‘Half past eight.’
‘It’s early, come back to bed.’
‘I need a cup of tea to get my strength back.’
She smiled and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘I knew you were a lightweight. OK, then: coffee, black, no sugar if you’re going.’
That afternoon a Serpent arrived in the Garden in the form of a phone call from James’s headhunter. James said very little and the call was over in less than a minute. His face said far more. ‘Problems?’ asked Cathy.
‘You might put it that way. Hérisson Capital have withdrawn the job offer. Apparently, something came up on the background checks that they didn’t like. The headhunter’s trying to find out what it is but my guess is it’s the gold and the letters again.’
‘They’re incredibly well informed, whoever they are,’ said Cathy. ‘What worries me is that they probably know that I’m going to Wroclaw and when.’
‘OK, how about this then?’ said James. ‘Seeing that I’m not going to be starting work anytime soon, why don’t I come with you? Get the magazine to cancel your original flight booking and make another one to fly back to DC. If the US source is somewhere in your office, then that’ll keep the heat off us for a bit. Then all we have to worry about is the UK side of things.’
‘Would you really do that?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Come with me to Poland?’
‘Course I would.’
‘I’d love that. That’s really kind of you.’
The flights were expensive and the LOT flight involved a change at Warsaw, the only direct ones were with a low-cost operator. ‘So long as crawling to Wroclaw over broken glass remains an option, I still won’t fly with them,’ he told her.
‘That bad, huh?’
‘Worse.’
Wroclaw airport was a surprise. Clean, modern and efficient and their bags were already on the carousel by the time they’d cleared immigration. More surprising still, unlike everywhere else on the planet, there was no delay in getting their hire car. ‘I don’t like this,’ joked James. ‘We’ve been transported to another dimension where things work properly and nobody messes you around. Pretty sinister if you ask me.’
‘It won’t last, you’ll see,’ said Cathy. She was right. Because of construction work for a new motorway, the short drive into Wroclaw involved a detour around the minor roads to the west of the old city. The wasted several minutes cursing and swearing as they tried to find their way out of the village of Muchobor Wielki. Eventually, aided by Cathy’s map-reading they found the right road and headed towards the city centre. Just after the big roundabout by the factory outlet store, James was concentrating on trying to read a road-sign when Cathy screamed. ‘Look out! He’s on the wrong side of the road.’ He looked ahead to see the truck bearing down on them. With no time to brake, he spun the wheel hard over to the right and the car jolted off the paved surface onto a grassy ramp leading down towards the dyke beside the river Sleza. They were both flung up out of their seats, cracking their heads painfully on the car’s roof and James, his foot now hard on the brake, managed to bring the car to a halt after a 270-degree spin, with its front wheels inches from the edge of the dyke.
Both panting hard with fright, James was the first to get his voice back. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ replied Cathy rubbing her head. ‘I caught myself on the edge of the sunroof and it hurts like hell. That dumbass bastard could’ve killed us.’
‘Did you get a number or anything?’ asked James.
‘No. Blue, large and coming our way is the best I can do.’
‘I couldn’t even manage blue. And nobody so much as stopped to help us.’
‘Maybe nobody saw.’
James got out to check the car for damage. The underside of the front bumper was scraped and clogged with earth, and one of the rear mud-flaps had come adrift. Tossing it in the boot, he got back in and re-started the engine. With a good deal of wheelspin and with Cathy outside pushing, they managed to get the car back up to the roadside to continue the remaining few kilometres into the centre of Wroclaw. Neither of them spoke much until they arrived at their hotel on Ostrów Tumski, an island in the river Oder, just to the north of the town centre.
Once safely inside their room, James and Cathy sat on the end of the bed looking at one another. Both were ashen-faced. ‘Do you think that was a coincidence? she asked.
‘I hope so, but I’d still like to know why he was on our side of the road.’
‘So what do we do now? Turn round and go home?’
