The Bormann Testament

C
havasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. He was tired—more tired than he had been in a long time, and yet he couldn’t sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp and reached for a cigarette. As he struck a match, the telephone started to ring.

He lifted the receiver quickly and a woman’s voice sounded in his ear, cool and impersonal. “Paul, is that you?”

He pushed himself up against the pillow. “Who’s speaking?”

“Jean Frazer. Your flight got into London Airport from Greece three hours ago. Why haven’t you checked in?”

“What’s the rush?” Chavasse said. “I made a preliminary report from Athens yesterday. I’ll see the Chief in the morning.”

“You’ll see him now,” Jean Frazer said. “And you’d better hurry. He’s been waiting for you since that flight got in.”

Chavasse frowned. “What the hell for? I’ve just done two months in Greece and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m entitled to a night’s sleep, at least.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” she told him calmly. “Now get your clothes on like a good little boy. I’ll send a car round for you.”

Her receiver clicked into place and he cursed softly and threw back the bedclothes. He pulled on a pair of pants and padded across to the bathroom in his bare feet.

His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and there was a bad taste in his mouth. He filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, savoring its freshness, and then quickly rinsed his head and shoulders in cold water.

As he toweled himself dry, he examined his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under the eyes, and faint lines of fatigue had drawn the skin tightly over the high cheekbones that were a heritage from his French father.

It was a handsome, even an aristocratic, face, the face of a scholar, and somehow the ugly, puckered scar of the old gunshot wound in the left shoulder looked incongruous and out of place.

He fingered the flesh beneath the gray eyes and sighed. “Christ, but you look like hell,” he said softly, and the face in the mirror was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm. It was one of his most important assets.

He ran a hand over the two-day stubble of beard on his chin, decided against shaving, and returned to the bedroom. As he dressed, rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers, and when he left the flat ten minutes later, he was wearing an old trench coat.

The car was waiting at the bottom of the steps when he went outside, and he climbed in beside the driver and sat there in silence, staring morosely into the night as they moved through deserted, rain-swept streets.

He was tired. Tired of living out of a suitcase, of hopping from one country to another, of being all things to all men and someone very different on the inside. For the first time in five years, he wondered why he didn’t pack it all in, and then they turned in through the gates of the familiar house in St. John’s Wood and he grinned ruefully and pushed the thought away from him.

The car braked to a halt before the front door, and he got out without a word to the driver and mounted the steps. He pressed the bell beside the polished brass plate that carried the legend
BROWN & COMPANY
—
IMPORTERS & EXPORTERS
, and waited.

After a few moments, the door opened and a tall, graying man in a blue serge suit stood to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Nice to see you back, Mr. Chavasse.”

Chavasse grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re looking fine, Joe.”

He went up the curving Regency staircase and passed along a thickly carpeted corridor. The only sound was a slight, persistent hum from the dynamo in the radio room, but he moved past the door and mounted two steps into another corridor. Here, the silence was absolute, and he opened a large, white-painted door at the far end and went in.

The room was small and plainly furnished, with a desk in one corner on which stood a typewriter and several telephones. Jean Frazer was bending over a filing cabinet and she looked up, a slight smile on her round, intelligent face. She removed her spectacles with one hand and frowned. “You look pretty rough.”

Chavasse grinned. “I usually do at this time of the morning.”

She was wearing a plain white blouse and a tweed skirt of deceptively simple cut that molded her rounded hips. His eyes followed her approvingly as she walked across to her desk and sat down.

He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet that was lying there. He lit it and blew out a cloud of smoke with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now what’s all the fuss about? What’s the Chief got on his mind that’s so important it can’t wait until a respectable hour?”

She shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s waiting for you inside.”

He frowned slightly. “Another job? Already?”

She nodded. “I think it’s something pretty big.”

Chavasse cursed softly and got to his feet. “What does he think I’m made of—iron?” Without waiting for a reply, he walked across to the far door, opened it, and went in.

