The Bormann Testament

by Jack Higgins

  “How did you manage to find out about that?”

  “This particular publisher is a man we’ve been after for three years now. We had a girl planted in his office. She tipped us off about Muller.”

  “Did you actually meet him?”

  Hardt shook his head. “Unfortunately, the publisher got some of his Nazi friends on the job. Muller was living in Bremen at the time. He left one jump ahead of them and us.”

  “And you lost track of him, I presume?”

  Hardt nodded. “Until we heard about you.”

  “I’d like to know how you managed that,” Chavasse said. “It should be most interesting.”

  Hardt grinned. “An organization like ours has friends everywhere. When Muller approached the firm of publishers you’re supposed to be representing, the directors had a word with Sir George Harvey, one of their biggest shareholders. He got in touch with the Foreign Secretary, who put the matter in the hands of the Bureau.”

  Chavasse frowned. “What do you know about the Bureau?”

  “I know it’s a special organization formed to handle the dirtier and more complicated jobs,” Hardt said. “The sort of things MI5 and the Secret Service don’t want to touch.”

  “But how did you know I was traveling on this train to meet Muller?” Chavasse said.

  “Remember that the arrangement with Muller, by which he was supposed to contact you at Osnabruck, was made through the managing director of the publishing firm. He was naturally supposed to keep the details to himself.”

  “Presumably, he didn’t.”

  Hardt nodded. “I suppose it was too good a tale to keep from his fellow directors and he told them everything over dinner that same evening. Luckily, one of them happens to be sympathetic to our work and thought we might be interested. He got in touch with our man in London, who passed the information over to me at once. As I was in Hamburg, it was rather short notice, but I managed to get a mid-morning flight to Rotterdam and joined the train there.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how the people who killed Muller knew we were supposed to meet on this train,” Chavasse said. “I can’t see how there could possibly have been another leak from the London end. I don’t think it’s very probable that there’s also a Nazi sympathizer on the board of directors of the firm I’m supposed to be representing.”

  Hardt shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a theory about that. Muller was living in Bremen with a woman called Lilli Pahl. She was pulled out of the Elbe this morning, apparently a suicide case.”

  “And you think she was murdered?”

  Hardt nodded. “She disappeared from Bremen when Muller did, so they’ve probably been living together. My theory is that the other side knew where he was all along, that they were leaving him alone, hoping he’d lead them to Bormann. I think Muller gave them the slip and left Hamburg for Osnabruck last night. That left them with only one person who probably knew where he had gone and why—Lilli Pahl.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Chavasse said. “It sounds reasonable enough. But it still doesn’t explain why they shot him.”

  Hardt shrugged. “Muller could have been carrying the manuscript, but I don’t think that’s very likely. I should imagine the shooting was an accident. Muller probably jumped the person who was waiting for him in your compartment and was killed in the struggle.”

  Chavasse frowned, considering everything Hardt had told him. After a while, he said, “There’s still one thing which puzzles me. Muller is dead and that means I’ve come to a dead end as far as finding Bormann goes. I can’t be of any possible use to you, so what made you go to the trouble of saving my skin?”

  “You could say I’m sentimental,” Hardt told him. “I have a soft spot for Israeli sympathizers.”

  “And how would you know that is what I am?”

  “Do you recall a man named Joel ben David?” Hardt asked. “He was an Israeli intelligence agent in Cairo in 1956. You saved his life and enabled him to return to Israel with information which was of great service to our Army during the Sinai campaign.”

  “I remember,” Chavasse said. “But I wish you’d forget about it. It could get me into hot water in certain quarters. I wasn’t supposed to be quite so violently partisan at the time.”

  “But we Jews do not forget our friends,” Hardt said quietly.

  Chavasse was suddenly uncomfortable. “Why are you so keen to get hold of Bormann? He isn’t another Eichmann. There’s bound to be an outcry for an international trial. Even the Russians would want a hand in it.”

