Revenge, May 1974
An honourable man in a dishonourable organisation is how my father likes to think of my career in the German military. But I wonder if that's really true. My track record doesn't exactly support it. True, I was born into a privileged German family, and through school, university and then the Berlin police force my life was pretty normal, pretty innocent. If anyone born into my country can ever be truly innocent. But later? In the Gestapo and then Einsatzgruppe-4? Dishonourable organisations indeed, and in the end I became as bad as any one of my fellow officers.
When does one cross the line from being a soldier, fighting your country's enemies in a "justified" war, to becoming a murderer? For me, it was the day I shot a little girl and another 200 innocent lives were lost as a result. I'd never thought of myself as a murderer before that. In fact, I'd been very careful never to take another life, either as a soldier or a policeman. But the day I killed that child was the day I crossed the line. No matter that if I had not done as I was ordered, I would have been executed myself. Perhaps, if I had been stronger, I might have accepted that. But along with my natural desire for self-preservation, I knew in my heart that whether I lived or died, her death warrant had already been signed - I was just the instrument - and I did it anyway.
Two weeks later, I committed my second murder. Ian would probably class it as a justified homicide. After all, my victim was a black magician, who a short while before had butchered one of my Kameraden to power a particularly nasty ritual. Others might even call it self-defence - again, it was kill or be killed - but he was a superior officer, and while he deserved to die, I cannot deny that I acted as judge, jury and executioner.
My father got me away from all of that, and while the price for my freedom was serving a jail sentence for what I'd done, I believe the punishment was justified. In fact, if anything, in my mind, it wasn't enough to purge the sin I had committed in Eglizi. I hated myself for what I did to that little girl. I wasn't even best pleased with myself for killing Torben Kramer: while I truly believe he deserved to die, the fact that I'd moved to a place where I felt I could make that judgement, meant that something had broken inside me.
And now, I find myself contemplating the third murder which can be laid at my door. Except this time, there were no shades of grey. No kill or be killed. My motive was plain and simple revenge.
They say revenge can be cathartic, and in a way I can agree with that: I finally have justice for someone I cared very deeply for, who was herself murdered.
But is it honourable? Perhaps in some cultures, but not within the one in which I was brought up. Despite being brought up to love, respect and honour our country, and do our duty by it - something I failed in spectacularly - personal honour in my homeland can be a somewhat flexible commodity, and I cannot honestly say that in my mind, revenge was anything more than...revenge. I killed a man I hated, and I believe he deserved it, but it wasn't exactly an honourable decision.
Christmas is the wrong time to discuss committing murder. My real father pointed that out to me as the subject came up over port and cigars in the comfort of his library last year. The irony was made more exquisite by the fact that unlike me, he isn't Catholic...he isn't even Christian...and yet he was the one reminding me that Christmas is a time of love and forgiveness. But whatever his intentions in pointing that out to me, that conversation sowed a seed, and as the months passed, it grew inside me, eating at me, until I knew I had no choice but to act on it.
Of course, the logistics of committing murder in Germany were far from simple. In the land of my birth, I am a convicted criminal, sentenced to death in absentia for murder, treason and desertion. And I cannot even claim that I'm innocent of those offences: when you end up defecting after killing a superior officer, your homeland is never going to treat you with lenience. However, I knew that the man I wanted to kill kept a boat on the Bodensee, the lake on the border between Germany and German Switzerland, and in Switzerland I wasn't a marked man.
Having grown up with Dietrich von Ansbach, my mother's husband, I knew his routine well enough. Most weekends during the summer, he would spend his time at the boat. He would drive down from Ansbach on Friday afternoon, arriving in time for a leisurely dinner in one of the restaurants in Konstanz or Friedrichshafen, before spending that first night alone on board. On Saturday, he would often be joined by friends, or by my brother Alfred and his family, and they would stay over, before they all returned home on Sunday. So if my plan was going to work, I would need to catch him one Friday night.
Deciding the best time took a little planning, but in the end I opted for the 24th of May. The moon would be nearly new, which would give me the cover of darkness, and I would have eight hours in which to do the deed. I arranged to attend a business meeting in Zurich during the day - easily enough done, given my hard-earned respectability in the field of ballistics and my newly-restored right to travel outside the boundaries of the United Kingdom - which would give me a reason to be in the country. Then I booked the flights about six weeks in advance, and started considering my best form of attack.
