‘Angelo, it’s Mordecai Herschel. There’s been a terrible accident in the Bosphorus. The Wilhelm Kohler has been sunk in a collision with a Russian freighter.’
‘Oh, no … the children?’
‘We don’t know yet. I’m on my way to the Kandilli Turn. We may not be able to get the children to Palestine now, but there’s another steamer leaving for Central America tomorrow night. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘I will pray for them,’ Roncalli whispered, and he replaced the receiver. He turned to Felici. ‘I’m afraid I have to go, Signor. The Wilhelm Kohler, a ship bringing Jewish children out of Austria, has sunk in the Bosphorus.’
Obersturmbannführer von Heißen signalled the waiter. ‘Another bottle of Château Latour.’
The Pera Palas dining room was one of Istanbul’s finest. A magnificent crystal chandelier, heavy velvet drapes, crisp linen tablecloths and silver cutlery were complemented by a cellar containing some of the world’s finest wines.
‘Do you think the Vatican Bank proposal will go ahead, Alberto?’
Felici nodded. ‘I suspect Pacelli will be the next Pope, and he’s very keen to establish it. It’s confidential, of course, but he’s already asked me to be a delegate to the board.’
‘Excellent news, Alberto.’ Von Heißen raised his glass. ‘I should imagine such a bank will be very well capitalised.’
‘I expect that for the right clients, we’ll be able to offer services more than comparable to those of any of our competitors in Zürich,’ Felici replied smoothly.
Von Heißen smiled, momentarily thinking of the contents of the strong room beneath the SS headquarters in Mauthausen.
‘On another issue,’ Felici continued, ‘I was with Archbishop Roncalli earlier this evening. There’s apparently been a collision on the Bosphorus. It seems one of the ships was carrying Jewish children from Vienna.’
‘Is that so? Well, it is a dangerous stretch of water,’ von Heißen replied, choosing his words carefully. ‘Any word on survivors?’
‘Not yet, but Roncalli is taking a very keen interest in them.’
‘How many were saved?’ Roncalli asked the Mother Superior as he arrived at the Sisters of Sion Monastery in the old Pangalti Quarter of the city.
‘Just three, Excellency. A boy and two older girls,’ Sister Marta replied, leading the way down a narrow stone-walled corridor to a makeshift ward.
Roncalli took a deep breath and crossed himself. Eighteen young souls taken … At times like this he questioned God’s presence in the world.
‘The little boy in the last bed,’ Sister Marta said quietly, ‘his name is Ariel. His father was murdered by the Nazis; his mother is in a German concentration camp, and he lost his sister in the collision.’ Her eyes filled with tears.
Roncalli held Ariel’s hand in his. What could he say to this young boy who had already suffered so much in his short life? ‘I’m so very, very sorry,’ he said finally. ‘I just want you to know you’re not alone.’
Ariel nodded numbly, wiping away a tear.
Roncalli turned to find another of the sisters at his side. ‘There’s a German officer at the front door, Excellency,’ she whispered.
Roncalli nodded. ‘Tell him I’m coming.’
Ariel watched Roncalli walk from the room, sensing this was a man he could trust. He checked again under his pillow, and sighed in relief. The maps were still there.
A tall, immaculately uniformed SS officer was waiting for Roncalli at the front door. Everything in Roncalli recoiled at the sight of him, but he moved forward.
‘Can I help you, officer?’ he inquired mildly.
‘I am Obersturmbannführer Karl von Heißen, Excellency. I have come to offer the condolences of the German government and my personal best wishes to the survivors. A shocking tragedy.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Obersturmbannführer. I’m sure you’ll understand, however, that the children are still in shock. It may be some days before they’re allowed visitors. Do you think you could come back the day after tomorrow … say just after lunch?’
Von Heißen fought to control his irritation. ‘But of course, Excellency – the day after tomorrow.’
It was well after midnight by the time Roncalli and Mordecai Herschel had arranged for Ariel and the other children to be transferred to the greater security of the Vatican Embassy.
