Huber thought he would explode from the bottled anticipation.
“I cannot wait, Professor.”
Bauer chuckled.
“You sound just like the Führer, Rolph. He wants everything by yesterday, but I hope you are not as impatient. First though, we need more of that Bollinger and caviar!”
Twenty-Seven
“What’s behind all this?” Natasha asked as she pressed her slender fingers up the muscles in Henry’s neck.
Henry was lying face down on the bed, his forehead resting on a lumpy pillow.
“You mean Pequignot?” Henry said, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“No, these headaches of yours. They’re becoming more frequent, you know. Are you sure you’ve always had them?”
Henry found it difficult to focus his thoughts as his brain coped with the contrasting mixture of throbbing needles of pain within his skull and the intense pleasure from Natasha’s skilful touch.
“Pretty much… as long as I can remember. You think they’re getting worse?”
“Don’t you?” she replied.
He was silent, trying to force his wandering imagination away from his present situation and back to the murder of Francois Pequignot.
“What do you think links these very different victims to each other?” she said eventually. “Three men, one woman, aged thirty to sixty-three years, two countries, three different home cities.”
“You’re looking at it from the wrong angle. You should be asking yourself what they have in common. I see, apart from the obvious – big brains, intelligence and a bizarre tattoo – that they are all loners, without families, like outcasts in society. They all have something that is… yes, that’s it, deviant. They’re all plagued by some kind of weakness, like a vice!”
He sat up suddenly, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“What do you mean?” Natasha said, her hands suspended in mid-air.
“I never saw it before,” Henry said, counting on his fingers as he mentioned each victim by name, “but think about it: Haysbrook was homosexual; Vera Schmidt was bisexual; Barnabus was an alcoholic; Pequignot liked prostitutes.”
He lay down again for her to resume the massage.
“You don’t know for certain that Haysbrook was gay and you don’t know for certain that Vera Schmidt was bisexual… or do you?” Natasha said, pointedly.
Henry hesitated before replying.
“I think we do. I spoke to George earlier and she said something peculiar about her relationship with Vera. I don’t know what she was trying to tell me, but it didn’t sound like a proclamation of innocence.”
“How is George?” she asked, stiffening at the mention of George’s name and interrupting the rhythm of the massage.
He sighed deeply.
“Complicated, as ever.”
He paused, thinking back on the last two conversations he had had with George, contemplating the unresolved issues between them and reflecting on the thousands of miles that separated them still.
“We’re just… not… getting along,” he said.
He felt the slow crescendo of pressure from Natasha’s fingers rising again, felt her body relaxing beside his.
“Do you think those deviances, as you call them, are sufficient motive for murder?” she asked.
“Any balanced person would have to say ‘no’, of course. But we are not necessarily dealing with balanced individuals, are we?”
Natasha was silent, seemingly concentrating on expunging some poison from Henry’s neck, a poison that had to be gently but persuasively expelled.
“What do you make of the tattoos?” she said, sounding distracted.
Henry could feel his body melting beneath Natasha’s fingers, as though she was turning his flesh into passion fruit oil. Waves of pleasure shot up and down his spine, his headache now forgotten.
“They are a mystery, I have to concede. What do we have: G2, G3 and G4?” He fell silent, only his breathing audible above the tinny din of street noise outside. “They could be the key to linking our victims. But…”
“But what?” Natasha’s voice sounded different, husky.
“Natasha?”
Her fingers raked through his short hair, up towards his crown, away from the neck and the site of the poison.
“Natasha?” Henry felt himself surrendering.
She stiffened suddenly and her fingers froze, rigid.
“What is it?” he said, raising his head from the pillow.
Natasha turned away, biting on a finger, her face contorted.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said instinctively, though he was not certain why he was apologising.
Natasha turned to him with fear on her fragile features. Long strands of hair fell across her freckled cheek, obscuring her eyes, but she failed to remove them.
“What’s the matter?” he said, resting his weight on one elbow as he turned his body towards her.
