‘Will it stand up in court?’ asked Blackburn, ignoring the document.
‘Possibly.’
‘Possibly? What do you mean, possibly?’ demanded Evatt. Why was it that lawyers never gave a straight answer?
‘You must understand, all of this happened more than fifty years ago. Memories fade, evidence disappears, witnesses die,’ Carrington said. ‘The uncertainties are enormous. In a case like this, anything can happen. We need a little more time ...’
‘I do understand, I’m sorry,’ Evatt apologised, calming down. ‘It’s just that this case has suddenly become – how shall I put it – politically sensitive. We’re under a lot of pressure from the Americans, you see. Rob will explain. Time is a luxury we don’t have.’
‘If you had to make a decision right now with what you have, what would you do, Marcus?’ asked Blackburn. ‘Weighing it all up, what would you recommend?’ It was a shrewd question; it was the dreaded question Carrington had been expecting. The fork in the road, decision time, he thought. Go ahead, or walk away? Sooner or later it had to come down to that. Feeling cornered, he took a deep breath, well aware that the Prime Minister and the Attorney-General were watching him carefully. Jana kept staring at the report on her lap and bit her lip, the tension in the room growing by the second.
‘On balance,’ Carrington replied, taking his time, ‘I would prosecute.’
PART III
SECRETS REVEALED
Auschwitz; October 1944
‘Heil Hitler,’ said the Kommandant, raising his right arm. If he was surprised to see Sturmbannfuehrer Steinberger come marching into his office unannounced, he certainly didn’t show it. The major and his trusty Doberman were regular visitors to the camp.
‘I want you to find a family deported from Warsaw about eighteen months ago,’ replied the major, ‘a man with his wife and three children. They were sent here.’
‘Eighteen months ... that’s a long time in here.’
‘I understand,’ interrupted the major. ‘But there are the selections ...’
‘Quite. Do you have a name?’
‘Krakowski, a music professor.’
‘Krakowski ... Well, we have a Krakowski in the camp orchestra and his two sons are there too. They are Polish I believe.’
‘Excellent! Where can I find him?’
‘I’ll take you to him.’
Wet and covered in soot, the wheezing steam locomotive looked like a one-eyed pre-historic beast crawling into its lair. It came to a stop and a cloud of acrid smoke descended on the platform. When the guards opened the doors of the cattle wagons the bloated bodies of the dead – covered in excrement and blood – fell onto the greasy tracks. The living just stared at the guards from inside, fear and confusion contorting their wan faces. In the background, the camp orchestra played a cheerful medley of Viennese tunes, welcoming the new arrivals to the biggest extermination machine the world had ever seen,
‘That’s Krakowski over there,’ said the Kommandant, pointing to a group of musicians. ‘He’s the tall one with the violin.’
‘Can I talk to him somewhere – alone?’
‘Certainly.’
Berenger Krakowski entered the small room and stood to attention. He couldn’t see the face of the man leaning against the windowsill – the light near the window was too bright – but the uniform was unmistakable.
He looks much older than fifty-two, thought the major, sizing up the tall, thin man standing in front of him. Despite his threadbare prison uniform, shaved head and multiple bruises, the man had presence. His eyes radiated intelligence, his demeanour defiance.
The major realised at once that a careful approach was needed. He began to walk around Krakowski. ‘I have been looking for you for a long time,’ he said. ‘You weren’t an easy man to trace – all that travelling over the years.’ The major shook his head. ‘Early fame in Paris wasn’t enough to keep you there. You went to London for three years and then off to college in America. And finally, Warsaw of all places. An unfortunate choice, was it not?’ The prisoner didn’t reply.
As a seasoned interrogator, the major knew when to show off for effect. ‘I searched Warsaw for months – in vain,’ he said. ‘And you were right here, next to me, so to speak, every time I visited the camp. Ironic, don’t you think?’
Still no reply.
