Bear Grylls: The Hunt (Will Jaeger Book 3) Read online

  Simon Chucks Bello, an orphan from the East African slums, had played a key role in defeating Kammler and neutralising his Gottvirus. Luke had always wanted a brother, and as Simon had no parents, the Jaeger family had decided to adopt him.

  But right now, Ruth needed space in which to heal and Jaeger had been in desperate need of a break – hence his spur-of-the-moment visit to the Berghof.

  As he sat there on the hotel patio, he let the serenity of the place and its breathtaking beauty seep into him. It was the last thing he had ever expected: to find solace where Hitler had orchestrated so much evil.

  Another thought struck him as he ran his eye over the dramatic folds of the forested hills. How could anyone have looked out over all of this – over the stunning Untersberg Mountains – and planned the mass murder of so many?

  It was inconceivable.

  Yet it had happened.

  His mind was drawn back to the present by a polite cough. He turned to find Andrea with the dinner menu.

  ‘No sign of your uncle yet?’ she queried. ‘He will be joining you? If not, he can take dinner in his room. He must be tired after the tunnels. Such a wonderful man. How old is he, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Ninety-five . . . going on twenty-one,’ Jaeger quipped. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll make dinner. I’ve just ordered us beer with schnapps chasers. Uncle Joe wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  Andrea smiled. ‘You have heard about this new discovery? It is all over the news. An Austrian film-maker has just uncovered an entirely unknown Nazi tunnel system not so very far away.’

  ‘Really? They tunnelled everywhere, didn’t they?’

  ‘So it seems. But what has made the headlines is what may be hidden there. Apparently this was a top-secret Nazi weapons facility. It is where they concealed the most advanced war machines.’

  Andrea reached for a newspaper, handing it to Jaeger. He ran his gaze over the newsprint. ‘Secret Nazi discoveries,’ he mused. ‘Always make for good headlines.’

  Andrea smiled. ‘Indeed.’

  It was then that a familiar name caught his eye: SS-Oberstgruppenführer Hans Kammler.

  ‘I’m curious,’ he remarked. ‘What does it say there, about General Kammler?’

  Andrea read aloud, translating as she went: ‘Found: Hitler’s secret plant. Vast underground complex where Nazis worked on top-secret weapons systems . . . The entire seventy-five-acre complex was the brainchild of SS General Hans Kammler, who recruited scientists to work on a secret end-of-war weapons programme . . . Austrian film-maker Andreas Sulzer said the site is “most likely the biggest secret weapons facility of the Third Reich”. Kammler, who drew up the plans for the crematoriums and gas chambers at Auschwitz, was also in charge of Hitler’s V-weapons programmes. Experts say the Nazis may have been developing a variant of the V-2, with a weapon of mass destruction as its warhead.’

  Jaeger shook his head. ‘Crazy stuff. I wonder how much truth there is to it.’

  ‘Well, it’s at St Georgen an der Gusen, which is not so far from here. Maybe two hours’ drive. Why not go see for yourself?’

  Jaeger nodded pensively. He couldn’t deny that he was curious. The possibility that General Kammler had cooked up some last-ditch Nazi super-weapon, and that it had remained hidden until today, was intriguing.

  ‘I’ll talk it through with Uncle Joe.’ He spied a figure over Andrea’s shoulder. ‘Talk of the devil, here he is!’

  Uncle Joe moved across the patio, a shock of white hair above beady eyes, the thin cane of a walking stick his only concession to age. If Jaeger reached ninety-five and had half Joe’s vitality and spirit, he’d be happy.

  Together they talked over the St Georgen discovery. They were scheduled to leave for the UK the following morning, but Jaeger figured he could stretch it for another forty-eight hours. They could dedicate tomorrow to visiting the secret caves, followed by the long drive home.

  It would be punishing, but doable. Uncle Joe might not be up to all the walking involved, but he could always park himself at a local bar or restaurant in St Georgen.

  By the time they had finished eating, they had firmed up their plans.

