The Sacred Scroll Page 36

  ‘Rubbish,’ spat Kutuzov. ‘There is nothing more obvious than your club in New York, Zara la Salope, to begin with. That alone, linked to your name, would send your stockholders fleeing.’

  ‘You do not have access to any of my accounts or business histories,’ rejoined Adler. ‘On the other hand, your interests, and yours, and yours,’ he continued, turning to Chien and Mehta in turn, ‘are less secure. Your companies are not as strong, even together, to be a match for MAXTEL.’

  Kutuzov threw him a sceptical look. ‘Bluff,’ he said.

  ‘Do you wish to call this bluff?’ asked Adler. ‘I can give you chapter and verse on everything you do. Let me down now, and you will fall.’

  ‘You have no proof of anything,’ said Chien.

  ‘You are right to be sceptical,’ replied Adler. ‘You each have a computer terminal in front of you. I invite you to enter the name of any one of your companies, and you will see it linked to sexual exploitation, drugs, the trade in human organs, under-the-counter arms deals with the most insalubrious regimes. It’s all there, gentlemen. MAXTEL, on the other hand, is inviolable. You were too greedy to question me when you needed backing, and that was your weakness. You trusted me. I have learned that, to get what you want from a creature as fickle as a human being, you need to rely on something rather stronger than trust. You need to have something on them. You need to rely on their own sense of self-preservation. That is the only factor that counts.’ Adler watched them, changing his tone judiciously. ‘But don’t take my word for it. After all, that would mean trusting me, wouldn’t it? And you don’t want to fall into that trap again.’

  He watched as each of them reluctantly applied themselves to the glass-thin terminals neatly placed in front of them on the huge conference table.

  It didn’t take them long.

  ‘We still have to trust that this project of yours will repay us,’ said Kutuzov sullenly, after a long pause.

  ‘And with dividends,’ added Chien. Mehta had been plunged into a gloomy silence.

  ‘By all means,’ said Adler. ‘And, of course, a share in the glory, if you stick with me.’

  ‘I’m not sure that my creditors –’ began Mehta.

  ‘They will agree to another month,’ said Adler. ‘That is all I need. Look at the return you are offering. No one gets that kind of percentage in the present economy. And, believe me, they’d question it, if they themselves weren’t as greedy as you are. But their greed is your friend. Master it, and you’ve mastered them.’

  ‘What if some won’t comply?’ asked Kutusov.

  ‘Sergei, I’m sure you don’t need lessons in how to deal with people. Individuals don’t sink the boat. Small holes, we can plug. And if anyone wants to pull out, well, we can make an object lesson of them for the others, can we not? After all, in a very short time we need not worry about being accountable to anyone, ever again – not politicians, not governments, not the law, not even reforming revolutionaries, military juntas or mad dictators.’

  ‘People will still have an idea of freedom,’ said Mehta. ‘Of individuality.’

  ‘My dear chap, do you really think so?’ asked Adler evenly. He looked at them. ‘We’re agreed then?’

  Sullenly, his associates nodded.

  ‘Good! I do so hate it when there is any kind of disharmony.’ Adler concealed his relief. He didn’t have the power to do more than bully and outmanoeuvre as yet, but he hadn’t risen from the gutter to the heights without knowing how to crush people into submission, regardless of their feelings. Of course there was still the question of time, and the question of where he put his own trust. He hated the thought of his position being compromised, but he knew his key operatives were loyal. He allowed himself a moment’s satisfied reflection on how things had gone in New York. At first, he had been bitterly disappointed in what had happened there, and he had lost control of his temper when he found that the box was empty. One should never lose one’s temper. A sign of weakness.

  Luckily, there had been someone to vent it on.

  Poor Frau Müller. No amount of work could disguise the wrinkles that made irrevocable inroads round her eyes, on her cheeks and neck. She might have striven to hold her weight at 48kg, not much for a woman 1.68m. in height, but it was all in vain. A skinny old blonde was all that remained, distasteful and unnecessary. And he could dispense with her loyalty now. She had served her purpose.

