The Stolen (12 page)

‘Oh, and before I forget, I also brought you this…' Klauser reached back into the briefcase and brought out an LP record. Matthias stared down at the cover incredulously.

‘A first pressing of “Serenade to a Cuckoo”? Jesus, where did you get this?'

‘I have my sources. Besides, I'm a fellow Jethro Tull fan, probably one of four in the canton. Here, take it – it's yours.'

Seriously tempted, Matthias studied the black vinyl disc. It would complete his own collection. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me into helping you? I mean, why come to me?' he asked cautiously.

‘You have an open face. Your father does not, despite all his charity work.' Klauser leaned forward. ‘You want to know why I visit you? Because no one can control what I do. There are some who would like me simply to stop asking questions. Difficult questions about the nature of trade and ownership in times of war. We come from a pragmatic nation, you and I. I like to think I try to keep it an honest one in my own small way. When I first met you I had the impression you had similar sentiments. For example, the way you refuse to work with DARPA, the rumour that you are trying to keep your research for non-military technology.'

‘You are well-informed.'

‘It's my business to be. So will you help me? I can't pretend this is not a dangerous proposition, Matthias, but I think I'm right in assuming you are not a man who scares easily.'

‘If I do, it's because I choose to.'

‘I want you to give the book back to Herr Christoph von Holindt, and report on his reaction.'

‘Is that all?'

‘That's all for now. Delicious coffee, by the way.' Klauser slipped off the stool, leaving the record on the kitchen bench.

Matthias had started to walk him to the door when Liliane stepped into the kitchen, still in her dressing gown, looking hungover, her hair all over her face and her make-up smudged, Matthias observed with some dismay. He had no choice but to introduce the two.

‘Liliane, this is Herr Detective Klauser. He has kindly returned some stolen property of the family's. Detective, my daughter, Liliane – who is a little the worse for wear this morning.'

‘Oh, we've met,' Klauser told Matthias. ‘
Guete morge
, Fräulein von Holindt.'

‘
Guete morge
,' Liliane replied warily. ‘Last year, Papa, Herr Klauser was there when they interrogated me. He was one of the good guys.'

‘I'll take that as a compliment.' Klauser smiled at Liliane. ‘Nice meeting you again.'

‘You too,' she growled as she made a beeline for the coffee.

‘You're very late up, are you sure you haven't got a hangover?' Matthias peered over suspiciously.

‘Of course not; I'm under house arrest, remember?' she snapped back, hiding her face under her hair. Shrugging, Matthias escorted the bemused detective out of the room.

Back in the kitchen Liliane stared at the book. Could her grandfather have been involved with Nazi plunder knowingly? She pulled it towards her and it fell open at an illustration of four clocks, clocks that were instantly familiar.

 

 

Latcos leaned over and took a light from the small caravan stove, inhaling deeply on his cigarette. He glanced over at his mother, still huddled in her bed. He reached into his pocket. ‘She's of our blood. She looks exactly like you when you were young.' He handed Keja the gold bangle. Out of all the women in the camp his mother had always been the best at reading the shape of people – from a lock of hair, an abandoned earring. If there was anything to glean from the young girl whose dark eyes were from his family, Keja would know.

Sitting at the edge of the tiny kitchen table, wrapped in an old blanket, Keja lifted the bangle and held it to her forehead. A moment later she opened her eyes. ‘She is my
chaveske chikni
, my granddaughter; she is
us
. You must watch her. There is much darkness around her.' Suddenly the sick woman's eyes welled up. ‘There has been too much death – and this time I will not allow it!' She slammed her fist onto the table.

 

 

The reception room of the customs office exuded a formality that, Matthias guessed, was designed to intimidate. Until then he'd managed to ignore it.

‘It is not customary to release records going back that far.' The bureaucrat, a glassy-eyed blonde whose outsized shoulder pads gave her the look of an Amazonian warrior, was failing to respond to Matthias's usual charm. A customs officer, who obviously took the custodian aspects of her job seriously, stood poised at a door behind which Matthias could see dozens of filing cabinets, containing the import/export records of every business in the Zürich canton since the nineteenth century. If any damning information existed it would be stored in there.

‘But, Fräulein' – the address was a deliberate compliment on Matthias's account; the woman was at least forty – ‘as a von Holindt I am privy to such information.'

‘But the company itself would keep its own records.' She had a natural distrust of handsome men – and if they were powerful, more so. ‘Why don't you consult those?'