A candle flickered feebly on Roncalli’s desk as he and Herschel worked on into the small hours of the morning. Never had certificates of Conversion to Catholicism been prepared with such loving care.
‘The SS Belize Star sails tomorrow night for British Honduras and Guatemala,’ Herschel said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’ve organised three berths, and we’ve an agent in Guatemala City who will meet the children. I’ll take these papers down to the Immigration Department tomorrow morning and arrange Turkish passports.’
Roncalli smiled. ‘Where I come from, that would take weeks … domani, domani, always domani.’
‘Fortunately we’re not in Italy, Angelo, and I have a contact who is sympathetic. I just hope the children will be fit to travel.’
‘Children can be remarkably resilient, Mordecai, although I’m worried about Ariel Weizman,’ Roncalli said. He’s been through more than any adult should endure in a lifetime.’
Archbishop Roncalli drove his battered Fiat slowly along the darkened dockside on the southern shore of the Golden Horn. The concrete was still wet from an earlier shower, and the rail lines glinted in the feeble yellow light thrown from the portholes of steamers tied up at the dock.
‘That’s her,’ Herschel said quietly, ‘at the end of the pier.’ Smoke was issuing from the Belize Star’s single stack, her crew preparing to sail. Roncalli brought the old car to a stop near the rickety gangplank, but as he pulled on the handbrake, the darkness was pierced by two powerful headlight beams from a Mercedes parked in the shadows. A tall, blond SS officer stepped out from the passenger side. Roncalli recognised him immediately.
‘So, what brings you down to the docks so late at night, Excellency?’ Von Heißen tapped his leather cane once, twice against his palm.
‘I might ask you the same question, Obersturmbannführer,’ Roncalli replied evenly, getting out of his car.
‘I do hope you weren’t planning to spirit these children out of the country,’ von Heißen said politely, looking past Roncalli’s shoulder to the three children in the back seat of the Fiat. ‘I’m afraid my government has serious questions about the validity of these children’s papers and how they themselves came to be in Istanbul.’
Fear gripped Ariel in the depths of his stomach. He looked his father’s killer in the eye, not knowing that his mother, too, was dead. Ariel loathed the German with every fibre of his young being.
‘I would have thought the Reich had better things to do than worry about the immigration of children, Obersturmbannführer.’
‘What’s going on? We’re about to sail!’ the short, stocky captain of the Belize Star demanded in a heavy Spanish accent as he descended the gangplank.
‘These Jewish children are wards of the German government, Captain,’ von Heißen said. ‘If you take them on board, you will be guilty of kidnapping. I doubt your employers would be too pleased if their ship were impounded at your next port.’
Roncalli stepped forward. ‘The Obersturmbannführer is mistaken, Captain. All these children are Catholic and in the care of the Sisters of Sion Monastery here in Istanbul.’ He took the children’s papers and passports from his briefcase.
The captain of the Belize Star glanced at the papers and shrugged at Roncalli. ‘If there’s doubt, that’s not my problem, signor,’ he said, turning back to his ship.
A slow smile spread across von Heißen’s face.
Mordecai Herschel took three strides and intercepted the captain at the bottom of the gangplank. ‘Their papers are perfectly in order, Captain, and the German government has no jurisdiction on a Turkish dock.’ He fished a large wad of Turkish lire f
rom his pocket. The captain’s eyes glinted, his gaze shifting from the money to the children and back to the money. ‘Get them on board,’ he said finally, ‘we sail in ten minutes.’
Ariel reached the rusted deck of the tramp steamer, one hand in his pocket, checking for the hundredth time on the maps his father had said were so important.
20
ROME, 1944
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra, pax hominibus bonae voluntatis …’ Eugenio Pacelli, now Pope Pius XII, read from the Missale Romanum held by one of his secretaries.
‘Major General William Joseph Donovan: for feats of arms, writing, and deeds that have spread the Faith and safeguarded and championed the Holy Church,’ another of the Pope’s secretaries intoned. He proffered the Holy Father a red velvet cushion, in the middle of which nestled the eight-pointed gold-and-white enamelled Grand Cross of the Order of Sylvester. One of the most prestigious of the papal knighthoods, fewer than a hundred men had received the honour since its inception in 1841 by Pope Gregory XVI.
