Uncle Joe moved across the patio, a shock of white hair above beady eyes, the thin cane of a walking stick his only concession to age. If Jaeger reached ninety-five and had half Joe’s vitality and spirit, he’d be happy.
Together they talked over the St Georgen discovery. They were scheduled to leave for the UK the following morning, but Jaeger figured he could stretch it for another forty-eight hours. They could dedicate tomorrow to visiting the secret caves, followed by the long drive home.
It would be punishing, but doable. Uncle Joe might not be up to all the walking involved, but he could always park himself at a local bar or restaurant in St Georgen.
By the time they had finished eating, they had firmed up their plans.
Jaeger felt a certain thrill of excitement at the proposition – General Kammler’s legacy would always hold a dark fascination for him – but he also experienced a twinge of trepidation. He’d promised to collect Ruth from the clinic just as soon as he was back in the UK. Postponing it by forty-eight hours – well, there was no knowing how she would react.
Ruth Jaeger could be explosively unpredictable these days.
8
Narov watched her hostage come to.
After retrieving her rucksack from her hide in the forest, she’d returned to the house, closed all the blinds and manhandled Isselhorst’s bulk onto one of his steel-framed designer chairs, before using a roll of green gaffer tape to fasten him securely.
What she loved about the tape was its utter reliability and functionality. It was quick, easy and ultra-secure.
With Isselhorst she’d been unusually thorough. He was fastened all along his arms and wrists to the flat arms of the chair. His ankles and legs were taped along their length to the chair’s legs. She’d used up an entire roll taping his chest, shoulders and neck to its near-vertical back.
And for good measure she’d stuffed his mouth with rags and run a loop of tape around his head, just in case he got any ideas about trying to cry for help – not that there was anyone who might hear.
In short, he was incapable of making any movement whatsoever – the kind of effect you could never pull off using rope alone.
It put your captive completely at your mercy.
She reached out, grabbing hold of one end of the tape covering his jaws, and ripped it free, tearing it off his bare skin. He would have yelled with pain were his mouth not stuffed with rags. With a certain revulsion, she took the end of the bloodied cloth and yanked it free, letting it fall to the floor.
Isselhorst shook his head as he tried to clear it, spitting out gobbets of blood and the odd fragment of tooth. As his eyes focused, he became aware of where he was, how he was fastened and who it was that was facing him.
‘What in the name of God…’ he gasped.
‘Be quiet. I do the talking.’
Narov’s tone was different now. Cold. Ruthless. And she had spoken in fluent German. Isselhorst, by contrast, had lisped and spluttered as he tried to speak through a mouthful of broken teeth.
She let him see her pistol. It was a compact Beretta 92FS – the one that she always took on operations. It was the civilian version of the Beretta M9, until recently the US Marine Corps’ handgun of choice.
The combination of Isselhorst’s immobility, Narov’s firepower and her cold, fluent German seemed to have the desired effect: her captive remained silent, eyes bulging in disbelief at what had happened.
‘I have listened to your egotistical bullshit all night. Now it is my turn,’ she grated. ‘You are Erich Pieter Isselhorst, grandson of the SS general of the same name. Your grandfather, like you a lawyer, ran an Einsatzkommando on the Eastern Front. He murdered tens of thousands of Russians, Jews, Poles and other so-called enemies of the Reich. At war’s end he was tried by the Allies for war crimes and executed by a French firing squad.’
She stared into Isselhorst’s eyes, her ice-blue gaze seemingly blank of expression or emotion.
‘Wrong. Your grandfather’s execution was never carried out. Instead, he was recruited by the CIA. He had fought against the Russians, and the Americans felt that former Nazis with such experience could prove useful in the Cold War. In short, Herr Isselhorst, you should not really exist.’
Narov turned away from her captive.
‘You are an aberration. Your bloodline should have died with your grandfather’s execution.’ She pivoted on her heel and stared into his fearful gaze. ‘So whatever happens tonight, it is happening to a man who should never have been born.’
Isselhorst gawped. No longer the perfect chocolate-box smile, Narov noted with grim satisfaction.
‘Who in the name of God are you?’ he slurred.
‘I am your worst nightmare.’ Narov’s reply was flat and unemotional, and all the more fearsome for it. ‘I know all there is to know. I know your bloodline, cursed as it is. I know what you have done for a living these past years. Nazis and mass murderers who were hunted for their war crimes – they turned to you for their defence. And if you could not shield them in law, you arranged for alternative means for them to evade their accusers.’
She gestured at the Matisse. ‘Desperate men will go to desperate measures to buy their survival. Such artworks are priceless, but hard to place on the open market, for the descendants of the rightful owners do still exist. Despite your grandfather’s best efforts, some of those destined for the death camps did evade them.’
Isselhorst scowled. ‘None would have if—’
Narov whipped the hard, angular barrel of the Beretta across his face, crunching into the delicate bone structure around the right eye socket. He howled in pain, straining with all his might to free himself from his bonds.
‘Did I ask you to speak?’ she breathed, her voice like ice. ‘Did I ask you to squeal? When I want to hear from you, I will say so.’
She knew from long experience to strike an adversary with anything other than your own limbs. Bone crushed bone. Broken bone injured flesh. The blow had been delivered to cause her minimum injury. You could never be too careful in this kind of game. It was care – minute, pedantic care and preparation – that had kept her alive. That and her training.
‘So, I have one thing to ask of you. One question.’ She glanced at Isselhorst dispassionately. ‘Your answer to this question will determine whether you live or die.’
He glared back at her, eyes brimming with hatred.
‘You have recently taken on a new case,’ she continued. ‘Even for you it is an unusual one. A controversial one. It is your involvement in that case that brought you to my attention.
‘Otto Marks versus Justiz Stiftung et al.’ She paused. ‘Marks claims to be a descendant of Adolf Hitler. As such, he claims the royalties earned by the book you have displayed in your hallway. Hitler’s royalties for Mein Kampf, stretching back seventy-odd years.’
She paused. ‘Just this year, Mein Kampf topped best-seller lists here in Germany. In India, Turkey and a string of Arab nations – where I presume its message of exterminating Jews plays well – it is a perennial favourite.
‘As you know, Justiz Stiftung – the Justice Foundation – has held those royalties pending the expiration of Hitler’s seventy-year copyright, in case a legal heir stepped forward. That copyright recently ran out. Justiz Stiftung announced plans to donate the monies to charities that fight Nazism. Then your client, Otto Marks, stepped forward.
‘The amount that you are claiming for Herr Marks runs into many millions of dollars.’ Narov paused. She let the silence hang heavy for a second. ‘That much I know. Now, my question. What is the real identity of the man you claim to represent? I presume that like you, he is a descendant of a prominent member of the SS. Of the Brotherhood of the Death’s Head.’