Forgive No More

by Seb Kirby

  There was no scrutiny of our passports and no questions about our dawn check-in. All three of us booked in under false names.

  Ferrara used his university credit card to take care of the costs. “I should not be doing this. It is meant for conferences when I am away from the department. But this won’t be traced to me and I can pay the money back when I return.”

  We had a room each on the fifth floor. Time to shower and rest after the long journey from Ostuni, but my first thought was to phone Julia.

  I used the hotel room phone and placed a collect call.

  There was a long wait for the connection to be made.

  Then, the unmistakable warmth of Julia’s voice. “Yes?”

  “It’s me. It’s early. I was worried you weren’t going to pick up.”

  “Just finished feeding Simon.”

  “He’s OK? You’re both OK?”

  “We’re fine. Mark Stone is making a good job of keeping us safe.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m OK.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’d better not say.”

  “You mean you’re in trouble.”

  “No. We shouldn’t mention locations, here or there, just in case.”

  “What if they trace this call to you or me?”

  “That’s why we need to keep this short.”

  “OK. Tell me you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine. I wish I could stay on longer.”

  “You should go.”

  “I’ll call again tomorrow.”

  I told her I loved her and closed the line.

  I showered and rested on the bed. It had been a long night. My eyes closed and I slept until I was woken by the ringing of the hotel room phone.

  It was Ferrara. “Good morning, James. You slept well?”

  I struggled to reply. “What time is it?”

  “Don’t worry, James, both Gina and I did the same. Join us for breakfast.”

  By the time I dressed and made it down to the hotel restaurant, Ferrara and Gina were already seated and had started their meal.

  Ferrara was upbeat. “You look better than you did at dawn, James. The rest has done you good.”

  I took a seat with them. “I might say the same for you, Nico. I wouldn’t want to go through another day like yesterday.”

  I knew what Ferrara was doing, trying to make us unwind after having escaped unscathed from southern Italy, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing had changed. Heller was out there, searching. The Landos were a continuing threat to me and my family. And Gina’s sister was still missing. No wonder I didn’t want to relax for too long.

  I needed to move the conversation on. “Tell, me Nico, when can we meet Frau Schreiber?”

  He smiled. “She has agreed to meet us this morning, at eleven. Enjoy your breakfast. We will be there in good time.”

  It was a meeting I was dreading. Without my mistake over the phone Manieri gave me, Arndt would still be alive. I now had to make my peace with his widow.

  Ferrara recovered the Giulietta from hotel parking and took us out into the Munich suburbs to a neat apartment surrounded by trees overlooking the Englischer Garten. Elise Schreiber, dressed in black, was waiting for us. She showed us into a high-ceilinged drawing room of the formal German style.

  Ferrara took the lead. After giving her his condolences, he introduced us. “This is Gina McKenzie. And this is James Blake.”

  She was finding it difficult to come to terms with what was happening. “You must forgive me. It is only a few hours since I heard what happened to Arndt. That he would not be coming back.”

  I offered her my heartfelt condolences. “I’m sorry for your loss, Frau Schreiber. I know it’s too soon and we shouldn’t be here but we need your help.”

  “What could be more important than the loss of a husband?”

  I knew we were intruding on private grief and should not be here. It made me feel all the more guilty about my involvement in her husband’s death. “You must forgive us, Frau Schreiber.”

  Her look told me she was in no doubt I had much to hide. “The police brought me the news. They will be returning to ask questions of me. You should leave if you do not want to be here when they come.”

  “We don’t plan to trouble you for a moment longer than necessary.”

  She was as distressed as I’d feared. “Nothing will bring him back, I know, but if you know anything, anything at all about the circumstances of Arndt’s death, you must tell me.”

  I wondered what Ferrara had told her to get her to see us. “I’m not sure I can add anything to what you already know.”

  It was clear she didn’t believe me. “Isn’t that why you are here?”

