Contract With God (3 page)

Fowler sighed, leaned back on his chair and pointed at the upturned glasses on the table.

‘Do you have anything stronger?’

‘Behind you,’ Graus said, nodding towards a cupboard.

The priest turned and reached for a bottle that was half full. He picked up the glasses and poured two fingers of bright yellow liquid into each. Both men downed the drinks without making a toast.

Fowler grabbed the bottle again and poured another round. He took a sip then said: ‘
Weizenkorn
. Wheat schnapps. It’s been a long time since I tasted this.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t missed it.’

‘True. But it’s cheap, isn’t it?’

Graus shrugged his shoulders.

‘A man like you, Graus. Brilliant. Vain. I can’t believe you drink this. You’re slowly poisoning yourself in a dirty hole that smells of piss. And you want to know something? I understand . . .’

‘You don’t understand a thing.’

‘Pretty good. You still remember the techniques of the Reich. Officers Regulations. Section Three. “In the event of capture by the enemy, deny everything and give only short answers that will not compromise you.” Well, Graus, get used to it. You’re compromised up to your neck.’

The old man pulled a face and poured himself the rest of the schnapps. Fowler watched his opponent’s body language as the monster’s resolve slowly crumbled. He was like a painter, stepping back after a few brush strokes to examine the canvas before deciding which colours to use next.

The priest decided to try using the truth.

‘Look at my hands, Doctor,’ said Fowler, placing them on the table. They were wrinkled, with long delicate fingers. There was nothing strange about them except for one small detail. At the top section of each finger near the knuckles was a thin whitish line that continued right across each hand.

‘Those are ugly scars. How old were you when you got them? Ten? Eleven?’

‘Twelve. I was practising the piano: Chopin Preludes, Opus 28. My father came over to the piano and without any warning he slammed the lid of the Steinway down as hard as he could. It was a miracle I didn’t lose my fingers, but I was never able to play again.’

The priest gripped his glass and seemed to lose himself in its contents before going on. He had never been able to acknowledge what had happened while looking another human being in the eye.

‘From the time I was nine years old my father . . . forced himself on me. That day I told him I was going to tell someone if he did it again. He didn’t threaten me. He simply destroyed my hands. Then he cried, asked me to forgive him, and called on the best doctors money could buy. No, Graus. Don’t even think about it.’

Graus had slid his hand under the table, feeling for the cutlery drawer. He quickly withdrew it.

‘That’s why I understand you, Doctor. My father was a monster whose guilt went beyond his own capacity to forgive. But he had more guts than you. Rather than slowing down in the middle of a sharp curve, he stepped on the gas and took my mother with him.’

‘A very moving story, Father,’ Graus said in a mocking tone.

‘If you say so. You’ve been hiding in order to avoid facing your crimes, but you’ve been found out. And I’m going to give you what my father never had: a second chance.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Give me the candle. In turn you’ll get this file containing all the documents that would serve as your death warrant. You can go on hiding out here for the rest of your life.’

‘And that’s it?’ said the old man incredulously.

‘As far as I’m concerned.’

The old man shook his head and stood up with a tight smile. He opened a small cabinet and pulled out a large glass jar filled with rice.

‘I never eat grains. I have an allergy.’

He emptied the rice onto the table. There was a small cloud of starch and a dry thud. Half buried in the rice was a package.

Fowler leaned forward and reached for it, but Graus’s bony paw grabbed his wrist. The priest looked at him.

‘I have your word, right?’ said the old man anxiously.

‘Is it worth anything to you?’

‘Yes, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Then you have it.’

The doctor let go of Fowler’s wrist, his own hands trembling. The priest carefully brushed off the rice and lifted out the dark cloth package. It was tied with twine. With great care he undid the knots and unwrapped the cloth. The faint rays of the early Austrian winter filled the filthy kitchen with a golden light that seemed at odds with the surroundings and the dirty, grey wax of the thick candle lying on the table. At one time the candle’s entire surface had been covered by a thin sheet of gold worked in an intricate design. Now, the precious metal had almost disappeared, leaving only traces of filigree on the wax.

Graus smiled sadly.

‘The pawnshop took the rest, Father.’

Fowler didn’t reply. He took out a lighter from his trouser pocket and flicked it on. Then he stood the candle upright on the table and brought the flame to the top of it. Although there was no wick, the heat of the flame began to melt the wax, which gave off a nauseating smell as it slid down towards the table in grey drops. Graus looked on with bitter irony, as if he enjoyed being able to speak as himself after so many years.

‘I find it amusing. The Jew at the pawnshop has been buying Jewish gold for years, thereby supporting a proud member of the Reich. And what you’re witnessing now proves your search has been completely pointless.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive, Graus. The gold on this candle is not the treasure I’m after. It’s only a distraction for idiots.’

Like a warning, the flame suddenly sputtered. A pool of wax had accumulated on the cloth below. At the top of what remained of the candle, the green edge of a metallic object was just about visible.

‘Good, it’s here,’ said the priest. ‘Now I can leave.’

Fowler stood up and folded the cloth around the candle once more, being careful not to burn himself.

The Nazi watched in astonishment. He was no longer smiling.

‘Wait! What is that? What’s inside?’

‘Nothing that concerns you.’

The old man stood up, opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out a kitchen knife. With trembling steps he made his way around the table towards the priest. Fowler watched him, motionless. In the Nazi’s eyes burned the crazed fire of someone who had spent whole nights contemplating that object.

‘I have to know.’

‘No, Graus. We made a deal. The candle for the file. That’s all you get.’

The old man raised the knife, but the expression on his visitor’s face made him lower it again. Fowler nodded and threw down the file on the table. Slowly, with the cloth bundle in one hand and his briefcase in the other, the priest backed towards the kitchen door. The old man picked up the file.

