Excerpt 1

Alfred Rosenberg’s face was beet red. He had received a report from the guards that Schultze had left Wolfsschanze during his absence. The Gruppenführer, as deputy commander, should not have done this. And he had not seen a trace of the damned letter of confirmation, or rather the original. No matter how insignificant it was, Frank should have forwarded it. And where the hell was that orderly Meyer?
While Rosenberg was brooding, he also started to wonder about why two suitcases had been put in his room. It was late in the evening of November 2, the day after his return to headquarters, and the Reich Minister was not only furious, he was also tired, tired of the whole damned thing. And not a peep from Schulze. Distracted, he opened one of the suitcases.
Rosenberg gaped at the contents as if they were his own undoing. Fritz Meyer’s remains were wrapped in thick oilcloths. Everything lay in a clotting mess of blood and intestines. The Reich Minister pressed his hand to his forehead. He was about to faint. All at once he understood how everything fit together: he was about to lose everything. Rosenberg began to shake uncontrollably. What the hell should he do? The Führer himself was searching high and low for the collection, so he couldn’t act freely. Those he had employed for the hunt would have to keep their mouths shut. Otherwise he would have to lay the blame on Schultze and Lorenz, who would have to be good and dead. But it also meant that he would be forced to return the collection – that is, if it was ever found again.
Rosenberg felt as if he were about to lose consciousness. But at last he was able to collect himself enough to bark his orders. His most important task now was to dispatch Schultze and Lorenz to hell. His friend Eichmann would be their executioner, and theirs would be a slow death.
The Reich Minister hissed his orders.
“There’s a Fieseler Storch ready to go. Every single man you can find down there must be put on the search! Both of them are to go to Auschwitz. If you fail me, then…I hardly need to elaborate!”
Rosenberg had white froth on his lips, and he spat as he talked. The ones receiving the orders were two SS officers, one from the Luftwaffe and one from the Reich Minister’s own Einsatzstab.
Rosenberg sputtered on: “I also want my hands on all associates of both Obersturmbannführer Lorenz and Gruppenführer Schultze. Lorenz has a fiancée in Berlin whose name is Ursula something…I want to see every one of them!”
Rosenberg enunciated every syllable. Then he took a short break to gather air for the finale. “And take care of this fucking sludge before the whole guy drips out of the suitcases! And make sure it happens unnoticed! I don’t need any more problems. Heil Hitler!”
The Reich Minister slumped back behind his desk. He was utterly drained. Goddamned traitors! Maybe they hadn’t even gone to the Castle. Rosenberg started to code a message to Adolf Eichmann.

x

Schultze had deported 15 soldiers to the realm of death, and Lorenz was nearly paralyzed by nausea. He had been smoking incessantly and his mouth felt dry. Tired and disgusted, he poured a glass of water, emptying it in one gulp. Dawn was approaching, and there were only two men left out in the Castle courtyard, waiting their turn.
“Heinz Schmidt!”
“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Heinz Schmidt was well-built and had combed his golden-blond hair in waves. His skin was smooth and slightly pink from the chilly morning. He held his helmet tightly at his side.
Lorenz showed him up to the third floor, where Schultze was standing in the hall. The Gruppenführer got an erection when he saw the dapper youth walking towards him. Not wanting to see any more of the misery, Lorenz did an about-face and ran down the stairs to Thorsten Müller, who was standing alone in the deserted courtyard.
Müller’s eyes were awake and happy, like small pieces of coal in his well-fed face, where a powerful network of veins ran over his nose and cheeks. His curly black hair was unwashed and stuck out in greasy loops under his helmet, which he had not bothered to remove. Lorenz ordered him to attention and then fired three quick shots into his chest.
At the same moment, a bestial roar was heard from inside the building. Lorenz realized that it was Schultze, no longer capable of holding his perversities in check, but he ignored it. It was time to blow up the Castle, and then Schultze would get his. Lorenz lifted Müller up onto his shoulders in a fireman’s hold and carried him into the building. He removed the stocky warrior’s dog tags and replaced them with his own. Afterwards he hurried out to the car, which stood parked at the back of the courtyard.
Lorenz was just about to pull open the door when he discovered that it was locked. On his own orders! And he didn’t have a spare key. The paintings were still in the back seat. In the front seat lay his Mauser, which he needed to light the fuse.
Lorenz swore at his own carelessness. The Mercedes was the only car ready to go, and in addition it had been prepared for its purpose. Now he had to meet Schultze face to face. Lorenz rushed into the Castle again…
Schultze had just had enough time to close the door behind Heinz Schmidt when he heard three loud shots. Heinz Schmidt reacted immediately. Before the third shot was fired, he had run to the window to see what was happening. But his suspicions were aroused too late. Before he knew what was happening, Schultze had pumped two bullets into his tailbone.
Heinz Schmidt shrieked as his genitals exploded inside his uniform. He threw himself to the floor and shoved his hands desperately into his ragged flesh.
“You fucking faggot! You…”
Then he lost consciousness.
When Lorenz tore open the door, Schultze was kneeling at Schmidt’s side, transfixed in ecstasy. Lorenz couldn’t move. What a sight! The most grotesque he had ever seen. It beat all previous records for repugnance. He took a deep breath.
Schultze knelt, bent forward, with his back to him. Lorenz aimed his P38 with difficulty. He was able to squeeze four shots out before he leaned against the door jamb, exhausted, and vomited.
The bullets found their target without mercy. They bored into Schultze’s lungs, and he turned around with a wavering, panicked look, as if he didn’t really understand what was happening. When he caught sight of Lorenz, he realized the truth, but any speech he had planned to deliver was translated into a hoarse croaking. He spat and coughed, trying to calm his accelerating gagging. His mouth was wreathed by a froth of bright red blood. In his wild desperation, he reached for his silenced automatic, which lay on the floor just a few yards away. However, Schultze didn’t have long to live. He stood at the threshold of his Maker’s realm. Defeated, he crept on all fours in a fumbling, futile effort to grasp hold of the weapon. His crystal blue eyes lost their shine, and Schultze only had time for one more fruitless gasp of air.
Lorenz had but one bullet left in the magazine when he went over to Heinz Schmidt and pressed the mouth of the pistol against his temple. The shot echoed horribly, but it was nevertheless the hallmark of his release.
Lorenz closed his eyes for a moment. He despised his complicity, but his goals were lofty, and this absolved him. He shoved a new magazine into the gun. Now all that remained was to find the keys to the Mercedes.
He was able to confirm quickly that Schultze hadn’t taken them. It was probably Glück who had the keys or maybe one of the men who guarded the car. Lorenz decided to continue his search with the Feldwebel in charge of the vehicle. Or had he simply put them in the desk? Lorenz dashed down the stairs and threw open the door to Glück’s office. The memory of the Feldwebel’s hideous execution hit him as he once again faced the devastation in the room. And he didn’t have any trouble imagining what the other rooms looked like, where Schultze had been given free hands in dealing with the soldiers. Lorenz hurried to the desk and emptied the drawers on the floor, but without success. To hell with everything, he thought, but went over to Glück anyway, where he knelt to search the corpse. There he found what he was looking for.
Lorenz rose quickly and left the room. It was just starting to get light when he jumped in the Mercedes and turned the key in the ignition. He put it in first gear and the vehicle began to slowly roll down the curvy driveway. When the Castle was almost out of sight, he stopped, gripped his Mauser, and climbed out of the car. The distance was approximately 300 yards, and Lorenz was a good shot. He squatted in position and held the rifle firmly, pressing it hard against his shoulder to buffer the recoil. He aimed at a large clump of the applied explosive and raised his gun somewhat above the target. Then he lowered it slowly. When the crosshairs once again focused on the yellowish-brown substance, he stopped, increasing the pressure on the trigger. Lorenz fired, and the projectile tore into the stone base of the building with violent power. The explosion was devastating. The entire front façade crumbled immediately, and the deafening roar of the subsequent chain reaction echoed for miles. Fire bombs ignited right after the first explosion had detonated, and colossal waves of fire poured out of the Castle. In just a few seconds, the building was completely engulfed in flames. Thick, black smoke darkened the dawn sky, and through the clouds of smoke, tongues of fire shot up towards the heavens like fireworks. It wouldn’t be long before the magnificent stone edifice would be reduced to ash and dust.
Lorenz threw himself into the car and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The operation at the Castle had succeeded, and in just a few hours, if everything went well, he would be safe and sound. Now if only Sutherland was in place! The last time they had contact, he was in Strasbourg.
Lorenz had no idea how far Rosenberg had gotten in his search – he could only guess. Most likely was that the Reich Minister had examined the suitcases that crazy Schultze had stowed in his office by now. That would mean the hunt was in full swing, and it wouldn’t be finished until Rosenberg found out what had happened to the Castle – that his beloved paintings had burned up. That is, if the pursuers found the dog tags.
Lorenz put mile after mile behind himself. He kept a furious speed towards the German-French border. This part of Germany was uninteresting thus far, and there was no traffic to speak of. The Obersturmbannführer had just left the small town of Schönau, a bit over 25 miles from the place where he was to meet Sunderland. All of a sudden, a few hundred yards up the road, right outside the city limits, at the intersection of the roads to Müllheim and Schopfheim, the road was blocked.
Was it simply one of the usual road blocks? A collapsible wooden boom, nailed to two sawhorses and reinforced with barbed wire. Five block guards armed with submachine guns. Two military vehicles were parked at the edge of the road. If their mission was to stop him, the vehicles should have blocked the lanes. Perhaps that’s what was going on, or was something else waiting? Lorenz felt clammy. All his papers were in order, but what good would that do if Rosenberg was one step ahead of him? Lorenz took the safety off his automatic weapon and drove up to the boom. There he stopped.
“Sieg Heil! Your papers!” A young Stabsfeldwebel bent forward to look into the car.
Lorenz had no intention of presenting his identification papers. If he let anyone know who he was now, all of his work would have been in vain. Rosenberg would be sure to put one and one together if he heard that Lorenz’s Mercedes had shown up on its way to France, but he had to live with that risk. The Reich Minister had his own worries just now.
Instead of looking at his documents, the young Feldwebel got a look down the barrel of Lorenz’s P38. Completely taken by surprise, he saw death approach like an untamed planet. Lorenz shot him directly in the mouth, at the same time slamming his foot down on the gas pedal. The big Mercedes surged ahead. The wooden blockade rammed into the front grill with full power and then came flying at the windshield like a giant club. Lorenz ducked so that he wouldn’t be hit unconscious by the coarse boom. He turned right towards Müllheim. Shards of glass poured over his head, and he had all he could do to not skid off the road. For a moment, the boom lay on top of the hood, but it soon slid off as the car accelerated. The blocks and barbed wire scratched the sides of the car with a terrible screeching sound. Behind him, Lorenz heard whistles shrieking and the clatter of submachine gun salvos. He turned to see who was taking up the chase. He caught a glimpse of the Stabsfeldwebel, who had fallen down dead behind the rampooned wooden frame as well as several soldiers running towards the military vehicles.
Lorenz didn’t even have a chance to turn his glance forward again before the first bullets shattered the back window and burrowed with a whining sound into the instrument panel. At the same moment, he felt a searing pain above his right ear. He raised his hand reflexively and found he had been shot in the outer ear. It started to bleed profusely, even though it wasn’t a serious wound, but it hurt like hell. Lorenz crouched down more and half lay in the front seat with only his nose above the dashboard. He had gassed up to the maximum speed. The gunfire was considerable but not well aimed, and the road was curvy. When he passed the little village of Neuenweg at a furious speed, he could see his pursuers at about half a mile’s distance, and he was pulling away steadily.
All of a sudden the large car swerved. One of the back tires had been punctured, and the Mercedes started to sway back and forth in ever more powerful swerves. Lorenz fought desperately to keep the heavy vehicle under his control, and he was forced to decrease his speed. He swore aloud. He had over 13 miles left to go, and he would never make it with the car’s constant deterioration. But he’d be damned if he would give up now.
Lorenz opened the ammunition box, which was mounted under the right dashboard in a reinforced steel box. There were three hand grenades stored there which he put in his pockets. Then he slowed down a bit more to gain more control of the automobile and turned off at a small road to the right of the highway. He let the paintings lie in the back seat. Instead he grabbed his Mauser and a carton of shells. Afterwards he sprinted up the steep slope and rushed into the sparse foliage of autumn-yellow trees in the direction of his enemies. He threw himself down into shooter position behind a fallen beech tree. Now he had his own car in his sights, and he would be able to see both of the approaching vehicles in good time. With his right hand he felt his ear briefly and noted that there were only shreds left, but that the blood was starting to coagulate.
The distance to his pursuers was no more than 200 yards when Lorenz fired off the first shot. The bullet shattered the side window of the first car and continued with undeterred power on into the temple of the chauffeur, who died instantly. He fell forward over the steering wheel, and the heavy vehicle swerved off the road at top speed, plowed a furrow one yard deep in the ditch near the hill and finally got stuck in the loose soil.
Lorenz reloaded hastily and aimed at the second vehicle at lightning speed. He was cold as ice despite the urgency of his situation. He fired his shot. The driver never had time to react before half his neck was torn off. He was thrown backwards, powerless, and lost control of the car. The result was catastrophic for his comrades as well, because nobody would survive the ride that now started. Like a gigantic steel ball, the military vehicle plunged down the steep slope on the left side of the road, about 50 yards from Lorenz’s defense position. The heavy vehicle became a gigantic, rolling pyre and did not stop before it was at the bottom of the ravine.
Lorenz once again reloaded and prepared to return to firing on car number one. He registered lively activity in the vehicle in the ditch and more or less coincidentally sent his third shot into the rear side window. Lorenz estimated the number of soldiers in the car at six, a number he had now decreased to at most four men. He got up quickly and raced in a zig-zag down the slope to the destroyed military vehicle. He could not risk being surrounded by those who had survived his fire. He held one of the hand grenades in his right hand and his Walther in his left. He had left the rifle in the mist-dampened grass. The P38 was more convenient if one of the soldiers decided to break out.
Lorenz had almost made it to the slope where the second car had left the road and disappeared. He looked for new shelter behind a large block of stone on the opposite side of the road. Then he prepared himself for a mad dash. Time had become an important factor in the war, and Lorenz took no more time than necessary before he started his attack. Twenty yards from the enemy, he tore out the safety pin. At the same moment, two quit shots sounded, and Lorenz was abruptly stopped in his attack. He doubled over. He had been hit badly, and he felt a dull pain start to spread in his stomach. Summoning the last of his strength, he was able to toss the grenade, which hit the hood of the car with a metallic thump. Afterwards he threw himself into the grass by the ditch.
The explosion was deafening. The thick windshield was torn into a thousand pieces which showered like projectiles into the driver’s cab, already demolished. Lorenz took the safety off a second grenade and got up on his elbows. A feeling of impotence swept over him, and it was only by forcing himself beyond reason that he was able to throw the weapon at its target. The grenade flew in through the broken window, and Lorenz could hear heart-piercing screams. One second later, the bomb exploded.
Lorenz dragged himself back to his own car with his left hand pressed firmly against his stomach. His uniform jacket had a dark red stain that was growing, and his underwear were very damp. Both shots had probably gone right through his body. He pressed his hand harder against the red, sticky spot and struggled on to the little side road where his Mercedes was parked. It was somewhat warmer in the car despite the broken windows, and Lorenz felt a bit better when he was able to sit down. He ought to blow up the Mercedes too to get rid of his tracks completely, but he would never manage to walk the last miles with the package of paintings in the condition he was in now.
Lorenz backed the car out onto the highway and drove on towards the meeting place. The Mercedes swerved hard because of the flat tire, and he was forced to drive slowly. Would he be able to do this? His life depended on whether Sunderland was there, if the car lasted, and if he himself was able to make it.

