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  He and Maria had lunch, then spent an hour walking around the village, looking into some of the tiny shops, and at Maria’s insistence stopping for a few minutes at the church. At first he thought the gesture had been for his benefit, but she knelt and prayed, apparently sincerely.

  At two in the afternoon they walked the half-dozen blocks to the doctor’s stone house on the edge of the village. It was just across a narrow stream from a dark woods. An old Volkswagen was parked in front.

  Dr. Hesse’s aging housekeeper admitted them, showing them into the study. “I shall fetch the professor,” the old woman said, and she shuffled off.

  Dr. Heinrich Hesse, who claimed to be a distant cousin of the poet and novelist Hermann Hesse, had studied Swiss history in Lausanne for a number of years. He had been a frequent customer of the bookstore McGarvey had owned what seemed like two lifetimes ago, and they had developed a mutual respect for each other’s scholarship.

  Dr. Hesse was now professor emeritus of European history at the university, and had complete access to all sections of the Naval Records Depot. He was a tiny, wizened old man who walked with a hunch, and who seemed to have trouble breathing. He still smoked several packs of strong cigarettes each day.

  The study was at the back of the house and looked out over what would be a pleasant garden in the summer. Books, maps, periodicals, and manuscripts were stacked everywhere in the cramped, musty-smelling room.

  “I missed you for lunch,” Dr. Hesse said behind them, shambling into the study.

  McGarvey turned and they shook hands. The professor shook hands with Maria as well, a twinkle in his eyes.

  “I had with me an old friend who wanted to meet you, Fraulein Schimmer. He spent some years in Buenos Aires and thinks he may have known you when you were a little girl. Horst Oestmann?”

  Maria shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir, the name means nothing.”

  “No matter,” Dr. Hesse said. “But on the other business there may be better news for you.”

  “You found my grandfather’s submarine?” Maria asked excitedly.

  Dr. Hesse held up a cautionary hand. “There seems to be a mystery of sorts still attached to the boat. Nothing in the record is terribly clear at this point, though my intention is to continue with my research.”

  Maria and McGarvey exchanged glances. He could read nothing in her eyes except excitement.

  “But you have found something?” McGarvey asked.

  “Oh, heavens, yes,” Dr. Hesse exclaimed. “The boat is there, all right, off Argentina, or at least it was there. But what it was doing that far west and at that time—the very end of the war —has been the cause of a dozen deaths.”

  “It was war,” Maria said.

  “Begging your pardon, but the most recent death connected with that boat occurred in 1978. The war was over.”

  17

  “WHAT DEATHS?” MCGARVEY ASKED. “How do you know they were connected with the submarine?”

  “That’s simple,” Dr. Hesse explained. “The first three men to die, and the last, had all served on a board of inquiry convened by the West German Secret Service—the BND—four years after the war, to find out what happened to U2798.” He looked at Maria. “That was your grandfather’s boat.”

  “But there were hundreds of submarines lost,” Maria said. “Why a board of inquiry after the war to find out what happened to that particular boat?”

  “It was still missing without a trace,” Dr. Hesse replied. “Or at least that’s part of the explanation. Remember, besides your grandfather there was a crew of nearly forty men and officers. Good German boys who were lost. There were many parents who demanded to know their fate.”

  “What type of boat was she?” McGarvey asked.

  “One of the last to be built. A Walther twenty-six. Not many ever saw service—they were designed and commissioned too late in the war—but apparently she was quite a technological marvel in her day.”

  McGarvey could hear a touch of pride in the old man’s voice. “What was her normal complement?”

  Dr. Hesse looked at him with approval. “She was supposed to carry a crew of fifty-seven men and officers, which meant she was terribly shorthanded when she left the yard at Bremen, or if not, then certainly when she started across the Atlantic.”

  “But … ?” McGarvey prompted. There was more. There was always more.

