Hitlers Son and
The Rosenberg Collection

Exerpt 5

The Caribbean islands looked like emeralds in the warm, crystal-blue water. Above them roared and howled the enormous 707 as it made its approach to Puerto Rico. The plane had been airborne for many hours, and for the passengers it had been a long, trying experience. The aircraft had come in from Buenos Aires, and on board was Martin Bormann.

Bormann was sitting in a window seat at the tail end, gazing down at the verdant archipelago and musing over his fate. The past twenty-four hours had proved a nightmare for the Führer of the Fourth Reich. Beside him was the leader of the Mafia platoon that had kidnapped him in Buenos Aires. Seated elsewhere in the aircraft was the rest of the contingent of Mafiosi who had helped in the abduction. Bormann had not said a word throughout the journey. The great ear of the Mafia was like a permanent, ever-scanning radar, and their enormous net could be laid at short notice wherever a major haul was there for the taking. Bormann understood now why he would soon be landing at Puerto Rico airport. When he had been ambushed a mere fifty yards from his headquarters on Martin Haedo Avenue, he had first thought that the men who had jumped his bodyguards were some Israeli security group. But years of experience had taught him to recognise the modus operandi of the Jews, and he knew almost at once that he was in the grip of another organisation: Cosa Nostra. His next thought was that the Mafia would then hand him over to Israel for a tidy sum, but even those fears proved unfounded. Now, twenty-four hours later, he was more certain of the service he would have to perform. He just wondered which of von Löw's confederates had betrayed his Fourth Reich. As far as Bormann knew, it was Reschko, and only Reschko, who knew that the paintings had been coded.

Before leaving Asunción, Bormann had been in telephone contact with Dr von Löw, who had urged his Führer to observe the greatest caution on his journey to Buenos Aires since he was unable to provide the security himself. von Löw had even entreated him to remain at home, but Bormann, who considered himself indispensable in the headquarters in von Löw's absence, refused to be ordered around.

Dr von Löw was on a brief visit to Cairo, where he had some important business to attend to. Amongst other things, he intended to contact Reschko about the paintings. Once back in Argentina, he and Bormann would meet and break the codes, he hoped. Then Bormann would decide what was to be done with that hapless country, Israel. Nasser was wanting to declare war against the 'stiff-necked' race and he wanted the Fourth Reich's support, financial if nothing else. Dr von Löw knew that the Rosenberg Collection was critical to whatever decision Bormann would take.

The abduction of Martin Bormann had been a bloody affair. Cosa Nostra's men had not left a single witness standing. All of Bormann's bodyguards, eight men in total, six former SS officers and two chauffeurs, had been riddled with machine gun bullets. Five large cars, all American, had been driven up to the entrance to the headquarters and blocked Bormann's escort. There was a heavy exchange of fire, during which three of the Mafia's men had also been taken out. A few minutes later it was all over, and the abduction of Martin Bormann was a fait accompli.

x

The 707 performed a rather awkward landing and came down heavily. Bormann walked out onto the apron towards the passport control, surrounded by the constantly vigilant Mafiosi, who had watched his every step since the kidnapping. He was known these days as Goldstein, and he passed through quickly and smoothly. Outside the arrivals hall, three large American cars were waiting to transport the captive to his final destination: White Sands.

White Sands was one of the Alfieri family's holiday homes, and was situated on the southern side of Puerto Rico, about fifty miles south east of the capital San Juan. Here, a hundred yards from the beach, an enormous villa had been erected in the style of a manor house. This was a paradise that wanted for nothing.

On his arrival, Bormann was received by the Caporegime in White Sands, Carlo Badogli - a somewhat stout, unimaginative type - and was led to comfortable quarters in the majestic beach mansion. After having spent an hour in this fashionable environment, Bormann made his acquaintance with none other than Don Arnesto.

"Welcome to White Sands, Mr Bormann."

There were five people in all in the room, besides the well-groomed Bormann and Alfieri were Badogli and two rough-looking Mafiosi imported from Sicily.

Bormann shifted in his armchair, obviously irritated.

Alfieri dismissed the two Sicilians with a wave.

"I assume that Mr Badogli does not trouble you, eh?"

