The Empress Holds the Key

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘It’s no use,’ said Krakowski, his voice a mixture of disappointment and relief.

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember that might help?’ Jana asked. Krakowski shook his head.

  ‘We should really turn around and head back,’ said the guide, pulling into a narrow inlet. ‘It’s getting late.’ Krakowski turned up the collar of his overcoat and stared at the rocky shore. Suddenly, he felt very cold and began to shiver. Dr Gruber reached for the thermos and poured some steaming coffee into a cup. ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ he said, handing the cup to Krakowski.

  ‘There!’ shouted Krakowski, pointing to a rock. ‘Stop!’ Startled, Dr Gruber looked up and almost spilt the coffee. ‘The cross – there, on top of that rock,’ continued Krakowski.

  ‘What about it?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I remember standing at the edge of the pit facing – that way,’ Krakowski explained without taking his eyes off the cross. ‘The officer was walking towards the boat moored at the jetty – somewhere over there.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He stopped in front of David and pointed his gun at ...’ Krakowski began to choke, ‘at his head. He held it there and ... fired.’ Krakowski covered his face with his hands. ‘Then he turned towards me ... The last thing I remember is ... looking at ...’ Krakowski reached for the handrail to steady himself.

  Jana walked over to him and put her arm around his shoulder. ‘It’s alright, Benjamin. What did you look at?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘That cross over there,’ replied Krakowski hoarsely, pointing to the small, black, iron cross. ‘After that, everything goes blank.’ Without being aware of it, he began to rub the thin white scar where the bullet, having grazed his temple, had missed his forehead because he had looked up at the cross.

  They returned to the inlet early the next morning. Having not slept at all, Krakowski looked tired and tense. The blanket of fog had lifted and it was clear and sunny. The army engineers had already arrived and were waiting for them at the lake. Drifting towards the shore, the police launch bumped against something in the shallow water. When they investigated they found several submerged posts – remnants of an old jetty.

  The border guard explained that the cross marked the spot where a boat had capsized during a storm on Good Friday in the 1850s. There were no survivors. The bodies had not been found and the superstitious locals still believed the place was haunted. A perfect location for a clandestine operation, thought Carrington.

  When he stepped ashore and looked back across the lake towards the snow-covered mountains, Krakowski knew he had found the right place. He held up the photograph and began to orientate himself.

  ‘Come, have a look,’ he said to Jack, ‘you can see the cross in the photo. It’s right here, behind the officer.’ What had looked like an innocent tree branch on top of a rock, took on the shape of the iron cross, now that one knew what it really was. ‘The tree was over here,’ he continued, ‘but it’s gone of course.’ Krakowski picked up a stick and broke it in half.

  ‘We know the jetty was over there. We stacked the crates right in front of it, about here.’ He pushed one of the sticks into the snow as a marker and began to walk towards the forest. He stopped and stared at something on the ground.

  ‘Where was the pit?’ Carrington asked. Krakowski turned slowly around and pushed the second stick into the snow.

  ‘Right here.’

  It was a shallow grave. The engineers only had to dig through two feet of frozen clay before they found the first bones. Krakowski watched until a human skull appeared.

  ‘There, Marcus, the prosecution has a body,’ said Krakowski, pointing to the skull. The skull was well preserved and intact. There was no sign of a bullet hole.

  ‘It would appear so, Benjamin, but whose is it?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see ...’ Krakowski shrugged, turned up the collar of his coat and walked back to the boat.

  An hour later, Dr Gruber took Carrington aside. ‘There are several bodies buried in there. Here, look at this.’ He showed Carrington a piece of a grey cloth with metal insignia still attached to it. ‘This is from an SS uniform ... There’s more: buttons, belt buckles, even side arms ...’

  ‘May I take these for a moment?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Carrington gathered up the muddy items. ‘I’d like to show these to Mr Krakowski, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  40

  The first pack of news-hungry journalists descended on the village by the afternoon. Word of a newly discovered Nazi mass grave travelled fast, especially in Austria.