‘Not now we’ve come this far. If someone was trying to frighten us or worse, doing it that way is taking a hell of a risk. What if we’d hit head-on? If there’d been witnesses the police would’ve questioned the driver and I reckon the chances are pretty high that he’d have admitted he’d been paid, threatened or whatever.’
‘That’s why I think we should report it to the police,’ said Cathy with a nervous tremor in her voice.
‘And say what? That we were forced off the road by a blue truck. It’s a waste of time – how many of those are there in Poland? He could be half-way to the German border by now. Come on, let’s get unpacked and take a look round town: I need a drink to stop my hands shaking.’
They strolled over the bridge and in less than fifteen minutes were in the historic centre of the city. The fine weather in England seemed to have followed them and they chose a table outside one of the bars that line Rynek, Wroclaw’s old market square. James took a sip of his beer and wiped the foam moustache from his top lip. He looked over at Cathy who had been uncharacteristically silent since the incident: she wore her sunglasses perched on top of her head and sat gazing into the middle distance. ‘Who do you think’s doing all this?’ she said at last, still not looking at James.
‘I can only think of Pauli.’
‘You reckon he arranged for your house to be broken into? And your flat? What could possibly be worth that risk?’
James shook his head. ‘I could be wrong. Maybe the break-ins had nothing to do with him. Perhaps it’s someone working on the not unreasonable premise that I’d kept a few paintings back for a rainy day.’
‘Possible,’ she said, turning her blue eyes his way once more. ‘But the crap I got from the police in DC, your buddy at Dulles airport, the police in Britain, even the brush-off I got from the museum, that’s too much of a coincidence.’
James looked down into his glass. ‘Not forgetting the amazing disappearing job offer,’ he said.
Cathy pulled a face of exasperation. ‘But if it is him, why’s he doing it? Why does it matter so much? That’s what I want to know.’
‘If it’s him then I think it’s a mixture of things,’ James said. ‘He’s bent out of shape about my hanging on to some of what Bill brought home and he wants those letters because they’ve got pictures of his parents on them. That’s the innocent explanation but there is another possibility.’
‘Which is?’
‘That his parents weren’t as squeaky-clean as he wants us to believe and he’s worried it’s going to come out.’
‘I don’t see that,’ she said. ‘All we’ve got is a couple of names, dates and place of birth and two mug-shots.’
‘Precisely,’ replied James. ‘Which means there’s information on those documents that we’re not seeing.’
‘Such as what?’ Cathy asked. ‘I’ve researched every damn Nazi I can find and none of them fits the details of the Paulis. The same goes for the scientists on the Manhattan project.’
‘What about the art-forger angle? That’s still a possibility.’
‘But if they were just art-forgers why go to all the trouble to get them out of Germany? Two more scientists, yes, but artists? With letters of transit signed by Churchill and FDR.’ She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t make sense. Unless of course we’re ignoring the elephant in the room.’
‘What elephant’s that?’
‘Four m
urders,’ she said. ‘That surely can’t be Pauli. Putting aside the fact that I actually like the guy and plan on voting for him – so I guess I’m biased – can you really see the Democratic Party’s presidential nominee paying for hits simply to get his hand on a couple of lousy old documents?’
James shook his head. ‘I never suggested Pauli was behind the murders, but however you dress it up, I still think there’s a connection. I just don’t know what it is.’
‘Well if we’re going completely left-field, maybe we’ve got competition.’
James frowned. ‘Competition? For what?’ he asked.
‘For whatever Pauli’s hiding. Assuming he is hiding something,’ she added hastily.
‘Taking us but one leap of logic away from blaming little green men from the planet G.O.P.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘If all this stuff is connected and Pauli’s the common thread and it’s worth killing four people for, then we’re seriously out of our depths and it’s time to go talk to the police.’
