Alphabet House (35 page)

She could scarcely have asked for a more crowded spot.

A family was encamped in the middle of the floor. It included at least six small children and a couple of teenagers. The woman’s face was lined. She looked worried and weary. The man was asleep. Petra went over and waited in the middle of this group while a couple of the kids tugged at her dress and looked at her teasingly.

Peter Stich saw her immediately. Kröner and Lankau followed a couple of steps behind. Then they came to a halt.

‘Where are the other two?’ she asked, glancing around quickly. One of the youngsters sat down on the floor between them
and looked up, wide-eyed, first under her dress and then at an extremely relaxed Peter Stich.

‘Who do you mean?’ he asked.

‘The two who disappeared the same evening as Lankau. Arno von der Leyen and the other one. I can’t remember his name.’

‘Dieter Schmidt! His name was Dieter Schmidt. They’re dead. They died the same night they escaped. Why?’

‘Because I don’t trust you, so I need to know how many of you there are.’

‘There are only the three of us, plus you and Gerhart Peuckert. You can count on that.’

She glanced around once more. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him an open envelope. Stich took out a piece of paper and read it without a word.

‘Why have you written this?’ he asked, smiling wryly as he handed the paper to Kröner.

‘It’s a copy. I deposited the original together with my will. It’s my guarantee that nothing will happen to me or Gerhart.’ ‘You’re wrong there. If we’re exposed, we’ll expose Gerhart. You realise that, don’t you?’ She nodded. ‘So you believe we’ve got sufficient hold on each other with this note?’ She nodded again.

After a moment’s discussion with the other two, Stich said, ‘Unfortunately it would put us in the situation of constantly having to fear something might happen to you. Life insurance between partners ought to be reciprocal. We’ll have to ask you to destroy the original. We can’t have it deposited with some lawyer.’

‘What then?’

‘We can give you another contract instead, which you can deposit with your lawyer. One that grants you concessions. We can word it in such a way that we would profit greatly from your death. It would throw suspicion on us if you or Gerhart should meet an untimely fate.’

‘No.’ Petra could feel Lankau’s fury as she shook her head. ‘I’ll deposit the letter somewhere else.’

‘Where?’ Stich cocked his head to the side.

‘That’s my business.’

‘We can’t possibly agree to that.’ The words were barely out of his mouth before Petra turned on her heel and made determinedly for the exit. Not until Stich’s third shout did she stop.

He approached her.

Amidst curious glances they talked together for the whole evening in the middle of the crowded hall. Peter Stich accepted her conditions and seemed very open, at the same time making no attempt to hide the fact that she and Peuckert would pay dearly if she ever misused their trust.

He managed to reassure her. She knew very well that these men, like Gerhart Peuckert, had all been high-ranking SS officers. People like them risked a life sentence or even execution if they were caught and brought to trial. Their collective source of protection lay in concealing their identities. So if Gerhart were to be allowed to go on living, they all had to stick together – including Petra. She had to guarantee them her and Gerhart’s silence.

If she were able to do that, they’d offer her something in return. They would provide Gerhart Peuckert with a new identity, namely the one that had been intended for Dieter Schmidt.

In that event he would come to be called Erich Blumenfeld. With his sharp features he could easily have a little Jewish blood in him, especially if they cut his medium-blond hair short. Nothing would happen to him as long as they stuck to their story. In those days people were beginning to learn why some Jews might need psychiatric help. The malingerers would give him a new life and see that he was taken care of.

There was no reason why Petra shouldn’t accompany Gerhart Peuckert and remain close to him.

‘And so you wound up in Freiburg?’ Laureen shook her head. ‘Here, of all places, where none of you were safe?’

‘That’s how it was. The others had already made their decision. And some of my family lives in the area. Anyway, I had no reason to hide.’ Petra folded her hands and pushed her cup slightly forward with her knuckles. ‘And it turned out pretty well. Right until you and your husband turned up. For twenty-seven years everything went as it should. Freiburg had many advantages for the malingerers as well. In the first place, it’s close to Switzerland. Secondly, all the people who could have recognised them were killed when the hospital was bombed – that is, if they hadn’t already been transferred. Finally, none of the malingerers had been brought up here or had any other connections with Freiburg. The town was a good choice.’

And that’s what happened. They all acquired new identities, precisely as Stich had decided. He, himself, became Hermann Müller. Wilfried Kröner became Hans Schmidt, Horst Lankau became Alex Faber, and Gerhart Peuckert was moved to a private sanatorium as Erich Blumenfeld, the Jew. For the modest sum of 2,000 marks the four men’s tattoos were removed by an elderly doctor from Stuttgart who had plenty on his conscience, even though he’d been acquitted at Nürnberg. All physical proof of the four men’s true identities was gone.

‘I think Bryan still has that tattoo,’ Laureen admitted. It was years since she’d last noticed the blotch that she’d always regarded as being the result of a soldier’s foolish whim.

