Ring of Lies (25 page)

22 M
AY
1944

He handed me the red card with the golden eagle insignia on it—his Nazi Party membership card—his laissez-passer, his entry permit to the Drancy camp, and his Obergruppenführer certificate. He gave me his officer's bars and put his life in my hands. And all he said was, Take me to them.

23 M
AY
1944

The pharmacist on the Rue de Buci took us to the back room, where the salves were prepared. There, he opened a concealed door in the floor, and the deputy commandant and I went down a steep flight of stairs. The air in the sewage tunnels was dank. We entered the labyrinth of the Catacombs.

The comrades undressed him and checked his blood type, which was tattooed on his underarm. I handed over his papers. Gaston took a revolver and removed all but one bullet. Only then did he give the gun to the deputy commandant and say, Follow me. He took him by the arm and led him to the young SS officer our comrades had captured the night before near the Madeleine. Shoot him, he said, and then he touched my arm and we went to an adjoining room.

The prisoner had been gagged with a sock, but his gaping eyes
were uncovered. The deputy commandant sobbed. There was a stench of sewage, and the air was soaked with sorrow.

The deputy commandant wept out loud.

Then there was silence.

A shot thundered.

An irritating hum was coming from Alex's hand, waking him from a sound sleep. When he tried to turn over, he banged his elbow on the wall, sending a shooting pain through his arm. Attempting to sit up, he hit his head on the ceiling. The cold air smelled of onions.

It took him a moment to remember where he was: in the pantry cupboard. His phone was vibrating, lighting up the cramped space.

It was Exodus. Unconsciously he clenched his stomach, as if he were expecting a kick.

“Justus Erlichmann made a single deposit in the account of a company called Dopo Domani Holdings,” she said. “It's registered in the British Virgin Islands. We can't find any reason for it, or any records.”

“How much?”

“One million, two hundred thousand euros.”

“When?”

“Seventeen days ago.”

“Maybe it's one of his donations to the neo-Nazi organization?”

“No way. Those were made regularly, through fixed channels. Are you all right?”

“Why?”

“You sound weird.”

“I'm in a closet.”

Muttering to herself, Exodus hung up.

It was almost seven, and he was wide awake. He pushed the sliding door aside. His body was stiff from fatigue and cold. He rolled off the shelf and stood up. He stretched, vowing never to sleep in a cupboard again.

Dopo Domani Holdings, €1,200,000. What was Justus up to this time?

Alex heard a soft thud somewhere nearby. He tensed and raised his Glock, swiveling around to survey the darkness.

Something was moving inside the house!

Holding his breath, he began scanning the rooms, adrenaline racing through his veins, tingling and spurring him on.

The sun wasn't up yet, and the house was lit only by the nighttime lights that filtered in from outside. He inched along the library wall in the living room but didn't see anything. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, he heard a click and turned around sharply.

No one was there.

Alex reached the upstairs landing. Nelli's study lay in silence, and the guest room opposite was equally quiet. In Justus's workroom at the end of the hall, the disgusting swastika still adorned the tail of the Messerschmitt, but the room was empty. He entered the large master bedroom, his finger tightening on the trigger of the silenced gun. The wide bed was empty.

All that remained was the cellar.

Alex went down two flights and stopped in front of the wine cellar. A dim, warm light shone on shelves upon shelves of expensive bottles.

Maybe an animal, some forest creature, had penetrated into the house? The kitchen and the living room were silent.

He sat down on the soft gray sofa in the living room to wait for sunrise, but he soon nodded off again. He awoke from a nightmare and could still hear himself groaning. The sky was as heavy as graphite. Exodus was calling again, and he was grateful to her for pulling him up out of the depths of his nightmares.

“There's something strange, Alex. Are you awake?”

“Absolutely.”

“Erlichmann was a billionaire and a lawyer, and he was involved in dangerous activities.”

“What's strange about that?”

“We haven't found his will.”

Justus's will might shed light on his dark side.

But you don't hide a will in a secret drawer. Ancona and his voles had already searched the house and hadn't found it.

The house was empty. The damned heating didn't work, and the cold was painful. Alex needed time to think. He left the house and was surprised to hear birds chirping outside. It was pleasant and comforting.

