by Martin Rua
Giuseppe’s face grew sad.
“Really, Mr Aragona?”
“Yes, really.”
“They told us you’d gone crazy – that you never go out and that when you do, nobody knows where you go. You haven’t been to the shop since September, but it’s since the tragedy of a month and a half ago that… that you haven’t been doing so well.”
“What happened, Giuseppe? I don’t remember anything.
The man’s eyes widened again.
“Is this some kind of joke, Mister Aragona?”
“I swear it’s the truth, Giuseppe. I have a problem with my memory. Please tell me what happened.”
Giuseppe gave a sad look inside the Églantine.
“Doctor Von Alten was found dead one morning in late November at his home, while you were out of town. Murdered. It’s your friend Commissioner Franchi who’s leading the investigation, and he’s been trying to protect you, because you’re a suspect.”
As he spoke I stared at him open-mouthed, hardly able to breathe. How could I ever kill Bruno? My partner and friend Bruno? My life was becoming more and more of a nightmare with each second that passed.
“How is that possible? Why? Who did it?”
Looking increasingly surprised, Giuseppe shook his head, obviously sharing my pain.
“No one knows, Mister Aragona, it’s too early to say. Investigations are under way.”
“Late November… Yes, you’re right. It only happened recently, perhaps a few weeks ago.”
“It’s more than a month and a half ago, Mr Aragona.”
I frowned. “A month and a half? Hang on, isn’t it nearly Christmas? What day is it today?”
“The fifteenth of January, Mr Aragona. You left in late July and came back once in September and once again in October. Then Doctor Von Alten was killed and you came back again in November. Since then, from what I’ve heard, you’ve been in town, but you’ve not been well.”
It was evident that Giuseppe knew something of my life and so I decided to ask the question that mattered most to me. I took a deep breath.
“Giuseppe, do you know what’s happened to my wife? I haven’t seen her for a long time.”
The man stared at me for several seconds, then, obviously resigned to my state of confusion, sighed. “Mr Aragona, all I know is that the lady was not well and is in hospital. But to be honest, I don’t go around gossiping about my clients’ lives.”
Hospital. I felt faint, and slid down the lowered shutter of the Églantine.
“Mister Aragona!”
Sitting there on the ground, I looked up at Giuseppe and his face seemed strange, as though I were seeing it for the first time. Perhaps the residue of the drugs that were still in my body was trying to cancel my memory again.
“What the—?!”
Giuseppe approached, perhaps fearing that I was about to pass out, but I shrank away from him. “Mister Aragona, it’s me, Giuseppe, – everything’s alright.”
The catatonic state seemed to withdraw and I came back to myself. I shook my head to reassure him and I got to my feet.
“I’m ok now thanks, Giuseppe. I have to go to, I really have to go. Wait a minute, though!”
Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I had to call Àrt, but I realised that I had no phone with me, nor money to use a pay phone.
“Giuseppe, have you got a phone? Can I use it for a minute?”
“Of course.”
But just then the men that I had seen a few minutes before reappeared.
“Shit!”
Giuseppe was about to turn around, but I stopped him. “No, don’t go – follow me!”
We walked along Via Chiatamone, briskly, but without running. When we got to the stairs which lead to Via Partenope, I dragged Giuseppe with me down to the promenade.
“But Mister Aragona—”
We turned right, entered the first building and hid behind a pillar. I motioned to him to keep quiet. A few seconds later, they passed by and continued along the street. I peeked out from behind the pillar, and when I was sure that they had gone, I climbed the stairs back to Via Chiatamone, with Giuseppe still behind me.
“Mister Aragona, what the hell’s going on!?”
I put a finger to his lips to make him understand that he had to keep quiet. I’d just remembered, too late perhaps, of Anna’s warning about the bugs I might have on me. But I had to speak to my wife immediately. To hell with the bugs, I though, and dialled her number. But it was switched off. My worry only grew, as Giuseppe’s words bounced around in my head. Hospital. Disease.
What was I supposed to do? I remembered Anna and feverishly, without further hesitation, pulled the note from my pocket and called her number. It rang for a few seconds, then her low, warm voice answered.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief.
There was a moment of silence, then she said, “See you at the same place as yesterday in fifteen minutes,” and hung up.
I was dumbfounded. It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that the day before my mind was still blurred and that my recollection of our meeting place was very confused. I tried to call her back, but her phone was off. Not knowing what to do, I handed Giuseppe back his phone and pointed to the garage. I had to retrieve my car.
I returned to the Églantine and tried to retrace the route that I usually took when I went home – to my real home. When I arrived at Piazza dei Martiri and saw a coffee shop there, the light bulb I had been waiting for lit up in my brain.
“Of course – the café Riviera!”
I returned to the Riviera di Chiaia and headed towards the cafe of that name. I parked, then peered around me in search of Anna. It seemed to me that all the passers-by were uncommonly interested in what I was doing, but I concluded that it was probably just because of my slovenly appearance, so, with some embarrassment, I followed another faint trace of memory and slipped into the alley next to the Riviera. As I was passing the entrance of a building, something prompted me to enter. I peeked inside, and there she was.