Franklin D. Roosevelt’s intelligence chief and head of the Office of Strategic Services stepped forward. In time the fledgling American intelligence service would be known as the CIA. The crusty old general bowed his head, allowing Pius XII to place the medal’s golden chain around his neck.
‘A great honour, Holiness. Thank you,’ he said, kissing the papal ring.
‘The pleasure is all ours. It’s very well deserved.’
Alberto Felici joined in the polite applause. The Papal Knighthood cemented what would become a lasting marriage between the Vatican and the CIA. Felici smiled to himself. Things were starting to fall into place. The new Pope had agreed to the recommendations on Vatican finances, the newly established Vatican Bank had an advantage no other bank could match – it was immune from external audit. Felici’s own position as a delegate to the board provided him with unprecedented personal power. His appointment as the Vatican’s liaison officer to Donovan’s intelligence staff was not without power either. It was power Felici fully intended to wield at the meeting Donovan had scheduled in his Rome office later in the day.
‘Communism is the greatest threat facing the United States since Hitler came to power!’ General Donovan rasped. ‘Wild Bill’, as he was widely known, was in no mood for compromise. Felici nodded his head. The war against the Japanese in the Pacific was yet to reach its horrific conclusion in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but the war with Germany was drawing to a close, and a new threat was emerging. An iron curtain was about to descend, one which would divide Europe in two. If the US and the Vatican’s fight against Communism was to succeed, key Nazi intelligence officials and scientists would have to be smuggled out of Germany. General Donovan’s staff had drawn up a top-secret list.
‘The list you’ve got in front of you is provisional,’ General Donovan advised the three intelligence officers detailed to oversee the escape routes. ‘We’re going to need every German officer with knowledge of Soviet operations, including Soviet logistics and industrial capabilities. Add to that every German scientist who can assist us with the war in the Pacific.’
‘But not including those who have been members of the Nazi party, surely?’
Donovan glared at the bespectacled State Department liaison officer. ‘Listen, sonny, every goddamned scientist in Germany is a member of the Nazi party. And that includes Wernher von Braun, arguably the best rocket scientist on the planet. So before you guys in Foggy Bottom start getting your knickers in a twist, ask yourselves whether you want these guys working for Stalin or Uncle Sam!’ The general was convinced America should do whatever it took to curtail the growing threat of the Soviet Union. ‘Their dossiers can be sanitised … the hard part will be getting them out.’
‘I think we can help there, General,’ Felici offered. ‘The Brenner Pass on the Austrian–Italian border is still the main line of escape, but anyone as well known as von Braun might have difficulty getting through – unless he’s disguised.’
‘As what?’ the man from the State Department asked.
‘No one is likely to question a priest, particularly one carrying a Vatican passport. I’ve added a further name to this list, General,’ Felici continued, passing the paper back across the table. ‘Standartenführer von Heißen is one of Reichsführer Himmler’s closest confidants. I think US intelligence might find him very useful.’
‘The “fees” are fifty per cent, Standartenführer. Take it or leave it,’ Felici told von Heißen. ‘My intelligence links are impeccable, and the US 11th Armored Division has already crossed the Danube – they will be here within days.’
‘That gold in the strong room is worth over three million Reichsmarks, Signor. Fifty per cent is exorbitant!’
Felici shrugged. ‘A hundred kilograms of gold won’t be easy to shift. Even if you can get it past the American patrols, your chances of getting it across the border into Italy, let alone to Central America without diplomatic protection are next to nothing, I would say.’
Von Heißen was like a cornered rat. ‘It would appear I don’t have many options,’ he snarled. The radio in his office, tuned to track the advancing allied forces, beeped at the top of the news hour.