  ‘I’ve been asked by my superiors in Vienna to make a statement to the press tomorrow morning,’ announced Dr Gruber back at the hotel. ‘It would be best if you stayed in the village. Except for you, Inspector Gonski; I would be grateful if you could come with me. After all, we are here because your government requested it ...’ Dr Gruber smiled at Jana standing next to him. ‘It’s up to the experts now,’ he explained. ‘I’m sure you understand. I have arranged for the police to seal off the area. The media attention will be considerable and I don’t want this to turn into a circus.’

  Dr Gruber gave Jack a stern look; it was obvious he didn’t trust journalists. He wasn’t quite sure why Jack had been included in the search party in the first place, but was too polite to ask. ‘The pathologist is already at the site with the forensics team to investigate the find. We are treating it as a potential crime scene.’ Dr Gruber turned towards Krakowski leaning against the bar. ‘If your brother’s body is among them, the pathologist will be able to confirm that rather quickly I imagine – you know, the DNA test we spoke of before ... It shouldn’t take long.’

  Krakowski put his hand on Carrington’s arm. ‘May I talk to you privately for a moment?’ he asked. The two men excused themselves and went outside.

  ‘Marcus, I’m confused. I cannot explain the presence of the German soldiers in the grave. I have racked my brain all afternoon. I really can’t. It’s a complete blank, just like my own survival. There are these gaps in my memory ...’ He reached again for the scar on his temple. ‘I know I was shot; as for the rest ...’

  ‘I understand,’ replied Carrington, trying to reassure him. ‘We all blot out certain things we cannot bear to remember.’

  Krakowski looked at him and nodded. ‘They’ve found six bodies. One of them has to be David. As for the other five ... must be the soldiers. Apart from the major, there were three guards and two drivers. But why were they killed?’ asked Krakowski. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Executed perhaps – just like you and your brother?’ suggested Carrington.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To silence them? I wonder what was in those crates ...’ asked Carrington. ‘What do you think happened at the lake that day, Benjamin? What were the Germans doing there?’

  ‘I wish I knew. I wish ... Tell me, Marcus, where’s all this heading?’ asked Krakowski, a haunted look clouding his face. ‘We’ve found the grave and my brother’s remains are most likely in there. David buried with five SS in the same grave; united in death. Extraordinary! In any event, we’ll know soon enough. I can lay him to rest then and for that I’m grateful.’

  Krakowski paused and took a deep breath. ‘I thought very hard about what you said last night,’ he continued quietly. Carrington watched him carefully, but said nothing. ‘You asked me if I would be prepared to become further involved in the investigation; to testify even, should there be a trial. Frankly, I’m afraid of what’s happening here. I sense that a huge tidal wave is forming over there,’ he pointed in the direction of the gravesite, ‘which will soon come racing towards me. And if I don’t step aside it will sweep me away, perhaps even drown me. Do you understand?’ Carrington nodded without saying anything. ‘I harbour no feelings of revenge or retribution, only sadness.’

  ‘What about justice?’ suggested Carrington.

  ‘At what cost?’ Krakowski looked sad.
/>   ‘That’s the one question all of us have to answer for ourselves.’

  ‘I know.’

  A journalist spotted Krakowski talking to Carrington outside the hotel. ‘Professor Krakowski, has your presence here anything to do with the discovery of the Nazi grave?’ he asked, walking up to Krakowski. Several cameramen came running towards them.

  ‘Gentlemen, please,’ Krakowski said, holding up his hand, ‘you heard Dr Gruber earlier; there will be a statement tomorrow morning. Please be patient. Thank you, no further comment.’ He pushed past the journalists and steered Carrington towards the dining room.

  Dr Gruber returned to the hotel with Jana before dark. They joined Carrington and Jack at the bar.

  ‘I can see it wasn’t easy,’ Carrington said, reaching for his scotch.