I wondered if, when I had been under the influence of the drugs her face had appeared different to what I could see now that my mind was lucid again. Or at least, almost lucid.
The tall blonde girl with a black cap and a leather jacket who was waiting in the lobby of the building had to be Anna, and this was confirmed a moment later when, handing me a bag containing clothes, she nodded towards the stairs while she kept a lookout and quickly closed the door. Without saying a word, and being careful not to be seen by anyone, I got changed, put Spider-Man in my pocket and went back down to her. I threw my old clothes in the bin in front of the building, then she handed me a helmet and we climbed onto her scooter. Before setting off, she looked behind me and shook her head.
’Your car’s left a trail worse than a skunk. They’re onto us already.”
6
The Mission – Part One
Reconstruction based on the secret files of Group 9 and the memoirs of Sean Bruce
Berlin, the night between the 24th and 25th of March, 1945
Friedrich Müller, who was guarding the entrance, lit his first cigarette of the day. It was a luxury that he allowed himself more and more often, now that everything in his beautiful city was disappearing. He had bought five cigarettes on the black market with the promise that, if he survived the madness, he would finally stop smoking. He guessed that many Berliners had made similar vows: their fortitude had not yet been destroyed, but after seventeen air raids so far this year, they were all exhausted.
You only had to take a walk around the streets by day, when the bombs were silent, to realize how much death and destruction the war had brought. He was one of those who still believed in the promises of the Führer, or at least in the idea of Germany that Hitler had instilled in the minds of young people like him. He believed in it, but the ruins around him were telling another story. The story of a country where surrender was only a matter of time. The story
of a people who had been deluded into thinking themselves able to bring the spirit of the Germanic people to the world, crushing once and for all the arrogance of the Jews, the communist threat and the fragile roots of the Americans. The dream of the hooked banner which fluttered in the wind was still alive in those anguished nights when Allied bombers dropped tons of bombs on his beautiful Berlin.
He could not let this discouragement take hold. He and his companions had a delicate mission to accomplish – something that went beyond the present, beyond Hitler, even beyond the Reich itself.
In the silent twilight, another night of uncertainty was about to begin, and the slight noise behind him made him jump.
“If there were a sniper in the building opposite, that cigarette would make a perfect target, Sergeant Müller.”
The captain’s voice was quiet and warm, and the sergeant gave a sigh of relief.
“It’s you, Captain.”
“A bit jumpy, are we? No need for that. This mission is delicate, but we run no particular risks.”
Sergeant Müller’s small green eyes rested on the powerful yet harmonious figure of Captain Henri Theodore von Tschoudy. The young captain of Swiss origin, whose family could trace its roots back to the nineteenth century, had little or nothing of the cliché of the Aryan soldier about him: with his flowing black hair, deep, dark eyes and strong jaw, he was one of the Third Reich’s most desired SS officers – by women and by men. And Friedrich Müller was no exception.
There were several reasons why Henri von Tschoudy had been given charge of that particular mission. His extensive knowledge, the legacy of his name and his personal involvement in what had been secretly called Operation Outremer, had conferred upon him the honour – and the burden. It was in particular his total devotion to the Third Reich and the Führer which had convinced the Nazi leaders to entrust him with the delicate task of guarding the artefact until it reached its final destination. The temporary site chosen to accommodate it was, ironically, one of the icons of those that the Nazis had tried to exterminate: the new synagogue in the heart of the Mitte district.
As soon as the precious cargo had arrived in Berlin, however, the bombing of the Allies and their advance on German soil had suggested that this was not the right time to move it, so Von Tschoudy and his small group would remain to protect that secret until further notice, even though, as more of Germany collapsed by the day under the blows of the Allies, it became clear that the order would never come, or would come too late. The only thing that might have saved the Reich – the powerful atomic bomb – was now an unobtainable delusion, and although the secret that Von Tschoudy had been called to guard was the only way to resurrect the moribund regime it seemed that the Reich was no longer able to make vital decisions.
Müller looked down in embarrassment.
“Well, nothing is certain any more Captain,” he said, looking for an excuse to continue talking to his superior. “Insofar as we can consider ourselves luckier than our other comrades who continue to die in combat, how long can we continue like this? How much time have we got left before a bomb sweeps us away or our enemies invade Berlin from all sides?”
Müller realized too late that he had confessed his doubts to his superior – doubts that he should have kept to himself.
However, although Von Tschoudy’s face had stiffened he answered without resentment. “We have chosen to serve the Reich until the end, sergeant, and that is what we will do. Our job is to stay here, hoping to complete the second part of this mission. We must allow what happens around us to affect us only up to a certain point. As long as the Führer is alive and his will is that we stay here, this is what we must do.”
“Yes, Captain—”
Müller was about to add something else, but the sudden roar of a plane froze the words in his throat. Von Tschoudy’s face suddenly darkened and his deep eyes scanned the dark sky above them for a moment, in search of the bombers.
“There they are again. Let’s get out of here,” said the captain, just before a bomb fell out from the night sky and crashed a few blocks away. A second later, a cloud of pulverized rubble hit them, and the two rapidly fled the building.
