The Isis Covenant

by Douglas, James

  Stumpfegger was a friend of Bormann’s and I never strayed far from his side. If any man could get out of Berlin alive, it was Foxy Martin. But at around noon on the day after the wedding Rattenhuber approached me and gave me another job.

  ‘Take two men and go with Kempka. Just do as he says and don’t ask any questions.’

  Erich Kempka was Hitler’s chauffeur and a coarse brute of a man, he led us back up the stairs and across the garden towards the Reichschancellery garage. The carcass of a German shepherd had been thrown carelessly beneath a bush beside the path. I recognized the dog as Hitler’s favourite pet.

  ‘Poor old Blondi,’ Kempka muttered. ‘Leading the way to the fucking Fourth Reich.’

  Inside the garage, gasoline cans were stacked high beside four big Mercedes limousines.

  ‘We need at least twenty,’ Kempka ordered. ‘Take them across and stack them beside the entrance.’

  ‘What are they for?’ demanded one of the SS men.

  Kempka looked at the guard as if he was an idiot and shook his head. ‘Don’t fucking ask.’

  For me, these events held no mystery. Petrol in an open space meant only one thing. I remembered the stench of decomposing bodies in a Ukrainian field; the careless unfinished business of a sonderkommando. Men, women and children. Jews. Skin stripping from the arms and legs as the militia carried them to the funeral pyres. Leaping flares of gas from exploding stomachs. Blackened long-dead figures writhing in the flames as if they were still alive. The all-pervading odour of roasting meat.

  ‘Right,’ the chauffeur said when we had finished. ‘Let’s get back inside.’

  Downstairs, we were cleared from the lower bunker to leave Hitler and Eva Braun with the men who had been with him right from the start. Bormann, Magda and Joseph Goebells and Artur Axmann, the one-armed Hitler Youth leader, who had appeared at the Führerbunker with his usual immaculate timing. About forty minutes later one of the SS door guards appeared in the upper complex and announced drunkenly to his disbelieving audience: ‘The chief’s on fire. Do you want to come and have a look?’

  In the nightmare that was the last hours of the bunker nothing was too surreal. Hitler’s death reinvigorated Bormann, who issued orders to non-existent armies and made his plans to break out to join the new Nazi government that had been formed by Admiral Donitz. He cheerfully announced that his first act would be to order the execution of Himmler. At the same time as he was telling his soldiers to fight to the last man, he ordered General Krebs to cross the lines and organize a ceasefire. In contrast, Goebells and his wife wandered the corridors like ghosts, their last link with reality gone. At some point during the late afternoon Stumpfegger came to sit at my side. He lit a cigarette and it shook between his fingers.

  ‘That’s it. They’re all gone,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to do it, but they said I had no choice.’

  ‘Who’s gone?’

  ‘Goebells and Magda.’ I shrugged. I had never liked the crippled little bastard and his harpy of a wife. He continued: ‘The children died first. One by one in their beds. Poison. Magda insisted.’ He started sobbing, which was odd for a man whose name was notorious for the experiments he had conducted at Ravensbrück concentration camp. What were a few children more or less?

  I muttered some insincere consoling words.

  ‘You’re a good fellow, Dornberger.’ He patted me on the shoulder and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Stick with me. We’re going out tonight. Bormann, Mohnke and a few others. Mohnke has arranged tank support.’

  I was going to survive.

  We were due to leave at 9 p.m., but there was so much confusion that it wasn’t until two hours later that we gathered in the main entrance, Bormann, Mohnke, their aides and the secretaries. Bormann carried his machine pistol as if it was a feather duster and his fat form looked ridiculous in a combat uniform and a steel helmet. He made a little speech about sticking together and how everyone would be rewarded for their loyalty when we reached safety. No one believed him.

  By what route, I never knew, but somehow we made our way through streets raked by an apocalypse of shell and small arms fire until we reached Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof. Somewhere along the way we had lost Mohnke and most of the secretaries, but no one, least of all Bormann, cared about that. The night was carved apart by tracer fire and every now and then terrified faces were lit by the flashes of explosions. It was 1 May and Germany was dying.