I remembered from my childhood that there was a small marina at Kesswil, across the lake from his usual mooring, where I could almost certainly borrow a dinghy. I'd need to wait after dark until doing so, of course, but I felt confident that I would have time to do what I wanted. My target would be offshore from Kippenhausen, so the transit should be within the time limit I could afford. After all, I wasn't planning to be on his boat for that long.
I flew out the afternoon before, hired a car at the airport and stayed overnight at a decent hotel in Zurich. The matter of luggage was potentially tricky - the fact that my plan involved a certain amount of swimming in the none-too-warm waters of the Bodensee meant that I needed to pack the wetsuit I usually use for scuba diving, which meant a larger than usual bag for an overnight - but thankfully no-one questioned it at the airport.
I attended my scheduled meeting, and got to know my opposite numbers in the Zurich police force, which would be very useful, if I still had a career at the end of this. However, afterwards, I also attended a rather less official meeting, with an old friend of my mother's who had had left Germany in disgust in the mid-1950s. From him, I had arranged to purchase a handgun and silencer of the same make and model that I'd carried as a service weapon before my defection. My preparations thus completed, I returned to the hotel in time for dinner, then made sure that I was seen drinking in the hotel bar afterwards.
An hour or so later, I headed upstairs, and by 21.00, I was on the road to Kesswil, having left the hotel via a less obvious route than the front lobby. Two hours after that, I was cutting a hole in the chain link fence around Kesswil marina and sneaking inside. My intention was to take a small dinghy - the kind you would use to get to and from shore to a moored boat. Dodging the rent-a-cop I remembered patrolling it, I started casting around for a suitable craft, and after about half an hour's searching, I found something suitable. I checked it was fuelled, and then carefully and quietly took it out onto the lake. I judged that it would take about an hour fifteen to an hour thirty to reach his mooring, with a stop partway to change out of my street clothes and into the wetsuit I would use for my final approach.
Luck was with me, and by 01.00 I could see his boat at its usual anchorage, a little way offshore. Less good was the fact that the cabin lights were on. I'd hoped the bastard would be asleep, as I wasn't sure that my courage wouldn't fail me if I had to face him. Still, it was too late to turn back now. I pulled on gloves and scuba socks (I'd decided to dispense with flippers), put the Luger in a waterproof pack around my waist, and then let myself quietly into the water. About half an hour later, I was cautiously pulling myself up on the stern rail, and then stopped and listened. I could hear him moving around in the stateroom, and waited for a few minutes until he stopped, silently cursing that that night, of all nights, he was suffering from insomnia.
Once all was quiet, I moved carefully across the deck and down the stairs into the cabin, silenced pistol in hand. However, in the end I found him wide awake and sitting on a chair reading. A glass of brandy was on the table beside him, and there was a cigar burning in the ashtray. He must have heard me coming, as he looked up in surprise as I entered the room.
"Wolfgang?" he said, disbelief in his voice.
I suppose I must have made rather a startling spectacle.
"Hello, father."
"By now, I suspect you know that isn't true as well as I do," he answered, as he met my gaze without fear, despite the fact that I had the Luger levelled at his chest. Perhaps he thought I wasn't serious. "What do you want?"
"To kill you."
"Really?" he said, his tone incredulous, "I don't believe you have it in you to do that."
"Are you willing to bet your life on that?"
"I know you, child. That isn't how you tick."
He paused for a moment, regarding me as he took a sip from his brandy glass, before he continued.
"So, how is life as a criminal in our enemy's homeland treating you?"
"Far better than here," I answered, levelly, "at least I don't have you glaring over my shoulder all the time, telling me what's wrong with my life."
"What's wrong with your life, is that you were born in the first place," he snapped, obviously trying to get a rise out of me, "but your mother refused to listen to reason when I suggested other alternatives."
"Is that why you killed her?" I asked, trying hard to keep my temper, despite the buttons I knew he'd push.
"That's what this is about?" He seemed genuinely surprised, "after all these years? Let it pass. What happened between Greta and I is none of your concern."
"On the contrary, it's very much my business. After all, she was really my mother. You were never my father."
"Is that what you believe?" he replied, coldly, "If you think blood is the only true measure of a father, then you're a damned fool. That arrogant English yahoo screwed your mother and left her pregnant. He didn't care for the consequences of their affair...he just left when things go too difficult for him."
"You're wrong," I protested, "he cared about mama. You ran him out of town."
"Do you really believe that?" he asked, his tone mocking.
