Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

“Herr Hess, please. I have a wife and two children.”

Hess smiled and slid the Walther in the side pocket of his sport jacket. “Franz, I’m not going to shoot you. I need you.”

When he got back to the hotel Hess had the painting packaged and crated and asked the concierge to have it shipped to an address in Nice, France in the morning. He went up to his room and called Der Spiegel in Berlin and asked for Gunter.

“Which one?” the operator said.

“Colette Rizik’s editor.”

“Stein. I’ll put you through.”

“Hello.”

“Is this Gunter Stein?”

“Yes, who’s calling?”

“Harry Levin, a friend of Colette’s.”

“She’s told me so much I feel like I know you. What did you think of the article?”

“Well written, provocative, first-rate journalism.”

“I agree. Colette writes with the flair of a novelist.”

“Do you know where she is? I’ve been calling her apartment for two days.”

“She thought she was being followed, didn’t feel safe. So she’s staying with a friend. I’ll give you the number.”

Next, Hess dialed Huber, a Munich detective whose father had served with him during the war. Huber wasn’t a neo-Nazi, but had given Hess information about Blackshirts the police were targeting.

Against Hess’ explicit instructions, Huber had released Harry Levin from custody and had him deported a month earlier. Hess couldn’t believe it. Huber’s rationale: he didn’t want Levin, a Holocaust survivor, prosecuted and incarcerated in Germany. It would have attracted too much attention, and quite possibly have implicated Hess himself.

When Huber returned to his desk the phone was ringing. He picked it up and said, “Huber.”

“I need an address,” a man’s voice said.

It was difficult to hear in the big room filled with desks and detectives talking. He pushed his left ear closed with his index finger. “Who is this?”

“You know who it is.”

Now he did. “I can’t help you. Every law-enforcement agency in the country is looking for you.”

“Do you want to be next on their list?”

This was typical Hess, using threats to get what he wanted. “You don’t have anything on me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No one will go near you. You’re finished.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“A war criminal, a wanted man.” Huber was stunned by the man’s arrogance. He had never trusted Hess but had always been respectful of him because of his political position and his connections. “All right. But this is the last time. Where are you staying? How can I reach you?”

“I’ll reach you.”

An hour later Hess called back.

“The address is 60 Schellingstrasse.” It was a street near the university. The apartment was registered to a Dieter Ritmeier, a Nazi expert and author of a book condemning the Third Reich. What would Hess want with Ritmeier? Unless it was revenge.

Hess drove to the university neighborhood, looking at young attractive girls carrying backpacks, trying not to run off the road. He parked on Schellingstrasse just down the street from number 60. It was a beautiful turn-of-the-century building. There was a restaurant on the ground floor, and four floors, likely four residences, above it.

Hess got out and crossed the street when he saw a police car drive by. Ritmeier was on the third floor. The door to the building was locked, but he could see a small lobby with mailboxes on one wall and an elevator straight ahead.

Back in the car Hess trained the binoculars on the third-floor windows, holding for a few seconds on each, but didn’t see anyone. He didn’t have the patience for surveillance work. He would have Stigler handle it.

Gerhard Braun’s estate was in Baden-Wurttemberg outside Stuttgart. Hess parked in the circular drive, went to the door and rang the bell. The door opened. Martin, Braun’s butler and bodyguard, was looking at him quizzically in the Max Hoffman disguise. He removed the baseball cap with his left hand and smiled.

“Herr Hess,” Martin said, obviously surprised. “It has been a long time. Won’t you come in?”

Hess stepped into the foyer, drew the silenced Walther from his right sport-coat pocket and shot Martin, shell casing pinging on the tile floor. He closed the door and moved along the long hall, hearing music, Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries”, coming from Gerhard’s study.

Braun was leaning back, arms conducting an imaginary orchestra, the music building as Hess entered the room and approached the desk.

“What is that you’re wearing?”

“A baseball cap.”

“I can see that. Quite out of character, wouldn’t you say?”

“Gerhard, you look surprised to see me.”

“I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, now that you have?”

“I thought the odds were with Zeller. He was ex-Stasi. But then you have always defied the odds, haven’t you, Ernst?”

“Zeller made a couple mistakes,” Hess said. “And all it takes is one.”

“I liked his confidence. You should have heard him. Guaranteed the day he would have you, almost guaranteed the time. It was impressive.”

“But he didn’t deliver.”

“How did you get him to talk?”

“I explained my point of view in a compelling way. In the end he was anxious to tell me everything. Even suggested phoning you and saying I was dead.”

“After the article appeared — guilty or not — you were finished. It reminds people of the war. It makes us look bad.”

“And I thought it was because you wanted the paintings.”

“That was part of it. The trouble you’re in, I didn’t think you would be able to sell them.”

“The trouble I’m in, I need money. All my accounts are frozen.”

“That’s what happens when you’re a war criminal. It happened to me after the Allied invasion.”

“What the Americans confiscated they returned, as I recall.”

“Only thirty per cent, but more than I expected. How about something to drink? Whisky, a glass of beer.” Braun pressed a button on the side of his desk. Hess heard a buzzer sound in the hall.

“If you’re looking for Martin, he’s indisposed.” Hess glanced at a Van Gogh on the wall to his left. “Where did you get that?”

“Hermann Goring. I traded a Raphael for the Park at Arles and the Portrait of Dr. Gachet. You may remember, Van Gogh’s paintings were considered degenerate art by the Führer. Goring was afraid Hitler would find out he had them in his collection.”

“I doubt that. Goring probably thought the Raphael was more valuable.”

Braun opened a humidor on the desktop, took out a cigar, clipped the end off with a cutter and lit it, blowing out puffs of smoke. “Where will you go? I imagine you still have contacts in South America.”

“I was thinking about the Côte d’Azur. Did I ever tell you I own a villa in Nice?”

“I don’t think so.”

Braun’s right hand slid off the desk and disappeared from view.

“Well, if that’s all, Gerhard, I’d better be going.” Hess knew what would happen next. He gripped the Walther behind his back and aimed it at Braun just as Braun’s right hand appeared holding a Luger, but not in time. Hess fired, hit him in the center of his chest. Gerhard’s body was blown back against the chair and slumped forward on the desktop.

Joyce was recovering faster than expected and had been moved to a private room with twenty-four-hour police protection, although Conlin said he could only justify it for a couple more days since they were pretty sure Hess had left the state.

Harry went to the hospital to say goodbye.