"I prefer to discuss business without gorillas watching over me."

Alfieri's expression turned harsh.

"Once I have left, Mr Badogli will be your only company. We hope to make your stay here in White Sands as pleasant for you as possible. As long as you do not make too excessive demands we intend to maintain this hospitality. Whatever you do, do not forget that you are here on our initiative, Mr Bormann!"

Bormann was on the point of imploding with rage.

"And what do you imagine you'll gain from this? The whole world knows of your powers of initiative. Sooner or later it'll leak out that I've been shanghaied here, whether or not I die. And this is something I think you should consider."

Alfieri was a man of honour these days. The past years had taught him not to show his personal annoyance when important negotiations had to be concluded. The old national leader was a prickly type, so being refractory with Bormann was not something that Alfieri desired, even if the man was in his power. But the bottom line was that he was still quick to anger.

"If it gets out that you are here in Puerto Rico, it would probably cause you greater anxiety than it would us. But that is not to say that we would wish for such an outcome, nor do we have any intentions to take your life. We have other plans, Mr Bormann, as you well know. But do not push our hospitality!"

Bormann made no reply.

"As you no doubt understand, the preparations for your stay here in White Sands have been made at considerable expense."

"Self-imposed!"

Alfieri refused to hear, and Badogli remained passive. As long as his Capo conducted the conversation he did not dare to open his mouth.

"You will not leave Puerto Rico with nothing, Mr Bormann," continued Alfieri. "We intend to be generous when it comes to the fee we will pay for your services. But the trump cards are held in three separate hands. Since we do not have the paintings, you understand."

"Who's the third player?"

Bormann's anger had not subsided, but his attitude betrayed an eagerness to know. He wanted to find out who'd betrayed his organisation.

"That I cannot tell you. We must, I am afraid, wait to see how matters develop over the next week or so. Meanwhile, you will remain our guest. You will want for nothing!"

Excerpt 6

The apartment on Rue de Vaugirard was on the top floor. It was an elegant, spacious residence in French style, furnished exclusively throughout. Silk curtains framed the large windows in the sitting room. Light Gobelin tapestries stretched from the floor, with its genuine, double knotted carpets, up to a wooden moulding, which bordered onto the foot of the vaulted ceiling.

The apartment comprised this and four other rooms, including a kitchen and a large vestibule. The door to the bedroom opened on to a fairytale world, where diaphanous curtains willingly let the sunlight filter through to play on the chalk-white wallpaper. Along one side and a little away from the wall on a fitted shag-pile carpet was a majestic brass four-poster bed, on which rested a light, fringed crocheted counterpane, and upon this, by the head, were three hand-embroidered golden silk pillows. The furnishings were truly five-star.

Dressed in only her negligee, Cecilia sat perched on the edge of the bed. Her hand was trembling slightly as she pulled back the plunger slowly, allowing the syringe to be filled with the last drops from the little heated tin cup. She had blown out the candle, which she had used to warm the slightly blackened metal cup, and tapped the glass syringe twice with her index finger to separate the bubbles of air from the liquid. She then inserted the needle into a tiny, almost invisible scar that she had on the crook of her left arm, and drove it carefully into the vein. First she sucked out a drop of blood and then let the plunger glide slowly down towards the syringe opening, emptying its contents into her blood stream. She extracted the needle with a slight jerk, leant calmly back against the bedstead and fell into a torpor.

Cecilia's passage to Hell was clearly staked out. Five months ago, when she was still living in London and Sunderland was in America, she had received a visit from two men. They called after eleven-thirty at night and took Cecilia completely by surprise. One of the men was slim, fair and well-dressed, the other dark, thick-set and strangely attired in some kind of kaftan like mantle. Although in appearance they presented a sharp contrast, their thoughts and designs were congruent. Their names were Lee Ritt and George Ness. Ritt placed a fistful of cotton seeped in chloroform over Cecilia's nose and mouth, upon which Ness bound and gagged her.

When she came to, three men were standing in her room. Dr Malkom Heines had arrived and in his hand was a syringe, which he held up to the light as he squeezed a little drop from the needle. He then thrust it into the crook of Cecilia's arm, all resistance on her part being impossible. All she could do was watch in terror as the liquid was absorbed by her body.