  ‘These things are never easy,’ replied Dr Gruber, ordering a drink for Jana and himself, ‘and sometimes full of surprises. The six bodies we found were just the beginning, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Jack.

  ‘We also found this,’ replied Dr Gruber, reaching into his pocket. He pushed a shiny gold bar across to Carrington. ‘Complete with Reichsbank markings and serial numbers. We found three of them. Can you imagine what this means? The journalists are circling like wolves out there waiting for a statement. Another mass grave from the war is one thing. A mass grave at the Swiss border with Nazi gold in it is something totally different. Professor Krakowski didn’t say anything about this, did he?’ asked Dr Gruber, looking worried.

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t know,’ said Jana. Dr Gruber looked at her.

  ‘Why don’t we ask him?’ suggested Carrington. ‘May we borrow the gold for a moment? It would be best if Inspector Gonski and I were to discuss this with Mr Krakowski in private, don’t you think?’

  ‘I understand completely. However, the gold is evidence ... Perhaps if Inspector Gonski could sign for it ... we have these rules ...’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jana.

  Jack took Jana aside. ‘May I come along?’ he asked.

  ‘Come on, Jack, you know better than that. I’m already risking my neck to have you here. Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘I’ll go and have another strudel then, shall I?’

  ‘You do that. It might fatten you up a little.’ Jack looked hurt. ‘And one more thing ...’ added Jana.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Only little boys sulk.’

  Carrington and Jana went straight to Krakowski’s room.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us what was in those crates?’ demanded Carrington, ‘and please don’t say you didn’t know.’ He walked to a small sofa by the window and put the gold bar on the table in front of it. ‘What about this?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important after all these years.’

  ‘You–didn’t–think–it–was–important? Are you serious?’ Carrington tried to stay calm, but didn’t quite manage to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  ‘I appreciate how you must feel, but if we are to work together you must try to understand me a little better ...’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Jana.

  ‘I was ashamed to mention it, Jana. Does that make it clearer?’

  ‘Ashamed, why?’ Jana looked confused.

  ‘Do you have any idea where this gold comes from?’ asked Krakowski, pointing to the gold on the table. ‘It makes my skin creep just looking at it.’ Krakowski went to the bar cabinet and poured three cognacs.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let me tell you. But here, have a drink first, you’ll need it.’ Krakowski took a deep breath and handed Carrington and Jana a brandy balloon each. ‘This is denture gold, extracted from the corpses of murdered Jews. Do you know what happened to the bodies on the way from the gas chamber to the crematorium? Gold fillings, gold teeth, bridge work and the like was broken out of the jaws with pliers, often with part of the bone still attached. It was then taken to a secret location nearby and processed with typical German efficiency by other Jews. You know, melted down and cast into neat little gold bars, just like this one.’ Krakowski drained his cognac and refilled his glass.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Carrington softly.

  ‘Not tonight, Marcus, if you don’t mind,’ replied Krakowski, shaking his head. ‘I can’t talk about it now ...’

  ‘All right,’ Carrington said, reaching for the gold bar. Only, this time, the touch of the cool metal made his skin creep too. ‘I’m sorry, Benjamin.’

  ‘So am I,’ Krakowski replied and showed Carrington and Jana to the door.

  Later that evening Jack received a phone call from Sam Greenberg in Zurich, informing him that a key witness had been located in Argentina and was about to be interviewed. Greenberg suggested that Jack should meet him in Buenos Aires to hear first hand what the witness had to say and hinted that the witness appeared to know a great deal about Newman and his bank. Jack said he would be on the first available plane.

  41

  It hadn’t taken Jack long to convince Carrington and Jana to take the long way home and see what Greenberg’s surprise witness in Buenos Aires had to say. After the exhumation, Krakowski had gone back to London for a concert and was waiting for the DNA results.