He wanted to comfort her, to hold her, to know her better.
“I found something,” she whispered, her chest rising and falling, accentuating the elegant bony lines beneath her neck.
“What?”
She hesitated, staring deeply into his questioning eyes. The look in her eyes was no longer that of desire, but one of fear and deep-seated unease.
“I need to look again, Henry. Lie down, please.”
Henry frowned and looked away uncertainly before lying face-down on the pillow again. He could feel Natasha’s trembling fingers separating the short hairs at the base of his skull, the same hairs that Pasquale had handled and cut just days before. He waited for what seemed an eternity. What was it? A cancerous-looking mole, a nesting insect, what else could it be?
“What is it, for God’s sake?”
When he looked up he saw that Natasha’s face was turned away to the wall, studying the distorted shadow of the orange bedside lamp across the tired wallpaper.
“You have a tattoo.” Natasha’s voice almost broke as she spoke in a barely audible whisper.
Her fingers leapt from his neck as she stood up and walked to the corner of the room, arms folded tightly with one hand clasped to her mouth.
“A what?” Henry said, pulling himself up on to both elbows before turning on to his side and instinctively touching the back of his neck with one hand, trying to feel it.
“Your hair is very short now and… er… I can make out a tattoo.”
Natasha seemed about to burst into tears.
“What sort of… tattoo?”
She shook her head in disbelief, like a frightened schoolgirl with wide, teary eyes, unable to take them off Henry’s face.
“Well, what is it?” he said.
Natasha stared at Henry, then suddenly lowered her head and covered her eyes with one hand as her shoulders shuddered. Then she looked up, trying to be the professional police sergeant that she was once again.
“It looks like ‘G3’.”
Henry felt winded. Surely this was not possible?
“What?”
“It’s exactly where we have found all the others, high up in the neck, invisible under a full head of hair,” Natasha explained, almost apologetically, suddenly finding her voice again.
Her mascara was beginning to run and Henry felt a confusing mixture of astonishment, confusion and compassion. Suddenly Natasha began to sob openly, her control finally shattered.
“Oh God, Henry, what does it mean?”
Henry stood up and found himself embracing Natasha, pulling her into his chest and hugging her to comfort both her and himself in almost equal measure. He rested his chin on the straight blonde hair on top of her head as she sobbed, staring at the yellowed wallpaper and the cobwebs high up in the corner. He could feel the heat of her breath coming in gasps on his chest, the wetness of her tears soaking his shirt.
“You could be in danger,” she said with a sharp intake of breath. She pulled back slightly to look him directly in the eye. “You’ll need protection.”
&nb
sp; He raised an index finger and pressed it briefly against her soft but dry lips as he gently shook his head.
“Not a word about this to Superintendent Bruce.”
“Why not?” Natasha’s face wrinkled up in puzzlement.
“Because he will pull me from the case.”
“But that would surely be best for your safety,” she said. “We don’t know who’s behind this, or why they’re doing it. You could be a target for all we know. They could be watching you right now.”
Henry now had one thought in his mind: Steinhöring. He had never felt as strongly as he did now that he had to get to Steinhöring. If Bruce pulled him off this investigation he would never get the privileged access he needed in that elusive and mysterious place. Somehow, he felt, the key to his empty past lay in that sleepy and insignificant Bavarian town.
“I have to get to Steinhöring, Natasha. If Bruce knows about my tattoo he will never let me go.”
Natasha stared into his eyes, tears of fear sliding down her cheeks.
“Please, Natasha, for my sake as well as that of the investigation.”
Natasha breathed heavily, her mind in turmoil. She swallowed back tears.
“I’m not leaving you alone tonight, Henry. Who knows what kind of raving lunatic is out there?”
For the first time, Henry smiled, just a small smile, as he used both hands to sweep the hair away from her eyes and tuck it behind her delicate ears. Then he wiped the tears away from each cheek with the back of his index fingers, wondering for a brief moment if her tiny freckles might have been washed away by the salty liquid.