‘This is the BBC World Service. Heading this special bulletin, the war in Europe is expected to be over within days. Following the German Chancellor Adolf Hitler’s suicide on the thirtieth of May, General Alfred Jodl, Chief of the Operations Staff in the German High Command, is expected to surrender German forces unconditionally to General Eisenhower at his headquarters in Reims. The British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill —’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Herein!’
Obersturmbannführer Brandt, now von Heißen’s deputy commandant, looked pale and shaken. ‘We’re getting reports of an American armoured car unit, the 41st Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron, on the outskirts of Mauthausen, Herr Kommandant. They could be here within twenty-four hours.’
Von Heißen nodded angrily. ‘The Wehrmacht have let the Fatherland down, Hans. Dismiss the guards and tell them to meld back into the community. The Jews can look after themselves. And tell my driver and batman to stand by.’
‘Just how do you plan to get me out of here, Signor?’ von Heißen demanded after Brandt had left.
Felici handed von Heißen a small package. ‘The roads will be chaotic and I intend to take advantage of that. The soutane in this package has been tailored to your measurements. If anyone asks, you’re on the German desk in the Secretariat of State in the Vatican. These papers confirm your new identity as Father Bartolo Hernandez. We’ll need a small lorry for the gold, which is to be crated and closed with the seals of the Holy See. From here we will travel to Vienna, where the gold will be temporarily stored in the vaults of the Imperial Hotel, before being shipped to the Vatican Bank in Rome. If we’re challenged, you’re to leave the talking to me, understood? Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to inspect the vault.’
Von Heißen dialled the combination of the vault door at the back of the stone cellar and swung it open, revealing row upon row of gold ingots, each one stamped with the eagle and swastika of the Third Reich. He reached into the drawer that held Levi’s pectoral cross. ‘This was acquired from a Jewish prisoner,’ he said. The large diamonds surrounding the huge ruby in the centre of the cross sparkled in the soft light of the vault. ‘You may have it, but only after I am safely out of Germany.’
Felici struggled to contain his excitement. The cross was like no other he’d seen, and undoubtedly worth a small fortune.
The tall, lanky American soldier took his M1 carbine from his shoulder and waved the black Mercedes and small lorry to a stop at a roadblock just outside Mauthausen. Burnt-out German tanks and trucks littered the roadside, a road crowded with armoured cars and tanks from the US 11th Armored Division. A mustang fighter screamed low overhead as von Heißen’s driver, dressed in slacks and a polo-neck sweater, brought the car to a halt.
‘Your papers, please,’ the
corporal asked. ‘You’re a long way from home, Father,’ he added, spotting von Heißen’s Roman collar.
‘Ja … but God’s business doesn’t stop, nein?’ von Heißen replied with an urbane smile.
‘Where you’re headed, gentlemen, the road’s a fucking – sorry, Father. It’s bedlam between here and Vienna.’
‘We’ll have to take our chances, Corporal,’ Felici replied. ‘We’re on Vatican business, and we need to be in Vienna tonight. As Father Hernandez says, God’s work is never done.’
‘Well, good luck,’ the corporal said, handing back the passports.
‘God bless you, my son,’ Felici intoned.
Von Heißen returned his passport to the secure compartment in his briefcase, the same compartment that held Levi Weizman’s tattered map. Despite the devastation of the Fatherland, von Heißen was determined to continue the search for the Maya Codex.
BOOK II
21
THE WHITE HOUSE, 2008
‘The Iranians have successfully enriched over 1800 kilograms of weapons-grade uranium, Mr President, which is more than enough to construct a nuclear bomb capable of destroying the Old City of Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.’
Vice President Walter Montgomery, bald and overweight, glared around the polished mahogany table in the White House’s newly renovated Situation Room, daring anyone to challenge him. The National Security Council was made up of some of the most powerful men and women in the United States: the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of the Treasury, the National Security Advisor, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Director of National Intelligence. Their senior advisors were seated in the row of chairs beneath the new flatscreen televisions that lined the walls.
‘‘I’ve asked the CIA to brief us on the Iranian situation,’ the Vice President concluded irritably, nodding towards the man waiting at the briefing lectern.
THE MAYA CODEX Page 13