"He has shown me more respect in the few years I've known him than you ever did when I was growing up. He actually cares whether I live or die," I answered, but I could hear uncertainty in my voice.
"Bugger respect and consider this. Despite suspecting that you were his child, after your birth I raised you as my own. I gave you a roof over your head and made sure you had a proper education. I made sure you had the best opportunities and even arranged for you to be given a good commission in the regiment. I would argue that this makes me more of a father to you than he ever was, or ever can be. And yet, after all my patience with you, once it finally looked as if you might actually turn out to have been worth the time and effort I had invested to try to raise you to be a proper German, you repaid me by turning traitor, dishonouring my name and that of our house."
"So why did you bother?"
"I'd hoped that nurture would override nature. That somehow the stain of your blood might be cleansed and you could truly be worthy of being my son. What a sentimental fool I was. I should have followed my first instinct and strangled you at birth."
I stared at him, aware for the first time that he hated me as much as I hated him.
"And mama?"
"I killed her because she was an unfaithful whore," he replied, meeting my gaze without shame, "she deserved to die for the embarrassment she caused me...in fact, I think I was extremely patient to wait as long as I did."
"Did you ever give a damn about her?"
"In the early days, when she bore your brother, I doted on her. But after Berlin...her pregnancy by another man killed any love I felt for her. I'd even argue that, at the heart of the matter, it was her English lover, not me, who murdered her."
"You're playing mind games with me. Just as you did when I was a child."
"Really? Tell me, boy, how much do you actually know about Herr Ian Cushing?"
"Probably more than you realise."
"Then you know he isn't a saint. He's a terrorist, a spy, a murderer and a Jew lover. Rather like you, in fact, so perhaps blood does breed true. He also made it possible for traitors from within to kill our Great führer. I took great pleasure in betraying him to Kasimir, after I obtained proof of his unofficial activities while he was posted to Berlin after the Armistice. As it turned out, my Master was delighted to be given a reason to arrest him, and we were both far from pleased when that meddler Stuckart got him released."
His words surprised me. Ian had never given me any indication that Dietrich von Ansbach had been involved in what had happened to him in Berlin. Maybe he didn't even know, although as the latter spoke, it made a horrifying kind of sense.
"Lost for words?" he said, still mocking, "You disgust me Wolfgang. For this man you turned your back on family and friends and walked away, without a single care for those left behind."
"I was already marked by then. You know that well enough. After all, you got me released from Herr Ritter's custody."
"And you have no idea how much I regret that," he said, coldly, "I should have just let him do what he wanted with you."
"Which was..." I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer, and yet certain that I needed to know.
"Why, to sacrifice you for the cause, of course. To help us against the Russians. According to Kasimir, being Cushing's son means that your blood is strong, and so your death, at least, would have served a useful purpose. Unlike your pathetic life. Perhaps I might have even regretted it for a little while...although, on the other hand, what would I have really given up?"
I stared at him, shocked at his answer and trying to figure out if he was joking. Then it clicked in my mind for the first time that the period I'd spent in Ritter's dungeons corresponded with the run-up to Beltane, and I went cold. He wasn't joking. He meant every word.
He revelled in my discomfort for a few moments, his expression supercilious, and then gave me a contemptuous smile.
"We both know you aren't going to kill me. You haven't got the balls. You're weak, like your mother. So I would politely ask you to get off my boat, before I call the Gestapo and have you arrested like the traitorous dog you are."
"Go to Hell, you son of a bitch," I answered, then raised the pistol and fired in one smooth movement. As the bullet struck him between the eyes, the last expression on his face was one of surprise, before momentum knocked his chair backwards, and blood started seeping from the wound.
I stared at his body for a good few seconds, before spurring myself into action. The weapon had been silenced, but noise carries on water, so I had to move fast, just in case. I moved quickly back to the stern rail, threw the gun as far away into the lake as possible, then let myself down into the water. I was confident that the police wouldn't be able to raise either fingerprints or footprints from the boat, as I'd remained gloved and socked throughout, but I was never leaving Germany alive if I got caught red handed. There was also the problem that I'd never meant to talk to the man, and so I was behind schedule.
As quickly as I could, I swam back to the dinghy, hauled myself back on board and fired up the engine. Then I headed towards Friedrichshafen for a good half an hour before shutting down the engine, to be certain that I hadn't been heard. While I waited, I changed out of the wetsuit, back into my street clothes, and packed the kit back into its carry bag, save for the gloves, which I kept on. However, I knew time was limited, and wanted my stolen transport back in the marina by dawn.