“Into the basement, Müller, come on.”
As they crossed the great nave of the synagogue, which was cluttered with rubble after the devastation of Kristallnacht and the bombing of 1943, another bomb fell nearby and shook what was left of the building. The shockwave caused by the bombardment was so violent they could hardly stand up, and they only reached the entrance to the cellars with difficulty. There they found the soldier who was standing guard.
“You all right, Bauer?”
“Yes, Captain – just a bit of dust.”
The stocky Bauer was cut from an entirely different cloth than the puny Müller, and would never have shown the slightest trace of fear or doubt. Moreover, growing up in the Bavarian Alps there was not much chance he would have taken up the study of German philology at the University of Frankfurt.
“If things get any worse, take cover in the hall or join us below. I don’t think there will be any land attacks tonight.”
*
Meanwhile, a couple of kilometres away from the new synagogue, a group of eight SS soldiers moved cautiously, sheltering as best they could from the bombing taking place.
“They couldn’t have picked a better time,” complained the youngest while planes thundered relentlessly over their heads.
“I don’t want to hear any complaints,” resumed the captain, “the news of this attack came too late, the alternative was to give up and risk losing everything, perhaps forever.”
The young man didn’t seem particularly satisfied with the answer, but he kept his irritation to himself.
“Animo François! If the mission is successful, we will celebrate with a nice glass of Côte de Nuits”, said an encouraging voice with a strong Italian accent.
“Leave the Côte de Nuits alone, my Hispanic friend – you wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“I’m not Spanish,” the other replied calmly, “and you can drink the water from a puddle if you like.”
“Can we give it a rest?” the commander interrupted yet again, “we’re not on a school trip.”
Embarrassed, they lowered their eyes, while the others glared at them.
The commander stopped at the end of the crumbling wall of a building before turning the corner and heading down another street. Another member of the group approached with a map in his hands. The “navigator” – reddish hair, pale skin and blue eyes behind which lurked great intelligence, pointed at something on his map.
“This is the right direction, Nat, though the city’s in such a state that it isn’t easy to follow it on paper.”
“All right, let’s just try to get as close as possible and then find a safe place and go over the last part of the plan.”
“A safe place, sure. All that makes me think of is the pier at Santa Monica and a nice morning spent fishing.”
Nathan looked up at the sky. “Don’t you start too, Kirk.”
The small group emerged into the main street just as a bomb struck a building full on, and the shock wave threw them to the ground as debris flew in all directions. They waited a few seconds to allow the dust to settle, then the commander raised his head and looked around, trying to figure out what had become of his men.
“Kirk, everything ok? Are you all alright?”
One by one they all sounded off and crawled towards the commander.
“That one nearly got us, Nathan,” said Sean Bruce, wiping his Scottish highlander’s face.
Major Nathan Keller just nodded. He knew they were running a deadly risk and that it was not possible to postpone the bombing planned for that night nor their mission. It meant a lot to him and to the seven men with whom he was risking his life under their own bombs. Their goal, however, was not listed among the plans of any force in the field.
Not officially at least.
That was why they had been
chosen for that undertaking.
Those eight men, almost all of them of different nationalities, were not just soldiers. They were not even fighters who had been regularly recruited for the mission, although they had already fought in the armies of their respective countries. Their selection had not taken into account any kind of military allegiance or merit in battle. They were sent to Berlin not because they were the best, but because they were pre-destined – united by an old bond. And since they had to recover something that was in the heartland of the moribund Reich, no army support was able to intervene to help and no order had been given to stop the bombing taking place. They had to act immediately, because they might not have another chance.
Nathan ’Naalnish’ Keller thought for a while about his family in Arizona, his nightly tours of Antelope Canyon, when the tourists had long gone and he and his brothers lingered happily among the extraordinary million-year-old rock formations. He would willingly have returned to his life as a scholar of his people’s culture, teaching and taking small groups on guided tours. He would even have gone back a couple of years to when he helped create the Navajo code that had proved decisive for the US military in the war. Nathan was the perfect American: faithful to the Navajo – for whom he was Naalnish, ’he who is effective’ – and at the same time to the US government. And it was for this reason that it unnerved him to be wearing the uniform of the SS: for someone with his view of life and of the world, it represented a reversal of his principles. He had accepted the discomfort, however, because apart from being Navajo and American, he had also inherited from his father the gift – or maybe it should be called the curse – of being part of that small group of the elect.
His deep black eyes, two slits in a young face already marked by events, came to rest on his comrades who, like vampires, slowly emerged from the cloud left by the bomb. “Come on, let’s get going. Kirk, you lead the way. Lev, you close up the group and watch our backs with Aram.”
Kirk McCourt went back to Nathan, while the Ukrainian stood in line with the Armenian, their senses alert. The group had advanced only a few metres, sheltering under the buildings that still seemed in good condition, when several figures appeared at the end of the road. It was a group of ten soldiers of the Wehrmacht, they too were battered by the bomb which had just exploded. As soon as he saw them, Nathan made an imperceptible sign to his men, and in particular to Vladimir, who raised his arm so that it could be seen by the Germans.