  Hardt shook his head. “I don’t think so. In any case, we aren’t too happy about the idea of leaving him in Germany for trial, for this reason. There’s a statute of limitations in force under German law. Cases of manslaughter must be tried within fifteen years of the crime—murder, within twenty years.”

  Chavasse frowned. “You mean Bormann might not even come to trial?”

  Hardt shrugged. “Who knows? Anything might happen.” He got to his feet and paced restlessly across the compartment. “We are not butchers, Chavasse. We don’t intend to lead Bormann to the sacrificial stone with the whole of Jewry shouting hosannas. We want to try him for the same reason we have tried Eichmann. So that his monstrous crimes might be revealed to the world. So that people will not forget how men treat their brothers.”

  His eyes sparkled with fire. He was held in the grip of a fervor that seemed almost religious, something that possessed his heart and soul so that all other things were of no importance to him.

  “A dedicated man,” Chavasse said softly. “I thought they’d gone out of fashion.”

  Hardt paused, one hand raised in the air, and stared at him, and then he laughed and color flooded his face. “I’m sorry, at times I get carried away. But there are worse things for a man to do than something he believes in.”

  “How did you come to get mixed up in this sort of thing?” Chavasse asked.

  Hardt sat down on the bunk. “My people were German Jews. Luckily, my father had the foresight in 1933 to see what was coming. He moved to England with my mother and me, and he prospered. I was never particularly religious—I don’t think I am now. It was a wild, adolescent impulse which made me leave Cambridge in 1947 and journey to Palestine by way of an illegal immigrants’ boat from Marseilles. I joined Haganah and fought in the first Arab war.”

  “And that turned you into a Zionist?”

  Hardt smiled and shook his head. “It turned me into an Israeli—there’s a difference, you know. I saw young men dying for a belief; I saw girls who should have been in school, sitting behind machine guns. Until that time, my life hadn’t meant a great deal. After that, it had a sense of purpose.”

  Chavasse sighed and offered him a cigarette. “You know, in some ways I think I envy you.”

  Hardt looked surprised. “But surely you believe in what you are doing? In your work, your country, its political aims?”

  “Do I?” Chavasse shook his head. “I’m not so sure. There are men like me working for every Great Power in the world. I’ve got more in common with my opposite number in the KGB than I have with any normal citizen of my own country. If I’m told to do a thing, I get it done. I don’t ask questions. Men like me live by one code only—the job must come before anything else.” He laughed harshly. “If I’d been born a few years earlier and a German, I’d probably have worked for the Gestapo.”

  “Then why did you help Joel ben David in Cairo?” Hardt said. “It hardly fits into the pattern you describe.”

  Chavasse shrugged and said carelessly, “That’s my one weakness. I get to like people and sometimes it makes me act unwisely.” Before Hardt could reply, he went on. “By the way, I searched Muller before Steiner arrived on the scene. There were some letters in his inside pocket from this Lilli Pahl you mentioned. The address was a hotel in Gluckstrasse, Hamburg.”

  Hardt frowned. “That’s strange. I should have thought he’d have used another name. Did you find anything
else?”

  “An old photo,” Chavasse said. “Must have been taken during the war. He was wearing a Luftwaffe uniform and standing with his arm around a young girl.”

  Hardt look up sharply. “Are you sure about that—that it was a Luftwaffe uniform he was wearing?”

  Chavasse nodded. “Quite sure. Why do you ask?”

  Hardt shrugged. “It probably isn’t important. I understood he was in the Army, that’s all. My information must have been incorrect.” After a moment of silence, he went on. “This hotel in Gluckstrasse might be worth investigating.”

  Chavasse shook his head. “Too dangerous. Don’t forget Steiner knows about the place. I should imagine he’ll have it checked.”

  “But not straightaway,” Hardt said. “If I go there as soon as we reach Hamburg, I should be well ahead of the police. After all, there’s no particular urgency from their point of view.”