  I glanced at Ferrara. He took her by the hand. “Frau Schreiber. We were among the last people to see your husband alive. What we’re here to tell you is he died as he lived, fighting for the truth. We are all proud to have known him. We are so sorry for your loss. When the police come back they will take you through the detail of what happened. Right now, we need your help to continue Arndt’s work. It’s what he would have wanted.”

  I clung onto Gina’s words of the night before. I had not pulled the trigger and I should not be overcome by self-blame. This is how the Landos and their kind dominate those they exploit. This gave me the strength to reply. “Your husband was a brave man, Frau Schreiber. He died fighting for what he believed in.”

  She turned to face me. “You know who killed him?”

  I nodded.

  “Then, tell me.”

  “He was killed by the same men of evil who ensnared his brother and threaten me and my family.”

  “You’ve told the police?”

  “As soon as we can find the proof we will tell them what we know. But, Frau Schreiber, I’m sure you know enough about Arndt’s work to see that the people we are talking about are beyond the law.”

  “And you cannot do this now?”

  “Because we are under threat from the same men who killed Arndt. We need to act now and talk to the police when the time is right.”

  She requested we should all sit. “I tried to warn Arndt that he was placing himself in danger but he would not listen. He told me he would not stop until he had found and exposed those responsible for his brother’s death. And now Arndt is dead. So, yes, Mr. Blake, I do know what you mean and you need to know it is no consolation to me.”

  I said it again but the words were empty. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She was so bereft, I could say no more.

  Gina moved closer to her to offer what comfort she could. “There’s another reason why we’re here, Frau Schreiber. My sister is missing. They have her. I need to find her. I’m begging for your help.”

  Frau Schreiber wiped the tears from her eyes. “And that’s the real reason why you are here?”

  Ferrara joined in. “Yes, we need your help, Frau Schreiber. We need access to Arndt’s work.”

  She did not reply at once.

  Ferrara prompted her. “You know this is what he would have wanted.”

  She looked at each of us in turn, seeking to be sure we were genuine. But it was Gina who had moved her. “Yes, I will help. Arndt’s computer is in his study. All his work is on there. But you can’t take anything away. The police have already said they want to look at it.”

  Ferrara showed her the pen drive he’d removed from his jacket pocket. “There is no need to take anything away, Frau Schreiber.”

  It took time but she agreed to allow the files from Arndt’s computer to be copied to the pen drive.

  An hour later, we left with the results of Schreiber’s work.

  Back at the hotel in Ferrara’s room he showed us the laptop computer and small-form printer he’d retrieved from the Giulietta. “I need to work when I travel. This is my portable office.”

  He began printing out the files we’d recovered from Schreiber’s
computer. “There is so much information here. We need to share it out and get reading.”

  With the printer still running, Ferrara left and returned fifteen minutes later with ten reams of printer paper. “We are going to need this, down to the last sheet.”

  By mid afternoon we’d produced three neat piles of printout, each close to a foot high. I’d been glancing through the pages as they’d emerged from the printer. The material looked relevant but it was dense and detailed. “We don’t have enough time. This will take days.”

  Ferrara smiled. “Then we will work all day and into the night.”

  Chapter 65

  Deceiving Bill Maynard was the last thing Debbie Miller wanted. But she’d given Miles Blake her word and she intended to keep it.

  A small lie to out a bigger lie.

  If Blake was right and the chemical signature of the explosive brought back from Tijuana matched that of the residue found at Town Lake, there would be proof Craven was lying.

  She opened the secure link to Maynard in London. He would see from the incoming signal that she was in Tijuana.

  He picked up. “Debbie, what can I do for you?”

  Her mouth still ached. She formed her words with care so he would not be concerned about her. “I have a sample, Bill. I want it analyzed.”

  “So, send it to the lab in Virginia.”

  “I can’t do that. I want to send it under your name.”

  “Now, why would I do that without knowing what kind of sample it is?”

  “Plastic explosive. A possible match with the material used at Town Lake.”

  Maynard’s interest peaked. “And where’s it from?”