Exerpt 2

Chapter Three.

General race classification: Nordic, Dinarian
Comprehension: Very good
Strength of will and personal resilience: Pronounced
Knowledge and education: Very good, particularly in his specialist field
Allegiance to National Socialistic ideology: Unconditional
General impression: Very good. An acknowledged expert in his area of specialization.

The characterization given above of Adolf Eichmann was written by Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler on the occasion of Eichmann’s promotion to Obersturmführer-SS in January 1939. Right before the German collapse, when Eichmann had also reached the position of Obersturmbannführer-SS, he said himself: “I shall leap into the grave laughing, because the knowledge that I have the deaths of five million people on my conscience gives me a source of incredible satisfaction.”

x

At first glance, it didn’t look as dreadful as it actually was. The lawns had, to be sure, lost some of their green, and the long rows of flowers had wilted. But the horror-filled reality lay beneath the earth, well disguised for the millions of people who, in an endless stream, poured out of the cargo cars at the Vernichtungslager Auschwitz.
Under the colorless lawns lay the truth: four gigantic gas bunkers with the adjacent crematoriums. This was the facility, constantly running, that made the Auschwitz camp the final destination for its visitors.
Fall was about to turn into winter. It was mid-November, and the air was raw and cold, the sky leaden. Just as dreary as the gray sky were the people here in the Polish concentration camp.
The camp commandant Rudolf Höss stood at the garden’s northern edge, next to him Obersturmbannführer-SS Adolf Eichmann. A large black Mercedes had driven up to the courtyard, and Reichsminister Rosenberg was just climbing out. Directly afterwards, the back doors were opened and two SS guards with a young woman between them saluted Eichmann and the camp commandant.
At the entrance to one of the bath houses, an SS guard was herding a group of stark-naked Jews who were going to go in and “shower”. At the same time, to draw attention away from the scene, an orchestra of young, beautiful Jewish women was playing music from an operetta. The woman who had just exited the car heard the cheerful music at a distance and turned around. When she caught a glimpse of the emaciated people with shaven heads, disappearing in endless lines into the bathhouse, she felt the terror return.
“Welcome to Auschwitz, Miss Worms! I see that you are interested in what is happening here.”
The sharp greeting came from Eichmann.
Ursula did not answer him. She didn’t even look at him. What she had seen was more than enough.
“I need quick results, Eichmann!”
“Aber natürlich, Herr Reichsminister.”
Eichmann made a sign to the two SS guards to take Ursula with them. He did this by rapping his whip, always ready in his right hand, sharply against his leather boots. Rosenberg fell in at Eichmann’s side, while the camp commandant Höss stayed behind to inspect what was happening at the bath house.
Eichmann had a dangerous appearance. His face was narrow, and his eyes cold and shifty.
“Herr Reichsminister, what do you think our Reich Marshal will say when he hears about this? The situation seems a bit complicated, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“This is between you and me, Eichmann, you know that. Lorenz is officially dead. He burned up, as well as the collection. You know that I am replacing you.”
Eichmann gave Rosenberg a crooked smile.
“I understand how you’ve planned this out, Herr Reichsminister. I just wanted to hear you say it.”
“Which one of the doctors have you consulted?”
“Steinbach,” Eichmann answered guardedly. “We’ll start with him.”
“Who is Steinbach? I’ve never heard of any Steinbach.”
“His name is Josef Steinbach. You don’t have to be worried, Herr Reichsminister. I am in full control here, if I may express myself clearly.”
Eichmann, Rosenberg and the two SS guards with Ursula passed through the entryway of a gray stone building a few hundred yards from the place where they had first come together. They continued down a long corridor up to a swinging door in the farthest end of the hall. It smelled strongly of antiseptic. Eichmann kicked open the swinging door and the group entered a small vestibule, the one wall of which was shortened and showed a larger room. Behind this lay the operating rooms. Eichmann gave the two SS guards orders to wait in the vestibule while he himself continued in to the place for the medical experiments.
After five minutes, he was back with a small dark balding man dressed in a white coat. The man was at most 40 but already old, bent from the psychologically brutal experiments he was forced to conduct on a daily basis in the Auschwitz annihilation camp. He was a so-called kapo.
Eichmann signaled to Rosenberg to come into the larger room.
“May I introduce to you Josef Steinbach.”
Eichmann placed himself so the Reich Minister could take a look at the little man.
“What the hell do you mean, Eichmann? This man is a Jew!”
Rosenberg was ready to explode.
“Yes, he is truly a dyed-in-the-wool shit,” explained Eichmann, “but you know yourself how these kapo pigs work and react. They will do every damned thing they can to save their own skin. Steinbach is no exception. Besides, he is talented. I think he’s the right man for this task. He knows that I will kill him someday, but nevertheless, he tries to extend his miserable Jew life. Right, Steinbach?”
Eichmann whipped the little man across the face with the whip.
“Right, you fucking Jew?” bawled Eichmann.
“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Steinbach wiped his bloodied forehead.
“You can trust Steinbach, Herr Reichsminister.”
Rosenberg stood stock still. His choices were limited. He tried to control his anger over having a Jew doctor taking on his important problem.
“Reichsführer Himmler appreciates your work, Eichmann. I hope I will have reason to do the same. You know what I need to find out. Let this be Steinbach’s final assignment! I cannot take any risks.”
“I have to contact Dr. Heilmann first,” replied Eichmann. “Dr. Heilmann works for Dr. Mengele,” he explained quickly so Rosenberg would understand the problem better. “But I will talk to Dr. Heilmann, Herr Reichsminister. If he doesn’t need Steinbach any longer, that’s fine with me.”
Josef Steinbach stood motionless as both dignitaries insulted him. His large brown eyes, half covered by his heavy eyelids, searched the vestibule, where his victim was waiting. He felt completely obliterated and distraught over what he was apparently going to have to take care of now.
Ursula could hardly stay standing any longer, let alone move. What she had listened to made her sick to her stomach, and her whole body trembled. The pains in her womb were almost unbearable, and the two SS men were forced to almost carry her into the operating room.
Eichmann gave orders that she was to be undressed and put in the gynecologist chair that was placed against the far wall of the room.
The view that met Ursula’s eyes in the room was atrocious. Besides the gynecologist chair there were around 10 benches on which naked, pregnant Jewish women were lying, apparently unconscious. Bright lamps shone in the ceiling and the air stunk of ether. Everything was dirty and substandard. Eichmann had ordered everyone working in the operating room to leave until further notice, including both of the SS guards.
“Now then, Steinbach, show the Reich Minister what you have learned here in Auschwitz!”
“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” the little man answered, hardly audible, ready to feel Eichmann’s whip on him.
“She is going to sing for us! If you can’t manage that, Steinbach, Dr. Heilmann will have to take care of both you and the girl.”
“I understand, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Eichmann and Rosenberg had placed themselves on either side of the gynecologist chair, where Ursula Worms now lay completely naked. Josef Steinbach was on the same side as Rosenberg as he bent down over the beautiful woman. Her genitals were already badly lacerated.
“I am going to hurt you very badly. It would be best if you would cooperate.”
The little kapo looked dejectedly into Ursula’s blue eyes, which pleaded for a mercy that did not exist.
“I don’t know anything,” she whispered.
“Hurry up, Steinbach!” Eichmann screamed shrilly and rapped with his whip, but just against his own boots this time. “If you dawdle you’ll have a direct referral to Dr. Heilmann!”
Ursula was still looking Josef Steinbach in the eyes, but now he avoided her glance. He had no way of saving this woman; at the most, he could shorten her suffering. His right hand, which held the scalpel, shook gently as he slowly started to cut into her.
Ursula lived for one more hour. It only took fifteen minutes before Eichmann had to call Dr. Heilmann in, since at this point Steinbach was no longer capable of looking at the results of his work.
Martin Heilmann, who after Dr. Mengele was the most dreaded doctor at Auschwitz, had then continued the special treatment. Ursula had shrieked pitifully until she lost her voice, and when she finally fainted from pain and exhaustion, Heilmann had poured ice cold water on her body alternating with electric shocks to suitable parts of her body. He did this to keep her conscious and at the absolute limit of the suffering a human can endure. But Ursula only uttered what Rosenberg had already told her during the time she had been his prisoner. She never mentioned Sunderland’s name. The last fifteen minutes she had lain in a coma, and when death finally came to her, she took her secret with her.
The poor kapo, Josef Steinbach, Eichmann beat to a bloody pulp, and then left him in Dr. Heilmann’s hands for expert treatment.
The fate of this man, however, did not concern Rosenberg in the slightest. But he cursed that goddamned whore, Ursula Worms. That stubborn bitch had been his last chance to recover the sixteen oil paintings. The collection that would one day be one of the world’s most sought-after and valuable, and that would bear his name: The Rosenberg Collection.