‘Often the very thing we seek is right there at our fingertips and all we have to do is to reach out. Correct? Well, it doesn’t matter.’ The major waved his hand through the air. ‘I have found you ...
‘Your parents – Olga and Alexander – went down with the Titanic. How tragic. But they were not your real parents, were they?’ The major watched Krakowski carefully. ‘We know your real father was Berenger Diderot. We know your mother was Francine Bijoux.’ Krakowski looked straight ahead. ‘Please, feel free to speak.’ The prisoner paled, but didn’t say anything.
‘Very well,’ continued the major, ‘I will tell you why I’m here. You have something I want.’ He lit a cigarette and began to blow smoke rings into the room. ‘The housekeeper gave you something when she saw you in Paris, didn’t she? Something that had belonged to your real father.’ Slowly, the prisoner turned and, for the first time, looked at the major. ‘I can see I have your attention. Good.’
There’s no way he could know, thought Krakowski.
‘She gave you a bundle of old parchments – Templar manuscripts ...’ continued the major. The prisoner tried hard not to look relieved, yet a hint of a smile creased his pale face. It didn’t escape the major’s notice. ‘You find this amusing?’
‘No, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, only surprising.’
‘You do?’
‘Your interest in my past life is most flattering, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, but I no longer have a life. I’m just a number.’ The prisoner held up his arm, showing the major a long number tattooed into the skin. ‘In this place, numbers have no future.’
‘You have two sons in the camp, I believe. You may think you no longer have a life, but what about them?’ the major continued. ‘You have survived in here for a year and a half with your boys. That tells me something quite different – that shows ingenuity and adaptability. In short, a will to live, don’t you agree?’
‘With respect, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the prisoner replied curtly. Madame Colbert had said almost exactly the same words a few months before, thought the major, and began to smile.
‘You have no knowledge of the Templar parchments then?’ The prisoner didn’t reply. ‘I see; that’s most regrettable. You may go.’
The prisoner turned around and walked towards the door.
‘There is one more thing ...’ the major said quietly. The prisoner stopped. ‘Just in case you do remember something, perhaps we can come to an arrangement ...’
44
The tinny loudspeakers on the minaret crackled into life, and the singsong of the muezzin called the faithful to prayer; a lonely voice of piety intruding in the bustling commerce of the crowded bazaar. Haddad took off his sunglasses, kicked off his shoes and entered the mosque. He saw a destitute beggar waiting for inspiration from above, but when he looked closer, saw it was Farim in his soiled turban and shabby jalabiya. Haddad walked across the gloomy chamber and squatted down beside him.
‘You wanted to see me,’ whispered Haddad.
‘I have important news,’ began Farim, beaming.
‘It’s about time. Have you made contact?’
‘Patience, please.’ Farim held up his hands. ‘The Defender of the Faith is on the move.’
‘Don’t tell me to be patient, you miserable cur,’ hissed Haddad, bristling with frustration. ‘I set you free a week ago and what have you given me in return so far? Nothing!’
‘These things take time,’ replied Farim, undeterred. He enjoyed having the upper hand.
Haddad was beginning to have second thoughts about Farim’s release. Instead of turning into a valuable source of in
formation, Farim appeared to be giving him the run-around.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear that we won’t have to travel all the way to Mecca to find him.’ Farim looked around and turned to face Haddad. ‘He is coming to Egypt. He’s on his way to us, crossing the desert as we speak.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’ hissed Haddad. This was almost too good to be true.
‘Why would I do a thing like that?’ Shaking his head, Farim continued. ‘You have to learn to trust me.’
Haddad almost choked, but managed to control his rising anger. ‘Is he coming back here to Cairo?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No. I hear he’s heading for a place near Luxor – Deir el-Medina ...’
This wasn’t good news. Haddad knew the ancient tombs of the pharaoh’s workmen at Deir el-Medina only too well. The place was notoriously difficult to police and full of smugglers, cut-throats and petty thieves. It’s a clever choice, thought Haddad. It won’t be easy to corner a resourceful terrorist in that terrain.
