‘And this man who called himself Frank had access to the gold too?’
‘And also to the foreign money that was there-Swiss paper money, Swedish paper money, US dollars and British pounds. All foreign money, including that acquired by the SS, the army or anyone else, had to be sent to the Foreign Notes Department, Reichsbank New Building, Berlin. It was unlawful for a German to possess foreign money. The procurist was in charge of all foreign paper money, another Reichsbank director-Herr Thoms-was in charge of all the gold. Now-in 1945-virtually all the gold and foreign money was in a salt mine, and Herr Frank had the key.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that this gold and foreign currency was placed there to finance the escape of the Nazi leaders?’
‘All I know is that, when the American soldiers arrived at Merkers, Reichsbank Director Frank was nowhere to be found, and neither was my old friend Breslow.’
‘You think that they had taken gold from the mine?’
‘I have no theories to offer,’ said Wever. ‘I am simply telling you what happened.’
‘Did you look at the documents?’
‘Breslow took one,’ said Wever. ‘It was a long train journey. One of the boxes was unlocked; we couldn’t resist looking. Each metal filing box was divided into compartments, with thickly wadded brown manilla envelopes jammed into each. We opened one of them. Inside there were two shorthand notebooks, the pages crossed through diagonally by someone as the notes were typed up. The shorthand was hastily written but still easy enough to read. At the back of the file there were typewritten sheets which had been completed. They were the Lagebesprechungen-the Führer’s military conferences, two each day normally.’
‘And Breslow took one?’
‘As a souvenir, I suppose. It was a mad thing to do, but that final part of the war was a mad time. People did crazy things.’
‘Not you, Wever,’ said Stuart. ‘You never did a crazy thing in your life.’
Wever stared at him. ‘I don’t risk my life for ridiculous pieces of waste paper, if that’s what you mean. The fact that it had Führerkopie at the top of the page meant little to me. I could never understand those fools, fighting in Russia as if they were on some wonderful crusade. What did they get out of it?’
‘We know what they got out of it,’ said Stuart. ‘The lucky ones got twelve years in a Russian work camp.’
The telephone rang. There was something inappropriate about the sound of it in that mean little room, smelling of mildew and farm manure. Wever rose from his chair with a crack of stiff bones. ‘Hello?’ he said, reaching into the gloom for the telephone.
There was a gabble of conversation at the other end. Wever said ‘Ja’ but changed it to ‘yes’ by the time there was a need for a second affirmative. ‘Yes’ and ‘yes’ again.
Suddenly Wever’s patience snapped. He broke into rapid German, its consonants sharp and brittle as only Berliners speak. ‘Damn you and damn the rest of them. For years no one cared and now suddenly… You tell them I sent it almost a week ago. Negative.’ He nodded to himself. ‘The only negative. Tell them to stop their silly little games.’ Wever’s tirade stopped and he bent his head as if trying to hear better. He stood framed against the oppressive rain clouds which pressed with a leaden weight upon the landscape through the window. He lowered the phone from his ear, and it purred for a moment before he hung up.
‘Is there anything else?’ said Wever.
‘Not for the moment,’ said Stuart. ‘Thanks for helping me.’
‘There is no alternative,’ said Wever. ‘When your people arranged all my permits and permissions thirty years ago, they made it clear that they could withdraw them just as quickly.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Mr Wever,’ said Stuart. ‘By now you are one of us.’ ‘
Wever grunted as he bent over to retie his bootlaces.
‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
‘No,’ said Wever. ‘Go ahead. And mind the patch of mud near the shed; the baker’s van got stuck in that last night. Took him half an hour to crawl out of it.’
‘Thanks, I will,’ said Stuart, and tucking his head down he hurried through the rain to his car. The motor started at the first touch of the key and he switched on all the lights so that he could negotiate the muddy lane without sharing the baker’s fate.
Stuart was almost at the Red Fox when the explosion occurred. The flash lit up the grey countryside like lightning, and the force of it made his ears pop even before he heard the noise. He turned his head in time to see the column of smoke. It was not the oily black smoke that stunt crews make for war movies. This was the real thing: a wraithlike smudge which dissipated almost immediately.
Stuart heaved on the brake as a hailstorm of wood chips and metal fragments splashed into the puddles round him and nicked his car’s paintwork. He opened the door and got to his feet in the pouring rain. This part of the country had long since had its hedgerows ripped away by cost-conscious farmers. The open fields gave Stuart a view of the Wever house. There was little left of it; the merest trace of smoke hung over the scattered stones and a large piece of the roof was leaning upon the nearest of the chicken houses.
Stuart returned to his Aston Martin. There was no sense in going back there. Even now there would be police cars and ambulances on the way. Furthermore, the standing instructions gave a strong warning against field employees becoming involved in police inquiries of any kind. The Secret Intelligence Service got no pleasure from sending high-ranking department officials across to the Home Office, cap in hand. In spite of all this, he turned his Aston in the car park of the Red Fox and went back.
The clock, thought Stuart. Perhaps the man who had come to mend the chimes had not been installing new ones. Perhaps he had planted explosive in the long case. It was that part of the house which had suffered most. But who had phoned Wever, and was it a warning?
The kitchen was the scene of the greatest damage. Only a close scrutiny by explosives experts would reveal whether the bomb had been placed in the clock, and they would have to search a long time to piece it together. The smell was almost overwhelming. He spat the soot from his mouth.
Wever must have been standing near the stove. There were hardly any signs of damage on his face or his clothes but he was bundled up like a rag doll in a toy box, and was unmistakably dead. Stuart went through his pockets but there was nothing there that one would not expect to find on a hard-working chicken farmer who was too old to cope with the work demanded of him and had cash problems that required him to put aside the payments on a second-hand rotovator.
So that was the man who had brushed shoulders with Hitler. Well, there were worse fates than ending up on an East Anglian chicken farm. There was no sign of Wever’s wife. He stepped carefully over the wreckage of wood splinters and broken glass to get to what had once been a bedroom. There was a cot in the corner. He picked up the woollen blankets. There was no sign of a baby.
The rain was still coming down steadily, soaking into the broken furniture, hissing upon the hot stove and dampening down the dust of the broken plaster. He turned back towards his car, glass cracking underfoot. It was as he stepped over the broken wall of the bedroom that he saw it. The rain had made the metal box shine and he stooped down to inspect the object more closely.
It was an expensive wall safe, built right into the brickwork of the bedroom, in a wall added to the house by the enterprising handyman, Franz Wever. The front of the safe was intact and its door firmly locked. It was the back of the safe that had sprung open with the collapse of the wall. He prised the metal back as if it had been the bent lid of a half-opened sardine can. His hand went into the gap and he found some bundles of papers.