First on the agenda that morning was the Reichsführer’s approval of plans for the development of the derelict north tower. These were presented by Landbaumeister Bartels, a fat, owlish little man who sat between Weisthor and Rahn. Weisthor himself seemed nervous and was quite obviously feeling the lack of his cocaine.
When the Reichsfuhrer asked him his opinion of the plans, Weisthor stammered his answer: ‘In, er . . . in terms of the, er . . . cult importance of the . . . er . . . castle,’ he said, ‘and, er ... its magical importance in any, er ... in any future conflict between, er . . . East and West, er . . .’
Heydrich interrupted, and it was immediately apparent that it was not to help the Brigadefuhrer.
‘Reichsführer,’ he said coolly, ‘since this is a court, and since we are all of us listening to the Brigadefuhrer with enormous fascination, it would I believe be unfair to you all to permit him to go any further without acquainting you of the very serious charges that have to be made against him and his colleague, Unterscharfuhrer Rahn.’
‘What charges are these?’ said Himmler with some distaste. ‘I know nothing of any charges pending against Weisthor. Nor even of any investigation affecting him.’
‘That is because there was no investigation of Weisthor. However, a completely separate inquiry has revealed Weisthor’s principal role in an odious conspiracy that has resulted in the perverted murders of seven innocent German schoolgirls.’
‘Reichsführer,’ roared Weisthor, ‘I protest. This is monstrous.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Heydrich, ‘and you are the monster.’
Weisthor rose to his feet, his whole body shaking.
‘You lying little kike,’ he spat.
Heydrich merely smiled a lazy little smile. ‘Kommissar,’ he said loudly, ‘would you please come in here now?’
I walked slowly into the room, my shoes sounding on the wooden floor like some nervous actor about to audition for a play. Every head turned as I came in, and as fifty of the most powerful men in Germany focused their eyes on me, I could have wished to have been anywhere else but there. Weisthor’s jaw dropped as Himmler half rose to his feet.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Himmler growled.
‘Some of you probably know this gentleman as Herr Steininger,’ Heydrich said smoothly, ‘the father of one of the murdered girls. Except that he is nothing of the kind. He works for me. Tell them who you really are, Gunther.’
‘Kriminalkommissar Bernhard Gunther, Murder Commission, Berlin-Alexanderplatz.’
‘And tell these officers, if you will, why you have come here.’
‘To arrest one Karl Maria Weisthor, also known as Karl Maria Wiligut, also known as Jarl Widar; Otto Rahn; and Richard Anders, all for the murders of seven girls in Berlin between 23 May and 29 September 1938.’
‘Liar,’ Rahn shouted, jumping to his feet, along with another officer whom I supposed to be Anders.
‘Sit down,’ said Himmler. ‘I take it that you believe that you can prove this, Kommissar?’ If I’d been Karl Marx himself he couldn’t have regarded me with more hatred.
‘I believe I can, sir, yes.’
‘This had better not be one of your tricks, Heydrich,’ Himmler said.
‘A trick, Reichsführer?’ he said innocently. ‘If it’s tricks you’re looking for, these two evil men had them all. They sought to pass themselves off as mediums, to persuade weaker-minded people that it was the spirits who were informing them where the bodies of the girls they themselves had murdered were hidden away. And but for Kommissar Gunther here, they would have attempted the same insane trick with this company of officers.’
‘Reichsführer,’ Weisthor spluttered, ‘this is utterly preposterous.’
‘Where is the proof you mentioned, Heydrich?’
‘I said insane. I meant exactly that. Naturally there is no one here who could have fallen for such a ludicrous scheme as theirs. However, it is characteristic of those who are insane to believe in the right of what they are doing.’ He retrieved the file containing Weisthor’s medical case history from underneath his sheaf of papers and laid it in front of Himmler.
‘These are the medical case notes of Karl Maria Wiligut, also known as Karl Maria Weisthor, which until recently were in the possession of his doctor, Hauptsturmfuhrer Lanz Kindermann–’
‘No,’ yelled Weisthor, and lunged for the file.
‘Restrain that man,’ screamed Himmler. Immediately the two officers standing beside Weisthor caught him by the arms. Rahn reached for his holster, only I was quicker, working the Mauser’s slide as I laid the muzzle against his head.
‘Touch it and I’ll ventilate your brain,’ I said, and then relieved him of his gun.
Heydrich carried on, apparently undisturbed by any of this commotion. You had to hand it to him: he was as cool as a North Sea salmon, and just as slippery.
‘In November 1924, Wiligut was committed to a lunatic asylum in Salzburg for the attempted murder of his wife. Upon examination he was declared insane and remained institutionalized under the care of Dr Kindermann until 1932. Following his release he changed his name to Weisthor, and the rest you undoubtedly know, Reichsfuhrer.’
Himmler glanced at the file for a minute or so. Finally he sighed and said: ‘Is this true, Karl?’
Weisthor, held between two SS officers, shook his head.
‘I swear it’s a lie, on my honour as a gentleman and an officer.’
‘Roll up his left sleeve,’ I said. ‘The man is a drug addict. For years Kindermann has been giving him cocaine and morphine.’
Himmler nodded at the men holding Weisthor, and when they revealed his horribly black-and-blue forearm, I added: ‘If you’re still not convinced, I have a twenty-page statement made by Reinhard Lange.’
Himmler kept on nodding. He stepped round his chair to stand in front of his Brigadeführer, the sage of the SS, and slapped him hard across the face, then again.
‘Get him out of my sight,’ he said. ‘He is confined to quarters until further notice. Rahn. Anders. That goes for you too.’ He raised his voice to an almost hysterical pitch. ‘Get out, I say. You are no longer members of this order. All three of you will return your Deaths Head rings, your daggers and your swords. I shall decide what to do with you later.’
Arthur Nebe called the guard that was waiting in readiness and, when they appeared, ordered them to escort the three men to their rooms.
By now almost every SS officer at the table was openmouthed with astonishment. Only Heydrich stayed calm, his long face betraying no more sign of the undoubted satisfaction he was feeling at the sight of his enemies’ rout than if he had been made of wax.
With Weisthor, Rahn and Anders sent out under guard, all eyes were now on Himmler. Unfortunately, his eyes were very much on me, and I holstered my gun feeling that the drama had yet to end. For several uncomfortable seconds he simply stared, no doubt remembering how at Weisthor’s house I had seen him, the Reichsführer-SS and Chief of the German Police, gullible, fooled, sold — fallible. For the man who saw himself in the role of the Nazi Pope to Hitler’s Antichrist, it was too much to bear. Placing himself close enough to me to smell the cologne on his closely shaven, punctilious little face, and blinking furiously, his mouth twisted into a rictus of hatred, he kicked me hard on the shin.
I grunted with pain, but stood still, almost to attention.
‘You’ve ruined everything,’ he said, shaking. ‘Everything. Do you hear?’
‘I did my job,’ I growled. I think he might have booted me again but for Heydrich’s timely interruption.