  Word of the planned break-out had spread and hundreds of soldiers and civilians crouched in the lee of our ‘tank support’; a single Tiger and a Sturmgeschütz IV assault gun that were to lead the attack on the Weidendammer Bridge across the Spree. I wished I had gone with Mohnke.

  Without warning, the Tiger roared out of hiding and across the bridge, blasting away as it went with 88 m cannon and machine guns. Astonishingly, it caught the Ivans half asleep and smashed through the first Soviet barrier. Bormann and the rest of the bunker escapees held back and then made a mad rush in the Tiger’s wake. An almighty clang rang out and the big tank first stopped, then burst into flames, eviscerated by an armour-piercing round. The uniforms of the surviving crewmen smouldered as they baled out onto the street. Machine guns opened up, mowing them down as they tried to escape, before turning their barrels on the desperate SS men, landsers and the women and children who sought their illusionary protection. Bodies tumbled like skittles and broke apart in a storm of lead and steel. A thousand must have been killed or wounded in those first minutes. I was knocked over by the blast that destroyed the Tiger, along with Bormann and Stumpfegger, but somehow we survived the holocaust of fire. I saw Axmann go down wounded. He recovered quickly, and staggered to his feet.

  Three more times we tried to break through, three more times the slaughter was repeated and the assault gun joined the Tiger as a glowing heap of twisted scrap iron. By now the SS men had forced a way across the bridge, but we were caught in a rat trap. I found myself with Bormann; Axmann, who was still bleeding from his wound; Stumpfegger, the doctor, and the Reichsleiter’s dark-haired secretary, Else Kruger. At Bormann’s insistence, we headed west, until we reached the Lehrtersstrasse Bahnhof. Axmann, who was no fool, decided to go it alone and set off north. I was tempted to accompany him, but I convinced myself there was safety in numbers and we headed north-east along the railway tracks. It seemed that by some miracle we had discovered a safe path through the fighting that raged like a brushfire all around us. But the illusion only lasted seconds. A sudden flicker in the darkness ahead and Stumpfegger went down with a terrible cry, torn apart along with Bormann by the burst of machine-gun fire that scythed through the party. I felt the heat of passing tracer rounds to left and right as I hurled myself to the ground and heard a clatter as something metal hit one of the tracks. Else Kruger lay beside me, still as death, but I could see from her breathing that she was unhurt. Slowly and silently we began to crawl away backwards. She gave a sharp cry and I thought she must have been hit. But when I turned, I saw that the Crown of Isis had fallen from my pack. She was holding it and staring in wonder.

  ‘This belongs to the goddess.’ The words spanned the ages and fell like tombstones on my ears. It was impossible. How could she know? I made a panicked grab for the Crown, but she snatched it away, her eyes filled with a kind of ecstasy. ‘We must return it to her.’ For answer I gave her the sole of a metal-studded jackboot in the face and tore it from her grasp, at the same time hauling my pistol from my belt. Else saw the murder in my eyes and realized she had more to fear from Max Dornberger than the Russians. As she got to her feet I raised the Walther and aimed it at her head, but a desperate hand clawing at my leg created a momentary distraction. I looked down to see Bormann, mortally wounded and pleading for help. He seemed surprised when I pointed the pistol and blew a hole in his fat face.

  By the time I turned back, Else Kruger had vanished.

  XX

  ‘HERR SAINTCLAIR? FRÄULEIN Fisher? Please take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Di
rektor.’

  ‘You enjoyed your tour of the Neues Museum?’

  Danny Fisher gave him her brightest smile. ‘It was fascinating,’ she assured him, attempting to disguise the fact that after her tours of the Pergamon Museum and the Altes Museum on Berlin’s aptly named Museum Island, she was footsore and all but museumed out.

  ‘We are very proud of our facility,’ the director continued. ‘You will know that we have only just reopened after many years of work and an enormous amount of effort?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jamie chimed in with a little flattery of his own. ‘The displays are magnificent.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I was particularly interested in your Egyptian collection.’

  ‘A favourite of mine, also.’ Their host nodded gravely. ‘It was not possible to recreate the original Egyptian courtyard, but our bust of Nefertiti is world-renowned. It is probably the finest example of its kind. Now, how can I help you?’

