Hitler's Son and
The Rosenberg Collection

HEINRICH SCHULTZE - SS-Gruppenführer, perverse, homosexual art thief

MARTIN BORMANN - Hitler's behind the scenes demon and the Fourth Reich's Führer. He flees to South America but when it comes time to search for the SS plunder it is discovered that a portion of the inscribed accounts is missing. Bormann knows how to decipher the codes but he doesn't have possession of the sixteen paintings ...

HERTE RESCHKO - Finance king in Switzerland. As harmless as a king cobra. Knows the situation and has plans to commandeer the Collection for his own account ...

RITT and NESS - Reschko's professional murderers.

ARNESTO ALFIERI - Capo for the Alfieri family - Cosa Nostra. Kidnaps Bormann and transports him to Puerto Rico ...

CECILIA - Like an angel and a mysterious lover.

ADOLF EICHMANN - Murderer at Auschwitz.

CURT RAUBAL - Hitler and Geli Raubal's son.

JOHN SUNDERLAND - Oil magnate and patron of the arts from Texas, a man who can make arrangements. Best of friends with Pierre Damian ...

MELAINE TANNE - Reschko's stable beauty ...

MARTIN HEILMANN - Chief medical experimenter at Auschwitz. Changes his name to Malkom Heines at the end of the War and steps in to assist Reschko ...

URSULA WORMS - Beautiful fiancé to Gerhard Lorenz. Torture sufferer ...

MICHAEL COE - American. War veteran. First Lieutenant in the Special Forces, stationed in New York. Hired by Damian and Sunderland to clean house ...

Hitler's Son and The Rosenberg Collection

Excerpt 1

Alfred Rosenberg's face was beet red. He had received a report from the guards that Schultze had left the Wolfsschanze during his absence, which, as deputy commander, he should not have done. And that damned letter of confirmation, the original that was, he hadn't seen the slightest trace of. However uninteresting it was, Frank should have forwarded it. And where was that damned orderly Meyer?

As Rosenberg brooded, he started to wonder why two trunks had been placed in his room. It was late in the evening of 2 November, the day after his return to the headquarters, and he was not only livid, he was also tired and fed up with the whole damned thing! And not a word from Schultze. Distractedly, he opened a trunk.

Rosenberg gaped at its contents as if they were his own undoing. The remains of Fritz Meyer were wrapped in heavy oilcloths, embedded in a clotting shambles of blood and intestines. The Reichsminister put his hand to his forehead. He felt giddy as he was suddenly struck by the realisation that he was about to lose everything. Rosenberg began to shake uncontrollably. What the hell was he going to do? Hitler himself was searching every nook and cranny for the collection, so he couldn't act freely. The men he had engaged in the search would have to hold their tongues. Otherwise he'd have to lay the blame on Schultze and Lorenz, who would have to be dead, damn them! But this would also mean that he would be obliged to return the collection - if it was ever found.

Rosenberg felt that he was starting to lose his wits. Eventually, however, he was able to pull himself together enough to bawl out his orders. His main mission now was to dispatch Schultze and Lorenz to hell. His friend Eichmann would be their executioner, and their deaths slow.

Rosenberg spat out his orders.

"There's a Fiesler Storch outside ready for take-off. Put every available man into the hunt. It's Auschwitz for the both of them! If you fail. I say no more."

A white froth appeared on Rosenberg's lips, which discharged gobs of saliva when he spoke. The ones receiving the orders were two SS officers, one from the Luftwaffe and one from the Reichsminister's own Einsatzstab.

Rosenberg spattered on:

"And I want to track down everyone who's related in some way to Obersturmbannführer Lorenz and Gruppenführer Schultze. Lorenz has a fiancée in Berlin called Ursula something. I want them here, every single one!"

Rosenberg stressed each syllable. He paused to gather himself before finishing.

"And see to it that this damned mess is cleared up before the man starts leaking out of the trunks. And do it discreetly. I do not need any new problems. Heil Hitler!"

Rosenberg slumped back behind his desk. He was totally exhausted. Infernal traitors! Maybe they hadn't gone to the Castle at all. He started to code a message to Adolf Eichmann.

x

Schultze had dispatched fifteen soldiers to the underworld, and Lorenz was helplessly nauseous. He'd been chain-smoking and his mouth was dry. Tired and disgusted he poured himself a glass of water that he downed in one gulp. Dawn was approaching, and only two men were left waiting their turn on the Castle courtyard.

"Heinz Schmidt!

"Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer."

Heinz Schmidt was stocky and had his golden blond hair combed across his head in waves. His complexion was smooth and slightly flushed in the chilly morning air. He held his helmet tightly to his side.

Lorenz escorted him to the second floor, where Schultze had taken up position in the corridor.

The sight of the handsome young man coming towards him gave the Gruppenführer an erection. To avoid having to see any more of the wretchedness, Lorenz turned on his heel and hurried down the steps to Thorsten Müller, who was standing alone in the deserted courtyard.

Müller's eyes were alert and cheerful, and looked like two small lumps of coal in the chubby face, where formidable networks of veins branched out over his nose and cheeks. His curly black hair was unwashed and stuck out in greasy tendrils from under his helmet, which he had not troubled himself to remove.

Lorenz called him to attention and fired three rapid shots into his chest.

At that instant, a bestial howl was heard from inside. Lorenz understood it was Schultze, unable to control his perversities any longer. But he ignored it. It was time to destroy the Castle and Schultze would get what was coming to him. Lorenz hoisted Müller onto his back in a fireman's lift and carried him into the building. He removed the squat little warrior's dog tag and replaced it with his own. He then hastened out to his car that stood parked at the end of the courtyard.

Lorenz was about to jerk open the door when he noticed it was locked. On his orders! And he had no spare keys. The paintings were still on the back seat. On the front seat was his Mauser, which he needed to detonate the explosives.