Matthias placed his hand on her arm, an audacious but effective move and despite her prejudices she found herself both flattered and excited by his touch. ‘I would like this to stay between you and me, but my father's memory hasn't been good since his heart attack. I'm sure you understand how it could be awkward' – he gestured helplessly – ‘if that news got out…'

She blushed at his confidence in her discretion, exactly the reaction Matthias was looking for.

‘Of course, of course, Herr Professor. What
were
the years you were looking for?'

‘Nineteen forty-two to nineteen forty-five.'

He kept his voice level, as if they were normal years, years where nothing of any significance had ever happened. But she turned round sharply. ‘Are you sure Herr Christoph von Holindt would approve?'

‘Fräulein, I have a duty to protect my father.'

Twenty minutes later the bureaucrat watched Matthias leave with a folder full of photocopied records. But the spell was broken. Why had the son wanted the records and why those specific years? She reached for the telephone and dialled a number her superior had been very insistent she memorise. The call was answered immediately.

 

It was only after he'd walked past St Peterskirche twice that Matthias realised he had been walking aimlessly for the past half hour trying to assimilate the implications of what he'd just read. He had always been aware that his father had right-wing sympathies, but to have actually had business dealings with the Nazis… that was an active commitment to fascism.

The records showed that between 1940 and 1944 the Holindt Watch Company had received regular shipments of what were described as raw materials from Nazi Germany. It was impossible to see what the raw materials actually consisted of, but all the evidence indicated that these shipments were most likely gold or perhaps gold objects ready to be melted down. There appeared to be no exports back to Germany – which meant some of this raw material might still be stored in the vaults.
If it was there, it would be evidence of wartime criminal activity. Mein Gott, Papa, what have you done?
Overwhelmed, Matthias sat on a bench staring out at a well-dressed schoolboy of about six or seven feeding birds with his nanny in a park. There was something unbearably lonely about the boy's manner – the way he carefully poured out the bird seed in small piles then stood very still as he was surrounded by a cloud of descending pigeons. Matthias tried to think back to his own childhood. He had been born during the war so he had little memory of the actual war years. The presence of refugees in the city, the pervading sense of isolation and an ongoing terror of invasion – to him these were just the anecdotes of his parents' generation. His earliest memory was one of loss, of a name being whispered, the musky smell of a woman and a curtain of black hair falling across his pram. He must have been very young, a baby, and sometimes he wondered whether the memory was a dream he'd appropriated as fact, yet the image was sunk into him like a bruise. He needed to talk to someone, confide his fears.

There was only one person he could think of that he trusted.

Thomas Mueller, the CEO of Mueller Bank, studied Matthias, who'd slumped back against the plush maroon leather chair after finishing his diatribe.

‘Before you jump to conclusions, I'm sure it was probably an innocent business transaction, with a German individual who might or might not have been a member of the Nazi Party. You know your father – he's an ethical man, but he is also a company man. You forget how Switzerland was surrounded by the Axis nations, Germany was threatening to invade and we all did what we needed to in order to survive. Really, Matthias' – the banker, his wide jowly face suffused with an aura of natural benevolence, paused to offer Matthias a cigar, which he declined – ‘I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill. You know me; I would tell you otherwise if I thought as much.'

Matthias searched the man's face. He'd known Thomas for as long as he could remember – he was Christoph's closest friend, the company's banker and Liliane's godfather. It had been Thomas who had suggested Christoph employ Marie; it had also been Thomas who'd mentored and sponsored his wife through university. Then, after her death, he'd become a surrogate uncle to Matthias.

‘So you think I should just ignore the records?' Matthias leaned forward. ‘I mean, Thomas, this isn't just one shipment – and then there's Klauser…'

‘Ah yes, the curious Detective Klauser, an interesting man, but a little paranoid, don't you think? Now tell me about your father, I hear rumours he's standing down?'

‘Christoph wants me to take over…'

‘You will?'

‘How? I have my work, the laboratory… Maybe you can talk to him?'

‘I'll try. Wim Jollak, of course, is the obvious choice. Now, if you don't mind, I have some appointments.' Thomas got up and led Matthias to the door. ‘But tell me, how's my lovely goddaughter?'

‘Struggling a little. In all honesty, it's hard, without Marie.'

‘Hard for us all… Matthias, I'll have one of my chats with her in the next few weeks, I promise.'

‘I'd appreciate that.' Matthias smiled back, thankful for the support.

 

Matthias got into his car and sat behind the wheel trying to work through the myriad of emotions he felt, his instinct telling him one thing, his intellect another. He tried to imagine what Marie would have advised –
follow the paper trail and your gut instinct
, he thought, remembering her favourite motto. She had believed there was often a rational reason behind an intuitive sense, as if instinct had merely registered something unconsciously before registering it consciously. It was a philosophy Matthias had adopted both in his life and in his research techniques and it had yet to fail him. Reaching a decision, he decided to apply it. He climbed out of the car, locked it and began walking towards the Holindt Watch Company's main showroom.

