The Ice Queen: A Novel (21 page)

“Can your Oma still remember his real name?” she asked excitedly.

“Vaguely,” Miriam said. “Otto or Oskar, she thinks. But she knows that he was at the SS officers’ school in Bad Tölz and a member of Adolf Hitler’s personal bodyguard. I’m sure it’s possible to find out more about something like that.”

“Damn, Miri, you’re a wonder.” Pia grinned. “What else did your Oma tell you?”

“She never cared much for Goldberg,” Miriam went on in a shaky voice. “But she had to swear to Sarah by all that was holy never to say a word. Sarah didn’t want her sons to learn anything about their father’s past.”

“But evidently they did know about it,” said Pia. “That must be the reason why his son appeared with such reinforcements the day after Goldberg died.”

“Maybe it was for religious reasons,” Miriam countered. “Or because Goldberg really did have the best-possible connections in the world. Oma remembers that he had several passports, and even during the coldest phase of the Cold War, he was able to travel freely throughout the Eastern Bloc.” She paused. “Do you know what really shocks me about the whole thing?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Not the fact that he wasn’t a Jew, but a former Nazi. Who knows how I would have acted in his situation? The will to survive is human nature. But what genuinely upsets me is that someone can keep a secret like that for sixty years…”

Until he landed on Henning Kirchhoff’s dissection table, thought Pia, but she didn’t say it out loud.

“… and that there was only one person in the whole world who knew the truth.”

Pia certainly doubted that. There were at least two other people who knew the truth: the person who had killed Goldberg, Schneider, and Anita Frings, and the person who wanted to prevent the whole story from coming out.

*   *   *

Thomas Ritter took a drag of his cigarette and cast a sullen glance at the clock. Quarter past twelve. Katharina had called him and told him to be at the parking lot in front of the Luxemburg Castle in Königstein at eleven. Somebody would show up there and give him something. He’d been punctual and had been waiting now for a whole wasted hour, getting more and more annoyed. Ritter knew full well that the manuscript had weaknesses, but he was insulted by Katharina’s comment that his work was of no commercial value. No scandalous revelations, no best-seller potential. Damn it! Now Katharina had promised to get hold of some new material, but he couldn’t imagine what she could pull out of her hat on such short notice. Did she have proof that Eugen Kaltensee’s fatal accident was murder after all? In any case, Katharina’s sales manager was planning a first printing of 150,000 copies. The publishing house’s marketing people were planning strategy, scheduling interviews with the biggest German magazines, and negotiating with a major tabloid about an exclusive prepublication excerpt. All of this was putting Ritter under enormous pressure.

He flicked his cigarette out the open window with the other butts he’d already smoked and met the punishing gaze of a grandmother dragging her old and infirm poodle behind her. An orange Mercedes flatbed truck turned into the parking lot and stopped. The driver got out and looked around, searching for something. Astonished, Ritter recognized Marcus Nowak, the contractor, who two years before had restored to its original condition the old mill on the Kaltensee estate of Mühlenhof, and as thanks had been slandered and duped. Because of him, a disagreement with Vera had resulted, which, in turn, had ruined Ritter’s life overnight, turning him into an outcast. Nowak had spotted him and came over.

“Hello,” he said, standing next to Ritter’s car.

“What do you want?” Ritter gave him a suspicious look and made no move to get out of the car. He had no desire to be drawn into anything else by Nowak.

“I’m supposed to give you something,” Nowak said, visibly nervous. “And I also know someone who can tell you more about Vera Kaltensee. Follow me in your car.”

Ritter hesitated. He knew that Nowak was a victim of the Kaltensee family, just as he was, but he still didn’t trust him. What did this man have to do with the information that Katharina had promised? He couldn’t allow any mistakes, especially not now during this extremely sensitive phase of his plan. And yet he was curious. He took a deep breath and noticed that his hands were shaking. No big deal. He needed this material; Katharina had claimed it was sensational. Marleen wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours yet, and he had nothing better to do. So having a conversation with this person whom Nowak knew couldn’t hurt.

*   *   *

Bodenstein’s sister-in-law Marie-Louise squinted as she looked at the fuzzy black-and-white photo that Renate Kohlhaas’s secretary had provided.

