Echo of the Reich (21 page)

And there was a further irritation because the map book was intended for motorists and so most of the roads were identified by numbers, not by names, and he could see no sign of a road named
Kauptstrasse
anywhere in the area. He knew he would need to buy more detailed maps, more like the British Ordnance Survey sheets, to find what he was looking for.

The only other option was the satnav unit, but before he could ask it to find
Kauptstrasse
, he had to be able to identify the town, village or district in which the road was located. He switched on the unit anyway, waited until it had locked onto the satellites, then selected Berlin as the city and typed in
Kauptstrasse
, but the result was more or less what he’d expected: the unit couldn’t locate it, simply because the road wasn’t in Berlin itself, but in some suburb or outlying village.

He glanced at his watch. It was already after nine, and Bronson was hungry and thirsty, but also physically exhausted and emotionally drained, wrung out by the events of the evening. He needed food and drink, and then somewhere to stay for the night.

But for now he needed to get some sleep.

23 July 2012

Just over an hour after Angela ended the call to Bronson, the entry-phone in her apartment buzzed, and a couple of minutes after that she opened the door in response to a double knock. A tall, dark-haired man stood waiting outside on the landing, wearing an open-necked shirt, a light-colored pullover and a knee-length leather coat. He was strongly built, with the powerful arms and broad shoulders of a committed sportsman—he looked like a swimmer, or maybe a rugby player.

“Steven,” she said, opening the door wide and ushering her guest inside. “I’m so glad you could make it. I really didn’t know who else I could call.”

Steven Behr stepped forward and gave Angela a kiss on each cheek. They’d known each other for years, ever since first meeting at university, and had always remained good friends. But they rarely saw each other simply because of their hectic but very different lifestyles. Angela knew Steven
had a high-powered job in IT but had never really been sure exactly what it was. She just knew he was somebody she could rely on and, more important to her at that precise moment, his German was fluent.

The giveaway was his unusual surname. Angela knew that Steven had done a little research into its origins, and had discovered that it had most probably been derived from Bähr, and that name from the nickname Bär, meaning a “bear.” And, she had often thought, rarely had any surname been more appropriate: Steven Behr was in many ways remarkably like his animal namesake. He was strong and courageous, but blessed—or perhaps cursed—with an impatient and highly competitive streak that meant he didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact, she knew he didn’t suffer them at all, which was probably one reason for his success in business.

“You know you can call me anytime,” Steven said. “I’m always pleased to help if you need a shoulder to lean on.”

Angela led the way into the sitting room, where her laptop was open on the coffee table in front of the sofa. In the opposite corner of the room, her TV was switched on and displaying one of the satellite news channels, but with the sound muted.

“Take a seat, and I’ll get you a coffee.”

“Thanks. A cappuccino would be great. Got any biscuits?”

Angela smiled. Steven Behr’s appetite was legendary, but he never seemed to put on any weight because of his incredibly active lifestyle.

“I thought you knew me better than that,” she said. “The best I can do is instant with a dash of milk.”

“Pretty much what I expected, actually.”

Steven walked across to the leather recliner by the side of the sofa and sat down, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.

A minute or so later Angela reappeared, put the mug of coffee down on the table, along with a plate of assorted cookies, and resumed her seat in front of the laptop.

“I gather you’ve got a bit of a problem?” Steven asked, picking up a digestive.

Angela nodded.

“Well,” she said, “it’s not so much me as Chris. I don’t pretend to know anything like the full story, but he’s had to go over to Germany. Something to do with his work, with the police, but I really don’t know what.”

“The ideal choice, I suppose,” Steven said, “because he doesn’t speak a word of German, as far as I know. Typical of the bureaucrats who run the police these days. So what’s his problem? Does he need a translator? I could go over there for a couple of days if that would help.”

Angela shook her head. “Not a translator so much as a translation. The problem is that he overheard a German word, a word that could be important because of the circumstances in which he heard it, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean, it’s not in any of the dictionaries I’ve looked at so far. That’s why I thought of you, because you’re fluent.”