  Jaeger felt a certain thrill of excitement at the proposition – General Kammler’s legacy would always hold a dark fascination for him – but he also experienced a twinge of trepidation. He’d promised to collect Ruth from the clinic just as soon as he was back in the UK. Postponing it by forty-eight hours – well, there was no knowing how she would react.

  Ruth Jaeger could be explosively unpredictable these days.

  8

  Narov watched her hostage come to.

  After retrieving her rucksack from her hide in the forest, she’d returned to the house, closed all the blinds and manhandled Isselhorst’s bulk onto one of his steel-framed designer chairs, before using a roll of green gaffer tape to fasten him securely.

  What she loved about the tape was its utter reliability and functionality. It was quick, easy and ultra-secure.

  With Isselhorst she’d been unusually thorough. He was fastened all along his arms and wrists to the flat arms of the chair. His ankles and legs were taped along their length to the chair’s legs. She’d used up an entire roll taping his chest, shoulders and neck to its near-vertical back.

  And for good measure she’d stuffed his mouth with rags and run a loop of tape around his head, just in case he got any ideas about trying to cry for help – not that there was anyone who might hear.

  In short, he was incapable of making any movement whatsoever – the kind of effect you could never pull off using rope alone.

  It put your captive completely at your mercy.

  She reached out, grabbing hold of one end of the tape covering his jaws, and ripped it free, tearing it off his bare skin. He would have yelled with pain were his mouth not stuffed with rags. With a certain revulsion, she took the end of the bloodied cloth and yanked it free, letting it fall to the floor.

  Isselhorst shook his head as he tried to clear it, spitting out gobbets of blood and the odd fragment of tooth. As his eyes focused, he became aware of where he was, how he was fastened and who it was that was facing him.

  ‘What in the name of God . . .’ he gasped.

  ‘Be quiet. I do the talking.’

  Narov’s tone was different now. Cold. Ruthless. And she had spoken in fluent German. Isselhorst, by contrast, had lisped and spluttered as he tried to speak through a mouthful of broken teeth.

  She let him see her pistol. It was a compact Beretta 92FS – the one that she always took on operations. It was the civilian version of the Beretta M9, until recently the US Marine Corps’ handgun of choice.

  The combination of Isselhorst’s immobility, Narov’s firepower and her cold, fluent German seemed to have the desired effect: her captive remained silent, eyes bulging in disbelief at what had happened.

  ‘I have listened to your egotistical bullshit all night. Now it is my turn,’ she grated. ‘You are Erich Pieter Isselhorst, grandson of the SS general of the same name. Your grandfather, like you a lawyer, ran an Einsatzkommando on the Eastern Front. He murdered tens of thousands of Russians, Jews, Poles and other so-called enemies of the Reich. At war’s end he was tried by the Allies for war crimes and executed by a French firing squad.’

  She stared into Isselhorst’s eyes, her ice-blue gaze seemingly blank of expression or emotion.

  ‘Wrong. Your grandfather’s execution was never carried out. Instead, he was recruited by the CIA. He had fought against the Russians, and the Americans felt that former Nazis with such experience could prove useful in the Cold War. In short, Herr Isselhorst, you should not really exist.’

  Narov turned away from her captive.

  ‘You are an aberration. Your bloodline should have died with your grandfather’s execution.’ She pivoted on her heel and stared into his fearful gaze. ‘So whatever happens tonight, it is happening to a man who should never have been born.’

  Isselhorst gawped. No longer the perfect chocolate-box smile, Narov noted with grim satisfaction.

  ‘Who in the name of God are you?’ he slurred.

  ‘I am your worst nightmare.’ Narov’s reply was flat and unemotional, and all the more fearsome for it. ‘I know all there is to know. I know your bloodline, cursed as it is. I know what you have done for a living these past years. Nazis and mass murderers who were hunted for their war crimes – they turned to you for their defence. And if you could not shield them in law, you arranged for alternative means for them to evade their accusers.’

  She gestured at the Matisse. ‘Desperate men will go to desperate measures to buy their survival. Such artworks are priceless, but hard to place on the open market, for the descendants of the rightful owners do still exist. Despite your grandfather’s best efforts, some of those destined for the death camps did evade them.’