Twenty-Eight
Steinhöring
The centre piece on the long banquet table was a large cut-glass candelabrum, sparkling beneath the flickering yellow and orange flames of a dozen pure white candles. Placed around it on the starched and folded white table linen were several silver platters piled with delicacies: white asparagus, dumplings, sliced roast pork, white Munich sausages, sauerkraut – the list was endless.
“There is something… unusual about that candelabrum,” Huber said to Professor Bauer, who was seated beside him and partaking without restraint of the 1929 Gevrey-Chambertin.
“Do you know why?” Bauer retorted with a wicked chuckle, spilling some burgundy on to the table linen. The red stain spread like blood in the snow.
Huber continued to stare at the ornate candelabrum, symmetrically arranged about a central fulcrum. He shook his head.
“I’ve seen that shape before… somewhere…”
“It’s a Jewish Menorah, Rolph! This place is furnished with loads of luxury furnishings taken from aristocratic Jewish homes.” Bauer narrowed his eyes as he studied the Menorah. “In a perverse way it is quite attractive, do you not think?”
“Jewish?” Huber screwed up his face in disbelief, looking down at the table. “Do you mean that this…”
“Yes, the table might be, too,” Bauer said playfully as he lifted the glass of opulent red wine to his mouth again.
Seated around the elongated table were about two dozen uniformed SS officers, all dressed in black formal attire, complete with black on red and white swastika armbands, talking animatedly, laughing, spilling wine and pushing food into their greasy mouths. Gudrun was seated opposite Huber, fending off the attentions of two visiting Sturmbannführers who were getting very drunk. Whenever she could, she would make eye contact with Huber and pull a face of dutiful suffering.
“You are not eating, Rolph. Come on, my dear boy, there is food enough here to feed half of Steinhöring. Don’t let it go to waste.”
“That’s what bothers me, Professor. I keep thinking of how my family back in Stuttgart are struggling on meagre rations. Many families out there are starving, you know, literally.”
Bauer nodded with feigned empathy as he tore into a fatty eisbein, dripping juices down his veined chin.
“What did Gruppenführer Herman Göring say last year, Rolph, ‘guns instead of butter’?” Bauer began to laugh, almost choking on a mouthful of food.
One of the Sturmbannführers beside Gudrun overheard this and leaned forward drunkenly on his elbow, pointing unsteadily in Bauer’s direction with a studied expression on his plump face.
“What Göring said, if I may, Standartenführer, was ‘Guns will make us powerful, butter will only make us fat’.” With that he burst into sudden and excessive laughter, revealing a mouthful of partially chewed food as he thumped the table with the flat of one hand.
Huber began to slice a thick spear of white asparagus carefully with his silver knife and fork before dipping it in Hollandaise sauce.
“Just use your fingers,” the drunken Sturmbannführer said loudly to Huber, laughing all the while, his eyes wild in his face.
“I don’t… er, like to touch my food,” Huber said to Bauer, who both acknowledged and dismissed the drunken officer politely before turning back to Huber.
“Rolph, you must not feel guilty about these occasional excesses. There has to be a price for rebuilding our nation from the lowest depths of the Weimar Republic, to what will be the incredible heights of the Third Reich. You are privileged to be part of the chosen elite who will make that possible.”
Huber washed the asparagus down with a mouthful of deliciously smooth burgundy.
“And how will I do that, Professor?”
Bauer swallowed, wiped his mouth and fingers roughly on a large, highly starched serviette, and pushed his high-back chair away from the table.
“You will help me, Rolph, in building a new generation of super Germans; intelligent, smart people who will advance German ideals beyond our wildest imaginations.”
Huber sat listening, transfixed by Bauer’s passion, his wild dancing eyes and his animated hand gestures.
“Have you heard of Herbert Spencer, Rolph?”
“No.”
Bauer reached for his crystal wine glass.