Moving Gerhart Peuckert hadn’t caused them any problems. From Cologne he went to Reutlingen, and from there he was transferred to Karlsruhe. By the time they finally brought him to Freiburg his new identity had long been established.

Petra was glad to have Gerhart back in Freiburg and for a long time she imagined he would get well. Therefore she remained single. Such was the price of love.

But despite Petra’s steadfastness and devotion, Gerhart Peuckert’s condition remained unchanged. He stayed as he was. Unapproachable, withdrawn. Present and yet distant.

Like a lover in a glass case.

Apart from her, the three men were almost the only contact he had with the outside world. As far as she knew they treated him fairly well. After a few years the men bought the clinic. Then they could come and go as they pleased.

‘Are they wealthy?’ Laureen had a special way of pronouncing the word. When she was young it was laced with scorn. In Cardiff, wealthy people were those who profited on the backs of the men in the docks and steelworks. By the time she’d risen to a more stable economic stratum the word had acquired a new dimension that made her hesitate a second before uttering it.

Petra was gazing into space, as if she hadn’t heard the question. ‘At the reserve hospital in Freiburg I had this friend, Gisela, who was a few years older than me. Her husband had been admitted there, a hopeless case. She was relieved to hear he was killed when they bombed the hospital during the final days of the war. We learned to laugh together, that’s for sure!’ Her smile was faint and sentimental. Laureen imagined Petra had probably not laughed very much since. ‘As fate would have it, my friend couldn’t return to her hometown, and then these three men turned up and changed my whole life. One dumb afternoon, years later, I took her with me to an appointment I had with them, just to have some decent company. I should never have done it. It turned out to be her downfall because she wound up marrying one, the pockmarked Kröner. He was certainly the most cultivated of the three, but he plagued her to death. Still, if it hadn’t been for her, I would never have understood what it was that drove them to act as they did.’ Petra took another look at her watch. Then she straightened up and threw off the mood she’d conjured up.

‘Yes, they’re wealthy,’ she concluded. ‘Very wealthy, actually.’
Like Stich, Kröner only invested a small part of his fortune. The remainder of the tangible wealth that had given them influence in their new home territory was obtained by hard work. The rest still lay in bank boxes in Basel, untouched. Only Lankau had been eating into his capital regularly, and there was still plenty left, as far as Petra could tell. Using his cover name, he became owner of a large machine factory that employed many people, even though the factory ran at a loss. It was just his social alibi and a hobby that, like his vineyard, provided him with contacts and hunting companions. He was known as a ‘character’, always good for a joke or an extravagant dinner. He became the quintessential Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

As to Kröner, his business affairs were more widespread and ranged from commerce to real estate. All were types of activity that demanded political influence and many friends. Petra didn’t think there was a single baby in Freiburg that Kröner hadn’t at some time hugged or patted on the cheek. In this way, he’d spent most of his life building his own ego and neglecting those closest to him.

Stich was another story. Despite his modest lifestyle he was the absolute wealthiest of the three. He had engaged in speculation in the German reconstruction, in the upsurge of trade and in the paper boom of the sixties. With small risk and great winnings, it was a job that demanded no more than clear-sightedness and determination. As a result he always refrained from mixing with others.

He was an almost unknown factor, even among those closest to him.

During the whole time, relations between the three men were based solely on their common interest in concealing their past. This was why they visited Gerhart Peuckert with precise regularity and made sure they influenced his treatment. It was also why they approved each other’s choice of wives and public image.

As for Gerhart Peuckert, they all grew accustomed to his condition. Only once did a deeper layer within him make its way
to the surface and shock them all. Petra had been present. It had been at an airshow. For the first time for many years he had said something. ‘
So schnell
!’ he’d said. That was all. It had been in 1962.

Petra had dreamt about that day many times, hoping it would repeat itself.

‘And now’s it’s 1972. Wilfried Kröner’s fifty-eight, Lankau’s sixty, Stich is sixty-eight. And Gerhart’s fifty, just like me. Nothing has changed. We’re just ten years older.’ Petra sighed. ‘Time has just rolled along like that – until today.’

Laureen sat looking at her for some time. It had been a relief for her to tell that story. Petra’s still young-looking eyes were calm now, and sorrowful.

‘Petra…’ she said, and hesitated a moment. ‘Thank you for telling me your story. I believe every word of it, but I still don’t understand what my husband has to do with it all. Would the three men be able to harm him?’

‘Yes, they would, and they will, if your husband doesn’t accept their conditions.’

‘What conditions?’

‘I don’t know. To keep his mouth shut and go home again, I should think. I don’t know…’ She seemed to search for the words. ‘You say your husband is wealthy?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Can he prove it?’

‘Naturally. Why do you ask?’

‘I think it may be necessary, if he’s going to get out of Freiburg alive.’