  Isselhorst scowled. ‘None would have if—’

  Narov whipped the hard, angular barrel of the Beretta across his face, crunching into the delicate bone structure around the right eye socket. He howled in pain, straining with all his might to free himself from his bonds.

  ‘Did I ask you to speak?’ she breathed, her voice like ice. ‘Did I ask you to squeal? When I want to hear from you, I will say so.’

  She knew from long experience to strike an adversary with anything other than your own limbs. Bone crushed bone. Broken bone injured flesh. The blow had been delivered to cause her minimum injury. You could never be too careful in this kind of game. It was care – minute, pedantic care and preparation – that had kept her alive. That and her training.

 
‘So, I have one thing to ask of you. One question.’ She glanced at Isselhorst dispassionately. ‘Your answer to this question will determine whether you live or die.’

  He glared back at her, eyes brimming with hatred.

  ‘You have recently taken on a new case,’ she continued. ‘Even for you it is an unusual one. A controversial one. It is your involvement in that case that brought you to my attention.

  ‘Otto Marks versus Justiz Stiftung et al.’ She paused. ‘Marks claims to be a descendant of Adolf Hitler. As such, he claims the royalties earned by the book you have displayed in your hallway. Hitler’s royalties for Mein Kampf, stretching back seventy-odd years.’

  She paused. ‘Just this year, Mein Kampf topped best-seller lists here in Germany. In India, Turkey and a string of Arab nations – where I presume its message of exterminating Jews plays well – it is a perennial favourite.

  ‘As you know, Justiz Stiftung – the Justice Foundation – has held those royalties pending the expiration of Hitler’s seventy-year copyright, in case a legal heir stepped forward. That copyright recently ran out. Justiz Stiftung announced plans to donate the monies to charities that fight Nazism. Then your client, Otto Marks, stepped forward.

  ‘The amount that you are claiming for Herr Marks runs into many millions of dollars.’ Narov paused. She let the silence hang heavy for a second. ‘That much I know. Now, my question. What is the real identity of the man you claim to represent? I presume that like you, he is a descendant of a prominent member of the SS. Of the Brotherhood of the Death’s Head.’

  At the mention of the Brotherhood, Isselhorst visibly stiffened. Narov ignored the reaction. There was so much that she knew. This had been her life’s work, and for a very particular set of reasons. But that she would keep until the very end of Herr Isselhorst’s interrogation.

  ‘So, his name. His real name,’ she demanded. ‘Not the one you have used on the documents submitted to the court.’

  Isselhorst tried to shake his head, but it was taped rigidly to the back of the chair and it barely moved. ‘I don’t know his name. He protects it jealously. I only know him by his assumed name: Otto Marks. I’m not lying. You’ve said my life depends on it. So would I risk a lie? Would I?’

  Narov held her silence for a long beat. Then she reached into her backpack. ‘This will decide it.’ She retrieved two syringes and held them up. ‘One contains suxamethonium chloride, a paralytic. The other naloxone hydrochloride, an anti- opioid.’

  She paused. Isselhorst’s expression was a mixture of fear and confusion as he stared at the needles.

  ‘None the wiser? In layman’s terms, this,’ she held up the first syringe, ‘is a respiratory depressant: it stops you breathing. You remain fully conscious, yet you cannot breathe.’ She held up the other syringe. ‘And this reverses the effect.’

  She paused. ‘And I control the timings.’

  She glanced up from the needles, eyes cold, expression ice calm. ‘Too long under the first shot and you might never recover. You might survive, but brain-dead. A vegetable. Or you might never start breathing again. Either way, you remain totally conscious, so that you get to feel what it is like to die. Over and over again.’

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know who he is!’ Isselhorst blurted. ‘I don’t! But there are clues. Other means. My phone. I took a photograph, at dinner, the last time we met. That could help. Plus our next meeting. It’s scheduled for three days’ time. You stake it out, you get to see him in person.’

  Narov glanced at Isselhorst’s phone. She’d placed it to one side when she’d searched his pockets, intent on checking it later. Now she reached for it, stood behind him, and held the screen before his one good eye as she flicked through the images.