‘There are no other copies, right?’

‘Only one. The two Jews waiting outside have it.’

Graus’s eyes nearly leapt out of their sockets. He raised the knife again and advanced towards the priest.

‘You lied to me! You said you’d give me a chance!’

Fowler looked at him impassively one last time.

‘God will forgive me. Do you think you’ll have as much luck?’

Then, without another word, he disappeared into the hallway.

The priest walked out of the building clutching the precious package to his chest. Two men in grey coats stood guard several feet from the door. Fowler warned them as he passed: ‘He has a knife.’

The taller of the two cracked his knuckles and a small smile played on his lips.

‘Even better,’ he said.

 

 

Vienna (Associated Press)

After evading justice for over fifty years, Dr Heinrich Graus, ‘the butcher of Spiegelgrund’, was finally located by the Austrian police. According to the authorities, the infamous Nazi war criminal was found dead, apparently of a heart attack, in a small house in the town of Krieglach, only 35 miles from Vienna.

Born in 1915, Graus became a member of the Nazi party in 1931. By the beginning of the Second World War, he was already second in command at the Am Spiegelgrund Children’s Hospital. Graus used his position to conduct inhumane experiments on Jewish children with so-called behavioural problems or mental deficiencies. The doctor stated on several occasions that such behaviours were hereditary and the experiments he conducted were justified since the subjects possessed ‘lives not worth living’.

Graus vaccinated healthy children with infectious diseases, performed vivisections, and injected his victims with different mixtures of the anaesthesia he was developing in order to measure their reaction to pain. It is believed that close to a thousand murders occurred within the walls of Spiegelgrund during the war.

After the war, the Nazi fled, leaving no trace except for 300 children’s brains preserved in formaldehyde. Despite the efforts of the German authorities, no one was able to track him down. The famous Nazi hunter, Simon Wiesenthal, who brought over 1,100 criminals to justice, remained intent until his death on finding Graus, whom he called ‘his pending assignment’, hunting the doctor tirelessly throughout South America. Wiesenthal died in Vienna three months ago, unaware that his target was living as a retired plumber not far from his own office.

Unofficial sources at the Israeli embassy in Vienna lamented that Graus had died without having to answer for his crimes, but nonetheless celebrated his sudden demise, given that his advanced age would have complicated the extradition process and trial, as in the case of the Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.

‘We cannot help but see the hand of the Creator in his death,’ stated a source.

‘He’s downstairs, sir.’

The man in the chair shrank back a little. His hand trembled, although the movement wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him as well as his assistant.

‘What’s he like? Have you investigated him thoroughly?’

‘You know I have, sir.’

There was a deep sigh.

‘Yes, Jacob. My apologies.’

The man stood up as he spoke and reached for the remote control that regulated his environment. He pressed down hard on one of the buttons, his knuckles turning white. He had already broken several remotes and his assistant had finally given up and ordered a special one made out of reinforced acrylic that conformed to the shape of the old man’s hand.

‘My behaviour must be trying,’ said the old man. ‘I’m sorry.’

His assistant didn’t respond; he realised that his boss needed to let off steam. He was a humble man yet very aware of his position in life, if those traits could be said to be compatible.

‘It pains me to sit here all day, you know? Each day I find less pleasure in ordinary things. I’ve become an insignificant old idiot. When I go to bed each night I say to myself: tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the day. And the next morning I get up and my resolve has vanished, just as my teeth are doing.’

‘We’d better make a start, sir,’ said the assistant, who had heard countless variations on this theme.

‘Is it absolutely necessary?’

‘You’re the one who requested it, sir. As a way of controlling any loose ends.’

‘I could just read the report.’

‘It’s not just that. We’re already at Phase Four. If you want to be a part of this expedition, you’ll have to get used to being around strangers. Dr Hocher was very clear on that point.’

The old man pressed a series of buttons on his remote control. The blinds in the room came down and the lights went out as he sat down once again.

‘There’s no other way?’

His assistant shook his head.

‘Very well, then.’

The assistant headed for the door, the only remaining source of light.

‘Jacob.’

‘Yes, sir ?’

‘Before you leave . . . Would you mind letting me hold your hand for a moment? I’m frightened.’

The assistant did as he was asked. Kayn’s hand was still trembling.

NEW YORK

 

 

Orville Watson was nervously drumming his fingers on the bulging leather portfolio on his lap. He had been sitting on his well-padded rear end in the reception area of the 38th Floor of Kayn Tower for the last two hours. At 3,000 dollars an hour, anyone else would have been happy to wait until Judgement Day. But not Orville. The young Californian was growing bored. In point of fact, the fight against boredom was what had made his career.

His college studies had bored him. Against his family’s wishes he had dropped out during his second year. He had found a good job at CNET, one of the companies on the cutting edge of new technologies, but once again boredom had set in. Orville was constantly hungry for new challenges and his real passion was for answering questions. By the turn of the millennium, his entrepreneurial spirit had prompted him to leave his job at CNET and start up his own company.

His mother, who read in the newspapers each day about the failure of yet another dot-com, objected. Her worries didn’t deter Orville. He packed his 300-pound frame, blond ponytail, and a suitcase full of clothes into a dilapidated van and drove right across the country, ending up in a basement apartment in Manhattan. Thus Netcatch was born. His slogan was ‘You ask, we respond’. The whole project could have remained nothing more than the crazy dream of a young man with an eating disorder, too many worries, and a singular understanding of the Internet. But then 9/11 happened, and straight away Orville understood three things that it had taken the Washington bureaucrats much too long to figure out.