“Who’s this supposed to be?” she asked.

“Is it possible that this woman was at Vera Kaltensee’s birthday party last Saturday?” Bodenstein asked. Pia had suggested the idea of questioning the staff of the Schlosshotel. She was firmly convinced that the murderer wasn’t killing at random and that there was some connection between Anita Frings and Vera Kaltensee.

“I’m not sure,” replied Marie-Louise. “Why do you want to know?”

“The woman was found dead this morning,” he said, realizing his sister-in-law wouldn’t give up until she found out what this was about.

“Then it could hardly have had anything to do with our food.”

“Of course not. So, what do you think?”

Marie-Louise examined the photo again and shrugged. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll ask the serving staff,” she said. “Come with me. Would you like a bite to eat?”

It was impossible for Bodenstein to refuse this tempting offer. When it came to food, he suffered from regularly recurring attacks of a shocking lack of discipline. He followed his sister-in-law eagerly into the huge restaurant kitchen, which was already buzzing with activity. It took several hours each day to prepare the extravagant culinary creations of Maître Jean-Yves St. Clair, but the result was sensational every time.

“Hello, Papa.” In Bodenstein’s opinion, Rosalie was standing much too close to the great chef, and her cheeks were much too flushed. St. Clair was not above chopping the vegetables himself. He looked up and grinned.

“Ah, Olivier! Is the Kripo now checking on gastronomy?”

More likely checking on thirty-five-year-old star chefs who turn the heads of nineteen-year-old apprentices, thought Bodenstein, but he said nothing. As far as he knew, St. Clair always behaved with complete propriety toward Rosalie—to her deep regret. Bodenstein chatted with the Frenchman and asked about Rosalie’s progress. In the meantime, Marie-Louise had fixed up a plate of all sorts of delicacies, and as he munched on an unbelievable selection of lobster, sweetbreads, and blood sausage, she showed the photo to her staff.

“Yes, she was there on Saturday,” a young woman from the serving staff reminded her. “The old woman in the wheelchair.”

Rosalie also took a look at the picture. “That’s right,” she confirmed. “All you had to do was ask Oma; she sat right next to her.”

“Oh, really?” Bodenstein took back the photo.

“Why are you asking about her?” Rosalie asked curiously.

“Rosalie! Do I have to wash all these vegetables by myself?” St. Clair roared from the depths of the kitchen, and the girl vanished like lightning. Bodenstein and his sister-in-law exchanged glances.

“Apprentice years are no picnic.” Marie-Louise permitted herself an amused smile before she again frowned as she remembered something that she still had to do before the service really got going in an hour. Bodenstein thanked her for the snack and, much fortified, left the Schloss Bodenstein.

*   *   *

Professor Elard Kaltensee made excuses for his mother when Bodenstein appeared at Mühlenhof in the early evening. The news of the violent death of her friend had affected her so much that she’d accepted a sleeping pill from her doctor and was now asleep.

“But do come in.” Kaltensee gave the impression he’d been just about to leave the house, yet he didn’t seem in a hurry. “May I offer you something to drink?”

Bodenstein followed him into the salon and politely declined the offer of a drink. His gaze wandered to the windows. He could see armed security men patrolling in pairs.

“I see you’ve increased your security precautions considerably,” he remarked. “Is there some reason for that?”

Elard Kaltensee poured himself a cognac and remained standing behind an easy chair, an absent expression on his face. The death of Anita Frings obviously had moved him as little as that of Goldberg or Schneider, but something was on his mind. The hand holding the cognac glass was shaking, and he looked bleary-eyed.

“My mother suffers from paranoia. Now she thinks that she’ll be the next one lying in the front hall with a bullet in the back of her head. That’s why my brother called out his troops.”

Bodenstein was amazed at the cynicism audible in Kaltensee’s voice.

“What can you tell me about Anita Frings?” he asked.

“Not much.” Kaltensee’s bloodshot eyes were pensive. “She was a childhood friend of my mother from East Prussia, and she lived in East Germany. Her husband died a few years after the Wall fell, and she moved into the Taunusblick.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“On Saturday at my mother’s birthday party. I’d never spoken with her all that much, so it would be an exaggeration to say that I knew her well.”

Elard Kaltensee took a swallow of his cognac.

