"But, Georg, I don't think he can get all four of us out," Heinrich said.
"He's right. We must prepare our own plans," Alfred agreed. "We will need new identities," Franz mused.
"I have seen to that already. Months ago I had false documents prepared for some very special friends of mine," Georg said with a smile. "One of the benefits of working in the secret service is that you meet some interesting criminal types with unexpected . . . talents. I will provide you all with new identities. But you all must be ready to flee the moment I tell you. I'd suggest that you pack your bags now."
"Neither of us will have a problem," Heinrich assured him, speaking for himself and Alfred.
"I'm currently on leave. No one will be expecting me back at the front right away. Tomorrow when we reach Berlin, I'll request the transfer." Franz nodded.
"Sehr gut," said Georg. "And now, let's think about life after Germany. ..."
Alfred Tannenberg was nervous.
They had traveled most of the night and arrived in Berlin as the sun was rising. Zieris, the camp commander, had tried to worm out of him why they were leaving in such a rush. Alfred had cut him off short; he and Heinrich were going to Berlin by order of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt, the Reich Security Headquarters.
Heinrich suggested they each stop first to see their parents briefly and to freshen up before presenting themselves at the RSHA, which Alfred thought a splendid idea. He was looking forward to giving his father a great bear hug, even listening to his mother's prattle—he was sure she would tell him how thin he'd gotten.
At eight a.m. sharp, the two officers presented themselves in Georg's office, where they also found Franz. After raising their arms in salute, the four embraced one another warmly.
"It's simply a matter of days now before the whole thing collapses," Georg told them. "The Russians have broken through. Hitler has gone mad, I think, and no one is giving orders. We must go."
"What will Himmler say?" asked Alfred.
"I have convinced Himmler that I should go to Switzerland and meet with a group of our agents there. In light of the course the war was taking, I convinced him of the need to make preparations months ago. We have people in several countries making arrangements for our arrival after the fall of the Reich."
George took three file folders from a box and handed one to each of his friends, who pored over their new identity documents.
"You, Heinrich, will go to Lisbon, and from there to Spain. We have good friends among General Franco's circle. Your name will be Enrique Gomez Thomson. Your father is Spanish, but your mother is English, which is why you don't speak the language; you've lived your entire life outside Spain. There's the number of one of my best men— Eduard Kleen, an old friend of ours from the university—who has been making arrangements for some time to take in a number of us."
Heinrich nodded without taking his eyes off the documents that would make him another man.
"How will I get to Lisbon?"
"By plane, tomorrow afternoon; let's hope the Allies don't shoot you down," Georg said with a wry smile. "Officially, you're leaving for our embassy in Lisbon; you've been made assistant to the military attache there. But when the end of the war is announced, get out of Lisbon as soon as you can; you'll be in touch with Eduard by then, and he will have your ticket ready for Spain. First, go to Madrid; you'll receive instructions from there. Eduard has done a fine job; there is nothing that friends won't do if you put a large enough stack of bills in their hands."
"And I am going to Brazil. . .," mused Franz as he looked over the information on his new passport.
"Yes. It was imperative to choose countries where no one will look for us, where we have friends, where the governments turn a blind eye and have no interest in finding out who we are. Brazil is a fine hiding place. Another of my favorite agents is there—a bon vivant—and for months he, like Eduard, has been laying the groundwork for your arrival."
"I don't speak Portuguese," Franz complained. "You'll learn. It's a good destination, Franz; be glad you're going there. We can't all go to the same place. That would be suicide."
"Georg is right," Alfred put in. He was very pleased with the identity he'd been given. He was to be a Swiss businessman from Zurich, but his final destination was Cairo. "What about you, Georg?" asked Franz.
"I'm leaving tomorrow, first to Switzerland with my uncle, and from there our American friends will transport us to their wonderful country. My parents left today; they'll remain in Switzerland with false identities. As for your parents, talk to them. I need to know within two hours what they want to do. I can give them false documents and send them to Switzerland, but we must do it today; I won't be here tomorrow and I can't trust anyone but myself and you three.
"Go home, talk to your families, but be quiet about it; if any of this reaches the wrong ears, we'll all be shot. I expect you back here in two hours."
"But Himmler isn't going to let you just disappear," said Franz.
"I'm not going to disappear. I'm going to review clandestine routes and safe areas chosen by our agents, logically including our friends in the United States. We have more there than you would imagine."
Alfred Tannenberg was impatiently awaiting his father's decision. The older man had fallen silent, lost in his own thoughts, ignoring the anguished pleas of his wife.
"Papa, please, I want you and Mama to leave," Alfred insisted.
"We will, son, we will, but I do not want to go far from Germany. Even if we lose the war, this is our country."
"Papa, there is no time. . . ."
"So be it—let us pack our bags."
It was not hard for Franz and Heinrich to convince their parents to cross the border into Switzerland, where they would follow the final events of the war cushioned by the safety net of their large Swiss bank accounts.