They ate dinner at a restaurant on the northern side of the Rynek and then made their way back to the hotel. The twin spires of the Cathedral Church were lit up and the streets were still thronged with people making the most of the early summer warmth. Couples were strolling along the banks of the river, giving the city an air of normality that Cathy and James couldn’t quite bring themselves to feel part of. When they got back to the hotel, she practically tore his clothes off almost before the door was shut.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny and after breakfast, they set off on foot for their first meeting. ‘This is rather grand,’ said James as they turned the corner into the courtyard. In front of them rose the baroque splendour of Frederick the Great’s former royal palace that now housed Wroclaw’s city museum. Behind them, the roar of the traffic on the ring road faded to a distant hum.
The documentation curator, a woman in her early thirties, smartly dressed and with short black hair, was already waiting for them. She introduced herself in almost faultless English and led them up the stairs to the archive on top floor. ‘I’ve prepared the information you requested,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got some good news. I’ve found the people you’re looking for.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Cathy.
‘And we are very honoured to have family links with senator Pauli. He is highly regarded in Poland.’ Pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves the curator opened a weighty ledger marked Breslauer Namensverzeichnis aller stimmfähigen Bürger 1890. ‘This is the electoral register for Breslau as the town was called then. Here are Anton Pauli’s parents, Walter and Sarah, living in Graupenstraße which we now call Krupnicza – that’s one of the main roads into and out of the town. But at the time the Paulis were living there, it was a mixture of residential and commercial properties and we can see from this column, Beruf – that means profession – that he was a goldsmith, see here where it says Goldschmied.’ She opened a smaller book, bound in red leather. ‘And here’s the record of Anton’s birth: May 9th 1889.’
‘Is that road you mentioned far from here?’ asked James.
‘Krupnicza? Oh, it’s about two hundred metres up the road but the house itself no longer exists, Breslau suffered terrible damage during April and May 1945 and most of that area was destroyed. However, the news is not all bad.’ She opened another book marked: Breslauer Adressbuch für das Jahr 1931 in gothic script on its cover. ‘Here is the city’s list of addresses and we find Anton Pauli living in the same house as his late father, who the records show died in 1920. Just round the corner near what is now St Antoniego Street was Goldene Radegasse which no longer exists. What the Red Army started, our post-war planners finished and there are only three of the original buildings left. What’s important for your research is that Emma Richter was born there on November 12th 1912. And then when we get to 1932 as you’ll see here…’ The curator opened yet another battered ledger. ‘On the 14th of June, she marries Anton Pauli.’
Cathy turned to James with a look of triumph on her face. ‘Well that’s it, we’ve found Senator Pauli’s parents. This is fantastic.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ said the curator. ‘They may be relations, but Anton and Emma can’t be Senator Pauli’s parents.’
‘Why not?’ asked Cathy, astonished. ‘We’ve got copies of identity documents for them when they came to the US in 1945.’
‘Sorry, but again that isn’t possible. You see, Anton and Emma Pauli died in 1944. I did more research on them from other sources and they were deported from Breslau… ’
‘Did you say deported?’ Cathy asked.
‘Yes, that’s right. They were among the first Jews forcibly removed from the city; first to Krzeszów – a town that was called Grüssau in those days. From there they were taken to the concentration camp at Theresienstadt and from there to Auschwitz where they were murdered in June 1944. So although it’s possible Senator Pauli may be related to them, he cannot be their son.’
‘And he’s not Jewish either. We’ve come all this way for nothing,’ Cathy said to James and, turning again to the curator, said, ‘I’m so terribly sorry that we’ve wasted your time.’
The curator smiled. ‘Research is never wasted, Miss Stenmark. And it also means that Anton and Emma Pauli are not forgotten: that’s important too.’
‘Is it possible that there were other people with the same names in Breslau at the same time?’ asked Cathy.
‘There were,’ she replied. ‘But the dates of birth are wrong and there’s no other record of an Anton Pauli marrying an Emma Richter. Sorry.’
‘I know this is a long-shot,’ said James. ‘But are there any photographs of the Paulis in your archives?’