For four days she received the treatment from Heines, who gradually adjusted the dosages so that she would become the drug slave that he wanted her to be.

And then the fifth day came. What happened on that day was so terrible that she could not rid her mind of the memories. After the first injection of the day, Ritt laid her on the large dining room table, at which Heines headed the queue that would execute the day's customary rape.

Ness intervened.

"Brethren, brethren," he said, and held up his hand.

Ness might have been dark and malevolent, but there was something of a halo dangling over his head. He was wearing an ankle-length mantle and had a clerical collar draped carelessly around his neck. George Ness was the company's religious zealot. He considered himself personally sent by the Almighty to perform the sacrifices offered to Him.

"I beseech you to consider the task we have in front of us! It is not befitting for us, humble members of the Brotherhood, to oppose the will of the Almighty. You know what the Almighty demands of us, dear brothers," intoned Ness. He then left the room for a moment.

Ness had arranged everything in advance. In one of the rooms he had already, on the third day, knocked together a crude beech-wood cross. This he had gone out to fetch, and was now placing it ritualistically on the floor.

"The one true God demands CRUCIFIXION!"

Ritt and Heines gave each other a meaningful look. It was obviously time for the performance that Ness insisted upon to ensure his utmost efficiency.

Cecilia was dragged over to the cross and Heines exposed the nerves, vessels and ligaments necessary to perform - without leaving too obvious wounds - a proper crucifixion. A nail was then driven through each wrist of the befogged, almost unconscious girl. Ritt and Ness then combined their strengths to raise the cross up against a wall.

When the work was done, the female corpus hung limply like a sack over the wooden construction. Ness had been expecting a somewhat different effect. In all the images of the suffering Christ he had seen, the saviour was draped decorously over the two arms of the cross. Not so Cecilia. The sight of her swinging to and fro on the religious symbol was pitiful. She could have been held in proper formation with nails through her feet, but it was obvious that this wouldn't be enough - let along practical - for the 'holy rite of copulation' that Ness, and not only Ness, deemed necessary for the final sacrifice.

When the result of their handiwork had descended to a sufficient level of wretchedness, Ness suggested, with unflinching resolve, a slight adjustment of their biblical interpretation. He hurriedly sawed two wooden blocks which could be thrust up under her armpits with the accompanying seven-inch nails, and lo - no foot-nails needed!

Seeing Cecilia hanging from their makeshift rood-tree, Ness delighted in his work. The finale could commence! And it went like this. Ritt began immediately, and forced himself upon her like the most bestial of creatures, while Ness made continual signs of the cross, chanting "Hallelujah, hallelujah". When Ritt finally spent himself, he offered his place to the next in line. It became clear that Ness was a shade too short in the leg for the 'crucifixion', and Heines offered to fetch some telephone directories so as not to interrupt the ceremony. Ness blessed the small congregation and set to work. And in fact Ritt and Heines also seemed absorbed in some private supplication as Ness fulfilled his duty to the Almighty. When eventually Ness was satisfied and content that he had consecrated his Saviour, Heines was on the verge of breakdown.

"For God's sake!" he stuttered. "Leave the directories where they are!"

On this day, Cecilia's life became a nightmare. Every second she was dependent on the benevolence of Heines for her will to live. And the Devil only gave her peace in exchange for her obedience and silence. Cecilia was called upon to move to Paris. She had refused at first, but Heines was quick to persuade her how wrong it was to refuse him anything. She told her father-in-law that she wanted to improve her French, and saying so would distract Sunderland from the truth - for the time being!

After months of hell, she had finally seen her chance to be rid of her bane. She decided to confide her situation in the rather gauche, outspoken American, whom she also loved. He was the only one who could help her, and she trusted him.

It was ten past seven. She would be with him in an hour and fifty minutes. The syringe still lay in her lifeless grasp, but the beautiful body had slumped down onto the three golden silk pillows. It was time for her to wake up and get herself ready.

But Cecilia would never open those cornflower blue eyes again. The sleep into which she had fallen was eternal, and her hair billowed out like a black star around that angelic, paling face.