‘Get out of Freiburg alive?’ Laureen was shocked. ‘Do you realise what it is you’re saying? You have to tell me: where’s my husband?’

‘I can only tell you part of it because I don’t know everything. And only on the condition that you swear on your life that neither you nor your husband plan to hurt Gerhart Peuckert.’

Within the space of a few hours Laureen had been yanked from one reality to the next, at a greater pace than reason could properly digest. The extent to which her own role would remain passive was entirely up to this woman who had just spoken so frankly to her. And Bryan was about to present her with yet another reality. Maybe he was in trouble right now. New aspects of her husband were in the process of being revealed. She no longer knew if she could assure Petra that he didn’t mean Gerhart Peuckert any harm. Until recently she wouldn’t have been in doubt.

Those were the old days.

‘Yes, I’ll stake my life on it,’ she said.

The instant Lankau heard the promising sound of the BMW starting up, his good eye began to smile.

So he’d got rid of his tormentor.

Something seemed to indicate they’d overestimated Arno von der Leyen, and that von der Leyen had underestimated him. A suitable combination and an extremely promising point of departure.

Horst Lankau was still on home turf. Bound to a good chair with oaken armrests. One that his wife had bought ten years ago from a furniture dealer in Müllheim, a local tradesman and professional charmer who knew how to make an impression on women while he dipped into their husbands’ pockets. The chair had looked fantastically solid with its coarse fustian upholstery and massive legs, but the truth turned out to be quite different. The chair was actually a poorly constructed piece of junk and he’d felt like giving the furniture dealer a hiding for having palmed it off on them. In the end, the chair, like so many other items, had been patched up and relegated to the vineyard.

In the present situation Lankau wasn’t sorry they’d bought the thing. He began jerking the armrests up and down and rocking determinedly backwards and forwards.

With not so much as a creak both armrests snapped their dowels and flew off backwards. With the pieces of wood dangling from his arms he tried in vain to get hold of the knot that kept his torso firmly bound to the back of the chair. The twine and his large stomach prevented him from reaching his feet and untying them. The only alternative was to keep on rocking until the chair disintegrated beneath him into its original components. As the ship’s clock above the door struck a quarter past six, the chair collapsed and he was free.

Peter Stich sounded distant. To judge from his tone of voice when he answered the phone, he’d been sitting and thinking for
some time with a schnapps glass in front of him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he snapped, the instant he recognised Lankau’s voice.

‘I’ve been practising my English. You should hear how good I am.’ Lankau held the receiver with his shoulder, rubbing his arms. The scratches were only superficial.

‘Just shut up and answer me, dammit! What’s going on, Horst?’

‘I’m out at the vineyard. That swine Arno von der Leyen overpowered me, but I’m free now. The idiot tied me to Gerda’s oak chair!’ Lankau allowed himself a laugh.

‘Where is he now?’

‘That’s why I’m calling. He’s seen Kröner. He knows where he lives. I’ve tried to phone Wilfried, but he isn’t answering.’

‘And what about me? Does he know anything about me?’

‘I’m absolutely certain he doesn’t.’

‘Good.’ He could hear a faint splash at the other end of the line. Presumably Andrea, pouring him another glass. ‘And you think von der Leyen is on his way to Kröner?’ the old man continued, after a short burst of coughing.

‘That’s definitely a possibility, yes.’

‘Kröner won’t be coming home just yet. He’s out looking for Petra Wagner.’

‘Petra? Why Petra?’ The day was full of surprises.

‘We were afraid she hadn’t told us the whole truth. And since we didn’t hear anything from you, we had to assume she must have told von der Leyen what awaited him on Schlossberg.’

‘He didn’t know a damn thing! Where’s Petra now?’

‘I suppose she’s out on her rounds. Kröner’s busy trying to find out where. I have asked him to make her tell us what she has told von Leyen, and if she’s betrayed us, he’ll kill her. I don’t care about the note she has. It doesn’t matter now.’

‘Too bad for little Petra,’ grunted Lankau. He couldn’t care less. ‘When Arno von der Leyen has carried out whatever mission he’s on, he’ll come back here, you can bet on that. And
then it’ll be my turn to give him some tender, loving care. But right now you’ve got to see to it that Kröner gets the message. Von der Leyen is driving around in the BMW with my Shiki Kenju in his pocket.’

‘Good car, rotten pistol. You have a generous nature, Horst. Does he know it can go off if he fiddles with the safety catch?’

Lankau roared with laughter. He could visualize Stich holding the receiver at arm’s length from his ear. ‘God only knows! I don’t think so. But at the moment we have to assume that it’s loaded with a bullet that Arno von der Leyen wouldn’t hesitate sending into Kröner’s pockmarked skull. So you’d better get going, Peter.’

‘You don’t have to worry. I’ve already left,’ he said quietly, before the click.