Excerpt 3

1965

Chapter Six.

Paris, July 1965
The French capital breathed summer. It was sizzling hot. The large monuments and statues were steaming. The impressive Seine was boiling. It was morning.
A tall man with athletic features had camped at the northern border of the Vincennes forest with a few beers and a pair of long baguettes as his only baggage. In the flooding sunlight, surrounded by fragrant green grass and flowers of a hundred kinds, he lay outstretched on his back. In the little pond right next to him, the birds were swimming and playing with each other.
The tall man was First Lieutenant Michael Coe, who was having a hard time understanding why he was in Paris. He was here on “vacation”, they called it, without further explanation. An unofficial thank-you for significant contributions in Korea. That was terrific, of course, but difficult to understand nonetheless. There had been similar tokens of honor, but that just he should enjoy such favor, and ten years after the war at that, caused him consternation.
Of course, he was aware of his contributions in Korea, considering all the medals he had been awarded, but the distance from that to a vacation ticket to France was far. If he had been shipped to Vietnam, it would have been easier to understand.
There wasn’t much point to thinking about it anymore. Now he was here – in Paris – far away from the burdens of the Special Forces. Michael Coe enjoyed his leisure fully as he lay stretched out on the grass with the summer sun tanning his skin. Maybe he was a little important after all…All of a sudden, she was standing there.
“My name is Cecilia,” she said and laughed.
Coe lifted his head, astonished, and mumbled his own name, unable to believe that this wasn’t a mirage.
“Come on, Mike!” Cecilia gave him her hand.
Coe got up like a sort of programmed disciple of Jesus, despite the ducks’ quacking, which he now only heard as a distant noice.
Cecilia was divinely beautiful. She radiated a warmth and a beauty that was utterly enchanting. Coe stood more or less speechless from fright that his voice would crack if he said anything. Even so, he was eager to start some kind of conversation with this heavenly being.
“You’re from America,” he stuttered.
Cecilia was in Paris to improve her French, she told him. And it was possible that the angelic American was getting better in French, even if Coe sensed there were other reasons for her stay. In any case, he wasn’t the right person to talk to in French.
Coe didn’t mention anything about his own visit to Paris, but he liked her immediately, and after a while, the conversation began to bubble and flow. At the same time, his desire to love this delightful woman grew stronger and stronger. Cecilia could tell how he felt, and she let herself be attracted to him. It didn’t take long before they were standing pressed up against each other, and he felt all of her wonderful warmth, both in her eyes and in her entire lovely body. Cecilia pressed his hand even more firmly, and for a second quickly against her thigh, at the same time as she reached up to whisper lightly in his ear: “Perhaps we should go to your place.”
A few minutes later, they were sitting in Cecilia’s shiny white convertible. This is crazy beyond all belief, Coe thought, but it remained simply a thought. Once they reached the hotel, they were both so aroused by each other’s nearness that they ran up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.
Once in the room, everything happened as if they were synchronized, in a realm between dream and ecstasy. They tore off each other’s clothes, and within a few seconds they were lying intertwined. Coe caressed her exquisite breasts, which were even more wonderful and full than her dress had allowed him to imagine, and kissed her passionately from head to toe. Cecilia bit his shoulder and pulled his hair while she panted that he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to take her immediately.
Cecilia screamed with lust as he penetrated her, and she pulled him even closer to her. The flame of their passion exploded into a prairie fire. They couldn’t get enough of each other. For three days, they didn’t leave their bed.
On the fourth day, something happened. Cecilia had ordered a newspaper, and while Coe was in the bathroom shaving, she took the opportunity to disappear. The open newspaper was all that was left when he came back. Out of sorts and a bit resentful, he sat on the edge of the bed, hoping she would return soon.
For if the truth be told, they hadn’t exactly been together without interruption those three days. Cecilia usually excused herself around six in the afternoon, saying she had to leave for a half hour to meet a very important person, as she mysteriously expressed it. Coe wondered a lot about these strange and regular interruptions, but when Cecilia begged and pleaded him not to ask any questions, he had dropped the subject and agreed to not make her explain. Coe believed that this was the same thing even though the time was different. When an hour had passed, and then yet another, and Cecilia hadn’t reappeared, he started to read her newspaper for lack of anything better to do.
The first thing he found was a job advertisement for a temporary security guard for one of the city’s museums. Since he was on vacation, he couldn’t keep himself from playing with the idea of earning a little extra money. According to Special Forces, he had the right to do exactly what he wanted as long as it didn’t conflict with American interests. And in this case, it certainly wasn’t a problem. Short hours and well paid, the announcement revealed, asking above all for people with international military experience.
This fit Coe like a glove. His stipend was meager, and he was going to be in Paris for four more weeks. His chance at getting the position was no doubt microscopic. Even so, it would be a lovely “revenge” on his mysterious lover, who apparently had a hard time with schedules.
As the hours went on and Cecilia didn’t show, his thoughts became more realistic, and Coe started to regret sending in his application. He wanted Cecilia, nothing else! But when night came, he fell asleep without her.
The next day dawned, and still no sign of Cecilia. Her passion had been utterly genuine – he wasn’t that damned naïve!
After three days, she walked into the room as if nothing had happened. And at the same time Coe received a phone call from the museum inviting him to an interview. It was almost an embarrassment of riches, but Cecilia’s mouth and body silenced all his questions and protests. They made love as if they were possessed.
Towards afternoon, as they lay in bed smoking, Coe talked about his possible job as a security guard. He had hoped Cecilia would be a little angry, but she was almost alarmingly happy about his idea. Coe couldn’t help but make a little jab about how practical it would be for her with all her “important people”, and that maybe he could look forward to having her company during his free time. Cecilia was hurt and mumbled something about his having promised not to ask her about that. To this Coe responded with a gesture that implied that he had nothing to do with it. He was simply happy to have her back with him, here and now.
The next day, Cecilia disappeared again, and Coe went to the museum. Still frustrated over her behavior, he entered the office of Pierre Damian, the director of the magnificent museum with its equally pompous surroundings. Before arriving, Coe had passed unnoticed through ten or so rooms he thought were a buffer zone, but that wasn’t so. However, it was Sunday.
Pierre Damian was leaning back in a giant black leather armchair, holding a cigarette between his slender fingers. The desk behind which he was sitting was equally enormous. The room had the feel of a larger salon, and its furnishings were exquisite. Coe didn’t see any windows, only charming wall panels of ash wood, crammed with splendid art pieces, for the most part oils. The carpet was beautifully patterned in dark red and blue.
Coe found his way through an army of statues and other artworks which were placed here and there in the room.
“Monsieur Damian?”
“Michael Coe!” he stated. “First Lieutenant Michael Coe!”
They shook hands and Damian gestured towards one of the voluminous armchairs that faced the desk.
Pierre Damian was as emaciated as a goat, and he appeared to be about seventy. He was a small man, and this perhaps explained why everything around him seemed so large. His pale gray hair was combed back with a straight part down the middle, and his facial features were sunken as if he were sick. In addition, he had only one ear. A pair of slender-framed glasses rested uneasily on the tip of his nose, and he looked a little kooky there where he sat, dwarfed by his chair, behind his large desk. Despite this, he had astonishing charisma.
“Does the name Curt Raubal mean anything to you?” he asked suddenly, so it sounded like a starting shot.
Without being conscious of it, Coe reacted negatively to the unexpected prelude, and he didn’t answer right away.
“No, not that I can remember,” he eventually said, somewhat confused by Damian’s interview techniques.
“Then let’s forget about that. Soon we will be getting a collection of paintings that is unique in every way and extraordinarily valuable,” he continued directly and stubbed out his cigarette in one of the overflowing ashtrays on the desk. “If I were to express its value in dollars, 600 million, perhaps you will understand me better.”
Coe said he understood, though he really didn’t. Six hundred million dollars?
“The collection, which we can call the Rosenberg Collection, consists of sixteen oil paintings and is on loan to the museum for eight days. In order to guard the exhibit, we have employed no less than sixteen guards, or one guard per painting. Even so, we have reason to believe that our efforts will not be sufficient. That’s where you come into the picture.”
Coe looked bewildered, but he didn’t say anything.
“I don’t plan to give you further instructions on how you should proceed. Nor do I intend to discuss the conditions surrounding this vernissage with you. You can do in principle whatever you like, just don’t contact me or ask for help here in the office. We won’t see each other again until after the exhibit is over. So to sum up: I want you to work independently; I don’t want a situation where you and I are working in tandem. You will soon find out that the objects are interesting to more people than you may think to start with.”