  “She went to sea with thirty-nine men and officers … and one passenger,” Dr. Hesse said. He went to his desk and pulled out several fat files from a bulging briefcase. “These are copies of some of the original documents. I thought you might want to study them.”

  “The passenger,” McGarvey wanted to know.

  Dr. Hesse flipped open a file folder. “Major Walther Roebling.”

  “Army?” Maria asked. She was shivering.

  “RSHA,” Dr. Hesse corrected. “The Nazi secret service. He was a close personal friend of Walther Schellenberg, who headed the foreign espionage section of the service.”

  “What was he doing aboard?” McGarvey asked.

  “Therein lies the mystery. Presumably he was carrying either a message or some unknown cargo to Argentina. Whatever it was seemed to be of great interest to the BND.”

  “A lot of SS took refuge in Argentina,” McGarvey said.

  “Yes.”

  “And the BND weren’t the only ones interested in whatever it was Major Roebling was up to in 1945,” McGarvey said. “Interested enough to kill. Any hint of what he was carrying, or who it was intended for?”

  “None, other than the obvious fact that it was of vital importance.”

  “The killings started when?”

  “In 1949.”

  “Were they investigated by the BND?”

  “The first few were. After that, the file was turned over to the new West German Federal Police Bureau, who were supposed to message the BND in Munich. They did so until 1978 when the investigation was abruptly closed with no explanation.”

  “Wait a moment,” Maria interrupted. “I’m a little confused about something. The records you’ve been researching, Herr Professor, deal with the military during the war.”

  Dr. Hesse nodded.

  “How did you come to learn about the BND’s involvement and these murders which all occurred well after the war?”

  Dr. Hesse smiled. “Ah, Fräulein, even old men—or perhaps especially old men—have friends in many high places.”

  Maria and McGarvey again exchanged glances. This time he knew what she was thinking.

  “Then you’re in danger yourself,” McGarvey said.

  “I don’t think so. It’s been nearly thirteen years since the last killing. Whoever was interested is more than likely dead and buried by now. The war was a very long time ago. What vital secrets from 1945 could be so terribly important now?”

  “There’s another possibility,” McGarvey said.

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe whoever was looking for the boat and her secrets finally found them in 1978, so they no longer had to kill.”

  Maria sat back, closing her eyes. “Maybe the killings were a cover-up. Maybe they knew all along where the cargo was but wanted it left where it was. Maybe they were making sure that no one betrayed them.”

  McGarvey looked at her. “Cargo?”

  She opened her eyes and blinked. “Cargo—message—whatever it was Roebling brought with him.”

  McGarvey continued to stare at her for a moment or two.

  “If that’s the case,” Dr. Hesse said, “the mysterious something probably never reached Argentina. Or at least it never got ashore. If it had, there would have been no need for the killings.”

  “Unless they found it in 1978.”

  Maria shook her head. “No,” she said excitedly. “I would have heard about it.”

  “You’ve evidently done your homework, Fraulein Schimmer,” Dr. Hesse said.

  “Argentina is a small enough country that if such a discovery were to be made—a World War Two Ger
man submarine in Argentinian waters—it would be known.”

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Hesse began, but McGarvey cut in.

  “She’s right. The government, especially in the late seventies, was very corrupt. Secrets could not be kept for long. Something would have come out, especially for someone who had the ear of a general, or a minister.”

  “I have friends,” Maria said defiantly.

  McGarvey was certain she had, but he said nothing on that subject, turning instead back to Dr. Hesse. “What did your BND friends say about the murder investigation?”

  “It’s a closed file. They could offer no help.”

  “Still?” Maria asked.

  “Not so unusual, from what I’m told,” Dr. Hesse said. “All governments have areas in which they are particularly sensitive. It is no different with us.”

  “Which could mean what in this case?” Maria persisted. “Maybe something to do with Jews?”

  Dr. Hesse bridled. “I don’t know.” He shifted his gaze pointedly to McGarvey. “But I would like to ask why you are interested in this particular business. What has brought you out of hiding in Lausanne?”

