Using a paring knife, Hess cut through the packing tape, sliced through the top of the envelope and slid three shrink-wrapped stacks of blank paper out onto the kitchen table. If Ingrid had decided to keep the money, why did she go to the trouble of sending a package at all? It made no sense… unless someone had gotten to her, threatened her. The package was mailed so he would be seen picking it up and followed.
Hess opened Der Spiegel, read the article, and now he had a better idea what was happening. The article mentioned his upbringing — father was a career soldier, mother a teacher and strict disciplinarian — and his Nazi party affiliation, suggesting his rapid rise was due to his relation to Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy, which was patently untrue. The article mentioned Hess and his SS murderers slaughtering six hundred Jews in the woods outside Dachau in 1943. Two survivors had escaped and identified him, although the incriminating photos of Hess posing in front of the pit filled with dead Jews would have likely been enough to convict him.
Hess walked around the house locking the doors and windows and decided, for the time being, to stay inside. The first question: who was after him? Was it Mossad? Agents from the Central Office for Nazi Crimes? The Federal Criminal Police, the Bundeskriminalamt?
Another problem: the $50,000 was money he needed to live on. Then it occurred to him that Max Hoffman had assets he could tap into. Maybe not $50,000, but something. The third bedroom, Hess remembered Max telling him, was used as an office. He went in and sat behind Max’s dark heavy desk that had brass handles and looked out of place in the small room with turquoise walls and windows that let in a lot of sunlight.
He glanced at the photograph of a woman in a wooden frame next to the phone, assuming she was Max’s former wife, a good-looking woman, late forties. Hess found Max’s bank statements and other financial information. For a teacher he was surprisingly well off, $28,000 in cash and $105,000 in bonds, plus monthly income from an annuity and a pension from the Ohio State Teacher Retirement Fund.
With the driver’s license, Hess could travel to different bank branches and withdraw money from Max’s account. But depleting the cash would take time. He could also sell the house. According to the advertisements for similar waterfront homes in the newspaper, Max’s house had to be worth at least $60,000. But that would have to wait. His more immediate concern was staying alive.
Zeller bought coffee and pastries at a bakery and arrived in the shopping-center lot at 8:15, parking with a clear view of the post-office entrance forty feet away. He sipped coffee and ate a cheese Danish, watching the shopping center come alive. At 8:30 a.m. a uniformed employee opened the post-office door. Zeller grabbed binoculars off the seat next to him, and trained them on cars pulling in, focusing on people: an elderly couple, two longhaired teenage girls standing on the sidewalk eating doughnuts, a mother pushing a stroller, shoppers pushing carts. A little after eleven, Zeller saw a stocky man in shorts and a red-and-blue cap walk along the concourse and into the post office.
Zeller trained his binoculars on the same man as he came out, carrying a package stamped with West German postal indicia. Now convinced this was Hess, Zeller watched the man return to his car, a big green Chrysler, watched him drive out of the parking lot and turn on Atlantic Boulevard. Zeller followed, saw him turn right on NE 5th Street and knew where he was going.
Zeller stopped at a hardware store on Federal Highway, bought what he needed and went back to the motel. He turned on the TV, stretched out on the bed and watched a western called Gunsmoke. From what Zeller could understand, it was about a lawman, Marshall Dillon, who had some kind of relationship with Miss Kitty, who ran a bordello.
Just after midnight, Zeller took his hardware-store purchases out to the car. It was dark and quiet. He could feel a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean, smelling the salty air. He drove over the bridge and through the neighborhood to Max Hoffman’s house, parked on the empty street next to the vacant lot. Sat for a minute, looking around. All the houses were dark. It was so quiet he could hear himself breathe. He got out of the car, walked to the rear of the house, standing on the patio, looked through the French doors into the dark interior, saw the shapes of furniture. Behind him, a breeze ruffled the canvas awning. He saw a light coming toward him on the waterway and heard a boat go by, engine at low rpm. He took the supplies out of the paper bag and laid them on the patio stones.
The French doors had lever handles, with a simple pin-and-tumbler lock. He slid the tension wrench into the keyhole, turned it to the right, inserted the pick and started lifting the pins. Could hear them click, falling into place, the upper pins going into the housing, the lower pins into the plug. Zeller opened the door, went in, closed it and listened. Silence until the air conditioner kicked on. He glanced down, noticed the floor was tile, unzipped his boots, slipped out of them and moved toward the front of the house, arm outstretched, left hand gripping the Makarov.
Zeller walked past an open room to his left filled with big heavy furniture. Small room with a desk to his right, and next to it, a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom, bed made, currently unoccupied. He saw Hess’ bulky shape under a blanket in the second bedroom and tiptoed in.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Hess said, coming up behind him. “Very carefully, drop your weapon.”
Zeller heard him cock the hammer of a revolver, lowered the pistol and dropped it on the carpeting.
“On your knees.”
Zeller squatted and went down like he was praying. Maybe he should. Hess kicked the gun through the doorway and Zeller heard it slide on the tile floor. Hess bound his wrists and ankles with duct tape, removed his wallet from his rear trouser pocket and sat on the side of the bed. Hess opened the wallet, looked at his driver’s license.
“You are ex-Stasi, aren’t you? The Makarov gives you away. It’s no Walther but it is a fine weapon. Who sent you, Herr Zeller?”
He wasn’t going to say a word.
“Who’re you working for?”
Zeller stared at the wall. Hess got up now, moved behind him and he felt something crash into the back of his head and the lights went out.
Zeller’s head was pounding, the pain more intense now as he was coming awake. What had Hess hit him with, a sledgehammer? He tried to move his arms and legs, and couldn’t, opened his eyes, lifted his head and saw why. He was on his back on a table or workbench, wrists and ankles tied to metal rings, head hanging over one end. There was a rack of tools on the wall to his left and a vice bolted to the end of the bench just beyond his feet. He was in a two-car garage, the big green Chrysler parked next to him. He turned his head the other way and saw the door to the house was open, and now Hess appeared, whistling a Bavarian folk tune, carrying a bucket and a hand towel.
“Ah, Herr Zeller, you’re awake. I want to give you an opportunity to talk before any further unpleasantness,” Hess said, like an affable uncle. Not a nuance of menace in his voice. “What did you do to poor Ingrid?”
Zeller said nothing.
“I have been trying to reach her for several days and she doesn’t answer.” Hess placed the bucket next to Zeller’s hip. “Where is the money?”
“What money?”
“You have it or Ingrid does. I am betting on you.”
Zeller’s head hung off the end of the table at an uncomfortable angle. Hess covered his face with the towel, picked up the bucket and poured water into his breathing passages. Zeller closed his mouth, held his breath as long as he could, pulled at the ropes trying to free himself, turned his head from side to side but the water kept coming and he felt like he was drowning. Zeller heard a phone ringing, sounding faint and far away. Hess stopped pouring, set the bucket down and removed the towel.