by Vaseem Khan
She tried to imagine John Healy in league with the Nazis. No doubt, he had agreed only to preserve his own life, to save himself from torture or worse.
But was that cause enough to justify his actions?
How would she have acted in the same situation? Sitting here, in this walled garden, with sunlight gilding the trees, it was easy for harsh judgements to prevail; but the moral arbitration of any act depended on the circumstances. She had only to look at her own mother’s death. Who, ultimately, was responsible? The British? Her father? Or her mother, for insisting on travelling to that rally?
Yet, by the same token, the facts couldn’t be ignored.
For there was such a thing as evil, a line that should never be crossed, at least by anyone who wished to return to the light unscathed. John Healy had chosen to collaborate with a regime of unprecedented evil – and hardly anyone knew.
She took a long gulp of her iced tea, buying herself a moment to think, then looked at Belzoni. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
He nodded. ‘My job was to convince Healy to work with us voluntarily.’
‘You gave him another option?’
He shrugged. ‘You can guess, no?’
‘You would expose him,’ she said flatly. ‘Do you think that’s what drove him to do what he did?’
A crease appeared between his eyebrows. ‘I did not make him steal the Dante manuscript. I did not drive him to suicide.’
‘Then why did he kill himself? Why now?’
‘Guilt,’ he replied. ‘He must have carried it with him since the war. It is no easy thing, to betray one’s country.’
It was possible. Erin Lockhart had stated that Healy had been sleeping badly. Nightmares. Guilt could do that. How many times had Persis seen Sam thrashing in his sleep, recalling the fateful day that he’d taken her mother to the rally? Sanaz Wadia’s death had cast a shadow that remained to this day.
‘None of this explains Healy’s actions now,’ she said, finally. ‘Why steal the manuscript in the first place? I mean, if his aim was to help you recover lost manuscripts? Unless . . .’ She looked squarely at Mariconti. ‘Did you order Healy to steal the Dante manuscript so that you could take it back to Italy?’
His head snapped back. ‘No.’
‘That would explain a lot.’
‘I tell you no.’
‘What would be the sense in that?’ Belzoni cut in. ‘We would never be able to exhibit it publicly in Italy if it was stolen. It would cause a diplomatic nightmare.’
‘Since when has that ever bothered anyone? Possession is the only thing that matters, right?’
The two men exchanged a glance that she couldn’t fathom. She wondered if she’d hit closer to the mark than she’d thought.
Certainly, it would make sense.
Force Healy to steal the manuscript. Smuggle it back to Italy. Then deny any knowledge of his actions. Let the arguments roll on for ever.
Even now, the Indian government was making representations to its British counterpart for the return of priceless treasures such as the Kohinoor diamond. The British, for their part, had all but ignored the requests. There was about as much chance of the stolen loot being returned as there was of her father giving up drinking and taking up a life of piety.
‘What do you intend to do if we find the manuscript?’
‘We will continue to petition the Indian government for its return to Italy,’ said Mariconti. ‘Through official channels.’ It had the sound of a rehearsed line.
She debated with herself, unsure whether to believe him.
‘Believe me, Inspector, our only purpose is to ensure that the Dante is safe,’ said Belzoni gently. ‘It is part of our history. It means a lot to us.’
She pulled out her notebook. Turning it to Healy’s final riddle, she set it down on the table. ‘Healy has been leaving clues behind. I think he wants us to find the manuscript.’
They examined the riddle. Mariconti’s lower lip curled downwards like a camel’s. ‘I do not understand.’
‘That’s the point,’ she said. ‘I think he wanted to make his trail difficult enough so that not just anyone could work it out.’
‘You worked it out,’ said Belzoni. He stared at her with undisguised admiration.
She coloured. ‘I had help.’
Mariconti slapped the table in frustration. ‘Merda!’
The house servant materialised, bearing an envelope on a silver tray. ‘Madam. A peon has arrived with a message for you.’
She stood, took the envelope, and opened it.
