Pilgrim Soul (12 page)

‘It was there. I left it for the police. So that even stupid coppers would make the connection.’

‘But you’re saying there are
three
others like Dragan out there? Nazis? From the camps?

He nodded. My brain was racing.

‘Is that what Dragan was after at McGill’s? The other gold? He was trying to get the gold back for his pals?’

‘We think so.’

I digested this for a while. ‘Why did she lie to me?’

‘She thought she’d said enough.’

‘Why are you telling
me
this? Why not tell the police?’

He shook his head. ‘It was police that did this.’ He pointed at his eye and the long scar that ran down from his ear.

‘Here?’

‘Warsaw.’

‘You were in the ghetto?’

He nodded.

I said, ‘It’s different here.
They’re
different here.’

‘Are they? They have uniforms. It changes them. Who can we trust?’

‘Why do you think you can trust me? I’m not of your tribe.’

‘You were in Germany. At the camps.’

‘I was doing my job.’

He leaned close to me and fixed me with his good eye. It’s amazing how concentrated a glare you can achieve with one eye.

‘You
saw,
Brodie. Didn’t you? You
saw
. I think you are on our side, Brodie.’

I shook my head. ‘A number of people have reached that conclusion. They’re wrong. I’m on my own side. If our objectives cross, or our views coincide, then fine. But it’s coincidence.’

‘So tell me: fascism or communism?’

‘Don’t start. One’s as bad as the other. It’s just a matter of timing.’

‘Timing?’

‘Whoever’s winning. Both are vile. Both end up with dictators.’

‘Pah! It is unthinkable to compare them. Marx makes it clear. Communism is the resolution of the conflict between man and nature and between man and man. It is the riddle of history solved.’

‘Mal, if I’d known this was the quality of chat in a Celtic pub, I’d have changed allegiance. Between Marx and Trotsky, Sinoviev and the rest, Jewish intellectuals seem to have a lot of blood on their hands in your great Bolshevik experiment.’

‘Well, let us agree that fascism is currently the one in the doghouse. We need help to find Dragan’s cronies. Agreed?’

‘To stick pitchforks into them? A peasant’s tool against the oppressor? Marx would approve.’

His face went hard. ‘With whatever we have! With bare hands. You know what this man did at Ravensbrück and Treblinka!’

I shook my head. ‘We have laws here. They must get a trial. I won’t help you unless you agree to hand them over to our police. We took care of them at Nuremberg.’

He sat and considered for a while. Finally: ‘OK. We will do this. You will start now?’

That was too easy. ‘We haven’t discussed price. My services don’t come free.’

‘Sure. The rabbi said you work for money.’

‘Why sneer? Marx defines me as a wage labourer. I sell my services in order to live.’

He eyed me up, looking miffed that I’d been reading his hero. ‘They will pay you the same as before. OK?’

I hesitated. It wasn’t that the money was insufficient. It was the job that was different. Very different. Before, it was to catch a thief. Now there’d been four murders and they wanted me to help catch escaped Nazi cut-throats and to deliver them to . . . whom exactly?

‘I’m not sure, Malachi. You’re talking about a manhunt. That needs men, lots of men. These guys will have gone to ground, especially now Dragan’s been killed. One man – me – won’t make much of a difference.’

‘Brodie, you are a local. You know this city. You have contacts, can ask questions as a reporter. Also,
we
have men. I have men. Others like me. Keen to find
Nazis
.’

‘Still . . .’

He leaned close again. ‘Brodie, we have documents. From Dragan’s house. I can show you.’

‘What sort of documents?’

‘Official documents. Red Cross. There is a . . .
Netz
?

‘A network?’

‘Yes. They call them
Rattenlinien.’

‘Rat lines?’

‘They say that there are well-established rat lines from Germany through Italy and Spain to South America.’

‘And you think they run to Scotland too?’

‘Sure. You see the boats in the Clyde? Next stop America.’

‘Show me!’

‘I don’t have them with me. I can bring them. You will be surprised.’

He didn’t know me.

EIGHTEEN

‘They’re coming here? Sunday night!’

‘Well, they couldn’t come on Saturday, could they?’

She threw the dishtowel at me.

‘Sam, they’re part of the same crew that Shimon Belsinger brought to inveigle me into getting involved. You were happy to invite them then.’