  Meanwhile, he awaited more information from New York, as it became available. He was confident.

  It was an intellectual process, really. Quite simple. And soon, the irritating unpredictability of success would be completely removed. No one would stand in his way.

  As for the box, he congratulated himself on the little trick he had played on Marlow. Mr Marlow and his colleagues would never catch up with him now – and in fact they’d been rather useful to him. It didn’t really matter that Marlow hadn’t died, and Adler’s own operatives for the Sotheby’s heist and the Zwinger and Dels job were skilled, but not indispensable. If there was any fallout, it would come to rest on Kutuzov’s shoulders, did the man but know it. As for the unlocking code for the steel box, Marlow would be sure to get that message. It had been a risk – MAX – but Adler knew he was too well-connected for it to worry him unduly. Besides, he liked to gamble, a little.

  The episode had not only amused him, and sent another little message to his competitors, similar to the coup de théâtre he’d brought off in the killing of Taylor and Adkins; it had also bought him time. And that was the important thing: Time. How they must have kicked themselves. They must have been convinced that they’d got what they wanted at last. He’d make a friendly, concerned, call to his friend Sir Richard when the time was right. To see how things were going, to see if they’d made any progress, if they’d located Dr de Montferrat yet.

  He looked benignly at his associates and pressed a discreet button laid into the surface of the wood on his side of the table. Moments later, a tall blonde woman, elegantly dressed, and in her late twenties, entered the room with a black-lacquer drinks trolley.

  Frau Müller’s replacement was shaping up well. Frau Müller herself was currently convalescing in a clinic he owned near Gstaad. When she had recovered he would see that she was generously provided for, during what he was sure would be a short retirement.

  He eyed his new secretary appreciatively as he said: ‘Gentlemen. I think this calls for a drink, don’t you? And I’ll propose a toast: to mended fences.’

  Inwardly, he smiled. He had told them nothing of the old Viking document. He hadn’t told them that even the heavily encoded part had now been successfully deciphered by his experts, always grateful for the donations and endowments of his philanthropic organization, MAXPHIL.

  He hadn’t shared with his associates what he’d deduced from his findings, either.

  Just one more piece of the puzzle, and the picture would be complete.

  104

  Marlow took the call on the secure line in his apartment at midnight. The INTERSEC operator had already told him who it was.

  ‘We’ve done the impossible,’ the crisp voice of Colonel Demir, Detective-Major Haki’s superior in Istanbul, told him.

  ‘The DNA on the gloves? You’ve traced it?’

  ‘No. We went through every databank at our disposition and our people crosschecked with yours. It was always a very doubtful undertaking, in my view. There’s no record of any DNA which matches the sample we were able to extract. So we crosschecked something else. Turkish Security Services and Foreign Office records indicate that in 1915 there was a German excavation at this site, conducted by the then world authority on Babylon, Robert Koldewey.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Marlow, registering the familiar name.

  ‘He was looking for an ancient temple which existed centuries prior to the building of the Church of Hagia Irina, on the same site. But he found something else, and the German authorities, in the shape of General Erich Ludendorff, were called in at his request.’
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  ‘I see.’

  ‘Very few people were permitted on to the site. Koldewey worked alone after the initial excavations had been made, and a crosscheck with his DNA, which is on record, was negative. It is therefore highly likely that the gloves were used by General Ludendorff.’

  ‘And what became of the findings – whatever artefacts they may have discovered?’

  ‘Normally, they should have stayed within Turkey, or within our jurisdiction. But the country was in turmoil at the time. There was a war going on and, within the country, the old regime was crumbling. The administration then in power permitted Koldewey to remove the artefacts to Germany.’ Demir paused. ‘That is what we have for you.’

  ‘You have indeed achieved the impossible.’

  ‘A full report is being prepared, and will be sent within twenty-four hours. But I thought you’d like to know the results of the findings as soon as possible. It was most fortunate that the damage done to our forensics department was less extensive than we at first anticipated.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But we do not now believe that the attack itself was Islamist-inspired,’ continued the colonel. ‘Any relevant information our investigation reveals will be communicated to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel,’ said Marlow.