  ‘That’s him over there,’ said Jack, pointing to the dance floor. ‘I hope I can move like that in my eighties.’ Jack winked at Jana, steering her towards an empty table in front of the band. Carrington followed a few steps behind with Sam Greenberg, the American attorney.

  All the musicians were old men. The pianist and the harmonica player – both well into their seventies – looked frail, the guitarist had his eyes closed and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his drooping mouth. The drummer was bald and his dark glasses gave him a comical, almost frog-like appearance. The music, however, was superb.

  Anton Hoffmeister loved to dance. Gliding across the dance floor with a young woman in a short black dress, he made the intricate steps of the tango look effortless and easy. He was an imposing man for eighty-six. Tall and slim, with thinning white hair brushed back at the sides and a pencil-thin moustache, he looked like an ageing dance instructor trying to cling to his youth.

  In Buenos Aires he was known as Don Antonio and only a few close friends remembered his German name. He owned several notorious tango clubs and it was rumoured he was a well-connected drug baron and gun runner who enjoyed the protection of the military. Elderly generals with their entourage of young female admirers and high-ranking police officers with their mistresses were frequent visitors to his popular establishments. So were some of the most beautiful women in Buenos Aires.

  Since his son’s arrest in the US he had begun to gamble again and had fallen on hard times. He had paid off his son’s staggering debts to the Colombians and was desperately short of cash. His son was facing trial in Miami for drug smuggling; the US Coast Guard had intercepted his yacht with fifty kilos of cocaine concealed in its fibreglass hull. Envious competitors were circling Don Antonio like vultures waiting for their prey to weaken and were trying to buy his clubs for a pittance.

  The music stopped and Don Antonio escorted his stunning dark-skinned partner back to the bar. Turning around, he saw Greenberg talking to a group of people who had just arrived. He walked over to Greenberg and ordered champagne for the whole table.

  ‘This is the Australian lawyer investigating Eric Newman,’ explained Greenberg, introducing Carrington. ‘And this is Inspector Gonski from the Australian Federal Police, and Jack Rogan the journalist I told you about. Please tell them what we discussed the other day.’ Don Antonio smiled at Jana and sat down next to her.

  Jack put the photo of the German officer holding the gun to the head of the naked youth in the middle of the table. Don Antonio picked it up and looked at Greenberg sitting opposite.

  ‘We have a deal, remember,’ drawled the attorney, waving his finger at him. ‘Tell them everything.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’ a
sked Don Antonio, turning to Carrington.

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’ Carrington asked.

  ‘Yes, this is Sir Eric Newman, the Australian banker, or SS Sturmbannfuehrer Wolfgang Steinberger as he was known at the time this photo was taken,’ replied Don Antonio, pointing to the photograph with the tip of his cigar.

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘About five years ago, right here in Buenos Aires.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘We kept in touch after the war. I used to travel regularly to Australia to visit him. About twice a year, I’d say. We had common business interests.’

  ‘You mean the Nazi money in the Swiss bank?’ interrupted Greenberg. ‘He was investing it for you, isn’t that right?’ Don Antonio paled, ignoring the question. In his circles, no one would have dared to speak to him like that.

  ‘I’m more interested in the man,’ said Carrington, trying to defuse the tension. ‘I understand you know who took the photo?’ At first there was no reply; Don Antonio looked pensively at his cigar.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Autumn 1944.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A lake on the Swiss border ...’

  ‘What was in these crates?’ asked Carrington, pointing to the photo. Don Antonio looked uncomfortable, fumbled with a box of matches on the table, and lit another small cigar. He hadn’t expected that question.

  Interesting, he’s playing for time, thought Jack.

  Perhaps this is a trap, thought Don Antonio, and they really have no idea what was in the crates. He reached for his champagne glass and looked at Carrington through the cigar smoke. He was sizing him up like a poker player. On the other hand, they may be testing me. If they do know and I don’t tell them, they won’t believe a word I say about anything and I’ll jeopardise the deal with the Americans. He decided this was not the time to gamble.