Come two in the morning, I was heading back towards the Swiss side. I managed to dock about an hour before dawn, and after wiping down any traces I might have left on the boat, I made my way back out through the hole I'd made in the fence, then stuffed the gloves into the carry bag along with everything else.
By six-thirty I had sneaked back into the hotel and had a shower. I mussed the bed so that it looked as if I'd slept in it, and dried the wetsuit as best I could and repacked it, before heading downstairs for a light breakfast. By eight-thirty, I was handing my hire car back at the Hertz desk at Zurich airport, and at ten, I was in the air. It was only then that, deed done, I let myself relax and closed my eyes for the flight back.
* * * * * *
Susanne and Michel met me at the airport, this being the first trip abroad I'd made since the clarification of my status, and I spent the rest of the afternoon with them down by the river, at Hampton Court, to make up for having been away.
The adrenaline crash didn't hit me until after dinner.
I helped Susanne clear up the meal, as usual, and then headed for my study, planning to do some preparation for a murder case I was testifying at on Monday morning. Maybe it was the fact that it would be the first time I'd been back in court since my own trial, or maybe it was because I had just committed the same crime as the defendant I was going to help prosecute, but as I started making notes, my hand began to shake, as the realisation of what I'd done the previous night hit me.
Soon I was shaking all over, and I felt sick to the stomach. What the Hell had I been thinking? I'd potentially just thrown everything away - my life with Susanne, my relationship with my real father, my new-found respectability - for revenge.
I got carefully to my feet and crossed to the drinks cabinet to pour myself a brandy to steady my nerves. I downed it in one, then opened the window and lit a cigarette, hoping the nicotine hit would calm me down.
It didn't work.
I was perching on the windowsill, still shaking, when I heard the doorbell, followed by Susanne's footsteps retreating down the hall to answer it. I heard a murmured exchange, and then she called from the hallway.
"Wolf. Ian's here."
My heart sank. Just then, the last person I wanted to see was my father, but before I could head him off at the pass I heard his voice from the doorway.
"You bloody well had to go ahead and do it, didn't you?" he said, leaning against the door jamb, his voice quiet, presumably so Susanne couldn't hear, but I could hear annoyance in his tone.
"Do what?" I answered, leaning forward to stub out my cigarette before meeting his gaze and trying to feign innocence. As I did, he came in and pushed the door closed behind him. Then he gestured for me to close the window, and waited while I did so, before continuing.
"Kill Dietrich von Ansbach."
"How did you find out so quickly?" I replied, suddenly terrified that I'd missed something on the boat which might have given me away. If that was the case, then all that could save me was the fact that Britain had no extradition agreement with either Switzerland or Germany.
"Matthew Gifford rang me at home to tell me that his body had been found on his boat on Lake Constance. Single bullet wound between the eyes, execution style. And of course, I've seen that MO before. I hope to Hell that you used all your UK-government sponsored training as a Doctor of Forensic Science to cover your tracks."
"He murdered her, Mihai."
"He admitted it?"
"Yes."
"Would he have admitted it if you hadn't had a gun to his head?"
"Given some of the other venom he was spitting? Yes, I think he would have. He seemed proud of what he'd done."
"What else did he say?" his tone becoming less annoyed and more rational.
"He boasted that he had persuaded Ritter to arrest you in '44?"
"I suppose that makes sense. He must have been bitter about what had happened between me and your mother. He would probably have considered it poetic justice. Anything else?"
"He regretted not letting Ritter kill me at Beltane."
"I'm guessing that date isn't a coincidence."
"About as much of one as the fact he wanted to execute you on Summer Solstice."
"By the gods, Wolf. What did we do to them in a past life for them to hate us so in this one?"
I considered whether he was expecting an answer, and came to the conclusion that his question was rhetorical. So I chose to wait until he continued.
"Was it worth it?" he asked, quietly, "Was it worth the risk that you'd be caught and executed?"
I paused, unable to answer immediately, and so it was his turn to wait.
"I don't know," I admitted, finally.
"At least that's honest," he said, crossing to where I was still perched, and leaning against the desk.
"Are you angry with me?" I asked, quietly.
"No...disappointed, perhaps, but it's not as if you hadn't declared your intentions to me."
I looked at him, feeling heartsick. Disappointing him was the last thing I'd wanted to do. Anger would have been so much better.
"Mihai, have you never wanted revenge so badly that you would do anything to get it?"
