He stepped into the room and paused, white hair gleaming in the lamplight, rain glistening on his military raincoat, shoulders firm, the figure still militarily erect, only the whiteness of the hair and the clipped moustache hinting at his seventy-five years.
I dont think Ive ever been so totally astonished, for I was looking at a legend in his own time, General Hamilton Canning, Congressional Medal of Honour, DSC, Silver Star, Médaille Militaire, the Philippines, D-Day, Korea, even Vietnam in the early days. A piece of walking history, one of the most respected of living Americans.
He had a harsh distinctive voice, not unpleasant, but it carried with it the authority of a man whod been used to getting his own way for most of his life.
Which one?
Hugo limped past him, lamp held high, and I crouched back in the corner. Here, señor.
Cannings face seemed calm enough, but it was in the eyes that I saw the turbulence, a blazing intensity, but also a kind of hope as he stood at the end of the coffin and looked down at the waxen face. And then hope died, the light went out in the eyes something. The shoulders sagged and for the first time he looked his age.
He turned wearily and nodded to Hugo. I wont trouble you any further.
This was not the person you were seeking, señor?
Canning shook his head. No, my friend, I dont think so. Good night to you.
He seemed to take a deep breath, all the old vigour returning, and strode from the room. I came out of the shadows quickly.
Señor. Hugo started to speak.
I motioned him to silence and moved to the entrance.
As Canning opened the door, I saw the cab from the airstrip outside, the driver waiting in the rain.
The general said, You can take me to the hotel now, and closed the door behind him.
Hugo tugged at my sleeve. Señor, what passes here?
Exactly what I was wondering, Hugo, I said softly, and I went along the passage quickly and let myself out.
The cab was parked outside the hotel. As I approached, a man in a leather flying jacket and peaked cap hurried down the steps and got in. The cab drove away through the rain. I watched it go for a moment, unable to see if Canning was inside.
Rafael wasnt behind the desk, but as I paused, shaking the rain from my coat, a door on my left opened and he emerged.
He smiled. Were you successful, señor?
Not really, I said. Did I see the cab driving away just now?
Ah, yes, that was the pilot of Mr Smith, an American gentleman who has just booked in. He was on his way to La Paz in his private aeroplane, but they had to put down here because of the weather.
I see. Mr Smith, you say?
That is correct, señor. Ive just given him a drink in the bar. Could I perhaps get you something?
Well, now, I said. A large brandy might be a sensible idea, considering the state Im in.
I followed him, unbuttoning my trench-coat. It was a pleasant enough room, rough stone walls, a well-stocked bar at one side. Canning was seated in an armchair in front of a blazing log fire, a glass in one hand. He looked up sharply.
Company, señor, Rafael said cheerfully. A fellow guest. Señor OHagan Señor Smith. Ill just get your brandy now, he added and moved away.
Not a night for even an old tomcat to be out, I said, throwing my coat over a chair. As my old grannie used to say.
He smiled up at me, the famous Canning charm well in evidence, and stuck out his hand. English, Mr OHagan?
By way of Ulster, I said. But we wont go into that, General.
The smile stayed firmly in place, only the eyes changed, cold, hard, and the hand tightened on mine with a grip of surprising strength considering his age.
It was Rafael who broke the spell, arriving with my brandy on a tray. Can I get you another one, señor? he asked.
Canning smiled, all charm again. Later, my friend. Later.
Señores.
Rafael departed. Canning leaned back, watching me, then swallowed a little Scotch. He didnt waste time trying to tell me how mistaken I was, but said simply, Weve met before, presumably?
About fifteen minutes ago up the street at the mortuary, I said. I was standing in the shadows, I should explain, so I had you at something of a disadvantage. Oh, Ive seen you before at press conferences over the years, that sort of thing, but then one couldnt really specialize in writing about politics and military affairs without knowing Hamilton Canning.
OHagan, he said. The one who writes for The Times?
Im afraid so, General.
Youve a good mind, son, but remind me to put you straight on China. Youve been way out of line in that area lately.
Youre the expert. I took out a cigarette. What about Bauer, General?
What about him? He leaned back, legs sprawled, all negligent ease.