  McGarvey was stopped cold. In the several years he’d known the professor in Lausanne, never once had the subject of his past come up. There had never been a discussion of exactly what he was doing in Lausanne. Germans were too polite to ask such questions. There had been no hint that McGarvey had indeed been hiding from his past, from the legion of demons that rode like a family tree on the shoulders of every professional assassin.

  “I ran into Fraulein Schimmer in Paris. She asked for my help.”

  “With a research project?”

  “Yes,” Maria said.

  “One that you had unsuccessfully pursued not only here, less than ten days ago, but in Vienna as well?” he asked, turning to her.

  “How did you know?” Maria asked.

  “Where did you meet in Paris?” Dr. Hesse asked. “Let me guess: at the American Embassy, Tuesday night.”

  Maria’s complexion paled.

  “Are we on the Interpol wire?” McGarvey asked.

  Dr. Hesse nodded. “I’m surprised you got across the border without being arrested.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Maria said with sudden passion.

  “Neither of you has been accused of anything,” Dr. Hesse said. “You are merely being sought for questioning in connection with the incident.” The old man shook his head. “So much violence,” he said softly. “Will it ever end?”

  “Not in our lifetimes,” McGarvey replied seriously. “But perhaps the wholesale slaughter has stopped, at least in Eastern Europe.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Hesse said thoughtfully. “Maybe it is less onerous to suffer the killings one at a time.”

  The reference to McGarvey’s past was unmistakable. “Rather than thousands or millions at a time.”

  “What will you do now?” the professor asked, ignoring McGarvey’s remark. “Return to Paris? I would think that would be for the best. Afterward, if you still wish to pursue this business …” He let the sentence hang.

  “It may have been the Russians,” McGarvey said.

  Dr. Hesse chuckled. “You Americans are all the same. You have Russians under every bed, in every dark closet. It was the same with us. But now we have grown up.”

  “French terrorists?”

  Dr. Hesse nodded. “Possibly. But return to Paris, both of you. You cannot pursue an investigation of this nature as fugitives.”

  McGarvey glanced at the heavy file folders the professor had taken from his briefcase. “Those are not copies. They are the original documents.”

  Dr. Hesse’s gaze followed McGarvey’s. When he looked up, there was a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. “Does the terrible tragedy in Paris have anything to do with this investigation?”

  McGarvey was startled.

  “Have the killings begun again?” Dr. Hesse asked.

  “No,” Maria said forcefully. “My first contact with the Americans came only minutes before the embassy was attacked, and the meeting didn’t take place there, nor was it planned.”

  “Where, then?” Dr. Hesse asked.

  Maria looked at McGarvey. She seemed frightened, as if she were seeing her last door closing.

  “At the Hotel Inter-Continental.”

  “Who was this American you met?”

  “Carleton Reid. He was from the embassy.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No,” Maria said. “I had followed Horst Höehner there from Vienna. He and a Frenchman, Gavalet I think was his name, were having dinner with Reid.”

  “Reid is dead,” McGarvey said.

  “You asked Mr. Reid for his assistance, perhaps with the records people here?”

  “We were just coming out of the hotel when the explosion occurred. I offered to help him if he would help me. But he said no.”

  “What were you doing at the embassy?” Hesse asked McGarvey.

  “I was having dinner nearby when I heard the explosion.”

  “He dug me out of the rubble. Saved my life,” Maria said, but no one was listening to her.

  “Why the questions, Herr Professor?” McGarvey asked.

  “I received a telephone call from Maurice Gavalet in Paris. He is a policeman. He asked about Fraulein Schimmer.”

  “Then you know that I am telling you the truth,” Maria said.

  “As far as it goes, Fraulein,” Dr. Hesse said sternly. “The question is, what are you really seeking? Your grandfather’s grave, as you profess? Or the mysterious cargo Major Roebling was bringing to your homeland?”

  “I have no interest in any cargo. I merely want to know about my grandfather.”