“I’m sure of that,” Coe replied. “Good Lord, you go quickly, Monsieur Damian, if you will permit me to say so. Anyone can write an application like the one I sent you. Then to walk over here as a potential interview candidate. Who is actually interviewing whom?”
Coe didn’t think he had to be more than formally polite. In fact, Korea had worn off most of the usual manners he had had before. But in any case, this didn’t seem to affect Pierre Damian.
“All you have to do is tell me a little about the alarm system too, and then I’ll have earned 600 million dollars,” Coe added in jest and looked into the steel-gray eyes, which told him his joke had been inappropriate.
“I’ll tell you about the alarm now,” Damian replied. “It’s not more than a year old and works by means of photo cells. Each painting has its own particular cell which will be set off right away if anyone so much as goes near the painting in question. Everything is monitored by the police, not by the museum, as you may have imagined.”
He must have lost his mind, Coe thought, but didn’t really mean it. Damian’s German accent perplexed him. Otherwise, he spoke correct English.
“What is it you want?” Coe asked bluntly. “You make everything you say sound like a military briefing before some order.”
Damian removed his glasses. Now he looked utterly intimidating, and he fastened his cold, authoritarian eyes on Coe, who started instinctively at the change in his appearance.
“We have already hired you!”
Coe hesitated before responding. This was a cunning fox he was dealing with, not an idiotic culture monger, which had been his first impression.
“May I ask what it will cost?”
“You mean your remuneration?” he asked, staring out into the air.
Coe nodded slightly.
“The assignment will span at the most two weeks, depending on how long it takes to wrap things up. The salary is set accordingly. I would venture to say that it is generous. Two thousand dollars, plus all expenses, lodging – the usual.”
Coe felt his composure slipping. The package was wrapped beautifully – you could smell Special Forces a mile away. Who was Pierre Damian? Besides the fact that he was apparently Coe’s tour guide while on vacation in Paris, Coe would bet his last dollar that this strange little man had been a German officer during World War II, and that he was utterly unfit as a museum director. But why would Special Forces want to help a former German officer, if that’s what he was? And why in this particular way? And why the hell had he answered that damn advertisement, which he was now convinced had been written for him? This was Cecilia’s fault.
Cecilia! Coe almost fell out of his chair when the truth hit him. She had placed the advertisement right in front of his nose. Beautiful Cecilia, so delightful, so angelic, but so mysterious. Pierre Damian was apparently the “important person”.
“Are you uncomfortable, Coe?”
“Not in the least. Nice armchair!”
“Then I will give you a few more details regarding the collection. However, I must first inform you that you are entirely free to decline the assignment.”
“Really. Can you really do what you want when Special Forces is setting the tempo?”
Damian pretended not to hear, and Coe made as if to leave.
“You mean I’m free to leave this performance?”
“Sit down or get out of here!”
This wasn’t the same Pierre Damian talking now. His words shot out like machine gun fire. Coe sank down into his chair again without knowing why. Maybe for Cecilia’s sake.
“You can tell you were a military  man,” he sputtered.
Damian looked bored.
“If you’d let me speak for a while, I’m sure we could dispense with your questions and comments.”
“Maybe we could even adjust my salary?”
“How much did you have in mind?”
Damian once again seemed moderately interested, but now Coe had the chance to find out just how eager they were to take advantage of his services. They had gone to a lot of trouble.
“Ten thousand. Five thousand now, and five thousand when the job’s done. Plus expenses.”
Coe prepared for a violent reaction, which didn’t come. Damian simply took out his check book, and Coe was five thousand dollars richer. What did the guy actually want him to do?
“We have opened a dollar account in your name to cover any expenses. The bank needs your confirmation. Here are the checks and the forms you will sign and send back.”
Damian handed him an envelope.
“Five thousand more once the paintings are returned.”
“You are very well prepared, Monsieur Damian. Can Special Forces afford this?”
“The museum will cover your extravagances. I will try to explain in greater detail if you would stop interrupting me.”
Coe sighed, and Damian took a deep breath that sounded like a yawn.
“Personally, I have very good connections in your home country,” he exhaled. “Contacts that I only use under exceptional circumstances. And I asked if I could borrow someone for a month – shall we say, the most unpolished person they had and could do without.”
Coe chortled.
“And that’s me?”
“As I pointed out: it wasn’t my choice. It was my friends’ choice.”
Damian assumed an unhappy expression, but he seemed satisfied. He continued:
“Despite your training, you are undisciplined. But I hold my American friends in highest regard, along with their judgment, and just now I need a person of your type. And as an American, you enjoy a privileged position from time to time. Sending you here on vacation was probably taking a chance, but since your work here at the museum lies a bit outside the area that the Constitution dictates the US Armed Forces is to deal with, we could not order you here. There was no other way than to go through the back door. For other reasons, I felt it would be most advantageous if you contacted us rather than vice versa. It is good that you noticed the advertisement. It was observant!”
“Send the flowers to Cecilia.”
“You’ve understood that. That’s also observant.”
“First class, really. My compliments! Is that a part of the museum business as well?”
Damian commented by lighting a cigarette. He pulled the smoke deeply into his lungs and blew it out again right in Coe’s face.
“You are here, Coe, and that’s the main thing. Now back to the collection. The Rosenberg Collection was originally war plunder. Only very few people know that the paintings still exist. Among them are those who made sure the collection was hidden away before the big castle fire in Schwarzwald in fall of 1944. The official report at the time stated that art valued in the hundreds of millions had gone up in smoke. Very few efforts were made to establish what actually happened during that fire, and it was soon forgotten. The French Resistance was blamed for it. Then the issue was laid to rest.”
“What is the US interest in these paintings?”
“None at all, as far as I’m concerned. Of course it’s your choice if you wish to represent your country, if you see any reason to do so. But please don’t interrupt me! Now where was I?”
“You set fire to the castle.”
Coe’s contribution to the conversation made Damian speechless, but just momentarily.
“You are drawing hasty conclusions. I must ask you to refrain from doing so.”
“You are well informed.”
Damian looked sly sitting behind the enormous desk. He had put on his glasses again, and Coe had a hard time catching his eye, but this man was just as innocuous and kind as a diamondback rattler.
“I don’t intend to discuss my part of this,” Damian informed him and waved away his comments. “Right after the war, an English gentleman, John Sunderland, was able to borrow, or rather lease, the Rosenberg Collection from a deceased SS officer, who had also been one of the men behind the preservation of the collection.”
“Where you yourself played the starring role!”
“Once again, you are making all too hasty assumptions, Coe. I asked you specially to not do that.”
“I’ve already done it.”
Damian ignored Coe’s insinuations doggedly and continued, diplomat as he was, to tell his story.
“Sunderland has now had the collection in his possession for over 20 years, which is the time that was agreed upon.
Coe concluded that Damian was as rich as a king, and that his own ten thousand dollars were just a drop in the bucket. He wondered how much Sunderland had had to cough up for the “lease”, but above all why Damian hadn’t sold the collection twenty years ago instead of firing up this spectacle, which could only lead to his own imprisonment or at the very least the loss of the paintings.
“You have started a project that’s doomed to fail,” Coe affirmed once Damian reached the end of his succinct, contradictory account. “Apparently you like to lose money.”
“I’m not in this for economic advantage.”
“No, that’s obvious.”
“Now you have all the information you’re getting. The only other thing you need to know is that the paintings are arriving tonight at 8:00 and that the exhibit opens tomorrow, Monday. When the paintings have been returned, you will get the rest of your money. I will let you know when they are.”
“And when will you consider the paintings to have been returned? If I’ve understood rightly, the paintings are not going back to Sunderland, whoever he is, and you have categorically denied that they belong to you.”
Damian didn’t answer, and Coe became angry.
“Of course, you have some inkling of what will happen once you hang up the paintings, slapping six hundred million dollars on the walls. Your or Sunderland’s goddamned paintings will not be left in this joint any longer than the time it takes the Germans and the French gendarmes to take them down. You have chosen the very best way to get rid of your possessions. And you can be certain that not just Germany and France will react! Every nation that had their art stolen by the Nazis will also want to have a finger in this pie! Plus a whole hell of lot of other folks. Yes, you will certainly have to return the paintings. Was this your plan all along?”
 “Didn’t I tell you from the beginning that you would soon discover that these objects will interest more people than you may know from the beginning?”
The audience was concluded.