  ‘There! That’s him! Otto Marks, or whatever the bastard’s name is.’

  Narov studied the photo for a good few seconds, using the thumb and finger of her free hand to zoom in on the face of the man she sought.

  Could it be? The features seemed familiar, but somehow not exactly right. But it was the eyes that were most compelling.

  They were his, of that she was certain.

  9

  Narov moved back to face Isselhorst, taking up her grip again on the pair of syringes. ‘It is a start. But I need more. Addresses. Phone details. Email. I need everything.’

  ‘I don’t have much. He only makes contact with me, never the other way around. And if he calls, his number is always untraceable. I have never known such secrecy, even with my most paranoid clients.’

  Narov pulled out a tourniquet and went to fasten it around Isselhorst’s arm. She could see him desperately trying to struggle; to break free from his bonds; to stop her getting the tourniquet fastened. But it was no use: he couldn’t move.

  ‘Keep still,’ she murmured, almost as if speaking to herself. ‘Ah, good. A nice prominent vein.’ She moved the needle towards Isselhorst’s forearm.

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know!’ Isselhorst yelled. His terror was plain to see: it had darkened his crotch where he had wet himself with fear. ‘The meeting. Three days’ time. In Dubai. Please. Please. That will get you to him.’

  Narov proceeded to extract every last detail she could about the coming meeting: location, purpose, date, time. She realised she would need to hurry. She was never happy to approach a target unless she had done a detailed reconnaissance.

  Questioning finished, she settled down for her final chat with Herr Isselhorst.

  ‘There is one more thing about your grandfather that you need to know. In 1944, he was transferred from the Eastern Front to SS headquarters in Strasbourg. From there, he oversaw a concentration camp called Natzweiler. I’m curious: have you ever heard of it?’

  ‘No. Truthfully. Never.’

  She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Few have. It was built on French soil on what was once a beautiful ski resort. At the start of the war, my grandmother joined the French Resistance. She was captured and incarcerated in Natzweiler, on your grandfather’s personal orders.’

  She paused, gazing at Isselhorst with an odd, unsettling dispassion. ‘You see, in a way we are alike, you and I. I also should not exist. I am the union of two things that should never have been joined.’

  She brought her mouth close to his ear, as he had done to her in the taxi. ‘My grandmother, Sonia Olchanevsky, was a very beautiful Russian Jew. She was raped by an SS officer at Natzweiler. Repeatedly. That officer was my grandfather, and I – I am the grandchild of that rape.’

  With that, she picked up her bag, re-secured Isselhorst’s gag, pocketed his mobile phone and left the room. Behind her, she could hear the man sobbing exhaustedly.

  She made her way to the kitchen, pausing at the stove and turning all the gas rings to the fully open position. Then she took Oscar’s lead, clipped it onto his collar and coaxed him out of his basket. Before she left the house, she struck a match and lit three fat beeswax candles in an ornate silver candelabra.

  They flared into life. She placed the candelabra on the shelf and closed the door, Oscar following her obediently. The dog had to be wondering what he had done to deserve such a rare treat as this: midnight walkies.

  He paused once only as they walked up the gravel driveway. Narov had dropped something. He pulled on his leash and whined, only for her to signal him onwards, leaving behind a battered, moth-eaten wallet containing an ID card belonging to one Leon Kiel.

  Kiel was one of Heidelberg’s better-known petty criminals. Narov had observed him picking pockets in the city’s narrow, twisting streets. While she didn’t exactly relish fitting him up for tonight’s crime, there were far greater matters at stake. The last thing she could afford was the authorities somehow linking it to her, or with what was coming.

  Wallet dropped, Narov strapped her backpack to her shoulders and hurried into the woods, settling into a ground-eating run, Oscar jogging at her side. Some ten minutes later, the night sky behind them was ripped apart by an almighty explosion, a plume of bluish-yellow flame punching into the darkness as shards of glass and steel tumbled through the air.

  The cloud of gas had seeped out of the kitchen, finding its way along the hallways and spreading through the rooms. Finally it had made contact with the candles.