The Bergamese Sect (22 page)

‘
It would be helpful, I think.’

They talked for some time, had coffee brought by a man who looked more like the gardener than the valet. The afternoon wore on, the midday heat not lessening as the shadows grew longer.

About four o’clock, Castro pointedly looked at his watch and indicated he would like to see the soldier’s papers. The academic led him out of the study and back into the hall. An enormous stairway wound up the wall, the banister made of expensive mahogany. Paintings covered the walls, most of them landscapes, the odd impressionist burst of colour.

Schlessinger began ascending the stairs but Castro stopped at their foot. ‘You have an impressive collection of artworks,’ he said, wondering how to broach the subject foremost on his mind. The Bellini painting.

‘
Yes, my father was quite a collector.’

‘
Do you have any renaissance pieces?’ Castro asked.

‘
None, they’re mainly 19th century, a few modern artists from the region. The Blue Riders, if you’ve heard of them.’

Castro hadn’t. They passed on, taking the stairs to the second floor, and entered a large room overlooking the terraced gardens and the moors below. Schlessinger motioned for Castro to take a seat and opened a large wooden cabinet. He drew out a pile of books and a few boxes of papers and placed them on a circular table by the window. ‘These are all the papers that were left.’ He fingered through the tops of the papers in one of the boxes, absentmindedly. ‘I’ll leave you for a while to look through them. You mentioned you’d like a taxi about six o’clock?’

‘
Yes, that would be great.’

The academic disappeared through the door.

Castro turned back to the table, leant on his arms over the Schlessinger documents. The stack of papers and diaries loomed at him. It was daunting. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. He sighed.

Picking up one of the diaries, he thumbed through it. There were fourteen of them, running from 1932 to 1945 – each one a standard black journal book with faded yellow pages. Inside, the immaculate, tiny script of the soldier filled the pages, his archaic German handwriting breathtakingly beautiful.

Before he’d fled to the baking desert, Castro had been a rising attorney specialising in company law. He knew the only way to expose fraudulent practices was to read everything three times – question everything, check everything, give no one the benefit of the doubt. It would take time, but the clue he was looking for could be a single word, a sketched memory or an unnoticed slip of the pen. He began as any lawyer would, at the beginning, skimming through the soldier’s journals with his barely adequate German. It was the only way.

Castro sat at the desk and pored over the papers for almost two hours, then pushed them aside, unenlightened. They were uninteresting – details of movements during the war, day-to-day experiences, thoughts about family and home. The usual themes of a wartime diary. There was no confession; no clue to the man’s hidden aims. No mention of Lanza or the Bellini portrait.

What had Lanza said? Castro could hear the old man’s trembling words.
In the summer of 1940 a German officer, a Captain called Gerhard Schlessinger comes to me at the Moscadelli residence.
In the summer of 1940.

Castro grabbed the 1940 diary and leafed through to April. He scanned over each entry, searching for mention of the Italian city. Pages flicked before him, the tiny writing offering nothing.

The French campaign. It was all about the battle for France. Sometimes in horrific detail, sometimes just a few simple words, hurriedly scribbled, revealing the endless drudgery of bloody war. Castro read all the way through to October, then went back and read more carefully from March. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Schlessinger hadn’t been in Bergamo when Lanza said he was! He was commanding a battalion in northern France for almost the entire year. The old curator must have made a mistake, his ancient memory failing him.

But Castro felt strangely uneasy with the conclusion. By his own admission, the Italian’s wounds were deep from his encounter with the fanatical soldier. You’d expect him to know when those events took place.

Castro looked at his watch. It was well past six o’clock. He gathered his things together and left the papers behind. He met Michael Schlessinger on the stairs, arranged to return the following day and stepped into the waiting taxi.

As the driver turned out of the drive, Castro spotted a light coloured car parked across the road. They accelerated past and Castro saw a man inside brushing a thick moustache, unashamedly staring at them. It was the bank manager.