Lorenz swore at his own negligence. The Mercedes was the only car available and ready to use; moreover, it had been specially prepared. He now had no choice but to meet Schultze man to man. Lorenz ran back into the Castle...

Schultze had just closed the door behind Heinz Schmidt when he heard three loud shots. Schmidt reacted instinctively, and even before the third shot sounded he had leapt to the window to see what was going on. But his suspicions had been aroused too late. Before he knew what was happening, Schultze had fired two bullets into his coccyx.

Heinz Schmidt howled as his genitals exploded in his uniform. He threw himself onto the floor and pushed his hands desperately into the ragged flesh.

"You fucking queer! You..."

And then he lost consciousness.

When Lorenz yanked open the door of the room, Schultze was kneeling over Schmidt in a transport of ecstasy...

Lorenz stood rooted to the spot. What a sight - the vilest he had ever seen. It broke all loathsome records. He took a deep breath.

Schultze was squatting forward with his back towards him. Lorenz aimed his P38 carefully. He managed four shots before he toppled exhausted against the doorpost and vomited.

The bullets found their target with a ruthlessness, ramming into Schultze's lungs. He spun round with a shifting, panicked look in his eyes as if mystified. When he saw Lorenz, he realized the truth but his intended tirade stopped at a hoarse croak. He spat and coughed to expectorate the surging gore that heaved from within. The blood collected like a vivid red froth around his mouth. He groped in wild desperation for the silenced automatic that lay a few yards in front of him.

Schultze didn't have long left, standing as he was on the threshold of his Creator's house. Defeated, he crawled around on all fours in a fumbling, fruitless effort to reach the gun. The crystal blue eyes faded, and Schultze managed one last futile gasp for air.

Lorenz had just one bullet left in the magazine when he walked up to Heinz Schmidt and pressed the pistol against his temple. The shot echoed horribly, but was the harbinger of his freedom nonetheless.

Lorenz briefly shut his eyes. He despised his part in all this, but his ambitions were grand, and that absolved him. He inserted a new magazine into his weapon. All that remained was to find the keys to the Mercedes.

It took no time to establish that Schultze had not confiscated them. It was probably Glück who had the keys, or possibly one of the men who had been guarding the car. Lorenz decided to continue his search with the Fältwebel, who was put in charge of the car. Had he simply put them in his desk? Lorenz threw himself down the stairs and into Glück's office. The memory of the Fältwebel's horrific execution hit him when he came once again face to face with the total mayhem in the room. And he had no trouble imagining what it looked like in the other rooms, where Schultze had been free to do what he wanted to the soldiers. Lorenz hurried over to the desk and emptied the draws onto the floor, but without success. Damn them all, he thought, but went over to Glück where he kneeled down to search the dead Fältwebel. He found what he was looking for.

Lorenz rose quickly and left the room. By the time he leapt into the Mercedes and turned the key in the ignition it had started to get lighter. He put the car into first, and the car started to roll slowly down the winding driveway. When the Castle was almost out of sight, he stopped, grabbed his Mauser and climbed out of the car. The distance was almost three hundred yards, Lorenz was a good shot. He squatted down into position and held the rifle tightly, pressing it hard against his shoulder to dampen the recoil. He pointed it at a large lump of the applied explosive and raised the barrel slightly. And then let it fall. When his sights once more landed on the buff-coloured substance, he stopped and increased the pressure on the trigger. Lorenz fired, and sent the projectile slamming with violent speed into the stone base of the wall. The explosion was devastating. The entire front façade was reduced to rubble and the deafening noise of the subsequent chain reaction echoed for miles around. The fire bombs were ignited immediately after the detonation of the first charge, sending flames billowing out of the Castle, which was engulfed in a matter of seconds. Thick black smoke darkened the dawning heavens, and through the cloud sparks shot like fireworks into the sky. It wouldn't take long for the magnificent stone colossus to be reduced to dust and ashes.

Lorenz jumped back into the car and put his foot down hard on the throttle. Operation Castle was accomplished and in a few hours he would, barring mishaps, be on safe ground. May Sunderland be there! When they last spoke he had been in Strasbourg.

Just how far Rosenberg had come in his investigation Lorenz had no idea, and all he could do was guess. At that point the Reichsminister was probably investigating the trunks which that gormless Schultze had left in his room. He would now be in hot pursuit, and it would not end until Rosenberg had found out what had happened to the Castle - that his precious paintings had been reduced to cinders. Assuming that his pursuers found the dog tags.

Lorenz put mile after mile behind him, hurtling at breakneck speed towards the French border. This part of Germany was still of little interest, and there was no traffic on the roads to speak of. Lorenz had just left the town of Schönau, just over twenty-five miles from his rendezvous with Sunderland, when suddenly, a few hundred yards ahead, just beyond the outskirts of the town at the Müllheim-Schopfheim junction, a roadblock swung into view.

Was it one of the normal roadblocks? Across the road was a raisable wooden barrier nailed onto a couple of wooden trestles reinforced with barbed wire. Five guards armed with submachine guns manned the barrier, and two armoured vehicles stood parked by the roadside ditch. If they had been deployed there to stop him, the vehicles would have been placed so as to block the road. Maybe that was so - or was it something else? Lorenz broke into a cold sweat. All his papers were in order, but what good did that do if Rosenberg was one step ahead? Lorenz released the safety on his automatic and drove up to the barrier, where he came to a standstill.

"Sieg Heil! Your papers."

A young Stabsfeldwebel leant forward and peered into the car.

Lorenz had no intentions of handing over any identity documents. If he revealed his identity now, all his work would have been in vain. Rosenberg would put two and two together if he found out that Lorenz's Mercedes had turned up heading for France, but that was a risk he'd have to live with. Things were not looking too good for Rosenberg either.