It was from Frank Lindley at the university.
Must speak now. Meet me at my office.
She checked her watch. It had just turned five.
Chapter 41
Clearly, Frank Lindley had discovered something.
She watched him as he paced his office, jowls trembling with excitement. Every few seconds, he would stop and mutter, ‘This is incredible.’
She waited until he was ready to speak. He handed her a sheaf of papers from a Manila folder on his desk. ‘This is your friend, James Ingram.’
The top sheet was a fax of a military service record. At the top was the Reichsadler, the Nazi Imperial Eagle, wings outstretched, clutching a swastika in its talons. She’d read somewhere that the symbol was corrupted from the aquila, the heraldic eagle used as a standard by Roman legions.
Immediately below the eagle were the words Personal Bericht.
Next, there was a headshot of James Ingram, staring straight ahead. He was wearing a Nazi cap and uniform. His hair was dark, not the blond she recalled. Below the photograph were his personal details – height, age, address, followed by what she presumed were the particulars of his service record.
And his name.
Matthias Bruner.
‘What does it say?’ The text was in German.
‘Ingram was a Nazi, of that there’s no doubt. But he wasn’t just any Nazi.’ Lindley’s eyes shone. ‘He served in the Waffen-SS. He made his name in Ukraine, following the German invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, where he was given charge of an Einsatzkommando, a unit of the Einsatzgruppen, Hitler’s mobile death squads. These were the SS units whose mission was to exterminate Jews, Polish intellectuals, and communists in captured territories, usually behind the advancing German front. Many operated in the aftermath of Operation Barbarossa, the Axis invasion of the Soviet Union, murdering countless Jews. We managed to track down most of the commanders of these units after the war, but many of the ranking officers escaped justice. Bruner – Ingram – was one of those officers.’
She turned to the other pages, appended to the top sheet.
The text was accompanied by disturbing photographs – corpses in pits, corpses piled against a wall before what looked like a Nazi firing squad.
‘Units like Bruner’s were responsible for mass murder,’ Lindley continued, ‘often using mobile gas vans. They’d bundle Jews into the van, and drive out into the forest. By the time they got there, the van would have done its work, and bodies would tumble out of the rear doors. They’d then have other Jews bury the dead in pits.’
Her insides shuddered. Such inhumanity! Truly, the horrors of the Nazi regime couldn’t be logged on any normal scale of evil.
She stared at Bruner’s photograph . . . And to think, this man had sat just a few feet away from her! Had tried to kill her.
A vicious sense of satisfaction pulsed through her.
She was glad she’d shot him dead.
‘How did he end up in India?’
‘That’s where it gets complicated.’ Lindley rocked back and forth on his feet. ‘Towards the latter half of the war, Bruner found himself working for the Abwehr. Do you remember I told you about that?’
She nodded. ‘You said it was an intelligence and espionage outfit.’
‘Correct. The Abwehr recruited members of the Waffen-SS, especially those with the sort of track record Bruner had. Men who would follow orders to the letter, no
matter how unpalatable. The Abwehr was involved in several daring raids, led by its last commander, Otto Skorzeny.
‘Skorzeny, as I mentioned before, is thought to have run a Nazi escape network called the Spider. My guess is that that is how Bruner escaped the Allies. Disguised as James Ingram. Skorzeny is also the man from the photograph you sent me.’
He handed her the picture she had had delivered to him, the one she had found in Ingram’s jacket. She had been right. Ingram’s mysterious fishing companion had been another high-ranking Nazi.
‘None of this explains what Ingram – Bruner – was doing in India and his apparent interest in the Dante manuscript.’
‘Bruner was never given high command. That’s saying a lot in the Nazi structure, where the bigger a sociopath you were, the more likely you were to be promoted. He was, however, the perfect adjutant. Intelligent, ruthless, capable. He finished his last years as Skorzeny’s right-hand man. I can only surmise that he’s still following orders.’
‘If that’s true, then who’s giving the orders to him now?’