  Jamie took a deep breath. ‘We are interested in the museum during the period between nineteen thirty-nine and nineteen forty-five.’

  ‘Then I am afraid you may be on a wasted mission.’ The other man frowned and his fingers played absently with a gold fountain pen. ‘You see, the Neues Museum closed on the outbreak of war and never reopened. Fortunately, in common with the other museums on the island, our greatest treasures were evacuated, first to the basement of the Zoo flak tower, which was the strongest and most secure building in Berlin, and later to the salt mines in Thuringia. Only the least valuable artefacts remained and most of these were lost in the bombing raids that almost completely destroyed the building in November nineteen forty-three and February ’forty-five.’

  They’d had a similar answer at their previous meetings. Still, Jamie decided to persist. ‘I’m trying to discover the whereabouts of an artefact that might have gone missing during that time, perhaps in the latter stages of the war.’

  ‘Missing, Mr Saintclair?’ The director gave a bitter laugh. ‘You joke with me, surely. For ten years, everything was missing. The contents of all three museums were “liberated” to Soviet Russia. Some of the items, such as the Pergamon Altar, were returned in the late fifties and restored to their original positions, or as much as was possible, taking into account the destruction of the buildings that housed them. Other, smaller, but still valuable artefacts were not returned for many years. Some are still missing.’

  Jamie apologized. ‘I meant to be neither foolish nor naive, Herr Direktor, only to place the question in its widest possible context. Perhaps it would help if I was more specific.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘The artefact in question would be an Egyptian crown, mounted with the cow’s horns that typically represent the goddess Isis, but …’ he hesitated, ‘with some form of precious stone replacing the metal sun disk.’

  He expected the other man to laugh, as the other two museum chiefs had, but the director surprised him by frowning and picking up the telephone on his desk.

  ‘Could you bring me the contacts file, please, Gerda? Thank you.’ He pursed his thin lips. ‘The Neues Museum has been open for less than a year, Herr Saintclair, but we have been on site for several, dealing with many questions. Your enquiry has reminded me of one of them.’

  A young secretary appeared and placed a green file on his desk. He picked it up and waved it.

  ‘Of course, everything must be on computer, but in many ways I am a very old-fashioned man and some things I prefer to keep on paper.’ He began leafing through the sheets in the file. ‘Yes, here it is. June, two thousand and seven. A researcher for a very eminent English historian presented himself in person to make the enquiry. The … specific question he asked … was … yes: At any point during the latter stages of the Second World War did the museum lose, mislay or have stolen an Egyptian artefact, specifically,’ he smiled from Jamie to Danny, ‘a crown, probably of the later period, and adorned with cow’s horns and inscribed with the Eye of Horus. Of course, our answer was negative,’ he said apologetically, ‘as it must be now. As far as I am aware, the museum has never had contact with any such artefact, unless it was in the form of a frieze. There, does that satisfy you?’

  ‘May I ask who the English historian was?’ Fisher said.

  The director pondered for only a second. ‘Of course, it is no secret and, in any case, I know that the book he was researching has recently been published. His name is Sir William Melrose.’

  ‘We need to speak with this Melrose guy to find out what he knows that we don’t.’ Danny’s voice betrayed her excitement. ‘For the first time I feel as if we’re actually making some progress.’

  ‘You’re right, Jamie agreed. ‘But there’s no point in rushing back to London now. His office said he’d be in Japan until the end of the week. We might as well enjoy Berlin while we have the chance. I thought we could visit the site of the Reichschancellery this afternoon and then maybe try the Reichstag?’

  ‘Sure, but can we find a bar first? My feet feel as if I’ve walked to Egypt and back. Did you notice the researcher’s question referred to the Eye of Horus?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jamie admitted. ‘But I don’t think it means anything. You have to remember that neither Melrose nor his researcher had seen the actual crown, all they had was a loose description from a jeweller whose world was disintegrating around him. If the jeweller said it was inscribed with an eye, Melrose, who isn’t an Egyptian expert, would automatically conclude it was the most common version. The Eye of Horus.’