Steven nodded.

“So you think he might have misheard it, and I might recognize what the word should actually be?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m all ears. What did he hear?”

“He thought it was ‘
Laterntrager
,’” Angela replied.

For a few seconds Steven didn’t reply, just finished the biscuit and took a sip of coffee before replacing the mug on the table. Then he glanced across at Angela.

“You’re right—he probably did mishear it. That’s a fairly uncommon proper name in Germany, but as far as I’m aware it doesn’t have any other meaning. Could it just have been someone’s surname?”

“I don’t think so. Because of the context, Chris seemed to think that it referred to an object of some sort, perhaps to a kind of weapon or even a machine. Something physical, anyway.”

Steven nodded, and mouthed the words a few times. Then he nodded again and looked back at Angela.

“That changes the dynamic,” he said. “I can think of one word that sounds quite like ‘
Laterntrager
’ and it probably does refer to some kind of a mechanical device. But it’s not ‘
Laterntrager
;’ it’s ‘
Laternenträger
.’”

Angela looked puzzled for a moment.

“I see what you mean,” she said, “because the words are very similar. But what do you mean when you say it might ‘probably’ mean a mechanical device? If you know the word, surely you know what it means?”

Steven smiled and shook his head.

“It’s not quite as simple as that, Angela, and it’s a long and pretty confusing story. The easy bit is what the word means. ‘
Laternenträger
’ doesn’t really have an exact translation in English, but I suppose the closest would be ‘lamplighter.’”

Angela’s face reflected the confusion she was feeling.

“‘Lamplighter?’” she repeated. “What on earth could that have to do with what Chris is investigating?”

“I don’t know what he’s investigating, obviously, and I wouldn’t expect you to tell me because it’s presumably some kind of undercover operation. But that word is archaic and you really wouldn’t expect to hear any German today use it in conversation. Except in one connection, and that’s a dark and disturbing story that began in Germany in the nineteen thirties, and ended in Poland in April nineteen forty-five as the Russians advanced from the east, mopping up the last pockets of Nazi resistance as they did so.”

Angela stood up and walked across to the doorway leading to the kitchen.

“I’ll make some more coffee,” she said, “because you’re right: this is going to take us a while. I know almost nothing about Nazi Germany and the Second World War, and I have a feeling it’s going to take you some time to educate me. I’ll bring a bottle of brandy as well,” she added as an afterthought, “just in case you need some extra stimulation to keep going.”

Five minutes later, Steven took a sip of brandy, then put the glass down on the coffee table and leaned forward.

“We don’t know exactly when, or even precisely where or who, but at some time during the early nineteen thirties one or more German scientists began working on an idea so radical that it led directly to the most important and highly classified weapons project ever undertaken by the Nazi regime.”

Steven Behr had Angela’s full attention. She trusted
his knowledge implicitly. He knew more about the Second World War, and especially the events that took place in Germany during that incredibly turbulent period, than anyone else she’d ever met.

It was, she knew, going to be a long evening, but by the end of it she was certain that she’d have some kind of an answer to Chris’s question.

24 July 2012

Urgent pressure from his bladder awakened him just after six in the morning, by which time it was already quite light, and he immediately looked all around. There was nobody in sight, so Bronson stepped out of the car, relieved himself in a nearby bush, and did a quick circuit of the area, again checking that he was unobserved.

Then he started the car and headed out of the woods and toward Bestensee. When he reached the main road running east–west through the town, he turned left, toward the closest autobahn junction. As he cleared the western end of Bestensee, he caught a brief glimpse of a road sign, did a double take and almost immediately pulled the Hyundai to a stop at the side of the road. There was no traffic behind him—it was still very early in the morning—and he backed up the car a few yards until he could see the sign clearly.

The word written on it was
Hauptstraße
, and it suddenly
dawned on him that perhaps, in the half-light of the previous evening, he could have mistaken the initial letter of the street name he’d seen. He’d thought it was a “K,” but perhaps it had actually been an “H.” Had he somehow just found the road he’d been driven down?