―
§ ―

The phone was ringing. Castro tried to ignore it, but it was starting to get on his nerves. He glanced at his watch. Five past midnight. Who the hell was phoning him at five past midnight? Who the hell knew where he was? He tried to ignore the noise, but it clearly wasn’t going to stop. Hoisting himself up on an elbow, he switched the lamp on and made a grab for the receiver.

‘
Hello? Mr Castro?’ said a voice.

Castro rubbed his eyes with his free hand. ‘Yeah.’

‘
Mr Castro, I want you to listen very carefully,’ said the voice. It was a man’s voice, calm but with authority, a faint German accent noticeable under the perfect English.

‘
Who is this?’

‘
Sorry Mr Castro,’ the man answered, ‘I don’t have time to explain.’

‘
What do you want?’

‘
Please listen, Mr Castro, you are in danger.’

A frown crossed Castro’s face. ‘What?’

‘
I can’t explain now. You do not have much time. Two men are coming to your room. They are going to kill you.’

Crawling out of bed, Castro grabbed the telephone and skipped over to the window, dragging the cord behind him. He peered out through a gap in the curtains. Beyond the line of trees surrounding the hotel, the waters of the Staffelsee were reflecting the moon. The town seemed quiet, sleepy.

‘
I don’t find this funny,’ he barked down the receiver.

‘
Please, Mr Castro, this is no joke,’ the man said. ‘You must leave your room immediately.’

‘
Who are you?’

‘
I promise everything will be made clear to you. But you must leave your room now. Take the elevator to the basement, turn left and go through the kitchens. There is an exit in the far corner. I am waiting for you.’

‘
Look, I’m really not in the mood for this.’

‘
Mr Castro, please do as I say and ask questions later. You really are in serious danger while you remain in your room. Leave now.’

Castro started to speak but couldn’t form the words. It was preposterous.

‘
Please, Mr Castro, leave the room now,’ the voice repeated.

The line went dead. Castro stared at the receiver for a moment, numbed, then hung up. What the hell was this? He reached for some clothes and pulled them on quickly, stuffing his wallet and key card into his back pocket. He pushed his few clothes inside his bag and swept the contents of the desk and the bathroom table into it. Grabbing the door, he swung it open and stepped out into the corridor.

The elevator stood only twenty yards away. As he headed toward it, a faint chime sounded and the aluminium doors slid open. Inside were three men, one holding a tray on his upturned hand, the other two in casual suits. All three exited, room service turning toward another wing, the suited men stopping and watching the hotel employee disappear. The elevator doors closed. The two men paused briefly then headed toward Castro.

They were thin and tall, their stride light but purposeful, their expressions cold and sinister. They didn’t speak, just walked slowly past each room, noting the number on each door.

A faint glimmer of trepidation washed over Castro. He bent his neck down, unconsciously trying to avoid their gaze, but they made no move toward him as they approached. One of them slowed slightly as he passed, briefly eyeing him over his shoulder, but didn’t stop. The face was pale, the thin features angular.

Castro reached the elevator, pressed the button, and turned to look back down the corridor. The two men had stopped and were talking, engrossed in a whispered discussion. Then one of them reached inside his jacket and drew out something dark and metallic.

Suddenly, a muffled shot cracked through the air and the two men leapt at a door, disappearing from view.

A rush of adrenaline flooded into Castro’s stomach, its ferocity weakening his knees. He stumbled backwards into the door of the elevator, turned and instinctively tried to prise the doors apart. Taking a step back, he glanced up and saw the red display ticking agonisingly slowly toward his floor. He swept around, looking for the stairs, but they were nowhere obvious.

Two thuds from a weapon’s silencer shook the air. Then the sound of breaking furniture swept down the corridor, followed by hurried voices snarling at each other. Castro thumped the aluminium door in frustration. ‘C’mon!’

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open painfully slow. He squeezed through, knocking a housemaid to her knees, spilling her pile of towels over the floor. He hit the button to close the doors. But they were still opening!

