“How did you know if you didn’t read it?”
Gabriel walked over to one of the paintings, a reclining nude in the manner of Titian. Next to it was another nude, this one by Bordone, one of Titian’s pupils. There was also a landscape by Spitzweg and Roman ruins by Panini. None of the paintings, however, was genuine. They were all twentieth-century copies.
“Who did your work for you?”
“A German art restorer named Gunther Haas.”
“He’s a hack.”
“He charged me a small fortune.”
“Did he know where these paintings hung during the war?”
“We never discussed it.”
“I doubt Gunther would have cared much. He was always a bit of a Nazi.”
Gabriel looked at Eli Lavon, who seemed to be locked in a staring contest with the Wagner bust. After a moment he placed a hand on the large wooden cabinet upon which it stood. “This is where the speakers for the projection system were hidden.” He pointed toward the wall above. “And the screen was behind that tapestry. He could raise it when he wanted to show a film to his guests.”
Gabriel sidestepped a long rectangular table and stood before the massive window. “And this could be lowered, right, Eli? Unfortunately, when he drew up the plans for the Berghof, he put the garage directly beneath the great room. When the wind was right, the stench of petrol was unbearable.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Wolf. “I’m sure you didn’t make the same mistake.”
“I have a separate garage,” boasted Wolf.
“Where’s the button for the window?”
“On the wall to the right.”
Gabriel flipped the switch and the glass glided soundlessly into its pocket. Snow blew into the room. It was coming down harder now. He watched a plane rising slowly into the sky above Salzburg, then cast a discreet glance at his wristwatch.
“You should probably be on your way, Allon. That Gulfstream you borrowed from Martin Landesmann is scheduled to leave for Rome at two.” Wolf conjured an arrogant smile. “It’s a forty-minute drive to the airport at least.”
“Actually, I was thinking about staying long enough to watch the Bundespolizei put you in handcuffs. The German far right will never recover from this, Wolf. It’s over.”
“That’s what they said about us after the war. But now we’re everywhere. The police, the intelligence and security services, the courts.”
“But not the Reich Chancellery. And not the Apostolic Palace.”
“I own that conclave.”
“Not anymore.” Gabriel turned away from the open window and surveyed the room. It was beginning to make him feel ill. “This must have taken a great deal of work.”
“The furnishings were the most difficult part. Everything had to be custom-made based on old photographs. The room is exactly the way it was, with the exception of that table. There was usually a vase of flowers in the center. I use it to display cherished photographs.”
They were framed in silver and precisely arranged. Wolf with his beautiful wife. Wolf with his two sons. Wolf at the tiller ofa sailboat. Wolf cutting the ceremonial ribbon at a new factory. Wolf kissing the ring of Bishop Hans Richter, superior general of the poisonous Order of St. Helena.
One photograph was larger than the others, and its frame was more ornate. It was a photograph of Adolf Hitler sitting at the original table with a child, a boy of two or three, balanced on his knee. The retractable window was open. Hitler looked drawn and gray. The boy looked frightened. Only the man wearing the uniform of a senior SS officer appeared pleased. Smiling, he was standing with his arms akimbo and his head thrown back with obvious delight.
“I assume you recognize the Führer,” said Wolf.
“I recognize the SS officer, too.” Gabriel contemplated Wolf for a moment. “The resemblance is quite striking.”
Gabriel returned the photograph to the table. Another plane was clawing its way skyward above Salzburg. He checked his wristwatch. It was approaching one o’clock. Time enough, he reckoned, for one last story.
47
Obersalzberg, Bavaria
Eli Lavon recognizedWolf’s father. He was Rudolf Fromm, a desk-murderer from Department IVB4 of the Reich Main Security Office, the division of the SS that carried out the Final Solution. Fromm was an Austrian by birth and a Roman Catholic by religion, as was his wife, Ingrid. They were both from Linz, the town along the Danube where Hitler was born. Wolf was their only child. His real name was Peter—Peter Wolfgang Fromm. The photograph was taken in 1945 during Hitler’s last visit to the Berghof. Wolf’s mother had been chatting off camera with Eva Braun when it was snapped. Exhausted, his hand trembling uncontrollably, Hitler had refused to pose for another.