  There was a further pause. Marlow checked his watch.

  ‘You may like to know that the funeral of Detective-Major Haki has taken place. He will be much missed by colleagues and friends.’

  ‘He was a fine man,’ said Marlow. ‘We are indebted to the work he put into this mission.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said the colonel, his voice still as crisp and formal as before.

  Marlow hung up then immediately dialled a number. He spoke briefly then dialled another.

  He grabbed a coat, went down to the basement garage where the Corvette was parked and drove over to Graves’s apartment.

  Lopez arrived five minutes after him, and Marlow briefed them both.

  ‘That places the tablet pretty much in Berlin,’ said Graves when he’d finished.

  ‘Supposition.’

  ‘More than likely. Something to go on.’

  ‘Even if it were there,’ said Marlow, ‘we’d still have to know where to look.’

  ‘But if the link is with Koldewey, we can narrow the field immediately,’ said Graves. ‘Give me a moment.’

  She walked over to her computer and did three fast searches. She looked up from the screen minutes later: ‘There’s a 99.5 per cent likelihood that any artefacts Koldewey unearthed would have ended up at the Kaiser Wilhelm Museum in Berlin, which later changed its name to the Bodemuseum. But there’s a snag. The Bode had a major refit – a massive overhaul – between 1996 and 2007, and all ancient artefacts were transferred to another place, the Vorderasiatisches Museum – what used, until recently, to be called the Pergamon. My guess is that’s where it’ll be.’

  ‘Jesus – that’s still a big haystack. Didn’t you brief me that there were over thirty thousand Babylonian tablets in the British Museum alone – and wasn’t that just the unclassified stuff? What if the Pergamon’s got a similar-sized collection?’

  ‘There may be a way of narrowing that down,’ said Lopez suddenly, his eyes keen behind his glasses.

  Marlow looked at him. ‘You’ve got that other lead?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Lopez and Marlow exchanged another look: Lopez had redeemed his error; no need for Graves ever to know. Lopez signalled back: was it OK to speak of this in front of Graves? Marlow nodded.

  ‘I said there was a link close to home,’ Lopez began. ‘Possibly. I’ve followed up on the Swiss lawyer, Anton Hoffmann. You remember I told you he was killed by an intruder in his Bern office in 1949?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This guy Guttmann, the one who sold Adhemar’s box to Lightoller and Steeples in Vienna, was a client of his. I’ve verified that now.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Bern police. The Swiss never throw anything away.’

  ‘Not even stuff relating to a murder committed over sixty years ago?’

  ‘Still a cold case. They never found the lawyer’s killer. And the intruder got away with what must have been a suitcaseful of confidential records. What most of them were, we’ll probably never know. But the police impounded what documentation was left, as evidence, and they’ve still got it. Not much, but there’s a kind of ledger, a list of transactions, noting the dates of certain papers and dossiers, letters and so forth.’

  ‘You’ve accessed this?’

  ‘I played the INTERPOL card, and they scanned the entries for 1946. There’s one dated 4 February.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Guttmann left a letter with the lawyer. There’s a note attached to say that another copy went into a safe-deposit box at a private bank’s offices in Bern, but we may not have to follow that copy up.’

  ‘Isn’t that the most obvious thing to do?’ asked Graves.

  ‘That might attract attention,’ said Lopez, ‘and we still don’t know who we’re up against. In any case, there could be a simpler route.’ The thing is, this letter is registered in the lawyer’s ledger as “Aloysius Guttmann/General Hans von Reinhardt.”’

  ‘So it’s possible that this Reinhardt was a Nazi fugitive?’ asked Graves.

  ‘It’s not only possible, it’s actual,’ replied Lopez. ‘Reinhardt’s listed as having died in Hitler’s bunker when the Russians took Berlin in 1945, but no body was ever found. He was a senior staff officer who built a career on the back of the Nazi regime and rose quickly. In the end, he was one of Hitler’s closest associates.’