I laughed. All right, lets try it another way. You ask me why a reasonably well-known correspondent for the London Times takes the trouble to haul himself all the way from Lima to a pesthole like this, just to look at the body of a man called Ricardo Bauer who dropped dead in the street here on Monday.
All right, son, he said lazily. You tell me. Im all ears.
Ricardo Bauer, I said, as more than one expert will tell you, is one of the aliases used by Martin Bormann in Brazil, the Argentine, Chile and Paraguay on many occasions during the past thirty years.
Martin Bormann? he said.
Oh, come off it, General. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, Head of the Nazi Party Chancellory and Secretary to the Führer. The one member of Hitlers top table unaccounted for since the war.
Bormanns dead, he said softly. He was killed attempting to break out of Berlin. Blown up crossing the Weidendammer Bridge on the night of May 1st, 1945.
Early hours of May 2nd, General, I said. Lets get it right. Bormann left the bunker at 1.30 a.m. It was Erich Kempka, Hitlers chauffeur, who saw him come under artillery fire on that bridge. Unfortunately for that story, the Hitler Youth Leader, Artur Axmann, crossed the Spree River on a railway bridge, as part of a group led by Bormann, and that was considerably later.
He nodded. But Axmann asserted also that hed seen Bormann and Hitlers doctor, Stumpfegger, lying dead near Lehrter Station.
And no one else to confirm the story, I said. Very convenient,
He put down his glass, took out a pipe and started to fill it from a leather pouch. So, you believe hes alive. Wouldnt you say thats kind of crazy?
It would certainly put me in pretty mixed company, I said. Starting with Stalin and lesser mortals like Jacob Glas, Bormanns chauffeur, who saw him in Munich after the war. Then there was Eichmann when the Israelis picked him up in 1960 he told them Bormann was alive. Now why would he do that if it wasnt true?
A neat point. Go on.
Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi hunter, always insisted he was alive, maintained he had regular reports on him. Ladislas Farago said he actually interviewed him. Since 1964 the West German authorities have had 100,000 marks on his head and he was found guilty of war crimes at Nuremberg and sentenced to death in his absence. I leaned forward. What more do you want, General? Would you like to hear the one about the Spaniard who maintains he travelled to Argentine from Spain with Bormann in a U-boat in 1945?
He smiled, leaning over to put another log on the fire. Yes, I interviewed him soon after he came out with that story. But if Bormanns been alive all these years, whats he been doing?
The Kameradenwerk, I said. Action for comrades. The organization they set up to take care of the movement after the war, with hundreds of millions of gold salted away to pay for it.
Possible. He nodded, staring into the fire. Possible.
One thing is sure, I said. That isnt him lying up there at the mortuary. At least, you dont think so.
He glanced up at me. Why do you say that?
I saw your face.
He nodded. No, it wasnt Bormann.
How did you know about him? Bauer, I mean. Events in La Huerta hardly make front-page news in the New York Times.
I employ an agent in Brazil who has a list of certain names. Any mention of any of them anywhere in South America and he informs me. I flew straight down.
Now that I find truly remarkable.
What do you want to know, son? What he looked like? Will that do? Five foot six inches, bull neck, prominent cheekbones, broad, rather brutal face. You could lose him in any crowd because he looked so damned ordinary. Just another working stiff off the waterfront or whatever. He was virtually unknown to the German public and press. Honours, medals meant nothing to him. Power was all. It was as if he was talking to himself as he sat there, staring into the fire. He was the most powerful man in Germany and nobody appreciated it until after the war.
A butcher, I said, who condoned the final solution and the deaths of millions of Jews.
Who also sent war orphans to his wife in Bavaria to look after, Canning said. You know what Göring said at Nuremberg when they asked him if he knew where Bormann was? He said, I hope hes frying in hell, but I dont know.
He heaved himself out of the chair, went behind the bar and reached for a bottle of Scotch. Can I get you another?
Why not? I got up and sat on one of the bar stools. Brandy.
As he poured some into my glass he said,
I was once a prisoner-of-war, did you know that?
Thats a reasonably well-known fact, General, I said. You were captured in Korea. The Chinese had you for two years in Manchuria. Isnt that why Nixon hauled you out of retirement the other year to go to Peking with him?