Georg's superb organizational skills were never more apparent. By the time his friends entered his office two hours later, he had signed visas in hand for every member of their families. They were to leave that very afternoon, that night at the latest.
As he handed over the papers and clapped his friends on the back, he invited them to his house for lunch, where they could talk at length in greater security.
Once they had settled themselves in the privacy of Georg's home, he opened the discussion. "Very well, now begins the second part— what we shall do once we expatriate."
"Get married," Franz said immediately.
"Married?" asked Heinrich.
"Yes, I've talked it over with Alfred; it's the smartest thing to do. Marry a woman native to your new home country, and right away. Alfred can't, of course, since he's already married to Greta, but the rest of us can, and should."
"You two can marry if you like. I've no intention of taking such a step," said Georg. His typical reaction was no surprise to his friends.
"I have a plan."
They all turned to Alfred, as ever respectful of his perverse intelligence, his ability to improvise even in the most difficult circumstances. He had displayed those qualities often.
"I've been thinking of this since we met in Mauthausen. We're going to need money, lots of it—more than we're going to be able to take out of Germany or that we already have in Switzerland. None of us really knows what will happen with the Allies. No matter who our friends are, they may hunt us down. We are, after all, officers of the SS; our names are well known—our parents have seen to that!" He laughed ruefully. "They must stay in Switzerland, for I fear that if the Americans begin to track down those responsible for . . . for what has happened here, some may feel that we, too, bear some of the responsibility. Our families included. We need to insulate ourselves with our own business—a very prosperous business."
They were all listening expectantly.
"We are going to dedicate ourselves to art and antiquities. We go back to our profession—are we not archaeologists?"
"Alfred, get to the point," Franz said impatiently. "Your coyness is becoming irr
itating."
"I am on my way to Cairo, Georg to the United States, you to Brazil, and Heinrich to Spain—it's perfect!" Alfred was talking more to himself than the others.
"Explain," Georg insisted.
"I still have the tablets we took from those old Jews in Haran, and the other objects we brought back. Do you remember?"
"Yes, of course," said Heinrich. "We all have our share too."
"Well, then, we shall sell antiquities, unique objects. The stuff of collectors' dreams. The Middle East is full of artifacts."
"And where are we going to find these objects?" Franz asked.
"Franz, your university studies were never your strong point," chided Alfred. "The Middle East is littered with artifacts. Ten times what is displayed in museums is still beneath the ground, just begging to be discovered."
"And how are we going to . . . discover these artifacts?"
"The governments of the Middle East are notoriously corrupt; it's all a matter of money—money to excavate, money to keep our finds. Hell, money even to buy objects already sitting in museums. There are people in the world, I assure you, willing to pay whatever we ask for certain objects. All the way from the most knowledgeable scholar to the idiot whose wife thinks a two-thousand-year-old statue might accent their living room nicely. All we have to do is dangle the bait before them.
"I will organize the business in Cairo. From there I can move through Syria, Transjordania, Iran, Palestine. ... I will supply the goods and you three will sell them. Georg, you will handle the American market, Heinrich, the European, and Franz, the Latin American. Naturally we will need covers, but we can work all that out when the time comes."
Alfred's enthusiasm was infectious. The four men let their imaginations run wild, making plans for the future.
"An import-export business, with offices in our various cities, would be an excellent cover," mused Heinrich.
"Georg, when you get to the United States you must slowly begin to organize a cultural foundation dedicated to promoting art. The Americans have so many foundations—it will fit perfectly. An association that can, in time, finance archaeological expeditions, whose finds, of course, we keep for ourselves. It's so official-sounding, so associated with charity—it's ideal," said Alfred.
"Foundations are not corporations, Alfred," said Franz.
"And neither will ours be. At least that's what people will think. It will belong to us, appear to be one thing but actually be another. Even if we walk out of Germany with all the money in the world, we need respectability. And that's exactly what this will provide," replied Alfred.
"But it isn't easy to just set up a legitimate foundation out of thin air; foundations depend on banks, universities, and I don't know what I'm going to find in the United States," Georg objected.
"You're going to find that the Americans will pay your uncle very well; they will immediately insert him into the highest academic circles and put him to work on central projects. You will meet very important people. The rest will depend on how you comport yourself—you must be able to blend in, become a part of your environment, take advantage of the doors your uncle can open for you. No, we can't create a foundation in one year, or two; first we must integrate ourselves into the societies in which we will be living. When we no longer attract attention, once we're accepted, then we put our plan into operation. Meanwhile, I will start gathering material. As for an import-export business, I think it's a good idea; Europe is going to need everything—we've razed it, and now the reconstruction will begin. Peace will make us rich!" Alfred laughed.
"Shall we sell the Haran tablets?" Georg asked.