Instead of documents, the young Stabsfeldwebel found himself looking at the muzzle of Lorenz's P38. In total astonishment he saw death hurtle towards him like a blazing celestial body.

Lorenz shot him in the mouth and put his foot down. The powerful Mercedes sped away. The barrier crashed with full force into the radiator grill and then, like an oversized baseball bat, came careering towards the windscreen. Lorenz ducked to avoid being knocked unconscious by the massive wooden shaft and then swung right towards Müllheim. Splinters of glass spilled over his head, and he could barely keep the car on the road. For a brief moment, the barrier lay on the bonnet, but soon slid off the accelerating car. The trestles and the barbed wire scratched the sides with a cruel screech. Behind him, Lorenz heard the shriek of whistles and the rattle of submachine gun fire. He turned to see who was readying themselves for the pursuit and caught a glimpse of the Stabsfeldwebel, who had collapsed, dead, behind the wreckage and several soldiers rushing towards the two vehicles.

Before Lorenz could turn back the first bullets had shattered the rear windscreen and slammed into the dashboard. At the same moment, he experienced an intense pain above his right ear. His hand shot up reflexively. He had been hit in the outer ear, which had started to bleed profusely. It was hardly a serious injury, but it hurt. Lorenz crouched down lower so that he was all but lying on the front seat with only his nose above the instrument panel. He was now driving at full speed, and the volleys of bullets, although powerful, were off target and the road was winding. When he shot through the village of Neuenweg he saw that his pursuers were about half a mile behind him and losing ground.

Suddenly, he felt the massive car swerve. One of the rear tyres had been punctured, and the Mercedes had started to swing back and forth with increasing violence. Lorenz struggled desperately to keep the Mercedes under control and was forced to slow down. He swore loudly to himself; he still had over twelve miles to go and his slowly disintegrating car would never make it. But he was determined to sell himself dear!

Lorenz opened the ammunition case that was mounted to the right under the dashboard in an armoured compartment. Inside lay three hand grenades, which he stuffed into his belt. He then decelerated even more to regain control of the car and turned into a narrow slip road on his right. He left the paintings on the back seat and grabbed the Mauser and a box of shells. He sprinted up the steep adjacent hillside and into a forest of yellowing and leaf-blown autumn trees back towards the enemy. He threw himself down into a sniper position behind the trunk of a fallen beech in sight of his car and from where he would be able to see the approaching vehicles well in advance. He briefly touched his ear with his right hand and found only scraps left - but at least the blood was starting to clot.

When his pursuers were no more than two hundred yards off, Lorenz fired his first shot. The bullet smashed through the side window of the lead vehicle and continued with undiminished force into its victim. The driver was hit in the temple and met an instantaneous death. He collapsed forwards over the steering wheel, causing the heavy armoured car to swerve off the road at high speed and plough a deep furrow in the ditch at the bottom of the hill until it finally came to a standstill, bogged down by the soft earth.

Lorenz hastily reloaded his rifle and trained his gun instantly on the second vehicle, cool-headed despite the frenzied tempo. He fired. The driver had no time to react until he found half his throat blown away. He was thrown helplessly backwards and lost, in almost slow motion, control of the vehicle. The outcome was a disaster for his company, for the journey they now embarked upon would be impossible to survive. Like a huge steel ball, the armoured car dived down the precipice on the left hand side of the road about fifty yards away from Lorenz's vantage point. The massive vehicle became one enormous rolling pyre, which only came to a stop once it had reached the bottom of the ravine.

Lorenz reloaded again and pointed his rifle at the first armoured car. He noted febrile activity in the ditched vehicle, and fired, more randomly this time, his third shot through the rear side window. Lorenz estimated the number of soldiers inside to be six, a force he had reduced to a maximum of four. He rose quickly and zigzagged down the slope towards the disabled vehicle. He could ill afford to be surrounded by those who survived his fire. In his right hand he held one of the hand grenades, in his left his Walther. The rifle he had left behind in the mist-moistened grass. The P38 was handier if one of the soldiers should try to make a getaway.

Reaching close to the drop where the second car had shot off the road and disappeared, Lorenz sought new cover behind a large boulder on the opposite side of the road. He armed himself for a charge. Time had become a precious factor in the war, and Lorenz liked to use no more of it than he had to before launching an attack. He had just pulled out the safety pin at twenty yards from the enemy when two rapid shots suddenly sounded, causing Lorenz to pull up sharply. His hands went to his midriff. He had been seriously hit, and he could feel a dull pain spread through his guts. Summoning what was left of his strength, he managed to fling his grenade, which landed with a metallic thud on the bonnet. He then tumbled into the grass by the side of the ditch.

The explosion was ear-splitting. The thick windscreen shattered into a thousand pieces, showering projectile-like shards of glass into the already wrecked cabin. Lorenz pulled the pin from the second grenade and half rose. A feeling of weakness swept over him, and it was with formidable effort that he managed to toss the heavy stick at his target. As the grenade toppled in through the broken window, Lorenz could hear heart-rending screams. A second later the explosive detonated.

Lorenz hauled himself back to his own car with his left hand pressed tight against his stomach. His service coat had acquired a spreading dark red stain that was soaking his underclothes. Both shots had probably penetrated his body, although Lorenz couldn't judge how seriously injured he was. He pressed his hand harder against the sticky red patch and lurched laboriously over to the slip road and his Mercedes. It was slightly warmer inside the car, despite the shattered windows, and Lorenz started to recover his spirits once he was able to sit down. He ought to blow up the Mercedes too if he was to remove all traces of himself, but he would never manage to haul the paintings the remaining miles in his present condition.