No, I mean way, way back. I was a prisoner once before. Towards the end of the Second World War, the Germans had me. At Schloss Arlberg in Bavaria. A special set-up for prominent prisoners.
And I genuinely hadnt known, although it was so far back it was hardly surprising, and then his real, enduring fame had been gained in Korea, after all.
I said. I didnt know that, General.
He dropped ice into his glass and a very large measure of whisky. Yes, I was there right to the bitter end. In the area erroneously known as the Alpine Fortress. One of Dr Goebbelss smarter pieces of propaganda. He actually had the Allies believing there was such a place. It meant the troops were very cautious about probing into that area at first, which made it a safe resting place for big Nazis on the run from Berlin in those last few days.
Hitler could have gone, but didnt.
Thats right.
And Bormann?
What do you mean?
The one thing thats never made any sense to me, I said. He was a brilliant man. Too clever by half to leave his chances of survival to a mad scramble at the final end of things. If hed really wanted to escape hed have gone to Berchtesgaden when he had the chance instead of staying in the bunker till the end. Hed have had a plan.
Oh, but he did, son. Canning nodded slowly. You can bet your sweet life on that.
And how would you know, General? I asked softly.
And at that he exploded, came apart at the seams.
Because I saw him, damn you, he cried harshly. Because I stood as close to him as I am to you, traded shots with him, had my hands on his throat, do you understand? He paused, hands held out, looking at them in a kind of wonder. And lost him, he whispered.
He leaned on the bar, head down. There was a long, long moment in which I couldnt think of a thing to say, but waited, my stomach hollow with excitement. When he finally raised his head, he was calm again.
You know whats so strange, OHagan? So bloody incredible? I kept it to myself all these years. Never mentioned it to a soul until now.
2
It began, if it may be said to have begun anywhere, on the morning of Wednesday, 25 April 1945, a few miles north of Innsbruck.
When Jack Howard emerged from the truck at the rear of the column just after first light, it was bitterly cold, a powdering of dry snow on the ground, for the valley in which they had halted for the night was high in the Bavarian Alps, although he couldnt see much of the mountains because of the heavy clinging mist which had settled among the trees. It reminded him too much of the Ardennes for comfort. He stamped his feet to induce a little warmth and lit a cigarette.
Sergeant Hoover had started a wood fire, and the men, only five of them now, crouched beside it. Anderson, OGrady, Garland and Finebaum whod once played clarinet with Glenn Miller and never let anyone forget it. Just now he was on his face trying to blow fresh life into the flames. He was the first to notice Howard.
Heh, the captains up and he dont look too good.
Why dont you try a mirror? Garland inquired. You think you look like a daisy or something?
Stinkweed thats the only flower he ever resembled, OGrady said.
Thats it, hotshot, Finebaum told him. Youre out. From here on in you find your own beans. He turned to Hoover. I ask you, Sarge. I appeal to your better nature. Is that the best these mothers can offer after all Ive done for them?
Thats a truly lousy act, Finebaum, did I ever tell you that? Hoover poured coffee into an aluminium cup. Youre going to need plenty of practice, boy, if youre ever going to get back into vaudeville.
Well, Ill tell you, Finebaum said. Ive had kind of a special problem lately. I ran out of audience. Most of them died on me.
Hoover took the coffee across to the truck and gave it to Howard without a word. Somewhere thunder rumbled on the horizon.
Eighty-eights? the captain said.
Hoover nodded. Dont they ever give up? It dont make any kind of sense to me. Every time we turn on the radio they tell us this wars as good as finished.
Maybe they forgot to tell the Germans.
That makes sense. Any chance of submitting it through channels?
Howard shook his head. It wouldnt do any good, Harry. Those krauts dont intend to give in until they get you. Thats what its all about.
Hoover grunted. Those mothers better be quick or theyre going to miss out, thats all I can say. You want to eat now? We still got plenty of K-rations and Finebaum traded some smokes last night for half a dozen cans of beans from some of those Limey tank guys up the column.
The coffees just fine, Harry, Howard said. Maybe later.