  “That is touching, Fraulein Schimmer … or should I say Fräulein Reiker?”

  “If you know that much, then you know why.”

  “To atone for your father’s sins by proving that your grandfather was an honorable man?” Dr. Hesse shook his head. “We Germans have been trying unsuccessfully to do that since 1945. I think it is time to put away such thoughts and move forward. You carry no guilt for your father’s sins.”

  “Will you help me, or will I have to go elsewhere?” Maria asked evenly.

  “Will you return to Paris first?”

  “No.”

  “No matter what happens here, you mean to pursue this?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Hesse looked at McGarvey. “What about you? Do you see Russians under Argentinian beds as well? Will you return to Paris?”

  “Eventually.”

  “But not just now.”

  “No,” McGarvey said.

  “I no longer need his help,” Maria told the professor.

  “Ah, but Fraulein, don’t you see that it is because of Herr McGarvey that I agreed to talk to you, to search out the naval records,” Dr. Hesse said. He shrugged. “Without him …”

  The professor was playing at some game that McGarvey couldn’t yet see. The old man was dissembling for a definite purpose.

  “What do you want, Herr Professor?” McGarvey asked.

  “To complete the record,” Dr. Hesse said. He sounded sincere. “Those German boys, Fräulein Schimmer’s grandfather included, have been waiting for their final service since 1945, nearly fifty years.”

  “Where is the boat?” Maria asked.

  Dr. Hesse turned to her. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “But you have the naval records. You said—”

  “Look at them if you wish. In fact you must before you leave. The submarine U2798 departed the yard at Bremen at one o’clock in the morning on February fourth. Her destination was given simply as ’patrol operations in the Atlantic.’”

  “You said her ordered destination was Argentina,” McGarvey said.

  “The Kriegsmarine simply ordered her into operations in the Atlantic under the discretion of what was called the 2/SKL … the second department or division of the SeeKriegsLeitung, which was the Naval War Comma
nd. More specifically, the U-Boat Intelligence Service.”

  “What did those records reveal?” McGarvey asked.

  “Another bit of legerdemain that wasn’t made clear until the board of inquiry convened after the war. It seems she was turned over to the RSHA at Major Roebling’s convenience for operations in the South Atlantic.”

  “Argentina?” MaGarvey prompted.

  Dr. Hesse took a bound volume of typescript out of his briefcase. The massive book had to contain at least a thousand pages. “These are transcripts of interviews with RSHA officers in Nuremberg just after the war, and then at various prisons in 1949.”

  “Was all of this prior to the first murder?” McGarvey asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Hesse said. “As a matter of fact the chief interviewers there, Horst Holtz and Motti Mueller, both members of the board of inquiry, were the first to die. One in his bed at home, the other in an auto accident.”

  “They later turned out to be homicides?”

  “Suspected homicides,” Dr. Hesse said. He opened the bound volume at a marked spot. “This is from an interview with RSHA Oberleutnant Rainer Mossberg, on March 17, 1949, at Prison Camp Twenty-seven A, outside of Bonn.”

  Q.: You are saying that U2798’s destination was somewhere in Argentina. South America.

  A.: Yes, but that was Roebling’s baby. We had nothing to do with it. It was an arm’s-length operation, if you know what I mean.

  Q.: Roebling was carrying something with him?

  A.: That guy (pause) was always carrying something with him. You know, a regular fucking opportunist. He had all the answers. Knew Schellenberg. They were like this (prisoner uses obscene gesture), if you know what I mean.

  Q.: What was it he was carrying, exactly? Major Roebling, that is.

  A.: I don’t know. I wasn’t in that circle.

  Q.: Was this cargo important?

  A.: I don’t know (pause) I don’t know. Given the time, the circumstances, probably very important. They were all crazy down there, you know. They were going to carry on from the National Redoubt in the mountains. And from Argentina. A lot of the (pause) inner circle got down there before it was impossible to leave. Hell, I should have gone myself. At least to Switzerland.