Lorenz backed up onto the main road and headed off for his rendezvous. The Mercedes careered severely on its punctured wheel, compelling him to keep his speed down. Would he make it? His life depended on whether Sunderland was there, on the endurance of the car, on his own stamina.

Exerpt 2

Shortly after dinnertime, Alfred Rosenberg received confirmation of what had come to pass. The two pilots he had ordered to the Castle had been delayed by the heavy fog that had blanketed southern Germany during the night and the following morning. Once they had arrived at the Castle along with two units of ground troops, there was not much more than ashes left. The ground was still burning, and it took them a long time to even begin to find things in the charred earth. Their report had confirmed that Schultze's and Lorenz's dog tags had been raked up, but could say nothing about a special collection of paintings or other valuable objects that had been stored there. Everything had been razed to the ground, and the finger of blame pointed at the Maquis, who had recently proved something of a scourge down there. A road block had been breached at eight thirty that morning outside Schönau. There then followed a brief, patchy account of the course of events.

Rosenberg threw the report onto the desk. His face was ashen, and his eyes had become two black holes. His hair hung in unkempt rat-tails over his forehead and he underwent a morbid transformation. So he'd have to blame his colleagues. Or would he.?

Rosenberg's ruminations were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Enter!" he roared.

The door opened and two SS men entered with a young woman between them. Her dress was dishevelled and it looked as if she had put up some resistance. Despite this she was striking, her golden blonde hair tumbling down way beyond her shoulders. Her posture was erect and her figure attractive. Her face bore a classical beauty, and her cornflower blue eyes gave her an alert, intelligent appearance.

Rosenberg half stood and then sat abruptly back down once he had checked his initial surprise.

"And she is?" he asked with a gesture towards the young woman.

"Ursula Worms, Herr Reichsminister. Obersturmbannführer Lorenz's fiancée."

Rosenberg allowed himself a wily expression.

"This isn't the only one you've got hold of I hope."

"Herr Reichsminister, there are no relatives to be found. Not for Obersturmbannführer Lorenz or for Gruppenführer Schultze. Gruppenführer Schultze does not consort with women ..."

This last piece of information came as no news to Rosenberg, who paused before answering.

"Lay her on the sofa!"

Rosenberg pointed at a large item of leather furniture that stood along one wall and eyed the woman with a smirk.

Ursula Worms's eyes lit up with fear. She realized that she was in the presence of a very evil man. She suspected his motives and regretted not having followed Jerry's express orders and joined the plane to England. But her mother had unexpectedly fallen ill and her father suffered from chronic heart disease, so she had disobeyed him and remained in Berlin to take care of her ailing parents.

Rosenberg's first words came as a shock.

"Let me begin by expressing my condolences, Miss Worms. We have recovered your fiancé's dog tag. You will have it sent to you as soon as I receive it."

Ursula's lips started to quiver uncontrollably.

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked, fighting back her tears.

Rosenberg gave her his special smile. Ursula Worms would have to make amends for her fiancé's treachery. She was beautiful. She would be his recompense for what he had lost. Ursula Worms had a substantial debt to pay.

Exerpt 3

General racial affiliation: Nordic, Dinarian
Comprehension: Very good
Strength of will and personal resilience: Pronounced
Knowledge and education: Very good, particularly in his specialist field
Allegiance to the National Socialist ideology: Unconditional
General impression: Very good. A renowned expert in his field

The above characteristics of Adolf Eichmann were recorded by Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler on Eichmann's promotion to Obersturmführer-SS in January 1939. Shortly before Germany's collapse, by which time Eichmann had attained the rank of Obersturmbannführer in the SS, he said of himself:

"I will jump into my grave laughing, for the knowledge that I have over five million human lives on my conscience is a source of extraordinary satisfaction for me."

x

At first glance, it did not look as ghastly as it actually was. The lawns might have lost their lushness, and the long rows of flowers had wilted. But the true horror was buried underground, well camouflaged for the millions of people who poured in endless streams out of the goods wagons at Die Vernichtungslager Auschwitz.

Under the colourless lawns lay the real Auschwitz: four huge gas bunkers each with its own crematorium - the never dormant holocaust machine that made the camp its visitors' final destination.

Autumn was giving way to winter. It was mid-November and the air was raw and cold, the sky the colour of lead; and just as melancholy as the overcast heavens were the inmates of this Polish concentration camp.

Camp commandant Rudolf Höss stood by the northern border of the garden, Adolf Eichmann beside him. A large black Mercedes drove up onto the driveway in front of them, and they watched as Rosenberg climbed out. Then the back doors opened and out stepped two SS guards, who, flanking a young woman, approached Eichmann and the camp commandant and stood to attention facing them.

By the entrance to one of the bath houses an SS contingent were trying to herd together a flock of stark naked Jews, who were due for a 'shower'. Meanwhile, an orchestra comprising pretty young Jewish girls played operetta music to distract their attention. It was cheerful music, and when the woman who had just stumbled out of the car heard it in the distance she turned to look. When she caught sight of the emaciated people with their shaved heads disappearing in endless ranks into the bath house, she felt her fear return.

"Welcome to Auschwitz, Miss Worms. I see that you take an interest in what we are doing here."

The caustic welcome came from Eichmann.

Ursula said nothing. She did not even look at him. What she had just witnessed was more than enough.

"I need quick results, Eichmann!"

"Aber natürlich, Herr Reichsminister."

Eichmann gestured to the two SS guards to bring Ursula with them. This he did by slapping against his leather boots the dog whip that he always carried ready in his right hand. Rosenberg fell in at Eichmann's side, while the camp commandant Höss remained behind to inspect the results in the bath house.

Eichmann looked dangerous. His face was pinched, his eyes cold and shifty.