  Chavasse nodded. “I think you’ve got something there.”

  “Then there remains only one thing to decide,” Hardt said, “and that is what you are going to do.”

  “I know what I’d like to do,” Chavasse said. “Have five minutes alone with Schmidt—the sleeping-car attendant who served me that coffee. I’d like to know who he’s working for.”

  “I think you’d better leave me to handle that for the moment,” Hardt said. “I can get his address and we’ll visit him later. It wouldn’t do for you to hang about the Hauptbahnhof too long when we reach Hamburg.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  Hardt seemed to be thinking hard. After a while, he appeared to come to a decision. “Before I say anything more, I want to know if you are prepared to work with me on this thing.”

  Chavasse immediately saw the difficulty and stated it. “What happens if we find the manuscript? Who gets it?”

  Hardt shrugged. “We can make a copy.”

  “And Bormann? We can’t copy him.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Chavasse shook his head. “I don’t think my Chief would see things your way.”

  Hardt smiled coolly. “The choice is yours. Without my help, you’ll get nowhere. You see, I have an ace up my sleeve. Something which will probably prove to be the key to the whole affair.”

  “Then what do you need me for?” Chavasse said.

  Hardt shrugged. “I told you before, I’m sentimental.” He grinned. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Things are moving faster than I thought they would, and at the moment I haven’t got another man in Hamburg. I could use you.”

  The advantages to be obtained from working with Hardt were obvious and Chavasse came to a quick decision. He held out his hand. “All right. I’m your man. We’ll discuss the division of spoils if and when we get that far.”

  “Good man!” Hardt said. “Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you. Muller had a sister. Now, we know it, but I don’t think the other side do. He always thought she was killed in the incendiary raids during July 1943. They only got together again recently. She’s working as a showgirl at a club in the Reeperbahn called the Taj Mahal. Calls herself Katie Holdt. I’ve had an agent working there for the past week. She’s been trying to get friendly with the girl, hoping she might lead us to Muller.”

  Chavasse raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is your agent a German girl?”

  HARDT shook his head. “Israeli—born of German parents. Her name is Anna Hartmann.” He pulled a large silver ring from the middle finger of his left hand. “Show her this and tell her who you are. She knows all about you. Ask her to take you back to her flat after the last show. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

  Chavasse slipped the ring onto a finger. “That seems to settle everything. What time do we get to Hamburg?”

  Hardt glanced at his watch. “About two hours. Why?”

  Chavasse grinned. “Because I’ve been missing a hell of a lot of sleep lately, and if it’s all right with you, I’m going to make use of your top bunk.”

  Hardt smiled and he got to his feet and pushed the mounting ladder into position. “You know, I like your attitude. We’re going to get on famously.”

  “I think we can say that’s mutual,” Chavasse said.

  He hung his jacket behind the door and then climbed the ladder and lay full length on the top bunk, allowing every muscle to relax in turn. It was an old trick and one that could only be used when he felt easy in his mind about things.

  Because of that special extra sense that was a product of his training and experience, he knew that for the moment at any rate, the affair was moving very nicely. Very nicely indeed. He turned his face into the pillow and went to sleep at once.

  CHAPTER 4

  Chavasse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing a white Continental raincoat and green hat, both of which belonged to Hardt. He pulled the brim of the hat down over his eyes. “How do I look?”

  Hardt slapped him on the shoulder. “Fine, just fine. There should be a lot of people leaving the train. If you do as I suggest, you’ll be outside the station in two minutes. You can get a taxi.”

  Chavasse shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. It’s a long time since I’ve been to Hamburg, but I can still find my way to the Reeperbahn.”

  “I’ll see you later then.” Hardt opened the door and looked out and then he stood to one side. “All clear.”