‘Do you know the exact location?’
‘Not yet, but I will – soon.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be told?’
‘Absolutely. The Jihad is a hungry beast, as this Defender of the Faith has just found out. It devours dollars faster than its enemies. He desperately needs more cash and I’ve been asked to arrange it for him – again,’ Farim explained with a knowing smile. ‘That’s why he’s coming back.’
Greedy turd, thought Haddad, looking at Farim with grudging respect. Farim was never to be trusted, but he shouldn’t be underestimated either.
‘How will you do that?’
‘Same as before. The Australian banker, Mr Newman junior ...’
‘Is he interested?’
‘He is. I’ve just spoken to him in London,’ explained Farim, looking pleased with himself. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have to pray for our success,’ said Farim. He winked and turned to pray.
‘Enough! Remember, I’ll be watching every move you make.’
Haddad couldn’t risk doing nothing though he didn’t trust Farim. He hurried back to his office to contact Carrington. He would need his friend’s assistance again; this time to help him identify the Defender of the Faith should he really come back to Egypt. Carrington and Jana were the only two people he could trust who actually knew what this elusive man looked like.
45
Jana was waiting for Carrington. Despite the protests of his elderly floor clerk – a retired naval officer named McDougall – she had managed to get into his chambers. But he did warn her not to touch anything.
Jana swiped her fingers along the bookcase crammed with bronze busts, leather-bound law books and an assortment of papyrus scrolls and manuscripts in Hebrew and Latin. Roman emperors and bearded philosophers stared at her – disapprovingly, she thought – from the top shelf. Pressed into service as paperweights, black granite scarabs and an army of small shabtis guarded the mountains of papers covering the desk.
Jana heard the rustle of silk from behind and turned around. Carrington swept into the room and dropped his red bag on the floor. Some books tumbled out.
‘How did it go?’ he asked, trying to hide his curiosity. He took off his wig and ran his fingers through the sweaty hair plastered to his forehead.
‘It’s done; he’s been charged. Newman hardly said anything,’ replied Jana. ‘He just looked at me with those ice-blue eyes. Quite unnerving. His solicitor did all the talking. We went through the formalities and Voss wanted to know when his client would be served with all the witness statements. I told him we would write to him shortly.’
‘We still have a lot of work to do before that. I really don’t like this; it’s all a bit back to front. We should have collated all the evidence before he was charged; the devil’s always in the detail.’ Carrington was still angry about being pressed into prosecuting before he was ready. He pushed the scarabs aside and searched for his notes. ‘There are still a lot of loose ends here,’ he said pushing papers around the desk. ‘To start with, we have to clear up the violin question immediately. Krakowski must see it, touch it, play it. If he recognises it ... well, he has to explain how, and why. We may need expert evidence.’
‘What else?’ Jana had been warned about the QC’s wish lists; always demanding, never-ending and mostly unrealistic.
‘I have to meet Dr Rosen and talk to her about Hoffmeister. You know how I feel about Don Antonio. He’s too suave; something just isn’t right.’
‘But he told us so much.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You don’t trust him?’
‘I don’t know ... too much depends on him; that’s what I don’t like.’ Carrington rummaged through the affidavits on his desk. He had the habit of jotting down ideas on small bits of paper and slipping them under the scarabs. The real challenge was to find them later when he needed them. ‘Do you remember what he told us about Newman’s betrayal?’
‘Sure. Newman syphoned off, oh, millions from the Swiss bank account. How lucky for him those ageing Nazis died in exile, don’t you think!’
‘Well, he got greedy. Seems he refused to share any with Hoffmeister.’
‘Right. Don Antonio obviously wants to get even – that’s the worst kind of bias in a witness one can imagine. But we need him.’