"Herr Reichsminister, what do you think our Reich Marshal will say when he gets to hear about this? The situation seems a touch complex, I think."

"This is between us, Eichmann, as you know. Lorenz is officially dead. He was incinerated, the collection too. You know that I will compensate you."

Eichmann gave Rosenberg a twisted smile.

"I know what you have in mind, I just wanted to hear you say it."

"Which of the doctors have you consulted?"

"Steinbach," answered Eichmann guardedly. "We'll start with him."

"Who's Steinbach? I've never heard of a Steinbach."

"Josef Steinbach. You have no need to worry, Herr Reichsminister. I have full control of things here, if I may say so."

Eichmann, Rosenberg and the two SS guards escorting Ursula passed through the doorway of a grey stone building a few hundred yards from the place where they had first gathered. They continued down a long corridor until they came to a swing door at the other end. There was a strong smell of disinfectant. Eichmann kicked open the door, and the group entered a small chamber that was separated off from a much larger room by a partition wall. Beyond this room were the surgeries. Eichmann ordered two SS guards to wait in the chamber, while he continued into the laboratory where the medical experiments were conducted.

Five minutes later he reappeared, accompanied by a small, dark, bald man dressed in a white lab coat. The man could not have been over forty, but he was already old, bent under the weight of the mentally devastating experiments he was forced to carry out every day at Auschwitz death camp. He was what was known as a Kapo.

Eichmann signalled Rosenberg over into the main room.

"May I introduce Josef Steinbach?"

Eichmann moved so that Rosenberg could study the little man.

"What in the Devil's name are you playing at, Eichmann? The man's a Jew!"

Rosenberg was on the point of exploding.

"He may indeed be an out-and-out shit," explained Eichmann, "but you know yourself how these Kapo swine work and react. They will damn well do anything to save their own hides. And Steinbach is no exception. What's more, he's skilled. I think he's the man for the job. He knows that one of these days I'll end up killing him, but he persists in trying to lengthen his miserable Jewish life. Is that not so, Steinbach?"

Eichmann struck the little man across the face with his whip.

"Is that not so, you Jewish swine?" bawled Eichmann.

"Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer."

Steinbach brought his hand up to his bleeding forehead.

"You can rely on Steinbach, Herr Reichsminister."

Rosenberg stood as if paralysed. His options were exhausted. He tried to control his wrath at the fact that a Jewish doctor would be dealing with his most pressing problem.

"Reichsführer Himmler appreciates your work, Eichmann. I hope I shall have reason to do likewise. You know the information I want. Let it be Steinbach's last job. I cannot take any risks."

"I will first have to contact Dr Heilmann," rejoined Eichmann. "Dr Heilmann works under Dr Mengele," he added quickly, so that Rosenberg would better understand the complications. "But I will speak with Dr Heilmann. If he doesn't need Steinbach any longer, then it's fine by me."

Josef Steinbach stood motionless under the insults of the two dignitaries. His large brown eyes, half covered by heavy lids, wandered out to the chamber where his victim was awaiting him. He felt devastated and forlorn over what he was clearly going to be asked to do.

Ursula could hardly hold herself upright any longer, let alone walk. What she could hear made her nauseous, and her body shook. The pain in her loins was almost unbearable, and the two SS men had to half carry her into the operation room.

Eichmann gave an order for her to be stripped and placed in the gynaecological chair that stood at the other end of the room.

The sight that met Ursula in the room was vile. Apart from the chair were a dozen stretchers, on which naked pregnant Jewish women lay, apparently unconscious. Bright lights shone from the ceiling, and the air reeked of ether. Everything was filthy and shoddy-looking. Eichmann had ordered everyone who worked in the surgery to remove themselves, along with the two guards.

"Very well, Steinbach, will you now show the Reichsminister what you have learnt here in Auschwitz."

"Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer," answered the little man faintly, bracing himself for another blow from Eichmann's whip.

"She shall sing for us! If you fail, Steinbach, Dr Heilmann will have to take care of you and the little lady."

"I understand, Herr Obersturmbannführer."

Eichmann and Rosenberg had positioned themselves on either side of the genealogist's chair, upon which Ursula Worms now lay naked. Josef Steinbach was on the same side as Rosenberg as he bent over the beautiful woman. Her genitals were already severely lacerated.

"I am going to hurt you very badly. It would be best for you if you cooperated."

The little Kapo looked dejectedly into Ursula's blue eyes, which begged for a mercy that he could not give.

"I know nothing," she said in a whisper.

"Get to work Steinbach!" shouted Eichmann shrilly, and cracked his whip again, but this time only against his boots. "Waste any more time and I'll send you straight to Dr Heilmann!"

Ursula still had her eyes fixed on his, but Josef Steinbach was unable to meet her gaze. He was powerless to save this woman; the most he could do was mitigate her suffering. His right hand, which held the scalpel, trembled faintly as he made his first incision.

Ursula lived for one hour more. Already after fifteen minutes Eichmann had had to summon Dr Heilmann as by then Steinbach was no longer able to cope with seeing the result of his handiwork.

So Martin Heilmann, who, after Dr Mengele was the most feared doctor in Auschwitz, had continued her special treatment. Ursula had screamed herself hoarse, and when she finally fainted from pain and exhaustion, Eichmann had poured freezing water over her body while stepping up the torture with a few appropriately placed electric shocks in order to keep her conscious and at the utmost limits of insufferable pain. But Ursula just repeated what Rosenberg had already confided in her while she was his captive. Sunderland's name she never mentioned. For the last quarter of an hour she had lain comatose, and when death finally claimed her, she took her secret with her.

The poor Kapo, Joseph Steinbach, had been whipped by Eichmann to within an inch of his life and then placed in the hands of Dr Heilmann for more expert attention.