  Chavasse squeezed past him and hurried along the deserted corridor. The train was coming slowly into the Hauptbahnhof and already the platform seemed to be moving past him. He passed through one coach after another, pushing past people who were beginning to emerge from their compartments, until he reached the far end of the train. As it stopped, he opened a door and stepped onto the platform.

  He was first through the ticket barrier, and a moment later he was walking out of the main entrance. It was two-thirty, and at that time in the morning the S-Bahn wasn’t running. It was raining slightly, a warm drizzle redolent of autumn, and obeying a sudden impulse, he decided to walk. He turned up his coat collar and walked along Monckebergstrasse toward St. Pauli, the notorious nightclub district of Hamburg.

  The streets were quiet and deserted, and as he walked past the magnificent buildings, he remembered what Hamburg had been at the end of the war. Not a city, but a shambles. It seemed incredible that this was a place in which nearly seventy thousand people had been killed in ten days during the great incendiary raids of the summer of 1943. Germany had certainly risen again like a phoenix from her ashes.

  The Reeperbahn was as he remembered it, noisy and colorful and incredibly alive, even at that time in the morning. As he walked amongst the jostling, cheerful people, he compared it with London at almost three in the morning. What was it they called the heart of St. Pauli—Die Grosse Freiheit—The Great Freedom? It was an apt title.

  He walked on past the garish, neon-lit fronts of the nightclubs, ignoring the touts who clutched at his sleeve, and passed the Davidstrasse, where young girls could be found in the windows, displaying their charms to the prospective customers. After asking the way, he found the Taj Mahal in an alley off Talstrasse.

  The entrance had been designed to represent an Indian temple and the doorman wore ornate robes and a turban. Chavasse passed in between potted palms, and a young woman in a transparent sari relieved him of his hat and coat.

  The interior of the club was on the same lines—fake pillars along each side of the long room and more potted palms. The waiter who led him to a table was magnificently attired in gold brocade and a red turban, although the effect was spoiled by his rimless glasses and Westphalian accent. Chavasse ordered a brandy and looked about him.

  The place was only half-full and everyone seemed a little jaded, as if the party had been going on for too long. On a small stage, a dozen girls posed in a tableau that was meant to represent bath time in the harem. In their midst, a voluptuous redhead was attempting the Dance of the Seven Veils with a complete lack of artistry. The last veil was rem
oved, there was a little tired clapping from the audience, and the lights went out. When they came on again, the girls had disappeared.

  The waiter returned with the brandy, and Chavasse said, “You have a Fraulein Hartmann working here. How can I get in touch with her?”

  The waiter smiled, exposing gold-capped teeth. “Nothing could be easier, mein Herr. The girls act as dance-hostesses after each show. I will point Fraulein Hartmann out to you when she comes in.”

  Chavasse gave him a large tip and ordered a half bottle of champagne and two glasses. During his conversation with the waiter, a small band had been arranging itself on the stage, and now they started to play. At that moment, a door by the entrance to the kitchens opened and the showgirls started to come through as if on cue.

  Most of them were young and reasonably attractive and wore dresses that tended to reveal their charms. They were all stamped in the same mold, with heavily made-up faces and fixed, mechanical smiles for the customers.

  He was conscious of a vague, irrational disappointment at the thought that one of them must be the girl he was seeking, and then, as he was about to turn away, the door swung open again.

  He did not need the waiter’s slight nod from the other side of the room to know that this was Anna Hartmann. Like the other girls, she wore high-heeled shoes, dark stockings, and a sheath dress of black silk that was barely knee-length and clung to her hips like a second skin.

  But there the resemblance ended. There was about her a tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost. She stood just inside the door and gazed calmly about the room, and it was as if she had no part in it, as if the ugliness of life could not touch her.

  He was filled with a sudden excitement that he found impossible to analyze. It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued and the blue-black hair was shoulder-length. Her rounded face and full curving mouth gave her a faintly sensual appearance, and yet her good bone structure and firm chin indicated a strength of character that placed her immediately in a world apart from the other girls.