The room was half in shadow, the only light the shaded lamp that stood upon the desk by the window. The Chief was reading a sheaf of typewritten documents and he looked up quickly, a slight frown on his face. It was replaced by a smile and he waved a hand toward a chair. “So they finally managed to locate you, Paul. Sit down and tell me about Greece.”

Chavasse slumped into the chair and pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Didn’t you get my coded report from the Embassy in Athens?”

The Chief nodded. “I had a quick look at it when it came in yesterday. It seems satisfactory. Any loose ends?”

Chavasse shrugged. “One or two. Your hunch about Skiros was right. He was a double agent. Been working for the Commies for the past four years. They’ll have to wait a long time for his next report.”

The Chief selected a cigarette from a silver box and lit it carefully. “How did you manage it?”

“I traced him to Lesbos,” Chavasse said. “He was having a skin-diving holiday. Unfortunately, something went wrong with his Aqua-Lung one afternoon. By the time they got him back to the beach, it was too late.”

The Chief sighed. “Most unfortunate.”

Chavasse leaned across the desk. “Now I’ve explained the finer points of the affair, perhaps I can go back to bed.” He got to his feet and crossed to the window. “I feel as if I haven’t slept for a month.” He stood there, staring out into the rain for a moment, and then turned abruptly. “To be perfectly frank, on the way over here I was considering packing things in.”

The Chief raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Could you see yourself going back to lecturing in a provincial university?” He shook his head. “Not a chance, Paul. You’re the best man I’ve got. One of these days you’ll be sitting behind this desk.”

“If I live that long,” Chavasse said sourly.

The Chief gestured to the chair. “Come and sit down and have another cigarette. You always feel like this when a job’s over, especially when you’ve killed somebody. What you need is a long rest.”

“Then what about it?” Chavasse said. “Christ knows I’ve earned one. This last year’s been hell.”

“I know, Paul, I know,” the Chief said soothingly, “and I’ll see you get one—after this next job.”

Chavasse turned from the window angrily. “For God’s sake, am I the only man the Bureau’s got? What about Wilson or LaCosta?”

The Chief shook his head. “I sent Wilson to Ankara last month. He disappeared his second day there. I’m afraid we’ll have to cross him off the list.”

“And LaCosta?”

“He cracked up after that affair in Cuba. I’ve put him into the home for six months.” The Chief sighed. “I had a psychiatrist’s report this morning. Frankly, it wasn’t too good. I’m afraid we won’t be able to use LaCosta again.”

Chavasse moved across to his chair and slumped down into it. He helped himself to a cigarette from the box the Chief held out to him and lit it with a steady hand. After a while, he smiled. “All right, I give in. You’d better put me in the picture.”

The Chief got to his feet. “I knew you’d see it my way, Paul. And don’t worry. You’ll get that holiday. This affair shouldn’t take you more than a couple of weeks at the most.”

“Where am I going?” Chavasse said simply.

“West Germany!” The Chief walked to the window and spoke without turning round. “What do you know about Martin Bormann?”

Chavasse frowned. “One of the top Nazis, probably killed in the final holocaust in Berlin when the Russians moved in. Wasn’t he in the bunker with Hitler till the very end?”

The Chief turned and nodded. “We know that for certain. He was last reported trying to break out of the city in a tank. What actually happened, we don’t know, but certainly his body was never identified.”

Chavasse shrugged. “That’s hardly surprising. A lot of people died when the Russians moved in.”

The Chief moved back to the desk and sat down. “From time to time, there have been vague rumors about Bormann. One of them said that he was living in the Argentine, another that he was farming in Ireland. We checked these stories very carefully, but they proved to have no foundation in fact.”

Chavasse straightened slowly. “And now you’ve had another report? Something a little more substantial this time?”

The Chief nodded. “Do you know Sir George Harvey?”

Chavasse frowned slightly. “Wasn’t he Minister of Intelligence for a time in the coalition government during the war?”