However, whatever remained of the man's fate was of scant interest to Alfred Rosenberg. But how he cursed that confounded whore, Ursula Worms. That stubborn bitch had been his last chance of recovering the sixteen oil paintings. The collection that would one day be the most sought-after and hunted-down in the world and that would bear his name: The Rosenberg Collection.

Excerpt 4

Paris, July 1965

The French capital exuded summer. It was scorching hot. The magnificent monuments and statues steamed. The mighty Seine boiled. It was morning.

A tall man with an athletic build had encamped himself at the northern fringes of the Vincenne forest with a few beers and a couple of long baguettes as his sole belongings. In the streaming sunlight, surrounded by fragrant green grass and multifarious flowers, he lay stretched out on his back. Beside him in a little pond, ducks swam and cavorted.

The tall man was First Lieutenant Michael Coe, who at this moment was finding it hard to understand why he was in Paris. He was here 'on vacation' they'd said, offering no further explanation. It was to be an unofficial gesture of gratitude for his significant contributions in Korea. It was wonderful, but quite incomprehensible nonetheless. There had been similar rewards, but the fact that he should enjoy such favour, and ten years after the war no less, perplexed him.

He was, of course, aware of his achievements in the Korean War, given all the badges of merit that had been bestowed upon him, but from there to being awarded with a ticket to France was a considerable leap. If he had been sent to serve in Vietnam, it would have been easier to understand.

There was no point pondering over it any longer. He was here - in Paris - far away from the hardships of the Special Forces. Michael Coe was enjoying his well-earned rest to the full, lying here on the lawn and tanning himself under the summer sun. Maybe he was a tad important, after all. And then suddenly she was standing there.

"I'm Cecilia," she said with a chuckle.

Coe lifted his head in astonishment and mumbled his own name, incapable of comprehending that she was anything but a mirage.

"Come with me, Mike!"

Cecilia reached her hand out to him.

Coe raised himself as if pre-programmed like some sort of Apostle despite the protests of the mallards, whose clamour he could only now perceive as a distant noise.

Cecilia was divine in her loveliness. She radiated warmth and a beauty that were wholly captivating. Coe stood dumbfounded with fear that his voice would ascend to a falsetto if he spoke. Nevertheless, he was anxious to enter into some kind of conversation with this heavenly being.

"You're from America," he managed.

Cecilia was in Paris to improve her French, she told him. And although it was indeed possible that this angelic American was bettering her linguistic abilities, Coe caught a whiff of ulterior motives in her visit. Whatever, he was certainly not the right person to converse with in the language.

Coe mentioned nothing about his own visit to Paris, but he was taken by her immediately, and their intercourse soon became animated and sparkling. Fervour swelled within him to get to love this captivating woman. Cecilia read his mind, and allowed herself to be attracted. It wasn't long before they were standing in a tight embrace, and he could feel her wonderful warmth, as much in her eyes and her words as in her entire, delicious body. Cecilia squeezed his hand tighter and pressed it fleetingly against her thigh while she leaned forwards and whispered softly in his ear:

"It'd be best if we went back to yours."

A minute or so later they were sitting in Cecilia's glistening white Cabriolet. This is total madness, thought Coe, but the thought remained unspoken.

By the time they reached the hotel they were both so aroused by each other's presence that they leapt up the stairs rather than wait for the lift.

Once in the room, everything happened as though synchronised, as in a state somewhere between dream and ecstasy. They tore off each other's clothes, and within a matter of seconds were lying in an intimate embrace. Coe stoked her exquisite breasts that were even more wonderful and shapely than her elegant dress had hinted at, and smothered her body with passionate kisses. Panting, Cecilia bit his shoulder and tugged at his hair, until he could wait no longer. He had to have her at once!

Cecilia squealed in pleasure when he entered her, and pressed him even closer. The flames of passion had flared up and were burning like a prairie fire. They could not get enough of each other, and did not leave the bed for three days.

On the fourth day something happened. Cecilia had called for a newspaper, and while Coe was in the bathroom having a shave she slipped out. The open newspaper was all that was left when he returned to the room. Dismayed and a little vexed, he sat on the edge of the bed and hoped that she would soon return.

For truth be told, they had not been strictly together the whole time for these past three days. Cecilia would make her excuses at around six o'clock and claim that she had to go away for half an hour to meet a very important person, as she mysteriously put it.

Coe deliberated over these strange and regular interruptions, but when Cecilia had begged and entreated him not to ask any questions, and since she always returned as promised, more passionate and wonderful than ever before, he had respected her wishes and let the matter lie.

So Coe was convinced it was the same old song, even though the time of day was different. When an hour passed, and then another, with still no sign of Cecilia, he picked up her paper for want of anything else to do.

It did not take long before his eyes were drawn to a vacancy for a temporary security guard at one of the city's museums. He was here on vacation and could not resist toying with the idea of a little extra cash. According to the Special Forces he was entitled to do whatever he wanted as long as it did not interfere with American interests. And there was no talk of that here. Short hours and excellent pay, said the advert, which was directed above all at people with international, military experience.

This suited Coe to a tee. His expense allowance was on the meagre side, and he had four more weeks left. The chances of getting the job were naturally microscopic. Yet it would be a splendid act of 'revenge' on his enigmatic lover, who clearly had problems with time-keeping.

As the hours passed with still no sign of Cecilia, Coe started to bring his thoughts into perspective and gradually regretted having sent away his application. All he wanted was Cecilia, nothing else! But when night descended, he fell asleep without her by his side.

The dawn broke and there was still no sign of Cecilia. Her passion had been absolutely genuine; he was not that goddamn naïve!

Three days later she swanned into the room as if nothing had happened, and Coe received a call from the museum calling him in for an interview. It was all almost too good to be true, but Cecilia's mouth and body silenced all questions and protests. They made love like creatures possessed.