As he hurried across the street an auburn-haired woman in her mid-thirties, in jeans, high heels and duffel coat hurried past him. As she did, her heel caught in the cobblestones and she fell, her briefcase dropping to the ground, spilling several old leather books onto the snow. Matthias rushed over to help her up.

‘Are you okay?'

‘Don't help me, save the books!' she said impatiently. ‘They're valuable, and I can't afford to get them wet.' She pushed herself back onto her feet as Matthias reached for two books, both anthropological texts.

‘Stupid heels,' she muttered, Matthias now noticing that she was rather good-looking, her
Schweizerdeutsch
tinted by a strong American accent as she took the offered books with one hand while holding the broken-heeled shoe in the other. ‘Serves me right for not changing into boots, but it was only meant to be a short trip.' Without asking, she leaned against Matthias's shoulder as she slipped the books back into the briefcase, then peered short-sightedly up at his face.

‘I know you, don't I?'

He stiffened. He was seen occasionally in the social pages, accompanying Christoph at high-profile events, so sometimes people mistakenly thought they knew him.

‘From on campus, maybe?' she persisted. ‘I'm Helen Thorton, Anthropology.'

He glanced over at the showroom. The abrupt sense that he was being watched made him edgy. ‘No, I don't think so. Are you all right now? I can help you to your car but I have an appointment…'

Helen, who'd never completely adjusted to the formality of the Swiss despite five years of living in the country, struggled with the palpable frostiness of the man standing before her. His face was familiar and she had a feeling it was through university circles, although he was good-looking enough to be an actor or TV star. She snapped off the offending heel and slipped on the shoe.

‘I can manage – thanks anyway.' Turning, she began half-hobbling back to her car. It was only after she'd climbed into the seat that she remembered where she'd seen him before – there was a photograph of him pinned up on the physics department notice board – Matthias von Holindt, the wunderkind of Swiss physics. Flushed with embarrassment, she looked across the road. The physicist was staring into the window of a luxury showroom. He seemed a little lost and there was something endearingly vulnerable about him despite his towering height. It was only now that she noticed the showroom was for the Holindt Watch Company – his father's own company.

 

The front window was discreet, so discreet it was almost impossible to tell that it was actually a display of watches. The entrance was a heavy oak door with a video camera installed above it so that the ever-present security guards on the other side could screen visitors. Over the buzzer was a brass plaque with the company's insignia engraved on it: that distinctive square divided into triangles, the same design Matthias remembered had been found on the murdered gypsy's body only days earlier. Standing before it Matthias didn't even bother to press the buzzer. He just looked directly up at the video camera lens and smiled. A second later he was buzzed in.

 

‘
Guete tag
, Herr Professor von Holindt. I'm afraid Herr Guth is out. Did you not make an appointment with his secretary?'

Matilde Jools, the showroom's second-in-command, whose immaculate uniform of a black Chanel suit and pearls had not changed in the twenty years she'd worked for the company, stepped out from behind the gleaming desk that was surrounded by display cases, their contents twinkling under discreet spotlights. Two security guards stood by the elevators and there was one permanently stationed by the front door. Again Matthias found himself wondering how the murdered gypsy ever imagined he'd be able to break in to such a fortress.

‘Oh, it is such a minor thing I didn't want to disturb him. I have to check some tax records for the board – one of the shareholders had some questions; it's all very tedious, but it has to be done, and Father, well, you know all about my father. I didn't really want to bother him any more than I have to. He's terribly fragile, you know.'

‘So I believe. The records are kept in the basement, Herr Professor; I'll send Claus down with you to show you the way. But if you want to wait for Herr Guth he will be back soon.'

Matthias glanced at the clock over the elevator.

‘Normally I would love to, but I have to get back to the laboratory.'

‘I understand.' She gave a curt nod to one of the burly security guards. They entered the lift, Matthias painfully aware of the bulky revolver he wore at his waist.

The elevator opened out on the basement. Closest to Matthias were the most recent records, housed in two rows of ugly metal filing cabinets painted hospital green. Behind them were the nineteenth-century records, in wooden cabinets. Against the back wall, he knew, was a row of even older, more ornate wooden filing cabinets, the contents of which went back more than 150 years.

‘You don't have to wait, Claus. I'll be a while.'