Carrington loosened his jabot. ‘I want to know what Dr Rosen can tell us about Hoffmeister and his visits to Australia. She needs to see the violin as well. Objects help people remember; objects and voices, it’s quite remarkable. I’ve seen it many times. And Newman’s daughter is bound to make an impression on a jury.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. She’s due in Sydney for a fundraiser soon,’ said Jana. ‘I’ve made a note of the date – somewhere. I’m becoming just like you, see?’ she joked, searching through her briefcase. ‘Incidentally, she’s met Krakowski before ... ’
‘You’re kidding, where?’
‘At a charity function in New York. A few years ago. Apparently, she knows him – socially and she loves his music, you see. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘That’s amazing. Another coincidence, I wonder?’ mused Carrington.
‘They should get on quite well then, don’t you think?’
‘What, Krakowski and the daughter of the man accused of killing his brother? Sure!’
‘She was married to a Jew, remember? A Holocaust survivor ...’
‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ Carrington looked at Jana. ‘I must say, you’re very well organised. Barristers are notoriously impractical, you know.’
‘You don’t say,’ teased Jana, ignoring the compliment. ‘I’ll call Lord Ashburton tonight and talk to him about the violin. I’ll try to speak to Krakowski as well – he’s giving a concert in New Zealand at the moment, and after that he’s here on tour, remember?’
‘You’ll have to try to pull it all together; we haven’t got much time.’
Jana sighed. ‘I’ll do my best, but it’s a bit like herding cats.’
‘Just like dealing with lawyers, eh?’
‘You said it.’
‘This cat is starving,’ joked Carrington. ‘Come, let me buy you lunch. Let’s get out of here!’
The secret of Florentinos’ success was not the cuisine but rather its location – directly next door to the Supreme Court – and its huge selection of keenly priced reds. Lawyers love a bargain; they also love to drink.
Carrington seemed to know everybody in the crowded restaurant. Waving and nodding in all directions, he followed the waiter to their table.
‘I wonder who’ll be representing Newman,’ said Carrington. ‘With all the notoriety and media attention this case will attract, every silk in town must be itching to get their hands on it.’
‘The best table in the house and an attractive luncheon companion as well; you are a lucky man, Marcus,’ boomed a loud voice from across the room. Annoyed, Carrington turned around.
‘Hello Archie. I haven’t seen you in court for a
ges. Still practising law?’ asked Carrington frostily.
‘Oh, I should think so. In fact, we are about to see a lot more of each other – soon,’ said Cyril Archibald QC, walking over to Carrington’s table, a glass of wine in his hand. Heads turned in their direction. Archibald raised his glass and noisily gulped the wine; he was enjoying himself.
‘Don’t you want to know why?’ asked Archibald, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’
‘Old war crimes, my dear chap; war crimes,’ said Archibald quietly, leaning forward. He handed his empty glass to a passing waiter and walked a little unsteadily back to his table.
‘You do have some strange colleagues. Who on earth was that?’ asked Jana.
‘I think we’ve just met Newman’s barrister – Cyril Archibald. You’ve heard of him, surely?’
‘Isn’t he a bit too old for that?’
‘Well, many think he should have retired years ago, but he still has quite a reputation. He used to be one of the best,’ explained Carrington. ‘His cross examinations used to be brilliant. Devastatingly so, actually.’
‘Used to be?’ asked Jana, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well, he’s still a cunning old fox, I guess. We mustn’t underestimate him.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘We used to be friends – a long time ago. He was my mentor actually, during my early years at the bar. We were very close.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s a long story; I’ll tell you about it some time.’
Jana knew when to back off. ‘May I have a little more wine?’ she said.
Carrington pushed his plate aside and reached for the bottle.
46
Jana paid the taxi driver and walked up to the front door of Jack’s terrace. She straightened her skirt and pressed the bell. Jack stood in the doorway in a pair of baggy shorts and an apron with a large, smiling garlic clove painted on the front. They hadn’t seen each other since Buenos Aires.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 20
