The Grandfather Clock (25 page)

That night I struggled to sleep. I
searched every possible flight from Paris to Buenos Aires and
expected Klara and Celeste to land in the morning. When I finally
did fall asleep, I was awakened shortly after by my new drunk
hostel-mates doing a poor job of being quiet. At the first sign of
light I walked to a cafe and tried to read about the Germans of
Patagonia over coffee and eggs. The list of officers who called the
region home was extensive. Mainstream news sites revealed that Otto
Meilling, a famous mountaineer and local hero was a leader of the
Hitler Youth. His remote home near Mt. Tronador was a now a museum
and offered overnight shelter for climbers heading toward the
summit. Dr. Josef Mengele, the “doctor” at Auschwitz known as the
Angel of Death had to take his driver’s license exam twice not far
from where I sat.

These were undisputed facts. An
Internet search for Hitler and Bariloche yielded 118,000 results.
The legend was well-known and hotly debated. Understandably,
everyday citizens of the area denounced the conspiracy theorists
and preferred the region be known for its beauty, fine chocolates,
and skiing, rather than as a shelter for humankind’s most reviled
man. For all that I was able to learn, I knew nothing of Oskar
Dietz or Nazi fanatics like him.

For a few minutes, I wondered why I
was still in pursuit. There I was, on a wild chase for a gun that I
would likely be turning over to the rightful owner, a wealthy
prince who didn’t even miss it. In the meantime, the only thing I
really cared about, Klara, was en route to help me, but destined to
learn that I had slept with her best friend in a moment of sheer
stupidity. I loved my new life in Paris, and I thought I loved
Klara.

Getting the gun was the only way to
continue my life in Paris. No gun, no help for Chateau Malmaison,
no life in Paris. I might as well fly back to the States and admit
failure.

I continued clicking
through pages of search results, mostly the same. Then, for some
reason, I clicked the “news” tab at the top. The result was a
similar list, with stories from the London
Telegraph
, and a host of other news
blogs carrying versions of the same story. But near the top of the
list, something more recent, in Spanish, from
La Nación
, one of Argentina’s main
newspapers. I brought up the article and ran the browser’s meager
translation.

“
Group Seeks to Encourage
Controversial Museum in Patagonia: Seeking to capitalize on
notoriety a group in Bariloche makes efforts to enable Hitler
residence as museum.”

It was a crude translation, but
through the mud it appeared that a small, and possibly unpopular
group was seeing to turn the residence at Inalco into a museum of
the area’s Nazi history and lodge for those seeking to sleep a
night in Hitler’s home. The estate had once been on the market for
$21 million. The group sought funding to purchase the property and
develop the plan.

Le Tromblon de
Napoleon
was their down
payment.

I called Oskar.

“
Hello,” came his quick
answer.

“
Oskar, this is
Michael.”

“
Yes, good
morning.”

“
Let’s discuss the gun,” I
said bluntly.

“
What is to discuss? I
talked to Marco. It is very valuable and you are not a
buyer.”

“
Oskar, Marco doesn’t know
what he is doing.”

“
He told me what I need to
know about you.”

“
Did he tell you that I’m
working with America’s largest bank? They have interest in the
piece. Did he tell you that there is European royalty who have
interest in it as well?”

“
A buyer is a buyer,” he
said dully.

“
Yes, but how do you bring
in a buyer? I’m pretty sure that the list of buyers interested in
funding a group of Nazi apologists is short.”

“
Oh, you got me. So now do
we just hand the gun back to you?”

“
You need me.”

“
I don’t need
you.”

“
Listen, Oskar. The gun
isn’t mine. I just want it in the right place. It needs to be back
where it belongs. I can bring you a buyer. I can offer your
organization cover. For a price. We split the proceeds.”

“
Split?”

“
Favorably, of course.
Believe me. The story of how I came to have the gun is far more
appealing than yours. I can get multiple bidders.”

“
Why should I trust
you?”

“
You benefit when I keep
your organization’s name out of it.” I hesitated, “And Marco keeps
my secret too.”

There was a pause.

“
Let’s meet.”

I jumped in a cab, headed to Llao
Llao, a famous five-star hotel perched on a bluff above the lake a
few miles outside of town. I’d seen many pictures since my arrival.
It had hosted presidents and dictators over the years and was
designed by the same architect who built the Inalco estate rumored
to have been Hitler’s home. As soon as I got into the cab my phone
rang.

“
Michael!”

“
Celeste?”

“
We just arrived in Buenos
Aires? Where are you?”

“
Bariloche, in Patagonia.
I’m meeting with the guy Marco is working with to sell the gun.
Marco will be there. Klara is with you?”

“
Of course.”

“
Celeste, we need to be
upfront with her. I think it’s the only way.”

“
We worry about that
later. Michael, I tried to reason with Marco. We spoke yesterday.
He’s so angry with me.”

“
Do you know where he is
staying?”

“
Only that it must be
remote. No mobile service. No phone. He could only talk to me when
he was visiting his sister.”

“
Hold on. Lo siento,” I
said to the driver. “Una otra... um,” I finally resorted to
pointing in the opposite direction. The driver turned around. I
motioned him to drive back in to town.

“
Celeste, I need you two
to go to the municipal airport and take the next flight to San
Carlos de Bariloche. Go to the Hostel Inn Bariloche.”

“
Klara wants to talk to
you.”

“
OK,” I said, trying to
shift my mind to French again.

“
Michael, what is
happening?”

“
I don’t know. I’m in
Patagonia, trying to track down Marco. He’s working with some kind
of group who wants to open a Nazi museum. It’s crazy.”

“
I can’t wait to see
you.”