“An Englishman from the last century, he espoused social Darwinism long before we popularised it. His famous concept, survival of the fittest, is exactly what drives us, what drives Reichsführer Himmler, and what will drive you to succeed in our ambitious project.”
“Survival of the fittest?” Huber repeated, shrugging his shoulders.
“Did you meet Himmler?” Bauer said, holding his wine glass aloft in suspended animation.
“Briefly, Professor. He had to return to Berlin but Gudrun introduced us. It was a great honour for me.”
“He is a man of incredible vision, Huber.” Bauer nodded, seemingly distracted. “You know, we have begun an audacious project to re-engineer the Reich by a sort of… accelerated social Darwinism. These homes, of which Heim Hochland is but the first no doubt of many, are a means of bringing together the finest of Aryan genetic material and reproducing it selectively for the next generation. Only the strongest and the fittest will survive and conquer, so we will produce nothing but the strongest, the fittest, and the best, while removing the weak and undesirables from the gene pool.”
“I have worked at Hadamar, Professor,” Huber said by way of acknowledging this point. His eyes were locked on Gudrun’s across the table as he listened to Bauer speaking. She, too, was enjoying the wine and he felt the warmth of her gaze lingering deeply and with increasing boldness on him as the evening went on.
Bauer leaned closer to Huber, turning his shoulders slightly as his hands began to form the shape of a square in front of his body.
“Now imagine, Rolph, if we were successfully able to select, from this already superlative gene pool, only the very best, the top one per cent, no, the top half a percent, and then give them special treatment with the newest, groundbreaking scientific discoveries from the smartest minds at KWI.” Bauer held Huber’s gaze without faltering, not expecting a response, merely to let his point sink in.
“They are indeed making incredible scientific discoveries at Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, Professor. It amazes me every day.”
Bauer placed a hand on Huber’s
arm.
“My colleague and personal friend, Spemann, was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1935, what a brilliant man, and there are dozens like him, Rolph, just like Vogt, for example. The institute receives generous funding and support from the Nazi Party and now it is our duty to make good use of some of those scientific breakthroughs for the future benefit of the whole Reich.”
Huber was beyond nervous anticipation: his excitement and desire to learn more about Bauer’s secret project was never greater. Despite his best efforts to remain sober and attentive, Bauer was refilling both of their wine glasses. From across the table a squeal of salacious giggling distracted Huber. He saw Gudrun sandwiched in between the drunk and perspiring Sturmbannführers. A pang of jealousy wound its way through him and stunned him. Gudrun found his eyes. He smiled back and winked. His groin felt warm when he stared into her eyes, suppressed only slightly by an unexpected twinge of guilt: it was barely eighteen months since he had lost Liesel – was it too soon?
“What am I to do, Professor?” Huber said, turning back to the old man with his shiny bald head, on which reflections of the candles in the Menorah danced around his moles.
Bauer turned back to Huber and looked admiringly into his face.
“You, Rolph, are going to help me make history.” Bauer nodded his head and then smiled. “But it is top secret, so tonight, you enjoy yourself,” he said, shifting his eyes in Gudrun’s direction approvingly. “Remember Herbert Spencer’s words, Rolph, survival of the fittest, and do it for the sake of the Reich. Tomorrow, I will show you our facility.”
Huber understood but smiled only slightly in the corners of his mouth as he looked assuredly across the table at Gudrun. Her eyes were still on his face. In that instant he knew that before the night was over he and Gudrun Nauhaus would no longer merely be work colleagues.
Twenty-Nine
When Natasha awoke and prised open her sleep-encrusted eyes, she found herself lying fully clothed with the sheets of Henry’s bed twisted uncomfortably around her. For a brief moment she was disorientated by the semi-gloom and strange smells of the well-used hotel room. Her eyes shot down to the bed beside her. Henry was not there. She forced her eyes open and studied her wrist watch, still pressed into her creased arm. It was nine o’clock.
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