In a café near the Grunewald S-Bahn station he ordered espresso and a vanilla cream croissant. It was still early, not quite light out, and few people were up and about. He wondered if he wasn't taking too much of a risk showing his face like this, but he needed a break from the oppressive mood in Justus's house. He had to find a clue that would lead him to the German's will.

In the corner was an Aryan lady in her seventies who, by the look of things, had this morning put her makeup on twice. She was leafing through a newspaper. On the floor beside her was a young Doberman. The lights in the café were reflected in its black fur.

A stocky German with silvery stubble was wolfing down a pink sausage. A young blond girl with thin black eyebrows came in and looked Alex over. It was too early for smiles. Alex bit into his croissant. The girl carried her cup over to the counter. His hand slipped automatically to the gun under his jacket. She sat down on a barstool next to him, tilting her head back slightly so
that her nose was in the air. The imprint of a wrinkled blanket was etched on her cheek.

She was holding a huge set of keys, like a prison guard's.

Keys.

A key.

The key!

Alex sped back to the house and rushed into Justus's study. The safe was locked. He called Ancona, waking him up. “Give me the code to the safe in the Erlichmann house,” he said.

“I must have the code written down somewhere. Give me a few minutes.”

“Ancona.”

“What?”

“Now.”

Alex heard distant grumbling, followed by slipper-clad feet shuffling along the floor, papers being ruffled, and tuneless whistling.

Ancona gave him the code. “Don't hang up,” Alex said.

The dial turned, clicking quietly, and the safe door swung open. The key was still hanging from the BMW fob. He examined it under the desk lamp. At the top was the mark
B-776
.

“I'm sending you a photo of a key. Your expert said it belongs to a bank vault. Tell him to find out what bank it's from.”

He hung up.

Alex went outside and studied Henry Moore's reclining woman. The lights on the lawn flattered her ponderous bronze curves. Snow had collected on her large breasts and small head. It was quiet on the Erlichmann lawn. The sun was coming up, and the cold was becoming bearable.

Orchidea was celebrating her birthday in Damascus with un
readable Paris. And Alex was on his own. But he was still alive. Jane wasn't. He touched the bronze woman. She was as cold as the moon.

The trees of the forest were reflected on the glass wall. A pair of wild geese with long necks crossed the sky above him.

Ancona called.

“Berghoff Bank. B-776 is a secure basement vault for sculptures and large paintings like the ones in the living room. The bank has only one branch, on the Ku'damm near the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. It's open from ten in the morning to one in the afternoon, and again from four to seven in the evening. You need two keys to open a vault—the customer's and the bank's master key—and they're familiar with every one of their customers. If you're thinking about getting into Justus's vault, forget it. The bank hasn't had a break-in since it was founded in 1882.”

A large icy drop of water fell on Alex's neck from the linden tree he was standing under. He shivered.

He went back into the living room to try to devise a strategy to get through Berghoff Bank's security.

He had a long day ahead of him.

25 M
AY
1944

The commandant was here this evening. He ate and drank, and his eyes blazed. The Gestapo is investigating the disappearance of the deputy commandant and conducting surprise searches. My heart shudders now. For in the end, the truck will stop in front of the café. The Wehrmacht soldiers will climb down, and their hobnailed jackboots will desecrate the old black-and-white-checkered marble floor. They will smash the furniture and rip out the brass railings that were the work of an artist. The only things they won't be able to shatter are the windows, because they have already been shattered by bullets and the shockwaves from the bombings. Hateful wooden boards hide the light of day, impose darkness.

When will the sun return and warm the floor of the café?

27 M
AY
1944

A dozen Wehrmacht flamethrowers washed the innards of the Catacombs with hellfire. Someone betrayed us. Some comrades suffocated; others burned.

7 J
UNE
1944

Despite the fierce resistance of the Wehrmacht, Allied forces have succeeded in establishing an iron grip on the Normandy coast. It is a long way to our capital, but Paris will be liberated. Paris must be liberated.

