbed. The cave entrance was still concealed with forest debris, and large bushes had grown there in the intervening years, offering more
cover still. Everything was as it had been. The crates were still sealed. I just gave the place a cursory look. Curiosity satisfied, I walked away and never ventured there again. Until today.”

“Until today,” Rashid repeated, and then returned to silence. Still, his question caused me to raise a query as well.

“Rashid, why is the prince interested in this matter? It’s a vestige of the past. Dispatching you here to see old stuff from the war is a considerable effort.”

Rashid did not reply for a moment, and I entertained the feeling that he did not like the question. He answered just when I thought he would ignore the query altogether. “The prince is avidly interested in history, it provides him enjoyment. Due to business obligations, he often cannot travel himself. I am his surrogate. I take pictures and give him written accounts that he enjoys reading. I don’t mind this, it is my job.”

“I see,” I replied, apparently not convincing in my tone.

Rashid sighed, glanced out of the side window at the passing meadows, and continued. “I know you find it strange. I think the word in English is ‘eccentric,’ isn’t it? Very well. Let’s say that the prince is eccentric. That is his way. But he is a just master, and I try to fulfill his wishes without complaint.” His gaze returned to the windshield, and he again became a cipher.

We continued the journey in pristine silence, until I parked the Mercedes by the side of a narrow country road in the valley beneath the precipice that we would be climbing.

My climbing days are behind me. I am still fit, but the ascent from the valley was trying. At first the climb was gradual, on a seldom trodden trace through abandoned meadows. The grade of ascent changed markedly once these open spaces were behind us. The way through the forest was steep, and my heart pounded from the exertion. My companion, as silent now as during the ride, did not appear to suffer from the exercise. We continued our ascent into mid-afternoon. The forest was thick with growth and the ground a tangle of fallen branches, forcing us to pick our
way with caution. “I know where we are,” I said to Rashid at one point, “it’s not far.”

He nodded his dark head at my words.

And then, shortly after the terrain leveled, we were at the entrance to the cavern. An eruption of dolomite stone rising from the soil formed a massive wall in front of us. With effort, I brushed aside some stubborn clinging vines, revealing the yawning entrance to the cave. Taking a flashlight from my pocket, we moved into the darkness. We proceeded gingerly, visibility imperfect in the play of moving light and shadow. After a few minutes maneuvering along the uneven walls of the cavern, we entered a large natural chamber, formed in prehistory. The flashlight played across the expanse. The pale beam illuminated stacks of wooden crates, coated with dust, but otherwise looking no different than they had in 1945. I could make out the stenciled cautions emblazoned on the crates.
Achtung! Vorsicht!
Attention! Be careful!

There was a flash and I recoiled, wartime training taking over. I recognized in a second that the flash was only Rashid taking a photograph. He held an expensive-looking camera in his hands and took a sequence of shots, the flash engaging with each advance of the film. He glanced at me for a moment, simply explaining, “For the prince.”

He was finished in minutes and ran a hand over his beard, staring at the crates. “Are you sure these have not been disturbed? Are all of them here?”

The question struck me as odd. “This is everything.” Nothing has been touched. I’m sure of it.”

“I want to make certain,” he announced. Before I could react, Rashid slipped a mean-looking knife from his leather jacket, bounded to one of the crates, and urged the blade between two wooden slates. There was a creak of resistance and the boards separated, revealing gray packing paper beneath. Rashid pushed this aside.

“What are you doing?” I asked with some alarm, unsure as to Rashid’s intentions.

“Inspecting the goods, as the prince instructed,” he said. “Inspecting for what?”

Rashid busied himself widening the opening into the crate, carefully removing paper from the interior. “I want to make sure that the equipment is here. I need to be certain that it seems functional.” It was in this moment evident to me that Rashid’s—or the prince’s—interests went beyond historical curiosity.

Rashid’s hands revealed a gleaming metal surface. It looked to me to be one of the component chemical storage tanks. Then came another surprise.

“Is this nickel or silver lined?” Rashid asked me as his hands stroked the surface of the vessel. It was apparent that Rashid was no simple servant. He knew something about the anti-corrosive requirements of Sarin production equipment.

“Silver lining,” I heard myself reply.

“Good,” Rashid said. “Nothing seems damaged. No corrosion. Excellent.” He replaced the slats as best he could.