"No. Should I find the later tablets written by this scribe Shamas, it would revolutionize the world of archaeology. All the tablets will be priceless. I will arrange further excavations in Haran, where I hope we may at last find those tablets that bear the story of the creation as told by Abraham. What did Abraham know of the creation? Was his version the same as the Bible's? All in good time—we mustn't be in too much of a hurry. But I assure you, I won't stop until I find those tablets, and when I have them we'll decide what to do, together—whatever it is, it will make history. Ever since that day in the desert, even with all we have seen since then, my greatest dream has been to find those tablets. My God, what I would give to find them!"
"You two haven't had to listen to him. Every day, for years, this madman has talked to me about the tablets," Heinrich complained. "The man is obsessed!"
"We may be secure, but what will happen to the Fiihrer?"
"Are you turning sentimental, Franz? What do we care? We can't be associated with a loser. He had a great idea for Germany, but he has lost the war; for us to share in that defeat would be absurd," was Georg's cold answer.
"But where is he?" Franz insisted.
"It seems he has been convinced to retreat into his bunker—I don't know exactly where, but I don't care either. I'm leaving here, just as you three are. He wouldn't protect us if we stayed. Let us save ourselves. He already has his place in history; now it's our turn."
They took their leave of one another, knowing that it would likely be years before they met again, but they each swore loyalty to the others until the end of their days. Their futures were bright. They were going to wrest from the bowels of the Middle East its most precious treasures. They didn't care who the artifacts belonged to, and they knew there would never be a shortage of unscrupulous collectors eager to acquire unique treasures beyond the reach of mere mortals.
They would sell them to the highest bidder.
42
lion doyle was wandering through the camp, look-
ing for answers. Someone had broken into Alfred Tannenberg's room, and it wasn't him. Either the clients who hired him had hedged their bets with a second man, or one of Tannenberg's enemies had tried to eliminate the bastard.
The Colonel's men had questioned him, of course. They'd been totally ham-handed; Lion could tell that these men were more practiced with torture as the fastest route to confession.
It had been laughably easy for Lion to breeze through the interrogation as a freelance photographer; he was a pretty good actor, if he did say so himself. And he was more than accomplished at taking on different personalities, living them out as though it were the most natural thing on earth.
He'd talked to Picot, who also had more questions than answers. Fabian and Marta were distressed, but they obviously didn't know anything, nor did Gian Maria, who was visibly shaken by what had happened.
The only person who seemed unaffected by the violence was the Croatian, Ante Plaskic. After he'd been interrogated by the Colonel's men, he'd coolly returned to his computer to finish up some work that he hadn't been able to get to yesterday.
Lion had always suspected that Ante was not what he claimed to be—he just wasn't the type to be a computer geek, any more than Lion was a photographer. And Ayed Sahadi had revealed himself to be a soldier under the command of the Colonel, although he was still wearing civilian clothes.
So Lion decided to have a little talk with Ante, to probe for a chink in his disguise and get to the bottom of what had happened. He knew it wouldn't be easy to find that opening, though, because Ante looked every bit the professional Lion was. Still, he could give it a try.
When he went into the storeroom where the Croatian was working, Lion found the village leader's son with him. The son was the leader of one of the labor details and often reported in from the excavation site; it wasn't unusual to find him with Ante in the computer house. But what was strange was that they seemed to be having a heated argument, which ended the moment Lion came in.
Lion had to admire the Croatian's cool. Ante didn't miss a beat. He sighed and said, "Lion, the workers are upset. They want to know what will happen to the village when we leave. They're afraid that one of them will be blamed for the murders, and our friend here says Professor Picot won't tell them anything. So if you know anything . . ."
"None of us should do anythin
g. I assume we'll have to stay here until this whole thing is cleared up and the murderer or murderers are caught. As for leaving—I think that decision has already been made."
Ante Plaskic turned to the young man and shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. The village leader's son spoke a few words of apology and left.
Lion stared at the computer technician, and Plaskic held his gaze. The two men measured each other for several seconds, and the tacit understanding seemed to be that if it came to a confrontation, the result would be lethal.
"What do you think happened in the house?" Lion Doyle asked, breaking the silence.
"No way to know."
"You must have an opinion."
"No. I never speculate about things unless I have all the facts." "Ah . . . well, I guess whoever it was, he's got to be here." "If you say so . . ."
They stared at each other again, and then Lion turned and walked out. The Croatian sat down at the computer, apparently completely absorbed in his work.
Ante was sure that Lion Doyle suspected him, but he also knew that the photographer had nothing on him. He'd been extremely cautious; no one knew about his relationship with Samira. From the day she arrived, the nurse had thrown coy glances his way and gone out of her way to bump into him. They would talk—actually, she would talk, he would listen. She was trying desperately to find a man to get her out of Iraq, and apparently she'd decided that that man was Ante Plaskic. He didn't know why, but it didn't matter—she never stopped throwing herself at him, and she made it clear it could go as far as he wanted it to.
He never touched her, of course. He didn't like Muslim women, even the blond, blue-eyed ones of his home country. So this dark-skinned, black-haired woman with a broad nose through which she seemed to snort rather than breathe left him cold.