‘And that made it somehow easier to bear, but at the same time you felt even more guilty that her death could be a relief to you.’
‘There’s no escape, is there?’ he said, smiling weakly. ‘You just live with it.’
Brooke looked down at her feet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. ‘Ben, why do you think the woman you saw in Switzerland is Ruth?’
He turned to her. ‘You think I’m imagining it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That’s what I thought, too. But I’m not.’ He told her all what had happened in Switzerland.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked her when he’d finished.
‘Run that last bit by me again. You chased after this person. You thought it was a guy at first, then realised he was a she. There was a struggle, and that’s when you thought you recognised your sister.’
‘That’s pretty much it.’
‘And you were so shocked that you just let her get away.’ He nodded.
A crease appeared between Brooke’s brows. ‘What are the odds, Ben? That it’s really her?’
‘In principle, pretty small,’ he admitted.
‘And she was wearing a mask?’
‘Standard military and security forces issue black three-hole ski mask. Same kind we use here.’
The line in her brow deepened. ‘I don’t get it. All this pain. Digging up all this past torment, inflicting this on yourself when you can’t be sure. Because, you know, you really can’t.’
‘There’s more to it.’ He paused while he refilled their glasses. ‘One day in autumn, when Ruth was about seven, she was helping my father rake up fallen leaves in the orchard and burn them in a garden incinerator. She was running around near the burner when she slipped and fell and touched her arm against the hot metal. The burn was pretty nasty, and the scar never went away. It was on the underside of her right forearm, about two inches long, crescent-shaped.’ He smiled tenderly at the memory. ‘It was actually quite pretty, smooth and white and perfectly formed. She even got to like it.’
‘So this woman in Switzerland. This neo-Nazi terrorist or whatever the hell she is. You’re going to tell me that she has the same scar?’
‘Exactly the same.’
‘And this is what you’re basing it on? A scar that anyone could have?’
‘Not everyone. I told you, it was very distinctive.’
‘So distinctive, you remember it that clearly after more than twenty years?’
‘It’s her, Brooke. I know her. I felt her presence. I looked in her eyes. Ruth’s not dead. She’s out there somewhere, and I’m going to do what I should have done years ago. I’m going to find her.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ben awoke long before dawn, and Ruth was the first thing that came into his mind. He took a quick shower and pulled on jeans and a shirt, then went downstairs and walked straight over to his office. Grabbed a laptop, shoved it under his arm and took it back across the dark yard to the house. He made some coffee, then sat down at the kitchen table and ran an internet search on Hans Kammler.
Top of the results that flashed up on his screen was Kammler’s online encyclopaedia page. It showed a black and white photo of a tall, slim, determined-looking man, caught mid-stride and glancing at the camera. He was wearing the insignia of an SS-Obergruppenführer, and his peaked cap bore the SS silver death’s head icon that had become the twentieth century’s most dreaded emblem of pure evil.
Ben sipped coffee as he read through the text. What Steiner had said about the man had been correct. Born in 1901 in Stettin, Germany, Kammler had trained as an engineer and gone on to enlist in the SS in 1932. Ten years later, now a general, he had been singled out as one of the Reich’s most skilled technicians and personally appointed by Adolf Hitler to oversee the design and construction of facilities for the Nazi extermination camps, including the notorious gas chamber and crematorium at Auschwitz – a task that he seemed to have attended to with single-minded fervour.
By 1944, Kammler’s scientific expertise had taken him even higher within the Nazi hierarchy. He’d been tasked by SS boss Heinrich Himmler to head up the V-2 rocket programme that had rained devastation on London in the later stages of the war. At the same time, Kammler had been put in charge of something called the Special Projects Division, about which there seemed to be very little information available, but which Ben figured had been the German equivalent of the USA’s Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, DARPA.
The man’s death was somewhat shrouded in mystery, too, with accounts ranging from suicide to execution by the Soviets alongside two hundred other SS soldiers in the final days of the war.
So much for the encyclopaedia entry. Ben clicked out of it and started exploring the other links that his search engine had thrown up. Somehow he didn’t think the Hans Kammler on Facebook was the same guy he was after. And the scattering of other results didn’t seem to offer up a great deal, either. Internet conspiracy theory nerds seemed to have run wild with speculation about Kammler’s involvement with the Special Projects Division. Just about all of the remaining search results were links to misspelt and frequently semi-literate forum entries linking Kammler to everything from Nazi occult rituals to time machines to flying saucers.
Ben gulped back the rest of the coffee as he waded through the quagmire with building impatience and frustration. None of this could possibly have any bearing on why anyone would want to kidnap Maximilian Steiner. It was becoming clear that he was going to have to talk to someone – someone who not only knew more about Hans Kammler than the internet could offer, but could also shed light on why Steiner’s documents were so attractive to a gang of neo-Nazi kidnappers. He reckoned the world of Holocaust-denying fascists must be fairly small and close-knit. The problem was getting a foot in the door.
But he had an idea of who might be able to help.
