Isselhorst lived in Heidelberg’s most exclusive district and the house must have cost a small fortune. But he could certainly afford it, and his ability to do so – the source of his funds – lay at the heart of why Narov had chosen to act the seductress tonight.
She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he held her close. No doubt about it, he kept himself in good shape. Six foot two, with a thick head of blonde hair and a certain arrogance about his demeanour, he would be no pushover, of that she felt certain.
She had watched him from her hide in the woods as he’d pumped iron in his home gym, putting in a good hour each morning at eleven o’clock sharp, followed by a forty-five-minute jog by the riverside. He was quick, sure-footed and powerful in his movements.
She was ten years his junior, but he had to weigh a good third again as much as she did. She would have to keep her distance, strike hard and give him not the slightest chance to get close enough to land a blow.
Narov was acutely aware that this time, she was acting entirely on her own, with zero chance of any backup. Yet she had one major advantage over her adversary: Isselhorst had consumed a significant quantity of alcohol, whereas she was feigning drunkenness.
Her inebriation was all an act.
Of course, she could have shared her suspicions with the other members of the Secret Hunters – Peter Miles, Uncle Joe, Will Jaeger – the informal band of Nazi hunters who traced their origins back to the war years. But she doubted any of them would have believed her.
That Hank Kammler might still be alive and intent on vengeance: on the face of it, all the evidence suggested otherwise. But the son of SS General Hans Kammler – after Hitler, very possibly the most powerful figure in the Third Reich – hadn’t died so easily, of that Narov felt certain.
Well, tonight should go a good distance to proving it.
Isselhorst leant closer. She could smell the alcohol upon him. ‘Not so far now… You will find I have a particular taste in decor… a certain nostalgic bent. For the war years. For when Germany was truly great. One nation. One people. I hope you won’t find it offputting.’
Narov steeled herself. ‘On the contrary.’ She gazed deep into his eyes. ‘People still fear even to speak his name. But I find the original aspirations of Hitler strangely appealing.’ She paused. ‘We all know the kind of man he was. His legacy. His lessons for posterity. Even now, we can learn from them.’
‘Exactly. My point entirely,’ Isselhorst enthused. He was speaking English, which lent a certain stilted tone to his words. Narov had yet to let on that she was fluent in German. He sighed contentedly. ‘I am so glad we met,’ he whispered, closer to her ear. ‘Fate, the gods – they must be smiling upon us.’
‘You are just a hopeless romantic,’ Narov teased.
‘Perhaps, and maybe if the mood takes us… I have a few nostalgic uniforms… most dashing…’ He let the words hang in the air suggestively.
‘A little dressing up?’ Narov smiled. ‘Erich, you naughty boy. But why not? Tell me – you do not have Hanna Reitsch’s flying jacket, by any chance? That would be something.’
With those with whom she felt no special connection, Narov could play a part to perfection. She could be a chameleon beyond compare. But those she was close to, she found it impossible to deceive. It made for challenging relationships. But not here. This was simple. This was a man she utterly despised, and tonight’s little charade came easily.
‘My dear, you never cease to amaze,’ Isselhorst murmured, stroking her hair. ‘You know of Hanna Reitsch? My God, what a woman! What a pilot. What a hero of the Reich.’
‘You sound as if you are obsessed with her. Or with her memory.’ Narov laughed. ‘But Erich, you have a problem. Right now, she would be a hundred and four years old. To be in love with Hanna Reitsch would be a great waste for a man of your… potency.’
Isselhorst chuckled, but before he could reply, the taxi pulled into the secluded woodland surrounding his home. He had a cleaner-cum-housekeeper – the ancient, hatchet-faced Frau Helliger, who looked as if her features would crack were she ever to smile – but Narov knew that at this hour, the house would be deserted.
She had watched from the woods and logged Frau Helliger’s movements; her routines. She knew she would have a clear run of things until 10 a.m., when the housekeeper came to start her daily round of chores.
Isselhorst paid off the driver and they moved towards the house.
Inside, it was all polished chrome, granite and wood, and clean, minimalist lines. But it wasn’t that that would strike any visitor; it was the artwork and Nazi memorabilia that hung from the walls. The place felt more like a gallery or museum – or perhaps a shrine – than it did a normal home.
Narov feigned surprise. From her hide she had observed some of the priceless paintings, though not the full-length portrait of Adolf Hitler that hung in the entrance hall. Encased in a heavy gilt frame, it showed the Führer, resplendent in uniform, standing on the field of battle, his posed expression stern and heroic, eyes on the distant horizon.
Below it was a black swastika, inset in a gold circle, with a point at one end and a mount at the other; she presumed this was the topmost piece of some kind of ceremonial Nazi staff. She turned, acting as if awestruck, noting Isselhorst’s obvious enjoyment as he watched.
In a cabinet opposite was a silver-bound edition of Mein Kampf, Hitler’s hate-filled rant written prior to the war years. Above it was an ornately carved wooden eagle, wings flared and talons outstretched as if to seize the Führer’s magnum opus and rise aloft victorious.
The whole effect suddenly made Narov want to vomit, but she fought the reflex. She was in. And she was here to wring from Isselhorst his darkest secrets.
He gestured to the flight of steel stairs that led to the living room, set on the upper floor. ‘After you.’
As Narov started up the steps, she could feel Isselhorst’s eyes feasting upon her figure.
Let him feast, she told herself, calmly. Soon now.
5
Isselhorst led her to the plate-glass window that filled one entire side of the living room. At the press of a button, the dark blinds whisked aside and the expanse of the city appeared before them: the Neckar floodlit and beautiful, the ancient bridges that spanned the river casting a rich orange glow upon the waters.
At any other time Narov would have found the view breathtaking. But not tonight.
Isselhorst stepped away, returning a moment later with two shot glasses. Peach schnapps, she could tell from the aroma.
He glanced at the view, raising his glass. ‘To beauty. To the beautiful of this world. To us.’
‘To us,’ she echoed, throwing the fiery contents down her throat.
Isselhorst smiled appreciatively. ‘You drink like Hanna Reitsch, that’s for certain!’ He reached for the bottle and poured them both a refill, then leant closer. ‘So, I let you in on a little secret: I sleep in Hitler’s bed. The one that he had in the Berghof. I purchased it recently at a rather unusual auction. Cost me… an arm and a leg, as I think you say. Perhaps you may like to see it?’
‘I would love to,’ Narov demurred, ‘but first I would like to say hello to Oscar. I just love animals, as I think you must, with your home set here in the woodland.’
‘You would like to meet my dog? But of course. Come.’ Isselhorst ushered her towards a doorway. ‘But tell me – how do you know about Oscar? Did I say something?’
For the briefest of moments Narov feared she’d messed up, but she recovered just as quickly. She nodded towards the entranceway. ‘You have a dog’s collar and lead in the hallway, printed with his name.’