‘I don’t know. Though, if I might indulge in wild speculation . . . Skorzeny himself is on the run. Has been since he escaped in 1948. That’s the same year as that photo of yours is dated. I think it proves that Bruner and Skorzeny were in contact.’
‘Escaped?’
‘From an internment camp in Darmstadt, Germany. After escaping he hid out in a farm in Bavaria, but fled after a tip-off that the authorities had found him. He was later spotted in Paris. That was three months ago. He’s a slippery customer, by all accounts. Not your run-of-the-mill Nazi.’
‘In what way?’
‘He’s a charismatic man. An old-school soldier, unlike a lot of the Nazi high command, who were basically civilians who saw which way the winds were blowing and clambered aboard Hitler’s National Socialist German Workers’ Party bus. Skorzeny was a civil engineer by background. He tried to join the Luftwaffe, but, at six four, was deemed too tall. He ended up in Hitler’s bodyguard regiment, the Liebstandarte SS Adolf Hitler. He subsequently distinguished himself in the invasion of the Soviet Union, where he ran a technical section tasked to seize Communist Party infrastructure.
‘He received an Iron Cross, and was posted to a desk in Berlin, where he developed some fairly ingenious proposals for unconventional commando warfare. This led to him being appointed to set up and command an SS school to train operatives in sabotage, espionage, and paramilitary techniques.’ He paused to pick up a second set of papers from the folder on his desk. Flicking through them, he continued: ‘Skorzeny practised what he preached. He was never the type to be happy sitting in an office. He led a number of notorious raids. For one of them, Operation Greif, in which his men wore Allied uniforms, he was later tried for breaching the 1907 Hague Convention, but was acquitted.’
‘As I said, none of this explains why he or Bruner would be interested in the Dante manuscript.’
‘You’re correct. To be honest, I have no idea why they would care about a copy of The Divine Comedy, no matter how old. My point is that if Bruner was out here, it may be that your investigation can lead us to Skorzeny too. Skorzeny is a fugitive. He was never convicted of the sort of slaughter that many in the Nazi command were deemed guilty of – and there is little evidence to say that he was ever involved in mass murder – nevertheless, it would be quite a coup if we could find out where he’s holed up.’
Persis did not share his obvious excitement. But she understood now why Lindley had seemed so agitated. Helping track down a military criminal as notorious as Otto Skorzeny would undoubtedly offer its own rewards to a man in his field.
Perhaps sensing her lack of enthusiasm, Lindley subsided. He stuffed the papers back into the folder, and thrust it at her. She added Bruner’s papers, then tucked the folder under her arm. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘Think nothing of it. I lost good friends in the war. In my opinion, the only good Nazi is a dead Nazi.’
Chapter 42
A cold shower usually helped to clear her mind. But, having showered and sat down for dinner with her father, she found her thoughts mired in quicksand.
Each revelation in the investigation only seemed to raise more questions. Lindley’s findings had verified the fact that James Ingram was a Nazi, but had offered no further clarity as to his interest in the Dante manuscript. As the case sat, several suspects remained in her crosshairs, as potential conspirators in the theft of Dante’s masterpiece.
Franco Belzoni.
Enrico Mariconti.
Erin Lockhart.
Sam stared at her over his plate. ‘Am I boring you?’
She gave a guilty start. She’d tuned out his latest tirade, this time against the nuns of the Order of Carmel.
The nuns, cloistered in a three-acre monastery in the western suburbs, rarely left the premises. Over the years, they had become steady clients of the bookshop, ordering both religious texts and wider reading material. Their habit of haggling over the price infuriated Sam. The nuns tended to pay for most of their commodities with blessings, something for which her father had little use. Their latest crime? The head of the order, Sister Clara, had asked Sam to source for her an early edition of Wuthering Heights. Having done so, she now told him the cover was too dog-eared for her liking, and refused to pay.
‘Why don’t you give it to her as a gift?’