Later that afternoon, when they were lying in bed smoking, Coe told her about his possible new job as a guard. He had been hoping that Cecilia would be slightly peeved, but she was disconcertingly delighted with the idea.

Coe couldn't resist tossing a sarcastic gibe at her about how practical it would be for her given all her 'important people', and that maybe he could look forward to availing himself of her company in his free time. Cecilia went into a huff, mumbling something about his promise not to question her, but he brushed off her sullenness with a gesture to indicate that the matter was of no concern to him. He was just happy to have her with him.

The next day Cecilia disappeared again, and Coe went to the museum.

Still frustrated over Cecilia's behaviour, Michael Coe stepped into the office of Pierre Damian, the curator of the rather grandiose museum in its equally pompous surroundings. He had just passed unnoticed by a dozen rooms that he had guessed served as buffer zones but were nothing of the kind. But then again, it was a Sunday.

Pierre was lounging comfortably in a huge black leather armchair with a cigarette balanced between his slim fingers. The desk in front of him was equally huge. The room had all the character of a large salon, and was sumptuously furnished. Coe saw no windows, only rich ash-wood panelling crammed to the cornices with art, mostly oils. The wall-to-wall carpet bore an exquisite pattern in burgundy and blue.

Coe picked his way through a legion of statues and other artworks that stood scattered about the room.

"Monsieur Damian?"

"Michael Coe!" he said. "First Lieutenant Michael Coe!"

They shook hands and Damian gestured towards one of the voluminous armchairs that stood turned towards the desk.

Pierre Damian was as gaunt as a goat and would be around seventy. He was small in stature, which was perhaps why everything around him seemed so big. His ashen hair was swept back in a sharp centre parting, and his features were sunken, like those of a sick person. He also only had one ear. A pair of wire-framed glasses rested precariously on the tip of his nose, and he looked almost comically diminutive behind his enormous desk. In spite of this he had astonishing presence.

"Does the name Curt Raubal say anything to you?" he asked with the suddenness of a starting pistol.

Coe unconsciously recoiled at this unexpected gambit and was rendered momentarily speechless.

"No, not that I can recall," he eventually replied, still somewhat puzzled over Damian's interview technique.

"Then we'll say no more about it. We'll soon be acquiring a collection of paintings that is in every way unique and extremely valuable," continued the curator, stubbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the desk. "If I quote the figure six hundred million dollars, perhaps you'll understand me better."

Coe said that he understood, even though he didn't. Six hundred million dollars?

"The collection, we can call it the Rosenberg Collection, comprises sixteen oil paintings and is on loan to the museum for eight days. To keep the collection safe we have recruited no less than sixteen guards, that is to say one guard per painting. Yet we still have reason to assume that our efforts will not be sufficient. This is where you come in."

Coe looked bewildered but said nothing.

"I do not intend to brief you in any detail as to how you should go about things. Nor do I intend to discuss with you the circumstances surrounding this exhibition. You may conduct yourself to all intents and purposes how you wish, just do not contact me or appeal to the office here for help. We will not be seeing each other again until the exhibition is over. In other words, I want to see independent action on your part, not a relationship in which we think and work in parallel. You'll soon notice that the objects interest more people than you might at first think."

"I don't doubt it," Coe reassured him. "Jeez, you don't hang about, Monsieur Damian, if you excuse my saying so. Anyone could have written an application like the one I sent you. And then just stroll in here as a prospective interviewee. Who's actually interviewing who here?"

Coe didn't think that he had to be more than formally polite. And anyway, Korea had rubbed off most of the usual patina of civility he might once have had.

At any rate, it didn't seem to trouble Pierre Damian.

"All you've got to do now is tell me a bit about the burglar alarms and I've made myself six hundred million dollars," Coe added playfully, looking into his steel-grey eyes, which advised him that it was an inappropriate contribution to the interview.

"We're just coming to the alarm," answered Damian. "It's no more than a year old and works on photocells. Each painting has its own cell, which responds as soon as someone so much as approaches it. It's all controlled by the police, not here at the museum as one might think."

He must be out of his mind, thought Coe, albeit half-heartedly. Damian's German accent puzzled him. Otherwise, his English was perfect.

"What are you driving at?" asked Coe bluntly. "You make everything you say sound like a military briefing ahead of some impending order."

Damian removed his glasses. He now looked imposing in the extreme, as he fastened his cold, authoritative eyes on Coe, who instinctively started at the transformation.

"We have already employed you."

Coe hesitated before responding. It was a cunning old fox he had in front of him, not some imbecilic culture vulture, as was his first impression.

"Dare I ask at what price?"

"Your pay, you mean?" he asked, looking into mid air.

Coe nodded lightly.

"Your assignment will span a couple of weeks at the most, depending on how long it takes to wrap things up. Your salary is set accordingly. I daresay you'll find it quite ample. Two thousand dollars, plus overheads, board and lodging, that sort of thing."

Coe felt his veneer slipping uncontrollably. The package was superbly wrapped, and reeked of the Special Forces. Who was Pierre Damian? His tour guide on his Paris vacation, that was obvious. But Coe would have willingly bet his bottom dollar that the peculiar little man had also been a German officer in the Second World War and was least of all suited to be a museum curator. But why was it in the Special Forces' interest to help a former German officer, assuming that that was what he was? And why in this way? And why the Devil did he reply to that darned advert, which he was convinced had been written for him alone? It was Cecilia's fault.

Cecilia! Coe almost fell off the armchair when the truth struck him. She had placed the advert under his nose. The lovely Cecilia, so beautiful, so angelic, so enigmatic. So Pierre Damian was the 'important person', was he?

"Are you sitting uncomfortably, Coe?"

"Not at all. Nice armchairs!"