  “It’s from a known trafficker here in Tijuana. He goes by the name of El Romero, real name Alvaro Gutierrez. If I tell you there are those who say Nate Craven is an associate of his, you’d understand why I don’t want to send the sample to the lab under my own name.”

  “Because Craven would get to know about it?”

  “You’re with me. If the signature of the explosive matches what was found at Town Lake, Bill, it’s fair to say your warnings about Craven will be proven.”

  “Get the sample to me and I’ll send it on to Quantico Virginia.”

  “Can’t do that, Bill. Can you send someone out here to courier it there?”

  “It’s as urgent as that?”

  “This all depends on Craven not getting to know this is coming.”

  “OK, I’ll get an agent from the San Diego office onto it. You can hand it to them on your way back into the States.”

  Chapter 66

  For Marvin Bryce the way to do this was to keep it simple.

  He invited Bedford for a lunchtime drink in the White Feathers in Fulham, a bar he knew from an earlier visit. Bedford’s smile showed he found it difficult to hide that he was flattered a man of Bryce’s experience had chosen to drink with him. He preened when Bryce said, Call me Marvin.

  Three whisky sours and Bedford was on the way to becoming drunk. Two more and he would be just about incapable. The dose of Rohypnol added in secret by Bryce to the fifth drink was the finishing shot.

  Bryce ordered a taxi. “We’d better get you home, Michael.”

  Back at Bedford’s room in the apartment in Kentish Town, chosen by the Agency to allow Bedford to come and go without notice, Bryce made a point of going inside to help his colleague out.

  “No need, I can manage.”

  “It’s no problem. No more than a colleague would do.”

  In the room, he helped Bedford remove his holster and pistol. “Need to check you have this somewhere safe.”

  Bedford looked surprised to see the Glock-23, staring at it as if it belonged to someone else. His words slurred. “You know, I’ve arrived now. No longer the backroom boy.”

  Bryce handed him the holster. “Better check the safety.”

  “Of course, check the safety.”

  Bedford passed out.

  This was going to be easier than Bryce thought. He removed a small sample envelope he had been carrying in his suit pocket. He then smeared gunshot residue over Bedford’s hands and right arm and wiped some onto the sleeves of Bedford’s jacket. Once you knew the forensics, it was simple. Whenever a gun was fired, powder residue was propelled along with the bullet. What they checked for on clothing and skin was lead, antimony and barium along with nitrites. That was enough to determine who had fired the gun.

  Bryce prized his own Glock-23. It was the weapon offered to all Agents on qualifying and with few exceptions they all bought one. So much more concealable than the standard issue assault rifle. The gunpowder residue Bryce had just deployed on the comatose figure of Bedford was from his own G-23, collected earlier. But its residue would have the same profile as that produced by Bedford’s.

  Bedford would be out for at least four hours. Time enough to complete the plan. More than enough time to make it over to Maynard’s apartment and kill him using Bedford’s weapon. Time to return to Bedford’s apartment and replace the G-23 in the man’s grip. Time to make the anonymous call that gun shots had been heard in and around Maynard’s apartment. When Forensics analyzed the markings on the bullet casings and compared them with those fired from Bedford’s weapon, they would match. Time to get the story straight. Bedford had got drunk and threatening towards the boss who would not let him be.

  Bryce put on latex gloves. He pocketed Bedford’s G-23 and the man’s room keys. He let himself out and walked half a mile to a taxi rank, enough distance away to be unconnected with the Bedford apartment. He left the taxi half a mile from Maynard’s apartment and walked to it.

  Once Maynard opened the door, there was no time for the bureau chief to expresses surprise at seeing Bryce here in the evening. Bryce pushed the man inside and, without speaking, drew Bedford’s G-23 and shot Maynard twice in the heart.

  That was when it all went wrong. Maynard staggered back but did not fall. He was wearing a bulletproof vest. Before Bryce could raise the Glock and fire again they were on him. Two agents in maximum personal protection gear, one with a Taser. Bryce fell to the ground, convulsing. A steel-toed boot stamped on his hand and the Glock fell away.