  They walked to Schlossplatz and turned into the Unter den Linden, where they found a suitable bar to rest their legs. Jamie ordered two beers and a plate of bratwurst, which they ate with fresh bread and mustard that was so hot it must have come out of a volcano.

  ‘Okay, Saintclair,’ Danny laughed as she wafted her mouth with the back of her hand, ‘I feel like I’ve been tanked up with rocket fuel. This gal is ready for anything.’

  They walked together up the famous street towards Pariser Platz and the Brandenburg Gate, stopping now and again to look in shop windows. Occasionally, Jamie swept the streets for the two girls who had followed them the previous day, but either they had improved their surveillance techniques or he and Danny were on their own.

  ‘Do you ever feel as if this is just a game compared to what you usually do back home?’ he asked. The electric-blue eyes studied him for a long moment and he had a feeling she was trying to read his mind for the real question behind the question.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘For one thing, I needed a break. I’ve been working non-stop for about nine months now and I could feel myself burning out. A change of scenery is just what the doc ordered. And it’s not a game. I said today that I felt we were making progress and that wasn’t just garden manure. Look, I’ve probably worked on a hundred murder cases. A lot of them are simple. You have a suspect, you have a motive and you have evidence to make it stick. But there are plenty like this, where you start with nothing and it takes time to build a case. Okay, it’s not the kind of case the department likes, but if you stand your ground, don’t allow yourself to be sidetracked and keep right on going, whatever happens, then the chances are you’ll get there in the end. I’m not a quitter, Jamie. Tell me you aren’t, either?’

  ‘I’m not a quitter, Danny.’

  She kissed him on the lips, slow at first, but then hard and deep, so it took his breath away.

  ‘I knew that, idiot. Now where is this place?’

  ‘This is the Wilhelmstrasse, where Melrose said the jeweller was offered the Crown. It should be round here.’ He led the way along a narrow alleyway off the main street. ‘Don’t expect too much,’ he warned.

  They reached their destination. For once Danny Fisher was lost for words. It took her a full minute to find the ones she needed.

  ‘Hitler’s bunker – the place where he died – is a parking lot?’

  They gazed around the flat open space surrounded by grubby apartment blocks built decade
s before. Rows of parking bays filled with Mercedes and VWs and Fiats and Renaults were separated by low wooden rails and surrounded by shrubs and spindly trees. It seemed a terribly banal use for a piece of ground that had seen the end of a generation of evil that had consumed tens of millions of innocents.

  ‘The Russians would have wanted to obliterate it, but the bunker was constructed with two-metre-thick reinforced concrete. It looks as if the German Democratic Republic decided the best way to wipe it from history was to bury it.’ Jamie stepped off the road as a dark van advertising an electrical business swept into the car park and found a bay close by. The driver opened his window, lit a cigarette and started reading a newspaper at the sports pages. ‘In some ways it makes sense. Why leave something that could become a shrine to a monster?’

  ‘So this is where it happened.’ Danny Fisher looked around at the blank windows of the tower blocks, her expression somewhere between awe and sadness. ‘Berndt Hartmann was here all those years ago. But did he have the Crown of Isis?’ She swivelled to face Jamie and he took her in his arms. ‘Do you ever wish you could turn back time?’

  Before he could answer, a silver car drew in behind them and he heard the click of the door opening. ‘Jamie Saintclair!’

  The voice was so full of genuine pleasure that he turned to meet it with a smile. At the same time his mind was trying to work out who he knew in Berlin and wondering at the coincidence that they’d met. Then he remembered that when you’re investigating a murder there are no coincidences. It took a millisecond for the features to register.

  Danny Fisher saw him freeze. ‘Jamie?’

  ‘Run, Danny!’

  But he knew it was already too late. You couldn’t escape the ghosts of your past.

  He faced up to the man from the car, tensed and in a fighting crouch, ready for what was certain to come. At his back the sound of the sliding door in the van’s side was followed by a rush of feet and a sharp cry that told him Danny Fisher was taking on whoever had emerged. The temptation was to turn and help, but he knew that the real danger was here in the man in the dark suit with the thin smile.