"Then let me go into more detail about certain aspects of the collection. But first I must inform you that you are perfectly entitled to decline."

"Really? So I can do as I please when the Special Forces are calling the tune?"

Damian pretended not to hear, and Coe got up to leave.

"You mean that I'm free to leave this little get-together?"

"Sit down or get out!"

It was no longer the same Pierre Damian talking. The words came like a whiplash. Coe sank down into the chair again, why he could not say. Perhaps it was for Cecilia's sake.

"I can tell you've been a military man," he blurted out.

Damian looked bored.

"If you'd let me speak for a moment, I daresay we would not have to put up with your questions and comments."

"We might even have the salary adjusted?"

"How much do you have in mind?"

Damian sounded bored again, but now Coe had the chance of finding out just how keen they were to use his services. It was a great deal of trouble they had gone to.

"Ten thousand. Five thousand now, and five thousand when the job's done. With, of course, all overheads paid for."

Coe braced himself for a violent reaction, which never came. All that happened was that Damian took out a cheque book and Coe became five thousand dollars richer. What did the man want from him?

"We've opened a dollar account in your name to cover any expenses. The bank needs your confirmation. Here are the cheques and the papers you are to sign and return."

Damian handed him the envelope.

"You'll get five thousand more when the paintings are returned."

"You've prepared everything well, Monsieur Damian. Can the Special Forces afford this?"

"The museum will cover the costs of your extravagances. I will explain if you will stop interrupting me."

Coe sighed and Damian took a deep breath, more like a yawn.

"I personally have very good connections in your homeland," he exhaled. "Contacts that I only use in the most exceptional circumstances. And I asked to borrow for about a month, how shall I put it, the most disreputable person they had and could spare."

Coe snorted.

"And that would be me?"

"As I pointed out, it was not my choice. It was my friends' choice."

Damian put on an unhappy expression, although he seemed inwardly pleased. He continued:

"Regardless of your training, you're undisciplined. But I have the highest respect for my American friends, as I do their judgement, and I happen to be in need of someone of your calibre. And as an American you occasionally enjoy a privileged position. Sending you here on vacation was, I suppose, a risk, but since your work here at the museum is slightly beyond the sphere of activity in which the USA armed forces are constitutionally allowed to become involved, you could not be detailed here. There was no other way but to go through the back door. For various other reasons I considered it expedient for you to contact us rather than vice versa. It was good that you noticed the advert. It was very observant of you."

"Send the flowers to Cecilia."

"You've realized. That was also very observant."

"First class, really. My compliments. Is this part of the museum business?"

Damian commented by lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke he blew straight into Coe's face.

"You're here, Coe, that's what counts. Now back to the collection. The Rosenberg Collection was originally war-time plunder. Only a handful of people know that the paintings are still in existence. Amongst them those who contrived to hide the collection before the great castle fire in Schwarzwald in the autumn of 1944. The official report then was that works of art worth millions upon millions went up in smoke. Extremely little effort was made to investigate the circumstances surrounding the fire, and it was quickly forgotten. The finger of blame was pointed at the French resistance. And that was the end of that."

"What interest does the USA have in these paintings?"

"None at all, as far as I know. You are of course free to represent your country if you see reason to do so. But please do not interrupt me. Where was I?"

"Setting fire to the castle."

Coe's contribution to the conversation rendered Damian speechless, if only for a brief moment.

"You jump to conclusions. Please do not."

"You've been well briefed."

Damian looked devious sitting there behind his enormous desk. He had replaced his glasses and Coe was finding it hard to catch his eye, but this man was as harmless and affable as a diamond rattlesnake.

"I do not intend to discuss my part in all this," Damian informed him, and waved aside his comment. "Just after the war, an English gentleman, John Sunderland, came to borrow, or rather rent, the Rosenberg Collection from a now deceased SS officer, who was also one of the men behind the safeguarding of the paintings."

"In which you play the lead role!"

"You're jumping to conclusions again, Coe. I asked you especially not to do that."

"It's already done."

Damian consistently ignored Coe's insinuations and, diplomat that he was, persevered with his story.

"Sunderland has now been in possession of the collection for over twenty years, which is the period of time that was agreed."

Coe concluded that Damian was as rich as Croesus, and that his own ten thousand dollars was just a drop in the ocean. He wondered how much Sunderland had had to fork out by way of 'rent'; but what puzzled him most was why Damian had not sold the collection twenty years ago instead of kicking off this spectacle, which could only lead to his own arrest, or at least his being deprived of the paintings.

"You've embarked on a project that's doomed to failure," declared Coe, once Damian had come to the end of his brief, contradictory account. "You obviously like spending money."

"I am seeking no financial gains from this."

"No, clearly not."

"You have been given the information you need. The only other thing you need to know is that the paintings will arrive at eight pm and that the exhibition opens tomorrow, Monday. You will receive the rest of the money when the paintings are returned. I will be in touch when that time comes."

"And when will the paintings be deemed returned? The paintings are, as I understand it, not to be sent back to Sunderland, whoever he might be, and you yourself categorically deny any right of ownership."

Damian didn't answer, and Coe became riled.

"You do, of course, understand what'll happen when you start to hang the pictures and put on display all that six hundred million dollars. Your or Sunderland's goddamn paintings won't be here in this setup of yours any longer than it'll take the Germans and the French gendarmerie to remove them. You couldn't have chosen a better way to get rid of your assets! And the Germans and the French won't be the only ones to react. All nations that had their art stolen by the Nazis will want a hand in this. Plus a hell of a lot of other people. You sure will be returning the paintings alright. That's what you were planning, I take it?"

"Did I not say at the start that you would discover that the objects interest more people than you might at first have thought?"

The audience was concluded.

Read more - Excerpts 5 & 6