His dark face looked as if it had been drawn in pencil and then brutally erased. His neck and left hand were disfigured, as well. In place of his right arm was a rigid, old-fashioned prosthesis that didn't move. The man had been burned from head to toe.

Omar Hattab, the head of the Syrian Mukhabarat, was just under six foot two. He was wearing a dark gray suit and a blue tie that was wound around his long neck like a noose.

He was flanked by two armed bodyguards who seemed more wired than necessary. A third bodyguard was waiting in a black Mercedes S600 parked illegally.

“That's him,” Paris whispered under his fake mustache. He had a kaffiyeh on his head, held in place with a black
agal
.

Orchidea's heart was fluttering. She was dressed in the loose slacks and blouse worn by Syrian Sunni women, her head covered by a hijab. Less than thirty yards separated them from Hattab and his bodyguards.

Last evening in Brussels, they had studied up-to-date pictures of the triangular park and memorized possible escape routes. Zengot had crammed an enormous amount of information into their heads in a short time.

The sun shone through the palms and pine trees that cast long shadows on the neglected public park. The locals called it Subchi Park, after the street that ran along its western leg. The paths were paved in white stone, and the lawns were bordered by a row
of small yellow wrought-iron arches that had been painted over innumerable times.

It was cold out. They'd left the hotel looking like a pair of tourists and changed on the way. A tiny camera in the frames of Orchidea's plain sunglasses enlarged the picture it captured and projected it like a translucent overlay onto the inner surface of the dark lenses.

The lenses were now covered by the figure of Omar Hattab, with trees swaying in the background.

Orchidea's hand was on a small remote in her pocket. She pressed the button again and again.

Strapped to Paris's chest under his cheap gray jacket was a thin dish antenna with a narrow range that would enable him to listen in on Hattab's conversation. The sounds it picked up were transmitted to the white earbuds hidden beneath his kaffiyeh.

Everyone was waiting. Orchidea felt a nervous twitch in her stomach.

Five young men were sitting on the sandy grass, dressed in cheap knockoffs of Western designer jeans. They were laughing at something.

Subchi Park bustled with activity.

Omar Hattab glanced at his watch. His bodyguards looked like a pair of hand grenades with their pins removed.

Five after ten. Orchidea felt as if she could actually hear the buzz of time passing.

Between Paris and Orchidea and Hattab was a sinuous pond with a lifeless fountain in the middle. The water was a stagnant green. Casually dressed Damascenes were relaxing on the park benches.

They were the only foreigners.

Nearby, a woman in a hijab pushed her daughter on a swing planted in the sand. The young girl's fingernails were painted red.

Hattab looked at his watch again.

Orchidea and Paris strolled casually around the pond.

The dog showed up first.

It was scrawny, and there were bald patches in its mangy fur. It touched its pale nose to the edge of General Omar Hattab's highly polished shoes and sniffed at his pant leg.

A figure approached Hattab, moving slowly.

Orchidea muttered, “That can't be him . . .”

Small, quick steps. A gaunt, stooped body. His eyes were hidden by large sunglasses and a cap. His pale skin hung from his face like a drape, but the square jaw under his thinning gray mustache was firm. His hands were encased in leather gloves, and he was carrying an empty plastic bag. He stopped directly in front of Omar Hattab and, as if he were performing a military ritual, straightened his back, bent with age, to the best of his ability.

The much taller Hattab looked down on him with a forced smile.

The old man held out his right hand.

Hattab's distorted face scowled. He clenched his lips. After a long pause, the old man nodded to himself as if recalling a joke, and then theatrically offered Hattab his left hand.

Hattab recoiled. The old man seemed amused.

“At least it's not Justus.” She released a sigh of relief.

“Justus is dead,” Paris said.

“He must be from around here,” she said. “He couldn't walk far.”

Paris nodded.

“He was over by the swings before,” she said.

Paris nodded again.

The mangy dog stuck close to his master's feet. They began pacing slowly along the path around the pond. Paris kept his chest pointed in their direction.

Veiled women were pushing strollers. An infant howled, buses drove by, and car horns blared. Traffic was heavy on Abdul Aziz Street.

“It won't work,” Paris muttered. “Too much noise. I can't hear anything.”

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “We made it this far, and now . . .”