Exerpt 4

Chapter Ten

The Carribean islands looked like emeralds bobbing in the warm, crystal blue water. Above them, the huge 707 roared and screamed as it prepared to land in Puerto Rico. The plane had been airborne for many hours, and for the passengers, it had been a long, gruelling flight. The flight originated in Buenos Aires, and among those on board was Martin Bormann.
Bormann was sitting in a window seat at the very back of the plane. He peered down at the green archipelago and considered his fate. For the Führer of the Fourth Reich, the past 24 hours had been a pure nightmare. Beside him sat the leader of the mafia platoon that had kidnapped him in Buenos Aires. Elsewhere on the plane was the rest of the band of mafiosos that had helped capture him. Bormann hadn’t said a word during the entire journey. The huge ear of the Mafia was like a permanent radar screen, constantly in motion, and its huge net could be spread at a moment’s notice wherever there was a large haul for the taking. Bormann now realized why he was about to land at Puerto Rico’s airport. When he had been ambushed a mere 50 yards from his headquarters on Martin Haedo Avenue, he had first thought it was some kind of Israeli security force that had attacked his bodyguards. But years of experiene had taught him to recognize the Israelis’ work methods, and he soon understood that he was under the power of another organization: Cosa Nostra. His next thought was that the mafia was going to turn him over to Israel for a tidy sum of money, but even this fear proved unfounded. Now, a day later, he had a better idea of what service he would have to perform. He just wondered which of von Löw’s confederates had gone behind the back of his Fourth Reich. As far as  Bormann knew, only Reschko knew that the paintings had been coded, and nobody else.
Before Bormann left Asunción, he had been in contact with Dr. von Löw by phone. The latter had entreated his Führer to observe the utmost caution during the trip to Buenos Aires since he himself was unable to provide security for him himself. von Löw had even asked him to stay home, but Bormann, who considered himself indispensible at headquarters during von Löw’s absence, refused to be ordered around.
At the time, Dr. von Löw was in Cairo for a short visit. He had important business to attend to there; among other things he was planning to contact Reschko and get a report on the paintings. When he came back to Argentina, he was hoping to get together with Bormann to unravel the codes. Then the Führer would decide what should be done with hapless Israel. Nasser was planning to start a war against those stubborn Jews, and he wanted the support of the Fourth Reich, if in no other way than financial. Dr. von Löw knew that the Rosenberg Collection would be a significant factor in deciding which path Bormann would follow.
Martin Bormann’s abduction had been a bloody affair. Cosa Nostra’s men had not left one witness alive. All of Bormann’s bodyguards had been mowed down by machine gun fire, a total of eight men, six former SS-men and the chauffeurs. Five big cars, all of them American, had driven up to the entrance to the headquarters and blocked Bormann’s escort. Rapid gunfire had followed, and three mafioso had also bit the dust. A minute or so later, everything was over, and the abduction of Martin Bormann was a fact.

x

The heavy 707 hit the ground hard. It was a rather bad landing. Bormann walked out on the tarmac towards passport control, surrounded the entire time by mafioso who had been on his heels ever since the successful coup. He was known these days as Goldstein, and the inspection went quickly and smoothly. Outside the arrival hall, three large American cars waited to transport the prisoner to the final destination, White Sands.
White Sands was one of the Alfieri family’s vacation homes, situated on Puerto Rico’s south side, about 50 miles southeast of the capital city of San Juan. A gigantic villa in the style of a country estate had been built, just 100 yards from the beach. This paradise wanted for nothing.
Upon his arrival, Bormann was received by the caporegime in White Sands, Carlo Badogli – a heavy-set fellow with very little imagination – and installed comfortably in the grandiose beachfront villa. After spending an hour in the fashionable environment, Bormann got to meet Don Arnesto Alfieri himself.
“Welcome to White Sands, Mr. Bormann.”
There were a total of five people in the room. Besides Bormann and the well-groomed  Alfieri, Badogli and two other rough-looking mafiosos imported from Sicily were present.
Bormann shifted in his armchair, visibly irritated.
Alfieri gestured to the two Sicilians to leave the room.
“I presume that Mr. Badogli is not bothering you?”
“I prefer not to discuss business with gorillas hanging around.”
Alfieri took on a harsh expression.
“After I have left here, Mr. Badogli will be your only company. We plan to make your stay here at White Sands as pleasant as possible. As long as you don’t make unreasonable demands, we intend to maintain this hospitality. I advise you to remember that you are here on our terms, Mr. Bormann!”
Bormann was at the point of imploding from rage.
“And what do you think you’re going to get out of this? The whole world knows how ingenious you are. Sooner or later, the fact that I’ve been shanghaied here is going to leak out – whether I die or not. Maybe you ought to think about that!”
Alfieri had become a man of dignity. The passing years had taught him not to let anyone get a glimpse of his private wrath when important negotiations needed to be finalized. The old Reich leader was a sensitive matter, so refusing Bormann was nothing Alfieri was eager to do, even though Bormann was at his mercy. But finally he was unable to control his anger.
“If the world found out that you were here in Puerto Rico, it would, in all probability, cause you more trouble than us. That’s not to say that we recommend such a solution, nor do we have any plans to take your life. We have other reasons to hold you here, Mr. Bormann, and you know it. But don’t press our hospitality!”
Bormann didn’t respond.
“As you certainly understand, the preparations for your visit here at White Sands have involved considerable expense.
“Self-inflicted!” hissed Bormann.
Alfieri didn’t want to listen, and Badogli kept quiet. As long as his capo was leading the conversation, he didn’t dare open his mouth.
“You won’t be leaving Puerto Rico empty-handed, Mr. Bormann,” continued Alfieri. “We intend to compensate you generously for your services. But the trump cards are in three hands. That is, because we don’t have the paintings.”
“Who’s the third party?”
Bormann’s anger had not diminished, but his attitude betrayed his curiosity. He wanted to know who had betrayed his organization.
“I can’t reveal that. Unfortunately, we will have to see how things develop for a week or so. Meanwhile, you will remain our guest. You will want for nothing!”

Excerpt 5

Chapter Thirteen

The apartment on Rue de Vaugirard occupied the top floor. It was an elegant, airy residence in French style, furnished with solely exclusive pieces. Silk curtains framed the large windows in the parlor. Bright Gobelin tapestries stretched from the floor, with its double knot hand-woven carpets, up to the white wooden moulding, which bordered the vaulted ceiling.
Besides the parlor, the apartment featured a kitchen, a spacious hall, and two additional rooms. One of these was the bedroom, and upon opening the door, one beheld a fairytale paradise. The filmy curtains allowed the sunlight in freely, letting it play on the chalk-white wallpaper. Against one long side a bit away from the wall, a majestic brass canopy bed dominated the room, standing on a rya carpet. The bed was covered with a light crocheted bedspread, fringed along the bottom edge, and on top of it were three hand-embroidered silk pillows in golden yellow. No expense had been spared in furnishing the apartment.
Wearing only a negligée, Cecilia sat on the edge of the bed. Her hand trembled a little as she pulled up the plunger on the syringe, sucking up the last drops from the small heated tin vessel. She blew out the candle that had warmed the slightly sooty metal cup. She tapped the glass cylinder a couple times with her index finger to remove the air bubbles from the liquid. Then she found a small, almost invisible scar in the crook of her left elbow and pressed the needle into the vein carefully. First she sucked out a drop of blood, then she let the plunger glide down slowly towards the end of the chamber, emptying the contents into her bloodstream. She pulled out the needle with a gentle tug, relaxed against the headboard and sank into a stupor.
Cecilia’s road to hell had been clearly marked. A little more than five months ago, when she was still living in London and Sunderland was in America, two men had visited her. They arrived after eleven-thirty at night, and she had been taken completely by surprise. One of them was elegant, light-haired and well-dressed; the other was dark, stocky and strangely dressed in some kind of caftan-like cape. Their appearance was a study in contrasts, but their thoughts and intentions were parallel. Their names were Lee Ritt and George Ness. Ritt had quickly put a fistful of cotton soaked in chloroform over Cecilia’s nose and mouth, and directly thereafter, Ness had bound and gagged her.
When she awoke, three men were standing in the room. Dr. Malkom Heines had arrived with a syringe in his hand. He held it up to the light and pressed out a small drop from the needle. Then he brought it up to the crook of Cecilia’s elbow. She had no hope of resisting. With panicked horror she watched as the liquid was sucked into her body.
Heines treated her for four days, gradually increasing the dosage so that she would become a slave to the narcotic, according to his plan. And then came the fifth day. What happened then was so dreadful that she thought about it constantly. That day, Ritt put her on the large dining room table after the first injection. Heines stood there, first in line to execute the morning’s customary rape.
At this point, Ness interrupted, speaking the words “Brethren, brethren” and holding up his hand. He may have been dark and evil, but a kind of halo hovered around his head. He wore a floor-length cloak and had a priest’s collar sloppily wrapped around his neck. George Ness was the group’s religious fanatic. He considered himself chosen by the Almighty himself to perform the sacrifices that were His due.
“I beseech you most urgently to consider the task before us! It does not behoove us, gentle members of our brotherhood, to oppose the will of the Almighty! You know what the Almighty demands of us, dear Brothers!” Ness intoned. Then he left the room briefly.
Ness had arranged everything beforehand. On the third day, he had already hammered together a rough beechwood cross in one of the rooms. He went to fetch it now and placed it as if he were conducting a ritual in the center of the floor.
“The one true God demands CRUCIFIXION!”
Ritt and Heines looked at each other knowingly. It was clearly time for the performance Ness demanded to achieve the utmost effect. Cecilia was dragged to the cross, and Heines laid bare the nerves, blood vessels and ligaments necessary to execute a proper crucifixion without leaving obvious traces. Afterwards, one nail was hammered into each of the drowsy, almost unconscious girl’s wrists. Ritt and Ness joined forces in their attempt to prop the cross up against a wall.
When the deed was accomplished, the woman’s limp body hung like a bag across the wooden structure. Ness had expected a different effect. On all of the pictures of the suffering Savior, he was hanging evenly from the two arms which formed the cross itself. But not Cecilia. The effect was pathetic as she swung back and forth on the religious symbol. Of course, they could have improved her position with the traditional nails in the feet, but it was clear that it not only wouldn’t work, but that it wouldn’t be practical given their ultimate goal: the “holy rite of copulation” that Ness, and the others, considered necessary for the final sacrifice.
Since things had turned out so pitifully, the resourceful Ness suggested a slight correction to their Biblical interpretation. He quickly sawed two wood blocks which could be hammered under the armpits with a few seven-inch nails. And there – the foot nails weren’t even necessary!
Ness was very pleased with his efforts when he saw Cecilia dangling on their makeshift cross. Now the final act could begin. And so it came to pass … Ritt began immediately and thrusted away like the most earthly of beings while Ness made the sign of the cross over and over and intoned “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” Soon enough, Ritt was satisfied and offered his place to the next in line. They noticed that Ness was a little too short for the “crucifixion”, so Heines offered to fetch a few phone books so that the ritual could continue without interruption. Ness blessed the populace and got to work. And even Ritt and Heines seemed to fall into a state of prayer while Ness fulfilled his duty to the Almighty. When Ness was finally happy and felt that he had sanctified his Savior, Heines was ready to burst.
“For God’s sake!” he stammered. “Leave the phone books where they are!”
On this day, Cecilia’s life became a constant nightmare. Every hour, she was dependent on Heines’ good will in order to go on living. And the Devil granted her peace only in exchange for obedience and an oath of silence. Cecilia was required to move to Paris. First she refused, but then Heines quickly convinced her about how wrong it was for her to refuse him anything. She told her father-in-law that she wanted to improve her French, and in this way Sunderland wouldn’t notice what was wrong with her – yet.
After a half year of hell, she finally saw her chance to get rid of her scourge. She decided to confide her intolerable situation to the clumsy, straightforward American, whom she also loved. He was the only one who could help her, and she trusted him.
It was ten minutes past seven. In one hour and fifty minutes she would meet him. The syringe still lay in her slack grasp, but her beautiful body had slid down onto the three golden yellow pillows. It was time for her to wake up and get ready.
But Cecilia would never again open her cornflower blue eyes. The stupor she had fallen into was eternal. Her tousled hair lay spread like a black star around her beautiful face, already growing pale.