“That’s the man,” the Chief said. “He retired from politics after the war to concentrate on his business interests. Yesterday, he went to the Foreign Office with a very strange story. The Foreign Secretary sent him straight to me. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”

He pressed a buzzer on his desk twice. After a moment, the door opened and Jean ushered in a tall, graying man in his early sixties. She went out, closing the door softly behind her, and the Chief got to his feet. “Come in, Sir George. I’d like you to meet Paul Chavasse, the young man I was telling you about earlier.”

Chavasse stood up and they shook hands. Sir George Harvey had obviously kept himself in good condition. His handclasp was strong, his face tanned, and the clipped mustache gave him a faintly military appearance.

He smiled pleasantly and sat down. “I’ve been hearing some very complimentary things about you, Mr. Chavasse.”

Chavasse grinned and offered him a cigarette. “I’ve had my share of luck.”

Sir George took one and smiled again. “In your game you need it, my friend.”

The Chief struck a match and held it out in cupped hands. “I wonder if you’d mind telling Chavasse here exactly what you told me, Sir George.”

Sir George nodded and leaned back in his chair. He turned slightly toward Chavasse. “Among my many business interests, Mr. Chavasse, I hold a great number of shares in a publishing house which shall remain nameless. Yesterday morning, the managing director came to see me with an extraordinary letter. He and his board felt that it should be placed before the Foreign Secretary as soon as possible, and knowing that I was a personal friend of his, they asked me to handle the affair.”

“Who was the letter from?” Chavasse said.

“A German called Hans Muller,” Sir George told him. “This man states in the letter that Martin Bormann is alive. He says that he lived in Portugal until 1955, when he returned to Germany, where he has since been living quietly under an assumed name.”

“But what does he want with a publishing firm?” Chavasse asked.

“I’m coming to that,” Sir George told him. “If the letter is to be believed, Bormann has written his memoirs and wants them published.”

“With Muller acting as middleman?” Chavasse said. “But why hasn’t he tried a German publisher? I should have thought that such a book would have been an even bigger sensation over there than in England.”

“Apparently, Muller did just that,” Sir George said. “Unfortunately, he chose the wrong publishers. He wrote them a similar letter and, within hours, had the Nazi underground hot on his trail. According to Muller, in what might be described as an extremely illuminating manner, Bormann has written about many people in Germany who up to now have always affirmed that they never really supported Hitler. Very important people, I might add. He even deals with Nazi sympathizers here in England, and includes a chapter on the man who was prepared to act as our Quisling in 1940, when the German invasion was expected.”

Chavasse whistled softly. “Does he give any names in the letter?”

Sir George shook his head. “No, he simply states that he has the manuscript and that it is handwritten by Bormann himself—a fact which can of course be verified—and that there is only one copy. Needless to say, the sum of money he mentioned was rather large.”

“I’ll bet it was,” Chavasse said. “If only the poor fool realized it, he’s carrying a time bomb around with him.” He turned to the Chief. “I haven’t worked in Germany for nearly three years. How strong are the Nazis now?”

“A lot stronger than most people realize,” the Chief said. “Ever since the German government set up the Office for the Detection of War Crimes at Ludwigsburg, it’s been engaged in a battle of wits with the Nazi underground. Senior ex-SS officers have managed to infiltrate into the police. Because of this, the Nazi intelligence service has been able to warn a number of former SS camp officials who were about to be arrested. This has given many of them a chance to escape to the United Arab Republic.”

“But there are still plenty left in high places?”

“That fact is impossible to dispute. They’re in the government, in big business.” The Chief laughed ironically. “Muller must have found that out to his cost when he wrote to that German publishing company.”

“Does he name the firm?”

The Chief shook his head. “He didn’t even give his own address. Said he’d get in touch by phone.”

“And did he?”

The Chief nodded. “Six o’clock last night on the dot, just as he said he would. The managing director took the call. He told Muller they were definitely interested and made arrangements for a director of the firm to meet him.”