“We've already lost three critical minutes,” he grumbled. A large fly was buzzing around him. He chased it away with his hand, but the stubborn insect returned and settled on his nose. The Frenchman rolled his eyes.

“Give me a second,” she said. Hiding behind him, she thrust her hand under her blouse and pulled from her bra a small plastic pouch that Zengot had given her. It held three black dots, each the size of a pinhead. She peeled one off and stuck it to the tip of her finger, and then started toward Hattab and his companions.

The old dog had grown tired and was lagging behind his master.

Orchidea went over to the dog, crouched down with a smile, and stretched her hand out to pet it. Growling, the animal bared its teeth and retreated. A bodyguard rushed to plant himself between her and Hattab, his hand reaching for the gun under his polyester suit jacket. He mumbled something.

The old man turned around, clenching his jaw.

Orchidea slowly held out an open palm, making her intentions clear. The old man's face grew softer. Nodding, he smiled, momentarily revealing a nearly gumless jaw.

Swallowing, she tried to stroke the dog. It growled and barked in the wrong direction, reluctant to come any closer. Finally, it gave in to temptation and moved toward her hesitantly, lowering
its head, sniffing her hand, and licking at the air. She petted its head and then rose with a smile.

Hattab threw her a suspicious look. The old man smiled back at her, and the entourage resumed its walk along the path.

On the grass nearby, a group of boys was kicking around a tattered ball, shouting at one another. Orchidea looked behind her. Paris was petting a wide-jawed mastiff with its tongue hanging out. He gestured for her to come back and threw a stick in the direction of the men. The mastiff took off at a run.

The old man's dog yelped in fright. Its master turned around and picked it up quickly. With a growl, the mastiff leaped into the air. A bodyguard grabbed the collar of the attacking animal, who clamped its teeth down on his hand. Swearing, the man struggled to free it. Suddenly there was a loud whistle and the bloodthirsty dog froze, lay down on the ground, and lowered its head submissively.

The bodyguard's hand was bleeding. Hattab offered him a tissue. The group moved on, the old man still clutching his dog in his arms.

Paris was grinning. Orchidea could smell his sweat, and she found the odor oddly appealing.

“Is it working?” she asked.

“Perfectly!” he whispered.

There was no longer any need for the ungainly antenna strapped to his chest. The tiny microphone was transmitting the conversation between Hattab and the old man directly into Paris's ears.

“I don't know a word of Arabic,” he said.

It was all being recorded. Later it would be translated into Hebrew at Mossad HQ in Glilot.

“The old man has a foreign accent,” he said.

“Israeli?” Orchidea asked.

“Don't know.”

“Hattab despises him.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at Hattab's feet. They're pointing outward. He keeps trying to put distance between them, but the old man just moves closer.”

Orchidea pressed up against Paris, took an earbud from his ear, and stuck it in her own.

The old man had started speaking English. His accent was pronounced. Maybe he was trying to emphasize his foreignness.

“Stop to lick me with compliments. Stage One is over. It is history. It achieve its purpose,” he said sharply to Hattab. English obviously wasn't his mother tongue.

“And you have been paid in full,” Hattab cut in.

“You were supposed to transfer ninety-six million euros for Stage Two yesterday. I check just before I come. The account is still empty. I thought you are serious.”

“I do not have the authority to approve such a large sum,” Hattab apologized.

“So talk to someone who has.”

“It will take time. He has a country to run.”

“We do not have time. You don't understand?! We do not have time!” the old man sputtered, his jaw trembling.

“Give me one more day.”

The man snorted contemptuously. “One more day? I take Max for walk so he can do his business. I be back in five minutes.” He grinned, exposing his bare jaw. It was a chilling sight. “When we be back, I want to hear the transfer go through.”

Spittle gleamed in the corners of the old man's mouth.

“That is not possible,” Hattab said angrily, looking like a raging guard dog that had leaped into the air only to discover that the chain around its neck was shorter than it had thought.

The old man gave him a patronizing look. He took a step back, held up five gloved fingers, and said firmly, “Five minutes, Omar!”

The spittle spraying from his lips glittered in the harsh sunlight.