He glared at her as if she’d asked him to hand over a lung. She held his gaze until he looked back down at his plate. ‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ he muttered. ‘Just because they’re nuns doesn’t mean they’re holier than thou.’
She left him, still grumbling, and went downstairs into the bookshop.
Here she searched the shelves for a book she’d come across a month ago, an account of Nazi Germany.
Sinking into the sofa at the shop’s rear, she began flicking through the pages.
It was a dry rendition of facts, the rise of Hitler and National Socialism during the interwar years, the battles and major fronts of the war. The book glossed over the horrors of the concentration camps, the mass killings.
She snapped the book shut and stared at the ceiling.
A fly crawled along a crack.
She walked to the front counter and picked up the phone.
Blackfinch sounded as if he’d been drinking. His voice was a little too bright, a little too cheerful. ‘Persis. How can I help?’
She hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘When we first met, you said that you’d spent time looking at mass graves. After the war.’
A pause. He probably hadn’t expected her to lead with that. Not after the way she’d run from him earlier in the day. ‘Yes. I was working for a Ministry of Defence mission digging up such graves across Europe. They needed a crime scene expert on the team. Why do you ask?’
The words seemed to unfurl of their own accord.
She told him about James Ingram’s real identity, about the Einsatzkommando units and their mission to suppress the threat of native resistance behind the German Army’s fighting front via a campaign of mass murder.
‘Did you follow the Nuremberg trials?’
She remembered seeing coverage in the newspapers, snatches of the trials covered on Pathé News. There had been too much going on in her own country – those last years of the independence movement, the horrors of Partition, Gandhi’s assassination, the tumultuous first years of Nehru’s government – for her to take an overt interest.
‘Nuremberg marked the first time we put men on trial for crimes against humanity,’ said Blackfinch. ‘A Polish lawyer, Raphael Lemkin, coined the term “genocide” to describe the Nazis’ extermination of Jews – Hitler’s “Final Solution”. The word is an amalgam of “genos” – the Greek word for “tribe” – and “-cide”, Latin for “killings”.’ He paused. ‘The Nazis were a horror the like of which we’d never seen. It’s still incomprehensible to me, the things they did. I’ve never bought the “I was only following ord
ers” defence. I can’t imagine a situation where any decent man could follow such orders.’
Persis wasn’t so sure. She’d witnessed the Partition rioting up close, how quickly men could become something less than human, more than monsters. Two million had died in an unthinking wave of violence that had left no part of the country unscathed.
As he spoke, she began to flick through the folder Lindley had given her.
She quickly stopped, held by a photograph attached to Matthias Bruner’s war record.
A group of prisoners digging. Behind them, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette as he chatted to a comrade, was a German soldier. His colleague was smiling, as if they’d just shared a joke. It occurred to her that the German soldiers knew that, in just a short while, they would murder these men, women, and children in cold blood. They were standing there joking as they forced their victims to dig their own graves. There was no solemnity to their bearing. It was simply routine; they gave no more thought to the matter than stubbing out a cigarette.
More photographs followed.
The same prisoners kneeling before a firing squad. A Nazi standing behind a young woman, a gun placed to the back of her head. The angle of the photograph made it impossible to see her expression.
And finally, a shot of the pit, corpses piled inside it like rag dolls.
Darkness welled inside her, a great tide of loathing and horror. How could human beings behave in this way? How could any morality justify such unthinking evil? Why hadn’t they done something? The victims. Why hadn’t they fought? Didn’t they realise what was about to happen?
‘Persis, are you alright?’
She stopped turning the pages. Nausea swirled around her insides.
‘I – I’m sorry about last night.’
A beat of silence. ‘Why are you sorry?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Archie, I think you’re a wonderful man—’ She stopped.
‘But?’
‘But . . . we’re colleagues. And soon, you’ll return to England.’ She grasped for the words. ‘We’re from two different worlds.’ She realised that she sounded like a hackneyed scene from a Hollywood potboiler. She plunged on. ‘It simply wouldn’t work.’