Chapter Fourteen

At twenty past eight, the black Oldsmobile turned in towards the curb a couple blocks away from Rue de Vaugirard. George Ness was the first of the two men to climb out. His curly black hair was oiled with pomade and his clerical garb made him sweat profusely in the heat. Beads of sweat glistened in his dark greasy curls and ran down into his face.
Shortly thereafter, Ritt also got out of the car, and the two men walked together to Rue de Vaugirard, where they quickly disappeared into the entrance at number 13.
The old elevator creaked its way up to the fifth floor, and Lee Ritt and his henchman got out. Ness rang the doorbell while Ritt pulled out his gun. No one answered. Ness ran his finger over the plastic button a second time and then tried the door handle carefully. The door was locked, but that was as easy a problem to solve as the security chain.
Ritt entered first with Ness at his heels. They strolled into the livingroom together. Ness, who by now had also drawn his gun, continued into the smaller room while Ritt wandered off to check the kitchen.
“Empty and deserted as a catacomb!”
“Check the other room, George.”
“It looks like the temple of the Lord in here!”
“Check the other room, I said! The security chain was on.”
Ness strode quickly across the livingroom floor, his gigantic feet devouring the expensive carpet. His enormous hands opened the door to the bedroom where Cecilia lay. When he caught sight of her, his bovine eyes almost popped out of his head.
“Lee! In the name of the Devil! Come here!”
Ritt rushed into the bedroom, where Ness was leaning over the lifeless body.
“She looks ready to meet the Lord, Lee.”
Ritt said nothing, and Ness felt for a pulse.
“Stone cold dead! Overdose. The nightstand is covered with snow.”
Ritt was still quiet.
“What are we gonna do, Lee? Coe will be here any moment.”
“Coe’s gonna get a surprise.”
Ritt smiled to himself at his ingenious plan.
“We’ll off him right away?”
Ritt’s face hardened.
“No,” he hissed. “And we’re not going to play ‘Crucifixion of Jesus’ either!”

x

It was not quite nine when Coe stood outside the entrance to Rue de Vaugirard number 13. A board showed the names of the building’s residents. There were four names listed for the fifth floor, and Sunderland was one of them.
Coe was well prepared for his tryst with Cecilia. However, there was still the problem with the coral snake. The beautiful serpent hadn’t been lying under the sofa after all, but had somehow found another hiding place. After two hours of looking for it, he decided to continue the search once he returned home.
The entrance to the building was completely dark. Coe hesitated, unsure about whether or not to turn on the light. He chose darkness. A door was opened a few floors above, so Coe stayed where he was. When nothing happened, he slowly began to climb the stone stairs. He didn’t bother with the old iron elevator. Reaching the fourth floor, he stopped. No sign of life. It was still dark, and he put the last steps up to the fifth floor behind him soundlessly. Soon he was able to make out four doors, one of them ajar. A muted glow illuminated his empty surroundings, the ghostly white walls and dappled marble floor.
Coe held his Beretta in a steady grip, and in the faint light he started to examine the names etched in the brass plaques next to each door. The apartment with the open door belonged to Cecilia. The doors in the building opened out, and inside each door was another door that opened inward. Cecilia’s inner door was also half open. If there was someone behind it, Coe would be caught. He carefully opened the outer door. Then he pushed the inner one gently to see how far it would go.
A millipede with cold feet ran up his back. The door stopped far too quickly, and Coe could hear a soft shuffling noise on the other side. Using all his strength, he shoved against what was behind it and then slammed the door quickly, aiming his Beretta at the form lurching towards him. For a split second he lost his orientation. Cecilia fell at his feet, white and lifeless. As his anger started to rise, he was simultaneously hit by the feeling of having neglected something.
“Stand still, Coe! One false move and you’re dead. Drop the gun! One false move…”
“I heard you the first time.”
He’d fallen into a clever trap. His enemies had beaten him at his own game. Coe tossed the Beretta. He caught sight of the little scar in the crook of Cecilia’s elbow. He cursed himself for not seeing it before.
“Don’t move, Toots.”
The voice behind him was hoarse and hard. Coe knew he’d be hit soon, so he braced his neck muscles for the impact. They knew who he was. This was a hit job. The fact that he was still alive could mean only one thing: he was going to be framed for Cecilia’s death. The strike was close to cracking open his skull, and the next second he lay unconscious on the floor beside his beloved.
The blow could have downed an unprepared ox. Even so, before darkness enveloped him completely, he had time to ask himself in a glimmer of dark humor: how the hell does a prepared ox react?

x

Coe slowly came back to consciousness. The two men were busy dragging him through a large room. It hurt like hell, but the pain was nothing compared to the rage he felt inside. Apparently he was now going to be arranged strategically to make him look like the murderer. Coe smelled their putrid breath panting in his face while he was squeezed through an open bedroom door. Finally he was hoisted up into a big bed and placed next to Cecilia’s stiffening corpse.
Coe almost lost his control and gave away the fact that he was conscious when the cold body nudged him, and he had to steel himself to not let his reaction show. Both men were speaking tersely and quietly. It was difficult to understand everything they were saying, but soon their strategy became clear. He was going to be drugged to death, the apparent casualty of a narcotic binge gone bad.
Coe recognized the men from the photographs Sunderland had loaned him. It appeared he was dealing with Reschko’s hit men. They were certainly a lovely duo, and it was time for Michael Coe to die.
Lee Ritt was the target of Coe’s first attack. The same instant Coe felt the needle brush against the crook of his arm, he quickly twisted his body a quarter of a turn and aimed a hard kick at his crotch. The wiry murderer was taken completely by surprise and doubled over in pain. Coe rose halfway and spent all of his newly found power in a chop to the neck. Ritt’s legs crumbled and he fell down on a sheepskin rug below the bed. Coe lunged for his gun, which Ritt had placed on the nightstand, but the curly-haired Ness was one step ahead of him.
Coe found himself staring down the barrel of his black High Standard. It was only a .22 but would no doubt do the job.
“No more tricks, my son!”
Coe was furious and considered ignoring the command for a moment, but realized his handicap.
“You were mean to Lee, my boy!”
Coe looked down at the tall, unconscious man.
“No tricks now, young man!”
Ness ran his hand over his oily hair. Coe saw an expression of uncertainty. Apparently Ritt was the leader in this pair of murderers.
“In Jesus’ name, don’t try any more tricks!”
“You talk too much, Father.”
Before Coe finished his sentence, he had thrust his foot in the fat priest’s face. Ness lost his balance. Coe gave a quick blow to the wrist, and the light weapon flew to the floor. One second later, he thumped his enemy in the chest, dove down to the white shag-pile carpet and stood up with his gun in his hand.
Ness was done for. Coe had moved his front teeth to a new position. His nose and mouth were hanging in ribbons after the powerful kick.
  “Now, Father, we’re going to have a little talk.”
Ness was in agony. He looked dreadful. All he wanted to do was to sink down through the floor.
“I have nothing against you, Coe. Can you understand that?”
“Of course, Father. I’m guessing you’re here to sell hymnals.”
Ness held his mouth with both hands. Every attempt to talk caused him pain worse than purgatory.
“We didn’t do it. She was dead before we got here. Stone cold dead! She’s been doing too much snow.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“How am I supposed to know? Don’t you know?”
He even lies when he asks questions, thought Coe, taking the magazine out of the High Standard and putting it in his pocket. The weapon itself he tossed in a wide arc across the livingroom. Ritt’s gun met the same fate.
Ness was bleeding like a stuck pig.
“I hope you bleed to death,” said Coe, bending over Ritt, who was beginning to come to.
Coe rolled him over on his back while keeping a watchful eye on Ness. The two assassins weren’t going to get a second chance. He firmly grasped Ritt’s right index finger, his trigger finger, and bent it backwards. Ritt had opened his eyes halfway, and his lifeless glance wandered from Coe to Ness and back again.
“Start talking! Your buddy here says you’re the one who drugged her.”
“I didn’t say that at all!” screamed Ness. “Don’t believe that damned heathen! He’s lying like a Pharisee!” he spat, spraying blood on the white rug.
Ritt writhed in agony, and Coe pushed his index finger farther. One more jerk and it would be broken.
“Fucking hell! Let go my finger!”
“I don’t think so, Sonny. Thanks for the present, by the way!”
“What damn present?”
“The coral snake.”
Ritt was as white as a corpse.
“What fucking snake?”
The snake wasn’t their idea. They had been waiting to liquidate him here at Cecilia’s, although she was supposed to have been alive. Cecilia’s death was a mistake. Just then, Coe saw a dangerous glitter in the lifeless eyes.
The second Ness began his charge, Coe snapped Ritt’s index finger. The shaft of the bone cracked like a pistol shot as it detached. Ritt bawled uncontrollably in pain. A moment later Coe had the stocky priest’s ungainly torso on top of him. It was like colliding with an African elephant. Ness had just delivered a violent hit to the back of Coe’s head and was about to kick him in the stomach when Ritt started to get up. Coe had no way to stop him, busy as he was, engaged in bloody combat with Ness. And the guy knew his stuff – his hits were heavy and well aimed. Ritt screamed something just as Coe got a grip of the curly hair. But the greasy pomade made him lose his hold. Ness tore himself away and ran. Thank God! Coe sank to the floor, powerless, below Cecilia. As if in a trance, he heard their quick steps disappear down the stone steps. It was over for this time. What time was it? Ten o’clock on the dot. He got up with difficulty. The bedroom looked like a battlefield – there was blood everywhere. And before him on the bed lay Cecilia, stiff and white as chalk. Coe was heavily bruised and bewildered. He looked down at Cecilia again. His eyes caught sight of a sooty beaker, remnants of candle wax, and the clear plastic bags with the white powder that had brought death to this wonderful woman. He felt terrible, completely devastated, as he paced the room. He remembered her cornflower blue eyes, so full of life. Now they stared blindly and eerily at the shadow-mottled ceiling. He went forward and closed them. All he could see was cold revenge.
Coe decided to call Sunderland and let him take care of the rest. Mindlessly he fingered the dial, and soon he heard the signal throbbing through the wire network to Sunderland’s Paris apartment – the residence of Pierre Damian. Probably some kind of mansion. Coe paced nervously. How would he say it? Finally Sunderland answered, and Coe simply told him to come to Rue de Vaugirard as soon as possible. When he had hung up, he began wandering aimlessly once again, finding himself in the hallway in front of the mirror. In its reflection he caught sight of the Beretta, which was still lying out in the hallway. They’d left it behind! As he bent down to pick it up, the door opened, and he dove for the place where he had found Cecilia dead, and where he himself had been struck down. That was an hour and a half ago.
“You got here in no time at all.”
Sunderland spun around and looked relieved when he found Coe behind him.
“Where is she?”
“In the bedroom.”
Sunderland headed resolutely for the bedroom, carefully opened the door and stopped for a moment.
It was a distressed John Sunderland who knelt at the side of his daughter-in-law. He had known that this moment was unavoidable, but had pushed it out of his mind as long as he could.
“You can leave me, Coe. Thank you for your help. I’ll come get you first thing in the morning.”
There were a lot of questions Coe wanted to ask, but this wasn’t the right time. He rushed down the stairs and out into the mild Paris night. The streets were bustling, and he experienced a sort of liberation. He jogged down the Rue de Vaugirard and hailed a taxi when he reached Pasteur Boulevard. The driver navigated with a steady hand through the busy night traffic, and it wasn’t long before he was standing once again outside the elegant and unique entrance to the Ritz.
Now he had yet another battle to face, a different game with death: the hunt for the handsome Harlequin.

