Miles powered down his laptop. He turned to Jaeger. ‘You say you’re certain it’s Jones. Is there any way we can get absolute proof?’
‘Even if we do, it doesn’t prove that Kammler’s alive,’ Jaeger reasoned. ‘One doesn’t follow from the other.’
‘It doesn’t,’ Miles agreed. ‘But I have a separate – as yet uncorroborated – report suggesting Kammler may still be with us. More of that shortly. If we can be certain this is Jones, we may be able to use him to lead us to Kammler.’
Miles was right. Jones was a fighter and a killer, but he wasn’t necessarily the sharpest tool in the box. He might blunder, and that might lead them to the kingpin.
‘I reported the murders forty-eight hours ago,’ Jaeger announced. ‘The police investigation will be well under way. It’s got to be high-profile: eight people – a film crew and historians – murdered in a secret Nazi bunker. It’ll hit the press, and that will flush out more detail.’
‘It should,’ Miles confirmed. ‘I’ll use our sources and dig up as much as I can. Plus I’ll find a way to quietly pass them a copy of this film, if you don’t mind.’
‘Please do. It’s been bugging me. Feeling kind of guilty.’
A steely look came into Miles’s eyes. ‘Well don’t. What we’re about here – trust me, it’s far bigger than whatever happened at St Georgen.’
Silver-haired, blue-eyed and with a neatly trimmed beard, Miles had to be in his late seventies. His air of calm compassion masked an iron will and an unshakeable determination to do the right thing. A young Jewish boy during the war, he’d been saved from the Nazi death camps at the eleventh hour and brought to Britain, though his family had all perished in the camps. The experience of losing a family had been his bond with Jaeger. With his quietly spoken transatlantic accent, Miles was a citizen of the world and Jaeger trusted him absolutely.
‘We can hoover up whatever media coverage there is,’ the older man continued. ‘If Kammler is alive, we have to find him…’
He left the rest unsaid. For a moment, a dark quiet settled over the room.
They all knew what such a man was capable of.
21
Unexpectedly, unbidden, a voice shattered the silence of the bunker.
‘Trust me – Kammler is alive.’
It had come from the entranceway, and to Jaeger it was immediately and powerfully familiar. It sent a shiver – and not an entirely unpleasant one – up his spine.
He whipped around. There, framed in the doorway, was an unmistakable figure: Irina Narov. How long she’d been standing there, he wasn’t certain.
‘Narov!’ he exclaimed.
By way of answer, she stalked over to where Miles was standing and tossed something onto the table. It looked to Jaeger like a memory card.
‘Play it.’
Miles couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘Hello, Irina, nice to see you again, and welcome back.’
Narov turned away without a word. She was limping slightly, dragging her right leg. As she went to take a seat, her gaze swept across Jaeger and Raff, her eyes blazing. ‘Pay attention, you two. This very nearly cost me my life.’
‘Jesus,’ Raff muttered, ‘talk about making an entrance.’
Miles picked up the memory card. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving us a little background. An idea maybe of where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to these past few weeks. Context – so we can better appreciate whatever may be on this.’
‘Just play it.’
Miles rolled his eyes. Irina clearly was not in a talkative mood.
He slotted the card into the laptop, clicked his mouse a few times, and the images began to play. The four men sat through the surveillance footage that Narov had filmed at the Al Mohajir Tower. As home movies went, there was none better.
To top it all, when Narov had dragged the optical cord from the cubicle wall and fled, she’d left the camera running. The grand finale showed her diving through the window amidst a hail of bullets, and her subsequent freefall, followed by her pulling the chute and floating free over the Dubai skyline.
At which stage she urged Miles to kill the video. ‘The rest is boring. Just my escape.’
Miles did as she asked.
Irina Narov, Jaeger reflected. What was there to say, other than: What in the name of God have you been up to these past few days? And how on earth did you get hold of that footage? But he’d leave it to Miles to do the cross-examination. He’d learnt the hard way how combative Narov could be.
And as Jaeger was acutely aware, the two of them had a certain… history of recent months, which could make matters somewhat delicate. When it came to matters of the heart, Irina Narov could be particularly spiky.
Miles probed gently. Bit by bit he got the basic story out of her. Her stalking Isselhorst. The interrogation. The revelations about Hitler’s royalties. Staking out the Dubai meeting. What she had discovered.
A few details were glossed over: the gas-fuelled explosion at Isselhorst’s house being one. Occasionally Narov figured it was just better for her boss not to know. If he found out, she could always own up to it then. They were all volunteers. Freelancers. It was a question of seeking forgiveness, not permission.
When she had finished, Jaeger couldn’t resist popping the one question. ‘What got you thinking about Hitler’s royalties? I mean, what kind of mind asks: I wonder who earns the revenues from Mein Kampf? Just came to you over your cornflakes?’
Narov glared. Jaeger’s teasing was in part how he’d broken down her defences the first time. How he had melted her icy exterior. Well, she wasn’t about to fall for it again.
‘I was in Turkey. A holiday. I read a newspaper. Mein Kampf had topped the best-seller list. Again. A summer blockbuster. So naturally I wondered who was getting the revenues. As anyone would.’ She stared at Jaeger hard. ‘Anyone with half a brain, that is.’
Jaeger smiled. ‘So in between ordering a double-choc Cornetto and lathering on the suncream, you thought you’d go find out?’
Narov turned to Miles. ‘Do I really have to listen to this Schwachkopf?’
Jaeger smiled. Schwachkopf. German for dimwit or knucklehead. Narov’s favourite insult, for him especially.
It felt great to have her back.
‘I think we’re all a little curious,’ Miles ventured. ‘As Einstein once said: “Imagination is more important than knowledge, for knowledge is limited, while imagination embraces the entire world.” And I have to say, Irina, your mind – your imagination – is perhaps a little more all-encompassing than most. We’re just trying to understand, so we can better assess our next moves.’
‘Very well. I called the publisher.’ Narov turned on Jaeger. ‘And yes, before you ask, it was from my hotel, poolside. The man was very guarded. It turned out someone else had been making similar enquiries. An investigative journalist. A German. He had ended up very dead.
‘A certain figure had recently laid claim to Hitler’s entire literary estate,’ Narov continued, ‘including all the Führer’s back-earnings. Any idea how much money we are talking about? Millions of dollars. I found out who the lawyer was: Erich Isselhorst. The rest you know.’
Miles rubbed his chin pensively. ‘Well, not exactly. I mean, how does someone claiming Hitler’s royalties lead you to suspect it was Hank Kammler? I for one don’t get it.’
‘Me too,’ Raff growled. ‘You lost me.’
Narov sighed. ‘The journalist who was killed, he had also been tortured. Someone had carved an image into his living flesh. A Reichsadler…’