“Unfortunately, we have no idea which direction to take in our investigation of the murders of Schneider and Anita Frings,” Bodenstein admitted. “It would be a great help if you could tell me more about your mother’s friends. Who might have something to gain from the death of these three elderly individuals?”

“I really don’t know,” replied Kaltensee with polite disinterest.

“Goldberg and Schneider were killed with the same weapon,” Bodenstein said. “The ammunition was vintage World War Two. And at all three murder scenes, the number one one six four five was left behind. We assume that it’s a date, but we don’t know why it’s significant. What does the date January sixteenth, 1945, mean to you?”

Bodenstein observed the neutral expression of the man standing in front of him and waited in vain for some sign of emotion.

“On January sixteenth, 1945, Magdeburg was obliterated in an Allied bombing raid,” said Kaltensee, now speaking as the historian he was. “On that day, Hitler left his secret headquarters in the Wetterau valley and moved with his staff to the bunker underneath the Reich Chancellery, which is where he would die.”

He paused for a moment.

“In January 1945, my mother and I fled from East Prussia. Whether it was precisely on the sixteenth, I don’t know.”

“Do you remember that time?”

“Only vaguely. I have no vivid memories because I was so young. Sometimes I think that some of my memories are really the result of watching films and TV documentaries over the years.”

“How old were you then, if I may ask?”

“You may.” Kaltensee turned the now-empty glass in his hands. “I was born on August twenty-third, 1943.”

“Then you could hardly remember much,” said Bodenstein. “You were less than two years old.”

“Strange, isn’t it? Though I’ve been back to my old homeland several times since then. Maybe I’m just imagining it all.”

Bodenstein wondered whether Elard Kaltensee knew about Goldberg’s secret. He was having a hard time reading this man. Suddenly, he had an idea.

“Did you actually know your biological father?” he asked, and he couldn’t miss the astonishment that flitted across Kaltensee’s face.

“Why do you ask?”

“You can’t be the son of Eugen Kaltensee.”

“That’s true. My mother never found it necessary to tell me the identity of my progenitor. I was adopted by my stepfather when I was five years old.”

“What was your name before that?”

“Zeydlitz-Lauenburg. Like my mother. She wasn’t married.”

Somewhere in the house, a clock struck the hour with seven melodious chimes.

“Could Goldberg have been your father?” Bodenstein asked. Kaltensee managed a pained smile.

“For God’s sake! What a horrible thought.”

“Why?”

Elard Kaltensee turned to the sideboard and poured himself another cognac. “Goldberg couldn’t stand me,” he said. “And the feeling was mutual.”

Bodenstein waited for him to go on, but he did not.

“How did your mother happen to know him?” he asked.

“He was probably from a nearby town. He went to secondary school with my mother’s brother, after whom I was named.”

“That’s odd,” said Bodenstein. “Then your mother must have known the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“That in reality Goldberg was not a Jew.”

“Excuse me?” Kaltensee’s surprise seemed genuine.

“During the autopsy, a blood-type tattoo was found on his upper left arm—a tattoo only members of the SS had.”

Kaltensee stared at Bodenstein, and a vein was throbbing at his temple. “Which would have made it even worse, had he been my father,” he said without a trace of a smile.

“We assume that this was the reason the Goldberg case was taken out of our hands,” Bodenstein went on. “Somebody is interested in keeping Goldberg’s true identity secret. But who?”

Elard Kaltensee didn’t reply. The shadows under his bloodshot eyes seemed to have deepened; he looked quite ill. He sank down heavily into an easy chair and rubbed his face.

“Do you think that your mother knew Goldberg’s secret?”

Kaltensee thought over this possibility for a moment.

“Who knows?” he said bitterly. “A woman who refuses to tell her son the identity of his biological father would certainly be capable of playing a role for sixty years.”

Elard Kaltensee did not like his mother. But why, then, did he continue to live under the same roof with her? Was he hoping that one day she would disclose his true origin? Or was there more behind it? And if so, what?

“Schneider was in the SS, too,” said Bodenstein. “The basement of his house is a regular Nazi museum. He also had the same type of tattoo.”

Elard Kaltensee stared mutely into space, and Bodenstein would have given much more than a penny for his thoughts.