Excerpt 6

Chapter Twenty-Two

The museum doors closed at seven o’clock on the dot, and Coe hoped that the change in schedule would solve at least a few of his problems.
The paintings were wrapped up quickly and carefully in the padded crate, which was watertight and made of balsa wood. When it was time to pack the dummy crate, Damian appeared. Sunderland was already there.
“Good evening, monsieur Damian!”
“Good evening, Coe! You look fit as a fiddle. I have an envelope for you, the remaining five thousand.”
He has something up his sleeve, Coe thought, and replied, “You’re the one who should be getting money from me. Mr. Sunderland is paying me now, which should be no surprise to you.”
“So you’ll refuse an extra five thousand dollars? Or ten thousand, I should say.”
Pierre Damian looked like a ghost standing there. Like a sickly little bird.
“If I take this five thousand and keep the five thousand I’ve already received, I suspect you will hardly be satisfied with what I’ve been able to do so far. In fact, I’m convinced of it.”
“The paintings are to go to London, Coe. That’s what we’re paying for. Then we’ll have finished our business with each other. I want to be sure that you do your job. By the way, the three of us are going to have a conversation before we say goodbye. I’ll put the money in your account.”
Coe noticed a spark of hope in Damian’s dull eyes.
“I’m looking forward to that conversation, monsieur Damian.”
“I don’t have much longer to live.”
Coe’s attitude changed. Sunderland came up.
“Hi, Jerry! It looks like we’ll be ready to leave this place soon. Just a few minor adjustments.”
“When you’re ready, Coe and I will be waiting in the office.”
It was eight o’clock when Sunderland got there. Pierre Damian was sunk down in his large leather armchair, and Sunderland took his place in one of the exclusive visitors’ chairs next to Coe. There wasn’t a trace left of the attempt on Damian three days ago. Everything was like new. There wasn’t even a snag in the carpet. Coe had a feeling of impotence. At any moment, Damian could send his visitors to the nether world with his ingenious contraption from hell.
“Now we’re in the final phase. A sort of status quo antebellum, but a hell of a lot of new problems.”
Sunderland opened the conversation. He turned to Damian and at the same time raised his hand to fend off an interruption.
“A number of authorities have gotten in touch,” he continued. “They will all be filing lawsuits, which means that both you and I will be facing prosecution. Besides this we’ll have Reschko and, well, God only knows how many others. There’s a reason you refused to return the collection 20 years ago when you had the chance. I let you have your way then, and I assume I don’t have to explain why. Now I want the truth. Moving the paintings to my home again won’t even help us temporarily. You’re seriously ill. Right,  Jerry?”
Damian ignored Sunderland’s medical opinion.
“There are codes printed on the back of each painting. You may not have noticed all the letters and numbers, John, but the notations I’m talking about are written in red. And they aren’t from the time the pictures were painted. And not from the cataloging ordered by Göring. They were made afterwards and were relatively fresh when we confiscated the collection. Even then I suspected that they were codes for the numbered Nazi accounts in Switzerland. After all, Göring was Minister of Finance, among other things.”
Sunderland let out a low whistle.
“The Reich Marshall was no longer popular, but he dreamed of becoming Führer. And he had tons of art. What we’re talking about are only two numbered accounts, but they are enough to move heaven and earth.”
Damian paused to catch his breath.
“You wondered what I was doing, John. Before we parted ways in London that summer, I wrote down all the numbers and letters very carefully. And since then, I’ve used every means at my disposal to try to decipher them.”
“And?”
“Nobody has even come close to a solution. The code is impossible to break unless you have access to all the paintings at the same time.”
“How do you know it’s a code?”
“Reschko confirmed it.”
Damian paused briefly again. He was troubled by pain somewhere in his body.
“So it’s all about money? And money was of no interest to you?”
“For John and me it’s of little interest.”
“You can count on that,” Sunderland confirmed.
“So who’s going to have it then – the money?”
“You can probably understand who shouldn’t have it. Let me go on now! How Göring scammed his way to all of it is a long story. The key figure now is Martin  Bormann. He’s the one who contacted Reschko.”
Damian told the story of what Göring had done and finished by summarizing the Swiss confiscation proposal.
“So it’s only Bormann who can crack the codes, and if the proposed bank law goes into effect, the accounts will be confiscated on January 1.”
“So the Swiss National Bank will get the money, is that what you’re saying?”
“If the confiscation proposal goes through, that’s what will happen. What can I do about that?”
“Don’t they already know if the accounts will be confiscated? It’s just six months from now, not even that.”
“No, and that’s the reason why the paintings can’t be returned yet. If the proposal doesn’t go through, the hunt for the collection will never end. Let that be the reason for my actions. It doesn’t matter that we’re in the present. Just the advantage that we can tell the authorities how things really are.”
“With the codes, you mean?”
“Of course. But no authorities will be able to keep the collection forever. The ones who have the right to the paintings will assert their rights whether or not they risk their lives having them in their possession. You know how passionate you are about art yourself, John. The Rosenberg Collection will be hunted as long as it’s in existence. This has to be done differently!
“I have an awful lot of questions, monsieur Damian.”
“You only have one worry, Coe. Getting the paintings to London!”
“How do you know they’re worth 600 million?”
“Of course that’s just an estimate.”
“Who is Curt Raubal?”
“That’s something I’d like to know too,” Sunderland  grunted.
“I don’t even know myself,” Damian answered, looking honest. “Now and then I hear his name mentioned in art circles – that’s why I asked.”
“I’ve certainly never heard of any Curt Raubal,” Sunderland assured them.
“It’s not important, John.”
“How did you come into contact with Steinbach, monsieur Damian?”
“I looked him up.”
Sunderland interrupted again.
“What illness do you have, Jerry?”
Instead of answering, Damian unbuttoned his jacket. After undoing his shirt too, he stood up. It was a horrific sight. A mesh of ugly scars covered Damian’s torso. Most of them were purple in color and showed that the operations had been done very recently.
“These beautiful engravings are Dr. Heines’ work. That’s why I’m sick, John. And you, Coe, hardly need to ask why I contacted a doctor. At the beginning of the year, end of January, I had a visit from Mr. Lee Ritt and Mr. George Ness.”
“Then we have some friends in common.”
“I heard about that.”
Damian smoothed over Coe’s comment with a shrug, as if it was something insignificant, and continued:
“Before I knew what was happening, I had a rag soaked in ether over my face. At that point, you and I, John, had refused Reschko’s offer of 25 million.”
Sunderland didn’t make a sound.
“When I came to, Malkom Heines was by my bed. My Ursula’s executioner, I found out later. At the same time as he told me about Göring’s feats of derring-do, he informed me that his operation had been a success. I had stomach cancer and only that time left that he measured out for me.
“Why didn’t you get to a doctor immediately, Jerry? A real doctor! Not Steinbach, even though he’s competent and worked for Heines. You have all possible resources at your disposal.”
“Because Heines considered the operation a success, it meant that the illness had spread too far. He implanted third-stage cancer. Heines is a cancer tumor expert. Among other things he has the ability to keep them under control. He built up his knowledge by conducting experiments at Auschwitz. He calls it prolonging life.”
Damian gave a brief report of the treatment he had been subjected to and which theories Heines used in his work.
“The human immunological system, you say?”
“Yes, that is supposedly the answer to the riddle. Though I don’t know what it’s about theoretically. But in order to control the cancer in the state I’m in now, he has to perform constant surgical procedures. I’m a drug addict too, just to make matters worse.”
“Don’t tell me you’re also…”
“Yes indeed. I’m on heroin. It makes me more cooperative, Heines says. I don’t imagine either of you understand what the pain of cancer is like. And the torment of withdrawal. It’s unbearable, John.”
Sunderland nodded silently.
“But I guess I didn’t become quite the obedient instrument Reschko had counted on. The fact that they went after Cecilia too made me want to give them a taste of their own medicine. Cecilia went to Paris to study, she told you. But she was forced here by Heines so you wouldn’t notice anything. I’m sorry, John, but I had Steinbach keep us both supplied with drugs.”
“I don’t want to believe this, Jerry.”
“It was a horribly difficult decision, but contacting you at that point would have just made the situation worse. I used the small breaks we got to try to dismantle Reschko’s position.”
“Like putting the paintings on display.”
“Among other things. That at least gave me some time to think. I’m the only one with the authority to turn off the alarm. I also had the collection transported here earlier than Reschko ordered. These are small details, but enough to upset his planning.”
“So Jerry, you’re the one who kept Cecilia on drugs?”
“Partly. I’ve already admitted that.”
“And you’re taking the same poison?”
“I’ve told you that as well.”
Sunderland’s questions weren’t reproachful. He simply seemed to want to know the truth.
“You don’t know this, Jerry, but Cecilia was murdered. Premeditated.”
Damian was aghast.
“Premeditated murder?”
“The autopsy showed that she had injected some kind of cyanide compound. I got the results right before I came here.”
“Cyanide!”
Once again Damian struggled up out of his armchair. He hadn’t taken the time to button up his shirt, and the purple scars glared even more vividly now.
“You don’t think that…”
“I know you’re not to blame in this, Jerry. Where do you get the heroin from? Not the stuff you get from Heines. You mentioned Steinbach?”
“Steinbach’s the only one who gives it to me, nobody else. And it isn’t cyanide. I’ve used it myself.”
“Used, you say?” Coe interrupted.
“These past days I’ve had another drug. Stronger, more concentrated.”
“From Steinbach?”
“He’s my doctor, Coe.”
“What did Cecilia inject the day she died?”
“I gave her precisely the same thing she’s had before, what she had to have. Try to understand a little bit of this at least.”
“Did you give her some of what you are hiding in your top desk drawer?”
“Yes.”
“What do you have there, Jerry?”
“The heroin.”
Damian sat down and opened the drawer. He picked up one of the bags and handed it to Sunderland.
“Smell it, Coe. This is hardly heroin.”
Coe took a whiff too.
“And you trust Steinbach, monsieur Damian?”
“Yes, Coe, I trust Steinbach.”
Damian took out a new bag and brought it to his nose.
“Hell, John! Someone has swapped out the bags!”
Sunderland looked thoughtful.
“Would you please continue with the other issue for now? We’re in a race against time. You hung up the paintings, you said. Go on from there.”
“Reschko forced me to deliver the collection here. There was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent it. From here, the paintings were to go to Dr. von Löw in South America so that Bormann could break the codes. Reschko and von Löw drew up some agreement about it. I don’t know any more than that.”
“von Löw, wasn’t he Goebbels’ assistant?”
“That’s the man. You’ve done your homework, Coe.”
“How much longer can Steinbach help you, Jerry?”
“It’s hard to say exactly. It depends entirely on what orders Reschko gives Heines. Naturally, he’ll be even more frustrated after this. And Steinbach can only ease the pain, not prolong my life.”
“What does Heines know about his competition?”
“Of course he doesn’t know Steinbach is helping me.”
“Where does Steinbach live, monsieur Damian? With you?”
“Please leave Steinbach out of this.”
“Something isn’t right here, Jerry. I know you, you’re still working on your 20-year-old idea, whatever it is. The codes are just an excuse!”
“If you just want to give the paintings back, Monsieur Damian, all you have to do is destroy the codes. Just paint over them!”
“And how will our enemies find out about that, then?”
“You can always go to the press.”
“The codes are not going to be destroyed!”
Coe smacked his forehead.
“It’s more than not right. This is insane!”
“Neither what you think, Coe, or what you’re insinuating, John, has anything to do with the transport of the collection to London. First things first! And Coe, the only thing of interest to you is the transport. For the hundredth time!”