He was just about to shut down the laptop when Brooke walked into the kitchen. ‘Morning,’ she said sleepily. She was still in her dressing gown, her hair tousled, eyes bleary.
Ben stood and pulled up a chair for her at the table. She slumped into it gratefully as he prepared a fresh pot of coffee and put it on the range.
‘Christ,’ she said, resting her face in her palms. ‘Why did I drink so much last night?’
‘My fault. Sorry.’
She looked up at him. ‘Look at you. Fresh as a daisy. How do you do it?’
‘Addled by a lifetime of self-abuse,’ he said. ‘So intoxicated, my body’s given up caring.’
‘Sure. Then you go out for a ten-mile run and you don’t even get out of breath. Some alcoholic you are.’
For his SAS training Ben had once had to carry a thirteen-stone man with full kit and rifle up and down the side of a mountain. He wasn’t sure if he could still do that. Maybe he should give it a try sometime, he thought.
Brooke’s gaze flicked over to the computer. ‘What were you looking up?’
‘SS General Hans Kammler, inventor of the amazing Nazi time machine.’
‘You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?’
‘Look for my sister? Of course I am. I have to.’
The percolator was spitting and bubbling. He grabbed a mug, poured out Brooke’s coffee, added a dash of cream the way she liked it, and set it down in front of her. ‘I know what you think about this,’ he said as he sat down beside her. ‘But finding people is something I do well.’
‘If anyone can find her, you can.’ She paused to sip some coffee. ‘Oh, that’s good. But the real question is, Ben, what are you going to find?’
Ben stared at his hands on the table.
Brooke went on, her voice soft and gentle. ‘First, most likely, if you track down this woman, she isn’t going to be your sister at all. She’s going to turn out to be some crazy stranger who just happens to resemble the image you have of Ruth in your mind, the age she would have been now. Wishful thinking is a powerful force.’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s wishfu
l thinking to believe that my little sister came back from the dead as a Nazi.’
‘That brings me on to the next bit. The worse bit. What if, by some bizarre chance, this person really is your sister? She won’t be the little girl you remember. She’ll have changed. Whether it’s wearing a swastika badge or joining some kind of cult, you have to ask what makes an intelligent person gravitate to this type of extreme behaviour. You don’t know what kind of mental or physical trauma she might have been through, what kind of people she’s been associating with and what severe psychological disturbances she could be experiencing. She’ll be someone you don’t recognise. She might not even remember you.’ Brooke paused. ‘I’m sorry. I’m laying it on thick, and I don’t want to hurt you. It’s just that you need to understand, for your own sake as much as hers.’
‘Everything you say makes perfect sense,’ Ben said. ‘But I won’t change my mind. I’m going after her anyway.’
She nodded and took another sip of coffee. ‘I knew that’s what you were going to say. But promise me that if you find her, and she really is who you think she is, that you’ll let me get involved. I mean, professionally. You’re both going to need help to get through this.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a deal. And thanks. You’re a real friend.’
‘And you’re a real worry.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Time to make the first call of the day.’
‘Who to?’
‘There’s a guy I know at Interpol. Luc Simon. He might be a place to start. I heard he’s high up the food chain these days. He was a cop in Paris when he and I worked together.’
‘Worked together?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Blowing up buildings, taking down bad guys. It was never an official thing. We had a kind of understanding.’
‘I won’t even begin to ask,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m going for a long, hot shower.’
As she left the room, Ben walked over to the phone and dialled the number for the Interpol General Secretariat in Lyon. After giving his name and details to an endless series of receptionists and secretaries who seemed hellbent on preventing him from being put through to the person he wanted, he persisted and finally heard the familiar voice on the line.
‘It’s been a long time,’ Simon said warmly. ‘I didn’t think I was going to hear from you again.’
‘Neither did I, for a while there. You’re a difficult man to get to talk to these days. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. Commissioner. Pretty impressive.’
‘I gather you’ve moved on yourself since we last talked. You’re a respectable businessman now.’
‘A regular tycoon. But I was calling about something else. I need your help.’
‘Fire away. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘What do you know about neo-Nazis?’
Simon grunted. ‘Plenty. It’s a growing problem across Europe. You only have to look at the statistics for visitors to Hitler’s birthplace to see the rise. We have extreme far-right groups sprouting up like toadstools all over the place – France, Holland, Austria, Italy, everywhere. Why do you ask?’
‘What about Holocaust deniers?’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘Well, a lot of our shaven-headed, armband-wearing friends make no effort to decry the Holocaust. In fact, some of them would be all too happy if it had been ten times worse. But then you have this diverse splinter group, associated with the neo-Nazi movement but in some ways quite distinct, who want to persuade the world that Hitler never really did these things and that the historical account has been fixed to vilify him.’
‘And he was actually a great guy, he loved his mum, etc, etc.’
‘You get the idea. Quite a strong little subculture going on there.’
‘That’s what I’m interested in. Anyone in particular stand out?’