The guard smiled. ‘Oh, it's what I'm paid for. How is Herr Christoph? We were all very upset by his illness. The place is very quiet without his visits.'

‘Oh, you know my father, fighting with his body and now with everyone else,' Matthias said, wondering if the guard had been instructed to watch him. He reached into his pockets and exclaimed, ‘Oh damn, I've left my glasses upstairs.'

‘That's all right, Herr Professor, I'll fetch them for you.'

‘That's very kind. They're in my briefcase, on the desk.'

As the sound of the ascending elevator faded, Matthias opened the cabinet marked 1940 to 1945 and flicked quickly through the hanging files. They all looked legitimate until he came to the file marked 1942. It was empty. He lifted it out and held it up to the light. There was a dust mark where the original paperwork had sat and there was also a faint smudge reading ‘1868 A', as if an embossed ink reference number had marked itself against the cardboard cover of the file. Behind him he heard the lift click as it began descending. Matthias quickly replaced the empty file then bolted over to the cabinet that would contain 1868 and looked under ‘A'. At the very back was a modern-looking envelope. The lift was almost at the basement. Matthias shoved the envelope deep into his jacket and was in front of the late-twentieth-century cabinet just as the lift doors pinged open.

 

Back in the safety of the Citroën Matthias pulled out the envelope and carefully opened it. Inside was a letter.

Matthias stared disbelievingly. All the stories of Christoph's activities during the war erased in an instant: stories about funding refugees, giving money to the White Rose resistance group – all lies to smokescreen his real activities. There was no doubt the gold was war plunder, seized by the SS. Matthias knew there was a German branch of the von Holindts, but Christoph never spoke about them. Who exactly was cousin Rudolf? And where exactly was this factory in Basel?

As he pulled away from the kerb a BMW pulled up at the lights – a burly, broad-shouldered man with a shaven head of Slavic appearance sat at the wheel, with a second man, shorter and younger, in the passenger seat. Both watched as the Citroën turned into a side road. A few moments later the BMW followed.

 

It was past ten by the time Matthias returned to Küsnacht. He'd spent the rest of the afternoon struggling with the equation that had been haunting him for the past few days. He'd worked six hours straight, but as soon as he stopped his research the letter and its contents flooded straight back into his thoughts. Now the incriminating evidence felt like it was burning through the fabric of his jacket, branding him
the child of a Nazi
. He was torn between destroying the letter, thus saving the reputation of the company and Christoph terrible persecution, or behaving ethically. The shadow of the war still fell over Europe, the collective horror of nightmares playing out in the apartments of Paris, West Berlin, in the bleak Soviet accommodation of Moscow – trauma stamped on the DNA of generations: those living and those waiting to be born. He felt the shadow now, like a chill across his skin.

He parked his car in the driveway and, with his briefcase under his arm, began down the curved garden path. As he walked he had the feeling someone else was nearby, just the sound of a night bird's wings fluttering in the crisp winter air startled him. He swung round but saw only the patina of moonlight catching at the flagstones. Nevertheless his unease grew, and he hurried across the front lawn.

Suddenly he felt a violent push from behind. He hit the snow-covered grass face-first, his hands breaking his fall as his briefcase flew onto the ground in front of him. He couldn't move and realised someone was pinning him down, and he saw a pair of feet in rubber overshoes and gloved hands reaching for his briefcase. Then he saw his technical papers falling to the ground quickly, one after another, apparently of no interest to his assailants. Matthias, as angry as he was frightened, tried to shout, kicking out and struggling, attempting to hurl the man on his back off him, but the man was heavy and strong and pushed his face into the snow. Finally he was hauled to his feet, arms pinned back. Now he could see that his assailants wore balaclavas, and he could smell the incongruous whiff of kirsch on the breath of the one who had him in a tight grip.

‘What do you want?' Matthias managed to say, as the smaller man who had plundered his briefcase searched his jacket, finding the envelope in his inside pocket. The man stepped back, waving the envelope at his partner. Whatever the gesture meant Matthias did not find out, because a dark form leaped from the bushes. Matthias felt and heard a meaty smack behind his head, and a rip of cloth, and the grip on him loosened instantly. He swung round to see the large mask-clad figure staggering away and instinctively kicked him between the legs. The dark figure was already out of view. Matthias turned to see a young gypsy holding a knife to the smaller man's neck.

Matthias snatched the envelope from his hand. At the same moment the man drove his elbow into the gypsy's ribs and both attackers fled, one clutching a bleeding arm.

Matthias ran over and retrieved his papers then turned to his rescuer, who appeared cut on the cheek.

‘Are you OK?' The gypsy spoke German with a strong accent.