"In the months after Berlin perhaps, when I was young and didn't realise what I had stumbled into. But not, I think, the way you did against von Ansbach," he said, calmly, "Are you alright?"
"No. Not really," I answered.
He looked at me for a few moments, and then, to my surprise, leaned forward and took me protectively in his arms. I tensed for a moment, and then I was a child again, my mother comforting me after her husband had beaten me for some transgression, real or imagined, and suddenly my memories of her threatened to overwhelm me. The embrace barely lasted a few moments, before he broke off and stepped back, British resolve getting the better of him again. I could tell he was embarrassed at his display of emotion, but from that gesture I knew that all the doubts von Ansbach had tried to raise in my mind about him were unfounded.
"Sorry," he said hurriedly, "I shouldn't have done that."
"Nothing to apologise for," I said quietly, "thank you."
"For what?"
"For being a real father to me," I answered, "I wish so much that you and mama had been able to be together."
"If I'd known, I would have come back for you both," he said, firmly.
His tone indicated that he really meant it, but as he answered, I realised what that would have meant for him. If he had brought mama and I to England before the War, then his relationship with Audrey, the woman he considered to have been his soul mate, would have been very different, if it had existed at all. And then, how different would his life have been?
On the one hand, if he had never fallen in love with her, he would never have met the Group, never learned to defend himself from Ritter - who I firmly believe would have gone after him anyway, as soon as he learned of Ian's existence from my stepfather, if he hadn't known before - and quite possibly might not have lived to his fortieth birthday. On the other, if he had fallen in love with Audrey, and mama and I had been already been in England...
I didn't even want to consider that one.
And both of those made the possibly rash assumption that he would have succeeded in getting us out of Germany at all. If he'd failed, and von Ansbach had caught him, all three of us would have been shot dead in a ditch.
"Oh Mihai," I said, quietly, wishing I'd never voiced my thoughts.
"So what are you going to do now?" he asked, breaking my reverie
"Much as I have been: working, enjoying being with my family, being part of the Group. Von Ansbach was the last link to my old life...the last piece of unfinished business."
"What about Alfred?"
"He and I were never really close, but we got on well enough. He has his life, and I have mine, and in a way I actually regret how what I've done may have impacted on him. I certainly don't intend to hunt him down and kill him."
"I'm glad to hear it. I think it would be best for you and your family if you gave hunting anyone down and killing them a miss for a long, long time."
"I'll bear that in mind."
"May I offer you some advice?"
"Always."
"Take a long, hot bath. What you've done is going to leave a mark on your soul. You need to take time to purify and cleanse yourself from that and come to terms with it, and that may ease some of the pain. And if it's not enough, and you still feel troubled, then let me help you. Let the Group help you."
"How? It's not like I can tell them what I've done. That would make them accessories to murder."
"No. But they know more about your past than many people here in England do, and are well aware how hard things have been for you since you came here. That's why they've supported you while you adjusted. So I'm reasonably sure that Laurence and myself can persuade them to help you without having to go into too many details. Perfect love and perfect trust, remember."
"I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask," he said, earnestly, then his expression lightened, "now, it's late and I should be going."
"Let me walk you out," I replied, and opened the study door. Out in the hallway it was quiet and dark, although I could hear the television in the living room. Obviously Susanne had retreated there after she'd finished up in the kitchen. I flipped on the light switch and showed him to the door in silence. As I opened it he nodded to me, smiled and then stepped out into the hall.
"Good luck with the big case on Monday," he said, and then he was gone.
I paused for a moment, then closed the door quietly. Realising that I couldn't feel any worse if I followed his advice, I headed for the bathroom. I turned on the hot tap and then, from the top of the vanity cupboard where Susanne couldn't reach it, I fetched down a linen sachet of herbs that Caroline North had given me one time, when I'd been complaining about being stressed. They would calm me, she'd said, and while I hadn't used them then, I'd kept them for another occasion. I opened the packet and threw some of its contents into the water, and soon their calming scent filled the room.
As the bath filled, I went into the kitchen to grab a couple of thick, coloured candles from the supply Susanne kept for the occasional romantic evening, and then the bedroom for a dressing gown. Back in the bathroom, I placed the candles on either side of the taps and lit them with the spell my father had taught me, soon after I'd begun Working with him. After a few minutes, the bath was full and I stripped and lowered myself into the scented, steaming water. Almost immediately, I felt my body relax, and began to focus on the flames and let myself drift away.