‘Before I say any more, Ben, I have to ask you why you want to know all this.’
‘Personal interest,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing you’d like to share with me?’
‘I’d rather keep it to myself, Luc.’
‘Only I seem to remember the last time you and I were in contact, you left a bit of trouble in your wake. Like dead men and bullets all over Paris.’
‘That was then, Luc. I’ve settled down now.’
‘Maybe. But some people never change.’
‘Trust me. I just want to talk to someone about a wartime document, written by someone called Kammler.’
‘That’s it? A document? You don’t want to take the document from them, or anything like that?’
‘No, I already know where it is. I just want to ask some questions. Nice and easy, nothing sinister.’
‘So why not talk to whoever has it? Why go looking for someone else?’
‘Long and boring story. Let’s just say I’m not flavour of the month with the owner. Plus, I don’t think he knows much. So, are you going to help me or not?’
Simon was quiet for a moment, and Ben could almost hear him thinking. ‘There are a few prominent Holocaust deniers we keep an eye on,’ Simon said. ‘Now and then we pick one up for racial assault or firearms charges. It’s not exactly top secret. These guys attract a lot of attention, if you know where to look.’
‘So you wouldn’t be risking anything by telling me a name or two.’
‘I could tell you more than one or two,’ Simon said. ‘But here’s the problem. I don’t know exactly what you want from them, but I do know the way you work. I give you this information, you’re going to start kicking down doors. They’re not going to like that, and when they try to get in your way it’s going to end with you wiping the floor with them. As a result of which, people like me will have to go in and clean up the mess. I’m not sure I like that idea.’
‘You went out on a limb for me before, Luc.’
‘And half of France got shot to pieces.’
‘That won’t happen this time.’
Simon paused again. ‘Let’s say I trusted you and gave you some names. It’s not going to take you very far. These guys’ thing is violence against the weak, stamping about chanting slogans, getting swastikas tattooed on their foreheads, breeding pit bulls and sawing off shotguns. Fine, it might satisfy you to kick some asses, but if it’s historical information you’re after, I have someone in mind who I think would be a lot more use to you.’
Ben smiled into the phone. The idea of meeting these characters with swastikas on their foreheads appealed to him. Just the kind he’d enjoy pressing information out of. People like that knew other people, giving him a whole network he could take down if necessary. He’d dealt with that type before. But first things first, and it sounded as if Simon had something interesting here.
‘Go on.’
‘There’s a guy called Don Jarrett. A fellow countryman of yours. I think you’ll be interested in him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Let me start off with who he was. Back in the seventies and eighties, he was a very well-respected historian and author. Third Reich expert of the highest order, apparently. But then he started getting a little too pally with some of the old Nazi officers he hung about with for his research. He was seen at a lot of far-right rallies and his name went down on the list of people to watch. Then, a few years ago, he stepped up his profile by writing a book claiming that the Nazi Final Solution against the Jews was a fabrication, a con trick by governments. When he tried to back up the book sales with a European lecture tour, he was arrested in Germany, charged with illegally denying the Holocaust, and put in jail for three years. Only served half that, but while he was inside his wife left him, he lost his job and his home in England, and when he was released he went into exile. These days he keeps his head down and isn’t a threat, though we still like to keep an eye on him. Bit of a loner, and a real cold fish. He might not be willing to talk to you. But if you could absolutely promise me that there’d be no trouble—’
‘Where do I find this Jarrett?’ Ben cut in.
‘I’m waiting for that promise first.
That you’ll go easy, and be discreet, and all of those things that’ll make me happy. Or else no dice.’
‘Everybody’s got me making promises today.’
‘Still waiting.’
‘All right, I promise,’ Ben said.
‘I hope I’m not making a big mistake here.’
‘I won’t lay a finger on him. Unless he makes the first move, in which case I swear to hide the body really, really well.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Come on, Luc.’
‘All right. Jarrett has an apartment in Bruges. He eats lunch at the same café in the middle of town, same time, every day. You’ll find him there. Let me have your fax number. I need to go and talk to someone right now, but give me twenty minutes and I’ll send over what you need.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
By the time Brooke came back downstairs fifteen minutes later, Ben had a map spread out across the table. On the chair was his old green army bag, packed, strapped and ready to go.
‘You don’t waste any time, Hope.’
‘Just twenty-three years,’ he said.
Brooke watched as he traced his route across the map. ‘So where are you heading now?’
‘Belgium.’
‘What, right this minute?’
‘I have another call to make, and I’m waiting for a fax to come through. Then I’m gone. I’ve got a lunch date in Bruges.’
‘Looks like your Interpol guy came up trumps for you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Better hurry, then.’
‘I’ll make it.’ He folded up the map, grabbed the webbing shoulder strap of the bag and started heading for the door.
‘Ben?’ she said hesitantly.
He looked back at her. For a fleeting moment it struck him how good she looked standing there with her hair still damp from the shower. She had nice eyes. Something he didn’t notice often enough.
‘Maybe you’d like me to come along?’
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 146