Down the corridor, he saw the two men rush from his room. They turned, noticed the open elevator and began sprinting toward it. Castro thumped the button again, then pressed it hard and held it down. The doors shuddered and began the slow journey back.

‘
Stay down,’ he shouted at the girl on the floor. He pressed his body tightly against the wall of the elevator, hiding behind the slim control panel, but he could still see the men racing toward him. One held a gun, pointing at the elevator. Castro closed his eyes and screwed up his face, agonised by his confusion and helplessness, expecting the inevitable.

There was a thud and Castro opened his eyes. The doors had caught an arm, the gun flicking from side to side, searching for a target. He rammed his elbow onto the button to stop the doors opening again, and swung his shoulder bag at the flailing arm. The gun fell to the floor. Reaching down, Castro thrust the weapon into the gap between the doors. Instantly, the arm disappeared and the doors closed.

The girl was still on the floor of the elevator, sobbing. Castro knelt down and helped her up. ‘You’re okay.’

‘
Was ist dies?’ she asked, snivelling.

Castro stared at the gun in his hand. He swallowed hard, trying to dislodge a bitter taste of fear in his throat. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said.

―
§ ―

The alley outside was narrow and dimly lit. Castro stumbled down the steps and stood in the road. Twenty yards away a car sat, its engine humming. The lights flashed twice and Castro walked briskly over.

In the window, he could see the dark outline of a man at the wheel, beckoning him to get in. He lifted the handle, pulled the door open and peered in. It was the bank manager, his eyes narrow and dark; his expression scared, intense.

‘
What the hell’s going on?’ said Castro.

‘
Get in; I’ll explain soon, but first we have to get away from here. Quick, before they come.’

A thump came from the hotel door. Castro dived into the seat and the car reversed quickly up the alley, crunching loose chippings beneath its wheels.

They sped down several side streets, the driver eyeing each corner carefully, and made their way out of Murnau. At the autobahn, they slid into the sparse traffic heading for Münich, the driver continuing his silence.

Castro watched the road ahead, the lights of oncoming cars almost sending him into a daze. His head pounded; the sleepiness and exertion combining into drunkenness.

Reaching for the seatbelt, he felt something heavy in his jacket pocket. The gun. He glanced at the driver. The man’s moustache was wet from nervous licking and beads of sweat ran down his temple. Castro whisked out the weapon and thrust it firmly beneath the driver’s chin.

‘
Okay, what’s going on,’ he said angrily. ‘Why are two men I’ve never seen trying to kill me? And who the hell are you?’

The bank manager was trying to keep his eye on the road but the gun was forcing his head up.

‘
It’s to do with Gerhard Schlessinger,’ the German replied.

‘
Go on.’

‘
It would be foolish to shoot me at the wheel of a car,’ the man’s voice strained.

Castro let the gun drop slightly; releasing the man’s stretching neck. ‘Pull over.’

‘
Let me get off the autobahn. We may be followed.’

Another mile and the driver veered off the autobahn, heading into the hills and eventually turning up a dark, winding lane. He pulled up on a grassy area and shut off the engine.

‘
Right, start talking,’ said Castro, renewing the force on the man’s chin.

‘
My name’s Armin Koestler. I’m a journalist. I work in Münich. About two weeks ago I got a call from someone telling me you were coming to Murnau.’

‘
A call from who?’

‘
It’s not important. Someone who works in the house; the Schlessinger house. I pay him to spy for me. He saw your letter to Michael Schlessinger.’

‘
And what’s that got to do with you?’

‘
It’s a long story.’

‘
I’ve got plenty of time.’ Castro took the gun away from Koestler’s chin, rested it on his knee, still pointing at the German’s face.

Koestler continued to stare out the windscreen, his head motionless. ‘I’m investigating something Schlessinger was involved in. Something that others want to keep quiet. When I learnt you’d be coming, asking questions about him, I knew you’d be in danger. I waited for your arrival in Münich and followed you to Murnau.’

‘
Why didn’t you warn me before? I saw you in the hotel, watching me.’