We squared off across the kitchen table that evening after my meeting with Malachi. The notion of
Rattenlinien
through Glasgow chilled me to the marrow. It felt like a personal invasion. My past hunting me down.

‘It’s hardly the same business any longer! Shimon and his pals just wanted you to track down a thief. Not mass murderers! The stakes are far higher, Douglas. Too high!’

‘You’re the one who tells me I shouldn’t walk away from trouble. It’s what I’m good at – so you tell me.’

‘This is
four
murders, Douglas! You could be next!’

‘I intend standing aloof. Giving orders. Setting Malachi’s army on them.’

‘You? Aloof? I’d like to see that. And why would you trust this man – this
communist
– who stuck a pitchfork into someone?’

‘It saved a trial.’

‘So now the pair of you want to do me out of a job?’

‘The only way I’d lead this manhunt is if our goal is to hand these scum over to the polis.’

‘Why don’t you just hand it over to them now?’

It was a good question. I only had irrational answers tied into personal vengeance and guilt.

So I said, ‘The wages are good. Let’s hear them out. Shimon and Isaac are coming too. To represent their synagogues.’

On Sunday night, Shimon Belsinger, Isaac and Malachi took seats at Sam’s table. The three men were cut from very different cloth. Alongside the solid upright bulk of Shimon and the tailored trimness of Isaac, Malachi looked shifty and lean. His patch and scars spoke of back alleys and dirty deeds. Sam wasn’t intimidated by his piratical stares and sneers for the bourgeois trappings. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned his politics to her.

‘Shall we start with introductions? I like to know who’s in my house. I know Mr Belsinger and Mr Feldmann, of course.’

‘My name is Malachi Herzog.’

‘And who or what are you, Mr Herzog?’

Malachi looked startled, but then grinned. ‘I am a Marxist, Miss Campbell. What are you?’

Before Sam threw him out, I sat forward.

‘Rather than debate dialectical materialism, can I suggest we focus on the Nazi escape routes? Malachi, you said you had documents. That you would share them with us. Please.’

Sam looked miffed at not getting a verbal battle. So did Malachi. He pulled at a gas-mask case round his body. He dug out a brown envelope and laid it on the table. From it he produced a small pile of papers.

‘This is the passport Dragan used. It is in the name of Victor Galdakis. You will see it is a full displaced person’s passport issued by the International Committee of the Red Cross.’

He slid the document to Sam who flicked through it, studied the stamps and signature and passed it to me. I picked it up.

‘It looks like the real thing. I saw plenty of these after the war.’

Malachi interjected. ‘It
is
the real thing. Look at these.’ He placed other papers alongside. We examined them.

‘Good grief, this is the seal of the Vatican,’ I said. ‘The Pontificia Commissione di Assistenza – the Vatican Refugee Organisation.’

‘And this is a letter signed by Bishop Hudal,’ Sam chimed in. ‘It’s in Italian but I get the gist.’

‘Let me see.’ I took it and read it aloud in a halting translation. ‘This is to testify – certify – that Signor Victor Galdakis is a true friend of the Church and is to be accorded all necessary help . . . without let or hindrance . . . And so on, and so on. Enough backing to get him into the kingdom of heaven.’

There were other letters in German, Italian and French, all supporting the refugee status of the impersonator.

‘How did he come by these? Do you know?’

Shimon spoke. ‘We don’t have answers, Brodie, just more questions. There is talk of these escape routes running across Europe.’

Isaac nodded. ‘There is considerable panic in our group. When we heard about Draganski, that was bad enough. But to learn there are others out there!
Mein Gott!
’

Malachi leaned forward. ‘We know there are. And we think there may be a big fish. Someone important.’

Sam asked, ‘What makes you think that?’

‘These papers. They are expensive to obtain. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble for a junior SS guard. He had gold ingots. So did others. Surely only the top Nazis got their hands on gold? We think minions like Dragan could have been hired as guards. To protect someone much more important.’

The room went quiet for a moment while we looked round at each other.

Isaac lifted the passport and waved it at me. ‘Douglas, I know you have been through much. You have seen much. For you, these Nazis are
shadim
– demons. We are asking a lot of you. But we need your help. Find the big fish!’

I sat with Sam after they’d gone. Horrors that I’d stuffed away in the dark corners of my mind were slithering out.