  Maynard’s face loomed over him. “You should have known, Bryce, that I’d be keeping a close watch on you.”

  Chapter 67

  It wasn’t easy reading through Arndt Schreiber’s research notes. It was the work of a man seeking to answer the single question of who killed his brother but who had produced multiple leads that each spawned their own sub themes and agendas. Schreiber stored everything he came upon in the expectation it might be relevant. He’d given little priority to the information collected; as presented, everything carried equal weight. It was up to us to work out the significance, if any, of what we found. I was grateful to have Ferrara to advise.

  We were set up in Ferrara’s room, each with our own pile of printed notes. Ferrara took the small desk. I lay on the bed. Gina sat in the single armchair. It was cramped but workable.

  There were long periods of silence as we read, punctuated by one or the other of us calling out if we thought we’d found something of interest. Ferrara did his best to explain. If he didn’t know, he used the laptop to search for more information.

  The first breakthrough came when Gina found paperwork relating to Alfieri Lando’s father. “Benito Lando. Charged with crimes against humanity in 1947 and later released owing to lack of evidence.”

  Ferrara was keen to see what she’d discovered. “Let me see.”

  He read in silence through the four or five printed sheets that Gina handed to him.

  When he’d finished he told us what he’d discovered. “He called himself Benito Lando, though it was not his given name. He changed it to Benito in deference to II Duce, Benito Mussolini, the fascist, whom he idolized. Mussolini brought fascism to Italy. Benito joined. When fascism spread to Germany, Benito was part of it. He rose high in German Nazi ranks, was inducted into the SS. Made it all the way up to Obers
turmbannfuhrer. He was useful to them because of his knowledge of mysticism and art.”

  I recalled what Schreiber had told me when we’d met in the cafe in Ostuni. “Arndt knew about the Landos when I mentioned the name. He also said you couldn’t explain the evil of a man like Alfieri Lando in a single generation. Perhaps we’re beginning to know now what he meant.”

  An hour later, I found a bundle of papers referring to Heinrich Himmler. “Why is there so much on Himmler here? Seems he was a local, from the countryside near Munich. This town was his power base.”

  Ferrara stopped reading. “Yes, it is true. A shadow hangs over this place. A shadow so long it makes hollow the joviality they pretend to today. Just ten miles from here is Dachau. Himmler’s brainchild.”

  Ferrara told us that Dachau was Heinrich Himmler’s own special creation, the first Nazi concentration camp, the place where they modeled the atrocities they would carry out at Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Treblinka and Majdanek. “It started as a place to intern political prisoners, anyone who showed opposition to the Nazi regime. The first inmates were trades unionists, socialists, anarchists. Then came the painters and the poets and the university academics. Then the criminals. Then the Catholic priests and the Freemasons. Then the Jews. Then the Slavs. They told the remaining population they had nothing to fear if they had nothing to hide, even as the numbers interned continued to rise. The locals had a saying: Dear God, make me dumb, that I may not to Dachau come”.

  “They knew what was happening?”

  “I don’t think there is much doubt. The concentration camps were meant as a deterrent. Over three million Germans were interned in them, how would those who avoided that not know?”

  Ferrara told us Himmler didn’t stop there. Every detail of each inmate was recorded with precision. Prisoners were categorized according to type. A different color badge for each. Green for politicals, red for criminals, yellow for Jews. The more he interned in Dachau, the more Himmler realized the possibility of using the inmates as slave labor. “The lie Work Will Set You Free was set out in the ironwork of the camp gates. Satellite camps were set up in and around Munich so the forced labor could be close to the factories. They worked as slaves and they starved. When they died they were cremated and that presented a new opportunity – the grisly economics of what the components of a human body are worth. The blueprint for Auschwitz. The true horror of the century. It is a crime against humanity that must not be forgotten or forgiven. But what I think Arndt Schreiber is asking us to do is to begin to understand the state of mind of a man like Himmler, how he and others like him crossed the line.”