Back in the car Hess trained the binoculars on the third-floor windows, holding for a few seconds on each, but didn’t see anyone. He didn’t have the patience for surveillance work. He would have Stigler handle it.
Gerhard Braun’s estate was in Baden-Wurttemberg outside Stuttgart. Hess parked in the circular drive, went to the door and rang the bell. The door opened. Martin, Braun’s butler and bodyguard, was looking at him quizzically in the Max Hoffman disguise. He removed the baseball cap with his left hand and smiled.
“Herr Hess,” Martin said, obviously surprised. “It has been a long time. Won’t you come in?”
Hess stepped into the foyer, drew the silenced Walther from his right sport-coat pocket and shot Martin, shell casing pinging on the tile floor. He closed the door and moved along the long hall, hearing music, Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries”, coming from Gerhard’s study.
Braun was leaning back, arms conducting an imaginary orchestra, the music building as Hess entered the room and approached the desk.
“What is that you’re wearing?”
“A baseball cap.”
“I can see that. Quite out of character, wouldn’t you say?”
“Gerhard, you look surprised to see me.”
“I didn’t recognize you.”
“Well, now that you have?”
“I thought the odds were with Zeller. He was ex-Stasi. But then you have always defied the odds, haven’t you, Ernst?”
“Zeller made a couple mistakes,” Hess said. “And all it takes is one.”
“I liked his confidence. You should have heard him. Guaranteed the day he would have you, almost guaranteed the time. It was impressive.”
“But he didn’t deliver.”
“How did you get him to talk?”
“I explained my point of view in a compelling way. In the end he was anxious to tell me everything. Even suggested phoning you and saying I was dead.”
“After the article appeared — guilty or not — you were finished. It reminds people of the war. It makes us look bad.”
“And I thought it was because you wanted the paintings.”
“That was part of it. The trouble you’re in, I didn’t think you would be able to sell them.”
“The trouble I’m in, I need money. All my accounts are frozen.”
“That’s what happens when you’re a war criminal. It happened to me after the Allied invasion.”
“What the Americans confiscated they returned, as I recall.”
“Only thirty per cent, but more than I expected. How about something to drink? Whisky, a glass of beer.” Braun pressed a button on the side of his desk. Hess heard a buzzer sound in the hall.
“If you’re looking for Martin, he’s indisposed.” Hess glanced at a Van Gogh on the wall to his left. “Where did you get that?”
“Hermann Goring. I traded a Raphael for the Park at Arles and the Portrait of Dr. Gachet. You may remember, Van Gogh’s paintings were considered degenerate art by the Führer. Goring was afraid Hitler would find out he had them in his collection.”
“I doubt that. Goring probably thought the Raphael was more valuable.”
Braun opened a humidor on the desktop, took out a cigar, clipped the end off with a cutter and lit it, blowing out puffs of smoke. “Where will you go? I imagine you still have contacts in South America.”
“I was thinking about the Côte d’Azur. Did I ever tell you I own a villa in Nice?”
“I don’t think so.”
Braun’s right hand slid off the desk and disappeared from view.
“Well, if that’s all, Gerhard, I’d better be going.” Hess knew what would happen next. He gripped the Walther behind his back and aimed it at Braun just as Braun’s right hand appeared holding a Luger, but not in time. Hess fired, hit him in the center of his chest. Gerhard’s body was blown back against the chair and slumped forward on the desktop.
Twenty-six
Joyce was recovering faster than expected and had been moved to a private room with twenty-four-hour police protection, although Conlin said he could only justify it for a couple more days since they were pretty sure Hess had left the state.
Harry went to the hospital to say goodbye.
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’d like to stay but I have to get back to work. If you ever need me just pick up the phone.”
“No, I’ll whistle, Harry. Remember?”
“Sure.” That’s what he’d said to Joyce at the Frankels’, thinking of the movie To Have and Have Not, the night Hess had surprised them.
“Say goodbye to Cordell for me.”
“He feels bad about what happened.”
“He should never have been put in that position. I’m not his responsibility. I’m not yours, either.” Joyce took a breath. “You think this is the end of it, Harry?” She looked at him as if she could read his mind. “You don’t, do you?”
“I know he’s gone. Left in a hurry. According to Conlin, Hess alias Max Hoffman flew to New York City. His name was listed on the American Airlines manifest.” They knew it wasn’t the real Max Hoffman. Police had discovered his body buried in the garden behind his house, sniffed out by a German shepherd from the K-9 unit. But he didn’t think Joyce had to hear that. “Joyce, he’s wanted in Germany and now he’s wanted here. I think he’ll just disappear.”
“Harry, you always say the right thing.”
Harry had paid for a room for Cordell at the Breakers, and bought him a plane ticket back to Detroit. With the Colombians after him Cordell was anxious to get out of town. They flew Eastern Airlines first class to Detroit, Cordell excited, up front with the high rollers, drinkin’ champagne before the plane took off and Courvoisier and Coke after it did. “Man, you do it right, Harry.”
“What are you going to do when we get back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’re you going to stay?”
“I could sleep in your basement.”
“How about the guest room?”
Cordell nodded. “What are the neighbors gonna say, you got a colored guy stayin’ with you?”
“You think I care what the neighbors say?” Harry paused. “How about a job? Try playing it straight for a change. You might like it. Nobody’ll be coming after you with a gun.”
“You makin’ conversation or makin’ an offer?”
“Know how to work a guillotine shear?”
“Yeah. Sure, Harry. Doesn’t everyone?”
“How about a grapple hook?”
“Got any jobs you need done indoors, sittin’ at a desk?”
“Become an expert at everything, one day you can buy me out.”
“That’s just what I want to do — own a scrap yard.”
Harry walked in the kitchen, put his suitcase on the floor, Cordell standing in the doorway, duffel balanced on his shoulder. “Your room’s at the top of the stairs to the left. You’ll like the floral motif.”
Cordell moved down the hall and disappeared.
Harry went to the phone and checked his messages. There were forty-two. He fast-forwarded through them, erasing the sales calls and political pitches, until he heard Colette’s voice. “Harry, I’m staying at a friend’s. Call me as soon as you can. I’ll explain everything.” Colette took a breath. “Harry, I love you.” She’d never said it before, nor had he, and it made him happy, it made him want to see her and hold her. Harry dialed the operator, gave her the phone number in Munich. It rang a dozen times and he hung up. He’d try her again later.
Twenty-seven
“That’s her,” Stigler said to Riemenschneider, sitting next to him in the front seat of his work van. He watched the blonde, in a cap and raincoat, come out of the apartment building and move down the street in a cold steady drizzle. People were walking under umbrellas and traffic was heavy. He could see a blur of headlights and taillights through the wet glass. Bauman was sitting on a toolbox in the back of the van.