Bronson grabbed the map book and opened it at the correct page. He studied that section of the map for a few moments, then shook his head. The
Hauptstraße
he was driving along was the wrong shape—it simply had too many bends in it—and as far as he could see it didn’t cross any stretch of canal or river. But maybe
Hauptstraße
was a common street name in German, like “High Street” or “Main Road” in English? Bronson already knew that
strasse
or
straße
meant “street,” and it wasn’t too big a leap of logic to guess that
haupt
could mean “high.” If so, there could be dozens of roads with that name in the area.

But still that might help him track it down, because he could set the satnav to take him to every single
Hauptstraße
in Berlin, and then in each of the outlying districts. It would take time, but he’d find it in the end.

At eight forty local time, seven forty in the United Kingdom, he parked the car in a vacant space in the Am Kahlberg service area, put the battery back in his mobile phone, switched it on and dialed Angela’s number. She answered on the third ring; Bronson knew she was always awake by half past seven.

“It’s me,” he said. “Any joy?”

“And good morning to you, too,” she replied briskly.

“Sorry. Good morning. Any joy?”

“I suppose that depends on what you mean. I know
my limitations, Chris. I’m linguistically challenged, so I asked Steven Behr to come around last night and help me out because he speaks fluent German. The first point is that the word
Laterntrager
doesn’t appear in German dictionaries, but Steven told me it’s a fairly uncommon proper name. It has no independent meaning, just like—oh, Burdiss, for example—has no independent meaning. It’s just a name, and not a very common one at that. So my first question is: could the person you were talking to have been referring to somebody by that name?”

“I don’t think so,” Bronson replied. “I can’t remember the exact phrase he used, but it was something like ‘before the
Laterntrager
arrives,’ as if he was referring to an object of some sort. So maybe he was using the word as a code name or nickname.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Angela replied, not sounding particularly convinced by his argument. “Steven applied a bit of lateral thinking and suggested it could be another German word that sounds very like
Laterntrager
, but this word
is
in the dictionary:
Laternenträger
. Could that have been what he said?”

Bronson murmured the word a few times, trying it on for size, as it were.

“I suppose it could be. So what does that mean?”

“It’s an archaic word, one that Steven wouldn’t expect most Germans to have ever spoken, purely because of what it describes, though he was sure they would be able to tell you what it means. The literal translation would be ‘lantern bearer’ or ‘lantern carrier,’ and the English equivalent is most probably ‘lamplighter,’ the men who
used to walk around the streets of London and other big cities lighting the gas lamps in the days before electricity. Is that any help?”

“I don’t know,” Bronson replied, “though I suppose it makes more sense. I’ve been thinking all along that Marcus—that was the man’s name—was probably referring to some kind of weapon, and it’s quite common in the military for weapons to be given nicknames, often names that relate to what the weapon is or what it does.”

“Really?”

“Yes. There’s a six-barreled Gatling minigun that’s fitted to tank-busting helicopters and aircraft, and that’s often called ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ because of the effect it has on its targets.”

“That’s a bit sick, really, Chris.”

“Blame the military’s very basic sense of humor. Anyway, I’m just wondering if this is the same kind of thing, if this ‘lamplighter’ name describes what the weapon does, rather than what it is. It could be some kind of massive incendiary device, something that’s designed to ‘light up’ everything around it when it’s triggered. And from the way Marcus was talking, I think this weapon—assuming we’re right, of course—is a device with a high yield, and the effects of it would be devastating, quite literally.”

“Are there weapons like that?”

“There are lots of types of incendiary bombs, of course, but they’re usually quite small because they’re designed to start fires, not blow things apart. I’m not aware of any big incendiary weapons, apart from the really nasty stuff like napalm and Willy Pete. That’s another
really inappropriate nickname for the white phosphorus bombs the Americans used to have, but I’ve been out of the army for a long time now, so I’m right out of touch.”