x

The crate with the newspaper was loaded into a big bus in which thirteen of the sixteen guards would also ride. Sunderland and Coe and a driver, who was a Frenchman, would go in a smaller vehicle, an American station wagon, together with the collection. At the same time as the bus and the station wagon, three more cars, identical to the station wagon and with a guard in each car, would leave the museum at one-minute intervals. If an ambush against any of them was launched, it would probably be the soldiers in the bus that would be attacked first, since they appeared to be the larger part of the guard. As an additional safety measure, each vehicle had been equipped with a communication radio.
Sunderland and Coe were the third out of the garage, one minute after the bus left the museum and two minutes after car number One began the convoy.
Their tempo was calm, and the first twenty minutes flowed without a problem besides normal traffic issues. When they came out on the Avenue de Stalingrad, the five vehicles were at a 500-meter distance from each other. Just before the Chevilly Laure district, French gendarmes had blocked the road. It looked like some kind of traffic control.
Coe didn’t start to suspect anything until two men in civilian clothes got on board the bus. They carried something they were trying their best to hide. Coe looked at Sunderland.
“Those aren’t policemen, Coe!”
Sunderland immediately gave the chauffeur an order to ignore the road block.
“Number Two! Number Two! Bus calling! Over!”
Coe grabbed the mike.
“Two here, over!”
Coe released the handset button.
“Two men with Thompsons…!”
 A deafening clatter drowned him out and a gurgling came from the speaker.
“Gas it out of here, dammit!” Sunderland screamed in French.
A new clatter broke out, though now the hacking was just outside the window. The radio was dead. Coe tried a brief call to the first car but got no answer. The clattering  increased in volume the closer they got to the barrier. The two men had begun a massacre inside the bus.
The windows were shot up and became milky white. Some of the soldiers tried to get up and fight back the attack, but they had been completely overcome. After a few seconds more of the stuttering submachine gun fire, the massacre was a fact. The automatic weapons had spit the bus into a sieve in just a few seconds. What was left of the force of thirteen men was thirteen corpses. The station wagon forced the barrier at high speed. Coe got a glimpse of the guard that had led the convoy. He was also dead. His head was hanging bloody and shot to pieces out of the side window.
Coe had started to call cars Three and Four when Sunderland threw his heavy body over him. A tenth of a second later, a new clatter from a machine gun was heard. Glass shards rained in over the seat as the bullets tore through the back window, whining as they tore through the air. The big American wagon jerked violently. It felt like a flat tire, but not quite. Coe pushed Sunderland off of himself to have a look at the situation. The chauffeur was hanging lifeless over the steering wheel. He had taken the whole hail of bullets.
Coe threw himself towards the drivers seat, pushed aside the dead Frenchman and succeeded finally in gaining control of the vehicle. He cast a quick look in the rear-view mirror and noted that neither of the two cars behind him would have a chance to make it  the same way. They tried but were met with a furious barrage of direct fire from three men with machine guns. Number Three drove right into one of them before the car veered off the road into a guardrail with the man still impaled on the radiator. Number Four made an attempt to turn around, but started to skid and ran head-on with violent force into a tractor-trailer.
Coe pressed the gas pedal harder down against the metal. He was furious but kept quiet. So did Sunderland. Coe looked down at the little Frenchman lying shot to pieces next to him in the front seat. His body and head had been bored through by bullets and blood was flowing heavily down his neck and over his clothes.
Sunderland broke the barrier that had come between them.
“That was careless of you, Coe. You’d be dead if…”
“You want me to thank you, Mr. Sunderland. I don’t feel that way. Do you have any idea who they were? This is an organization with resources.”
“No, neither Reschko nor von Löw work so openly. No, Coe, I haven’t the slightest idea.”
 “They used Thompson submachine guns.”
“I heard that.”
“Your sixteen soldiers are dead, Mr. Sunderland. Seventeen men including our chauffeur. You still think, of course, that the collection is worth the sacrifice? Do you have any sense of proportion at all?”
“I’m distraught, Coe. I regret bitterly that I ever let it go this far. It’s horrible! But remember what Pierre said: the Rosenberg Collection will be hunted as long as it exists. All we can do now is to try to avoid as many casualties as we can.”
“You mean that monsieur Damian has figured out how this hunt is going to end?”
“Pierre hasn’t revealed everything to us. I thought you realized that. I understand how you feel about this, Coe, but don’t forget that I’ve had to make sacrifices too. Pierre hasn’t spared himself either.”
“So we’ll continue as planned?”
“If you haven’t changed your mind, we will.”
Coe answered that he intended to complete his mission.
The rest of the trip was made in silence and at breakneck speed. At Orly, everything was well-prepared. The gates out to the tarmac were open and both airplanes stood ready for take-off.

x

It was eleven thirty at night when Coe and Sunderland said their goodbyes. It was a muted leavetaking. Sunderland’s private Caravelle would start in fifteen minutes. Coe was on the DC 6 B that Pierre Damian had put at his disposal and which would take him and the paintings to London. The wooden crate with the collection had been loaded on board under rigorous conditions and was now in the middle of the aisle farthest back in the cabin.
Coe could not help but at least admire the organization behind the operation. Damian, deathly ill, had managed to mobilize quite the little contingent, but it was also Sunderland’s doing. The crew consisted of four men: the captain, the co-pilot, the radio operator and a steward, who among other things was responsible for his passenger’s comfort. Coe looked at his watch. Midnight on the dot. If Sunderland hadn’t been delayed, he would be in the air now. Coe’s take-off was scheduled for twelve thirty.
Tomorrow, Sunderland would have the paintings back home, and probably in some  underground museum he had somewhere. And the authorities and everyone else would be standing there empty-handed. The good Texan probably didn’t believe it himself, either. Coe smiled faintly to himself and looked at his watch again. It was twenty past, almost time for departure. The steps had been rolled away as soon as Sunderland had left the plane, and Coe had been served a whiskey and soda on the rocks by the knowledgeable and pleasant steward.
The captain revved the engines one last time. Soon he would be in London, and the adventure would be over as far as he was concerned. Coe thought about Cecilia when he realized that it didn’t add up at all. The clock said two, and Coe was into his second whiskey. It was high time for the pilot to reduce his speed and altitude. Coe called the steward to find out what was taking so long.
“Another whiskey, sir?”
The steward had introduced himself as Tom Fenell. He had a Mediterranean look, and Coe guessed that he was Italian but had taken an American name to fit in better in the international circles he frequented now. He was very polite and considerate in his way of behaving and ideally suited to his occupation.
“No thanks, I want to be able to stand up when we land. The flight path seems longer than normal. Are we delayed?”
“Not at all, Mr Coe.”
Tom Fenell was still just as courteous, at least verbally. What he held in his hands wasn’t quite as pleasant.
“We’ll be landing in Buenos Aires exactly on schedule. Allowing, of course, for the layover in Dakar.”