“
Me too.”

I had the driver drop me at a rental
car office. The Lagos rent-a-car put me in a tiny Volkswagen. I was
working against time. I didn’t know how long Oskar and Marco would
wait in the lobby of Llao Llao before setting out to look for me. I
raced, with a couple of wrong turns, to Marco’s sister’s house. She
might be able to confirm my suspicion on where Marco would hide
with the gun. Eva was coming down the stairs when I arrived. She
saw me and started walking quickly to her car.

“
Eva! Please! Por favor.
Uno minuto.”

“
No, mister. I tell you
enough.”

“
Please, tell me where
Marco is staying. Is he staying here?”

“
No.”

“
Your
father’s?”

“
I don’t know.”

I held her car door shut. She looked
at me startled. The fear in her eyes shocked me. I let the door
open. “Inalco,” I said.

Her eyes betrayed her.

“
That it, isn’t it?” I
said.

“
I don’t know. I think so.
It’s closed. Abandoned. But they say some people are using it. He
just went there to do physical training.”

“
Thank you. Muchas muchas
gracias.”

I got back in the car and opened the
book to the page with the map to Inalco. I followed the main
two-lane highway to the east looking for a turn to take me north
along the edge of the lake. The good news was that Llao Llao was in
the other direction. The GPS on the phone worked. Inalco was
situated on a point of land that jutted into the lake, with an
island just off shore. I hoped I would see that island as a
landmark because I didn’t plan to attempt to drive onto the
property, assuming that I could find the entrance. The road that I
took was not there when Hitler and Eva Braun allegedly lived there
with two daughters. I wasn’t buying the conspiracy, necessarily,
but a part of me had no reason to believe the story any more or
less than the one that their bodies were found in Fuhrerbunker in
Berlin. It didn’t matter to me.

As I drove I decided to call Freda
Dietz. Something told me that she was holding back when we spoke
before.

“
Freda, this is Michael
Chance.”

She was hesitant, “Hello, Mr. Chance.
What can I help you with?”

“
You didn’t tell me about
the Nazi museum.”

She paused then fumbled, “Well, that’s
a crazy man’s dream. Just shows that people of wealth don’t
necessarily have the brains.”

“
Who?”

“
My brother. Heinrich.
He’s a lawyer in Buenos Aires, but he made money in
property.”

“
So he has his eyes on
Inalco.”

She sighed.

“
Freda, this is
important.”

“
I can’t help you anymore,
Michael. This is my family.”

“
I’m in a car. I’m
supposed to meet your son and Marco Rios at Llao Llao.”

“
That’s good. Maybe you
can talk some sense into them.”

“
I was thinking about
going out to Inalco afterward. Just to see it.”

“
Good luck finding it,”
she said, raising her voice slightly.

“
I have a map, in a
guidebook of Nazi sites. And GPS.”

Freda became stern.
“Michael, do
not
go there. There’s nothing there. You don’t know what you’re
involved with.”

I’d heard enough.

I knew that Freda would tell Oskar
that I went to Inalco once I didn’t show up at Llao Llao. But I had
at least a thirty-minute lead and perhaps an hour.

As I approached the section of road
that veered close to Inalco, I dropped my speed. A peninsula
jutting into the lake was almost completely obscured by trees.
There were no other cars. I wished I could park my car out of sight
from the highway, but there were no options. I pulled the rental to
the shoulder. Thick trees lined both sides of the road. I crossed
and was faced with a downward slope, a small ridge, and then a
steep hill down to the lake’s edge. If the house was there, it
should only be a few hundred yards away. I removed every piece of
paperwork from the car in case someone went searching through it,
slung my satchel with my laptop over my shoulder and scrambled into
the forest. Moving through the trees I quickly came to an old iron
fence with gaps throughout. Down the hill toward the water, the
house came into view. Just a run-down Bavarian mountain lodge. It
was remarkably intact. Someone had covered a portion of the roof
with a tarp, and some of the windows looked new. I watched from the
trees. Ten minutes passed. I saw no movement.

I followed the tree line around to the
back of the house, to make sure there were no signs of anyone
there. There seemed to be worn tire tracks where the grass had been
driven over recently. I left the cover of the trees and walked
confidently toward the house. I thought if I moved with certainty,
and observer would think that I knew what I was doing there.
Another set of tire tracks running down toward the water looked to
be used frequently, perhaps as a boat launch. There were signs of
minor repair work. Scraps of wood, sawdust, and a caulk gun. The
house had belonged to the family of an Argentine banker since the
1970s, but hadn’t been officially lived in for many years. I began
to feel more comfortable. I wasn’t far from my vehicle. For all
anyone knew, I was just another tourist checking out a tourist spot
in my Nazi guide.

I made my way to the terrace facing
the lake. Before two partially enclosed porches facing the water,
there was a door. I looked around. No people, no boats. I tried the
door. Locked. I looked over the short wall into the porch.
Firewood. Someone was definitely using the house. The two porches
had a covered space between them with a larger door. If this door
was locked, then whoever was living here had keys.

I peeked onto the other porch. My
heart raced when I saw a large netted bag containing about a dozen
soccer balls. I moved to the door. Also locked. I quickly continued
around the front of the house to the side that I’d first
approached. I knew there was another, smaller doorway on the
corner. Locked again. It was time to pick a window. Then I noticed
the way a fallen section of fence leaned away from the upstairs
terrace railing. I pushed it back against the house and it was an
easy climb to the second floor. The door was unlocked. I swallowed
hard and entered.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness and
the dusty, knotted wood floor. In the corner of the large room was
an air mattress, sleeping bag and a duffel bag. I check the bag and
found nothing by clothes.