  Marlow and Graves remained silent as that fact sank in. Each knew what the other was thinking.

  ‘Then you mean he …?’ Marlow started to say, letting the question hang.

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘But it’s a long shot.’

  ‘Not if Reinhardt knew the box was empty when he sold it. It was certainly locked, but he didn’t have the key. No one did then. It was still in Dandolo’s tomb.’

  ‘So, if he did know the box was empty, he might have known where the tablet was,’ said Graves.

  ‘We need to know what was in that letter,’ said Marlow. ‘That means we have to get authority to open the safety-deposit box, if it still exists after more than sixty years.’

  ‘I told you there was a simpler route. And, as I said, it’s close to home.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The intruder who killed Hoffmann was one of ours. By 1949, things were winding up. Tracks needed to be covered. And there was a certain amount of house-cleaning to be done, especially in quarters which weren’t regarded as 100 per cent trustworthy.’

  ‘And Hoffmann was one of them?’

  Lopez nodded. ‘Links to the Commies, apparently. Never proven, but better, I guess our colleagues from those days thought, to be safe than sorry. As it was, Hoffmann had kept records which would have compromised us if they’d ever fallen into the wrong hands.’

  ‘You say this intruder was one of ours?’ said Marlow.

  ‘Hoffmann worked for the OSS. From as early as 1943, he was passing certain documents to it, which he thought might be connected to Axis powers war criminals.’ Lopez leaned back. ‘And all the OSS files – which would have included that kind of material – found their way eventually into the archives of the organization the OSS eventually became.’

  Graves drew in her breath. ‘The CIA,’ she said.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘You’re wasted at Columbia,’ Graves said to Lopez.

  ‘Just part of the job. I’m shit at field-work.’

  ‘You’ve never tried it.’

  Marlow and Lopez exchanged the briefest look.

  ‘Anyway, I’m better off the way I am,’ said Lopez. ‘Moonlighting like this.’

  ‘So we’d better get on to Langley,’ said Graves.

  ‘Yes,’ Marlow agreed. ‘But for that we’ll have
to go through Sir Richard. I can’t pursue things in that direction without his authority. This is just too hot. And too urgent.’ Which means I’ll have to trust him, he thought.

  ‘You want me to draw up a request?’ asked Graves.

  ‘I’ll see him personally,’ Marlow replied. To Lopez he said: ‘You’re certain no one else has seen this information? You haven’t had any of it routed through an open computer?’

  ‘Initial information only.’

  ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘Reinhardt’s identity. The existence of the letter.’

  ‘Could anyone armed with that information do anything with it – as you did?’

  ‘Not if they hadn’t made the connection, and I don’t see how –’

  ‘Bern police?’

  ‘Nothing we can do about that.’

  ‘Yes there is. Tell them to shut down access. Now. Full INTERSEC authority. Even the Swiss will have to bow to that.’ Marlow paused, thinking. ‘And nothing on paper or on file about this. Nothing in the computer system. Lopez, trash anything you’ve got that’s in an open or official INTERSEC channel. But put it all on a protected stick before you do and keep it safe. Put it under Alvar’s mattress, or Lucia’s. Hide it in a computer-game box.’

  ‘That’s about the least secure place I can think of,’ said Lopez. ‘But I’ll manage.’ His eyes said, You trust me again –- thank you.

  But Marlow was looking out of the window at the night city. He had to know, now, who they were up against. Whatever it took, however great the risk, he had to flush out the enemy. Bring them into the open so they could be shot down. Getting to the tablet first wouldn’t be enough. His enemy was cunning, baffling and powerful. He would never give up while he still had cover.

  There was one line of attack open to him. It tore at his heart to take it, but he’d have to face the truth, and redeem himself, as Leon had, one day, and it had better be now.

  105

  Rule number one of the hunter: lull the quarry into a sense of security, lull it into thinking it is in a position it can trust.