There was a knock on the door, it opened and a big-boned woman, early thirties, stepped in the room. “I’m Ingrid, Herr Hess’ secretary.” Ingrid Bookmyer, whom everyone called Booky, wearing black horn-rim glasses, blonde hair tied in a bun.
“Come in and sit, won’t you. My name is Albin Zeller. I have been retained by the CSU to find Herr Hess.” It was an exaggeration of course but Ingrid Bookmyer would have no idea. He led her to a furniture grouping. She sat in one of the chairs and he on the couch across from her. She was all buttoned up in a dark suit, breasts bulging against the jacket, hemline of the skirt past her knees. Zeller was trying to decide if she was attractive or not. Wondering what she would look like without the glasses, with her hair down, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.
“How long have you worked for Herr Hess?”
“Since he purchased the airship company in 1964.”
“Are you close to him?”
She blushed. “What do you mean?”
“Are you friends? Does he confide in you?”
“I have worked for Herr Hess seven and a half years. I would say I know him quite well. I admire him. Ernst Hess is a brilliant man.”
Ingrid Bookmyer was clearly nervous, rubbing her hands together. Zeller now wondered if their relationship had been intimate. “Have you been to Herr Hess’ apartment?”
“At times he worked from there and I would drop off test results,” she said, knees together, hands flat on her thighs. Zeller said, “When did you last speak to him?”
“Twenty-ninth of September.”
“How do you remember the date?”
“I have a good memory.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“Detroit, Michigan. I didn’t know at the time, but he gave me the number at the hotel where he was staying. I phoned Herr Hess the next day to tell him about the death of Arno Rausch.”
“And you haven’t spoken to him since?”
Ingrid Bookmyer shook her head.
“You know Herr Hess is a fugitive from justice, wanted for crimes against humanity. Aid him in any way,” Zeller said with more authority, “and you will be prosecuted. Do you understand?” He could see tears in her eyes, so unless she was acting he had gotten through to her. “When you hear from Herr Hess, and I believe you will, I want you to call me at this number. It is my answering service. You can contact them any time day or night.” He handed her a card.
Zeller spent two more hours in the office. He found an address book in the desk. Opened it and scanned the entries. Hess, not surprising, was well connected. He recognized the names of well-known judges, politicians, scientists, doctors, industrialists. Gerhard Braun was included, as was Willy Brandt. But it was Leon Halip’s name that jumped out at him for being so unexpected. Leon was the best forger on the European continent, a craftsman, an artist. Zeller was under the impression Halip, a Hungarian, had retired. He was sixty-two, with crippling arthritis in his hands. Zeller would have to drive to Wiesbaden and pay him a visit.
In the credenza he found a Luger, circa ’37, and a box of nine-millimeter cartridges. The gun smelled as if it had recently been fired. That in itself didn’t mean anything. He had probably gone to a shooting range. He might even have one at his estate. Zeller found Hess AG bank statements in a file cabinet. Hess’ business account was at Deutsche Bank, listing a balance of DM270,000. Zeller checked statements going back six months and didn’t see any large cash withdrawals or wire transfers. If Hess were planning to go somewhere and start over he would need money.
Mail was piled up on the desk in Hess’ apartment, envelopes and magazines. The manager told him Herr Hess was frequently out of town, so the building concierge brought his mail to the apartment.
“Who else has a key?”
The manager said, “I have the only key, and I can assure you I monitor very closely anyone who uses it.”
Zeller opened the phone bill and scanned the calls: a dozen to a number in Schleissheim he assumed was Hess’ estate, several to a Munich phone number, a long-distance call to Wiesbaden, quite a few to Anke Kruger and half a dozen to a phone number in New York. He checked the address book he had brought from Hess’ office and traced the number to someone named J. Mauer with an address on Park Avenue in New York City.
An envelope from Deutsche Bank listed the recent checks Hess had written, and showed a current balance of DM75,349. Again, no substantial cash withdrawals or money transfers. He found Hess’ brokerage account statements in a file drawer in the desk, stocks whose current value was DM32,000. Another file held his real estate holdings. In addition to the airship company, Hess owned an office building.
In the credenza behind the desk he found a drawerful of items that, at first, made no sense: gloves, eyeglasses, bracelets, Stars of David, diamond rings, an oval locket that opened to a sepia-tone photo of a dark-haired woman, and that’s when it hit him. These were probably Hess’ war souvenirs. Almost thirty years had passed and still he hung on to them.
He knew Hess had been a Nazi party member, an SS officer on special assignment, touring concentration camps, picking up ideas, successful practices that could be used throughout the system. Hess had helped Adolf Eichmann organize the Wallersee Conference outside Berlin. Reinhard Heydrich had outlined the Reich’s plans for the final solution to the Nazi top brass. Heydrich had to have their buy-in to succeed.
Hess had also done a brief tour with Einsatzgruppen B, a killing squad in Poland, but it had not been widely publicized. After the war, Hess had started a construction company to help rebuild the cities destroyed by Allied bombs. He was a hero, a man putting the Fatherland first. According to Gerhard Braun, Hess was not getting the country back on its feet because of some altruistic feeling, it was a way to get rich. He sold the construction business in 1964 for seven million Deutschmarks, and bought the airship company.
Zeller arrived at Hess’ estate in Schleissheim, thirteen kilometers north of Munich, the next morning at eleven. A butler met him at the front door and escorted him to the salon where Frau Hess, formerly Elfriede Dinker, was seated on a couch. The butler introduced him. He shook Frau Hess’ hand and she invited him to sit in a big comfortable chair across from her. He had phoned ahead, made an appointment, telling her he had been hired by a group of concerned CSU party members to find Herr Hess.
“I have not seen or talked to Ernst for almost a month. I was visiting my mother in Ansbach. When I returned, he was gone,” she said, sounding relieved.
Frau Hess had ruddy cheeks and blonde hair pulled back in a braided ponytail. She was quiet and formal, and nearly expressionless except for an occasional twitch that made her look like she was grinning. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers intertwined. Zeller could now understand why Ernst had taken a mistress. There was nothing even remotely sexy about her. “Do you know where your husband is?”
She shook her head.
“Did Herr Hess talk about his war experiences?”
“Never.”
“But you are aware he was a member of the Nazi party?”
“I have seen photographs of Ernst in uniform, so of course I knew he was in the military. I do not believe, as the article in Der Spiegel stated, he murdered innocent people. Jews. To tell the truth, it seems out of character for a man given to philanthropic causes. Ernst pays for the health care of everyone working at the airship company. He is proud that he helped rebuild the country. Ernst loves Germany.” She paused. “Ernst and I have been estranged for some time. We are married in name only. I am the last person he would confide in. So you see, you have come all this way for nothing.”
“Is Katya at home? May I speak to her?”