‘No,’ said the curator. ‘I looked before you came. It’s frustrating; we’ve got literally thousands of pre-war photographs of the people of Breslau, but in most cases, we can’t put names to faces.’
After thanking the curator for her time, James and Cathy were just leaving the building when she called them back. ‘Wait, please,’ she called. They stopped and the curator passed them a piece of paper. ‘I nearly forgot. Go to this address,’ she said. ‘It’s the White Swan Synagogue. If you’re interested, I can call my friend who runs their museum and ask her if you can see their archives. They may have nothing, but you never know and it’s only five minutes from here.’ She returned a few minutes later with the news that not only would the curator of the little museum be glad to see them, but she also spoke English.
After a few wrong turns, they eventually found the synagogue, tucked in behind a modern cinema complex and hemmed in on all sides by other buildings.
‘I thought we’d come to the wrong place,’ Cathy said to the curator. ‘I never imagined a synagogue would’ve survived let alone be in such fabulous condition.’
The curator smiled. ‘The White Swan has had a hard life,’ she said. ‘It was looted and smashed up by the Nazis on Kristallnacht – the only reason they didn’t burn it was because some of the nearby buildings were owned by party members. Then it was blown up and partially burned by the Red Army, vandalised and neglected under the communists and then, after three failed restorations and two more fires, it was given back to the Jewish community in 1996.’
‘I can see you’ve been busy,’ said Cathy.
‘Most of the restoration was complete by 2010 but there’s still work to do. If you follow me down to the basement, I’ll show you our little collection. Magda from the City Museum said you’re looking for pictures of the Paulis and I think I may be able to help you.’ The museum, like the rest of the newly renovated building was brightly-lit and welcoming and the curator showed them to a double row of document drawers where the photographs were kept. ‘There are three photos that I think will interest you. This is the Paulis’ jeweller’s shop. They lived and worked in the rooms above it. The next one is of Walter and Sarah at a school prize-giving and this one, I’m afraid it’s not a very clear image, is of the wedding
of Anton Pauli and Emma Richter on the 14th of June 1932. It was a Tuesday which is the best day for marriages in our tradition.’ She looked at Cathy and James but her expectant smile faded when she saw the look of disappointment on their faces. ‘It’s not them,’ said James. ‘Even allowing for the time difference between the two photographs, there’s no similarity at all.’
‘Do you have later pictures of them?’ asked the curator.
‘Yes, but they’re from identity documents issued in 1945 and according to your colleague, the Paulis were murdered in Auschwitz in 1944,’ replied James.
‘I’m afraid that’s correct,’ she said. ‘They were killed in the June of that year, so the people in your photographs can’t be them. Do you have them with you?’
‘They’re photocopies,’ said James, unfolding two pieces of paper from his inside pocket. ‘I’ve cropped everything except the identity photos, but they’re still very grainy.’
As the curator took them from him, her mouth fell open and then, without warning, she roughly thrust the copies back at James. ‘If you have come all this way to make bad jokes, then I must ask you to leave,’ she shouted. ‘Go, go now. This is disgusting.’
James took a pace backwards and held up both hands. ‘Hey, whoa, just stop a minute. Nobody’s making a joke and if I’ve offended you in any way then I apologise.’
She glared at him disbelievingly. ‘You mean you don’t recognise those faces?’
James shrugged. ‘Until today I thought they were Anton and Emma Pauli. Who do you think they are?’
Still visibly shaken, she snatched them back from him and laid them out flat on the table. Then, she covered all but the eyes of the man’s identity photograph. ‘Look again,’ she said. ‘Now tell me you don’t recognise that face.’
Cathy joined James at the table and stared at the grainy eyes peering at her from behind their thick distorting lenses. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the curator. ‘I can’t see it either.’
The curator stared intently at each of them in turn. ‘And you really don’t recognise this man?’ Both shook their heads. ‘Well I do, despite the disguise.’ she said. ‘That is Adolf Hitler.’
The Manhattan Deception Page 25