‘What was I saying about evil seeping into our lives?’ she asked.

‘It’s why I should act.’

‘Not just the money, then?’

‘If Herzog is right – and I believe he is – then I know what we’re looking for. I met them. The type.’

‘
If
you believe Herzog. I don’t like him.’

‘Because he’s a commie?’

‘Partly. I loathe what they stand for. Stalin is just as much a monster as Hitler. But apart from that, I just don’t like
Mal
. Even his nickname means bad. He’s trouble.’

‘I agree. Have you heard anything about these rat lines at the trials?’

‘No. Nothing. Of course we’re dealing with the ones we caught, not the ones that got away.’

‘That’s not to say none of them knows about it.’

‘But just to mix up our metaphors thoroughly – rat lines and big fishes – do you really think Glasgow is part of a Nazi escape route? I mean,
Glasgow
?’

‘Why not? Some of them will have been planning this for a while. Germany lost the war when they were defeated on the Eastern Front in ’43. Hitler wouldn’t admit it. He’d rather burn the house down about his ears. But not all of his scummy pals were ready to join their boss in the last bunker. They’d be tucking away gold for a rainy day, and making exit plans.’

I went for a swim after work the next day, so that by the time I got home, Sam was already back. She had news.

‘I gave Iain Scrymgeour a call. He’s in Edinburgh till next week. He says he’s heard about your ratty lines. At least about the ones to the Argentine. The idea of a Scottish link had him spitting out his porridge. But he agrees it’s feasible. There’s no reason why there shouldn’t be a northern escape route. He wants to hear more.’

‘I’ll give him a call.’

She gave me a strange look. ‘You can do better than that.’

‘How so?’

‘He wants to meet you.’

‘Edinburgh?’

She cocked her head to one side. Wondering how I’d react.

‘No, actually. Hamburg.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Neither Iain nor I have time to question the defendants about this. We’re running to stay on top of things as it is. You could come out and see what you can dig up. We have a captive audience.’

‘I’m not going to Hamburg.’

She ignored me. ‘There’s another thing. Iain had asked me about this back in December. I didn’t want to raise it with you. I knew it would upset you. But he’s asking again.’

‘Go on.’

‘You know some of the folk you interrogated are facing trial. I’ve told you how much Iain admired your reports. He says your corroborating testimony would make a difference. He’s right, Brodie. If you can get a witness in the stand describing events it’s worth ten times the value of a bit of paper.’

‘But it all happened over a year ago.’ That sounded weak even to me. An unexpected surge of anxiety swept through me, as if I were being threatened. Bile rose in my craw and I had to swallow to cut the gag reflex.

She eyed me sharply. ‘What’s the matter, Brodie? Have you forgotten? Forgotten them?’

Forgotten the instigators of my nightmares? Forgotten how ordinary they looked and how extraordinary their vile deeds?

I said slowly, ‘No, Sam. I haven’t forgotten.’

As much as I tried to, I hadn’t erased the images. I’d stilled some, obscured others, and caged away my emotions. But when it came to the men and women I’d interrogated, their faces popped up in vivid detail like jack-in-the-boxes.

‘There’s a third reason. You could keep me company.’ She smiled in what she thought was a seductive manner. But it was as seductive as the smile from a dental nurse holding a pair of pliers behind her back.

NINETEEN

I lay on my lonely bed in the dark. Only the light from my cigarette punctured the night. Outside a steady rain drummed on the streets and sluiced my window. Sam’s suggestion had upped the ante. Yet I was calm. As if I were accepting my fate; that no matter how hard I tried to put distance between me and my past, it wasn’t going to work. It was annoying. I’d long since stopped believing in a higher power and yet here I was acknowledging that I’d been dealt a hand and had no choice but to play it. I couldn’t throw in my cards and leave the table.

Could I?

Was I really not master of my fate? Is there no self-will for any of us? Or just me? It didn’t seem tolerable. I
wouldn’t
tolerate it. I came to a clear decision. In the morning, I’d simply say no. Let this cup be taken from me. I wasn’t going through another war crimes trial. I wasn’t going to bloody Hamburg. They couldn’t pay me enough to compensate for the guaranteed future of sleepless nights and daytime nightmares. I drifted off to sleep, full of resolve.