It was now all clear to me. History did not concern Rashid or his prince. Their interests were in the present. Rashid had uncovered some lined tubing and was nodding approvingly at its condition.

“Rashid, I can see that you know what you’re looking at. I’ve gone to some effort to take you here, which reflects the trust I’ve placed in you and the prince. I expect you’ll speak frankly to me.” I was aware that I was taking a chance. After all, Rashid was thirty years younger than I and in excellent condition. He was also wielding a knife and we were alone in a remote cavern. Rashid placed the knife on top of the crate, pushed his hands into his jacket, and stared at me.

“Mister Bergdorfer, you’re right; I should be honest with you. But there had to be precautions. The prince is interested in history but more interested in political events, especially in the
Middle East, where we face a determined Zionist enemy. Israel has crushed Arab people underfoot and we need to level the playing field. Upon meeting you, the prince believed he had found a sympathetic soul who could help us in our defensive requirements. Do I make myself clear?”

He had made himself abundantly clear. “Yes, Rashid. The prince wants to remove this equipment to the Middle East to employ against the Israelis, right? You want to make sure that this isn’t just corroded junk. Your inspection also ensures that I’m no charlatan. I understand.”

“Good,” he said, raising his thick eyebrows. “It’s easier this way. When you left the Kingdom, the prince made inquiries. Through some sources we were able to determine your former identity. You were previously called Kaltenberg, Mister Bergdorfer, if I am not mistaken. We also confirmed your accomplishments with the SS and in chemistry. This made the prince increasingly interested in the story about the equipment. I am an employee of the prince, as I told you, but my profession, like yours, is chemistry. He selected me for this assignment to determine if the equipment remains functional.”

“You want to bring these crates to Saudi Arabia and produce stocks of Sarin to use against Israel?”

“Things aren’t that simple. We want the equipment, true. If we can ship it back to the Kingdom with no one knowing, fine. But that will require great care. If the European authorities ever found out, they would halt the shipment. As for attacking the Israelis, I don’t know about that. I don’t involve myself with politics.”

“You realize that this equipment is not your property. It doesn’t belong to you.”

Rashid smiled coldly with a display of teeth; I thought of a shark. “You’re right. The equipment is not ours. It is also not yours. It belongs to the former German government. Possibly the present German government constitutes the new legal owner,
but I am, I fear, no lawyer.What to do? The prince has suggested the basis for an understanding, if you would care to hear it.”

“Please continue,” I said, curious as to what proposition would be forthcoming.

Rashid began walking the confines of the chamber, illuminated in the beam of the flashlight. “It’s simple and reasonable. The prince is prepared to regard you as the rightful owner of the equipment. He would like to obtain it from you without fuss. The prince is willing to pay you for the equipment and for your surrendering all interest in it.”

“Sounds reasonable so far,” I replied, truthfully.

“Good. As for the compensation, the prince has given this much thought”.

I waited, saying nothing, one hand on my walking stick and the other holding the flashlight.

“There is, of course, the simplest way—paying you an amount of money for the goods. That might not be wise, however, under the circumstances. A bank transfer to your account can be traced. Cash is also not optimal, especially if you were caught with undeclared income by the tax authorities. The prince proposes another possibility. He is aware that you own a portion of the firm you work for. The prince is prepared to use his influence in the Middle East to guarantee you sales there. You win commissions from your firm, stock value increases, and profits will be considerable. All will appear normal business.The prince is prepared to be generous. He can guarantee you sales of ten million marks annually for the next five years. I ask you to calculate your personal gain from such an arrangement.”

“It’s certainly an interesting proposition,” I commented, not yet wanting to signal my willingness to accept the offer.

“There is one other thing,” Rashid said at length. “You are proud of your race from Berlin, understandably so. But what did you accomplish? Those who were supposed to employ the equipment later never materialized. The mission was incomplete. Unfinished. You must feel that yourself. What Prince Hafiz offers
you is fulfillment. The fruits of your labor will be turned over to those who appreciate your sacrifices. For a man like you, that should mean more than money. More than this I cannot offer you.

It was enough, of course. I heard his words like an epiphany. It occurred to me that I had been carrying emptiness with me all these years. Now I felt that burden lifting. I was delivering the equipment into the hands of history. I told Rashid that I accepted his offer. This entry is the only record I leave of this momentous transaction, the consequences of which, I expect, the world will one day learn.