identity
cards,
books,
badges,
leaflets,
and
armbands.
94 james twining
Turnbull gave a low whistle and Tom immediately wished he hadn’t. The sound seemed strangely inappropriate.
“You never knew about this?” Tom asked.
She shook her head. “He would lock himself in his office for hours. I thought he was reading. But all the time he must have been in here.”
“It’s possible this was some sort of post-traumatic reaction,” Tom suggested. “A morbid fascination brought about by what happened to him. Stress, shock . . . they make people do strange things.”
“That’s what I hoped and prayed too,” she said. “Until I saw this—”
She reached past them and removed a photograph from the top shelf, then took it across to the window. Tom and Turnbull followed her. As she angled it to the light, the photo revealed three young men in SS uniform standing stiffly in front of a bookcase. They looked rather serious, even a little aloof.
“I’ve no idea who the other two are, but the man in the middle . . . the man in the middle is . . . is my father.” Her voice was completely expressionless now.
“Your father? But he’s wearing . . .” Tom trailed off at the pained expression on her face. “When was this taken?”
“In 1944, I think. There’s something else written on the back, but I can’t read it. I think it’s Cyrillic.”
“ December —that’s Russian for December,” said Turn-bull, peering over Tom’s shoulder.
“Tom, we should take this . . .” Archie’s voice came, slightly muffled, from inside the chamber. He appeared a moment later, carrying the mannequin’s jacket and peaked hat.
“Why?” Turnbull asked.
“You ever seen anything like this before?” He pointed at the circular cap badge, which appeared to show a swastika with twelve arms rather than the usual four, each shaped like an SS lightning flash. “I know I haven’t.”
“You think Lasche can help?” Tom asked.
“If he’ll see us,” said Archie, sounding unhopeful.
“Who?” Turnbull butted in.
“Wolfgang
Lasche,”
Tom
explained.
“He
used
to
be
one
95 the black sun
of the biggest dealers in military memorabilia. Uniforms,
guns, swords, flags, medals, planes, even whole ships.”
“Used to be?”
“He’s been a semi-recluse for years. Lives on the top floor of the Hotel Drei Könige in Zurich. He trained as a lawyer originally. Eventually made a name for himself pursuing German, Swiss, and even American companies for alleged involvement in war crimes.”
“What sort of war crimes?”
“The usual—facilitating the Holocaust; helping finance the Nazi war effort; taking advantage of slave labor to turn a profit.”
“And he was successful?”
“Very. He won hundreds of millions of dollars in compensation payments for Holocaust survivors. Then, rumor has it, he hit the jackpot. He uncovered a scam by one of the big Swiss banks to slowly appropriate unclaimed funds deposited by Holocaust victims and shred the evidence. It ran to tens of billions of dollars and went all the way to the top. So they bought him off. The Hotel Drei Könige belongs to the bank he investigated. He gets to live on the top floor and they pay him just to keep quiet.”
“So his antiques dealership . . . ?”
“Part of the deal was that he got out of the Nazi blame game. With his contacts and backing, it was an easy switch. He’s a major collector in his own right now. Nobody knows that market better than him.”
“And he never goes out?”
“He’s sick. Confined to a wheelchair with twenty-four-seven nursing care.”
“And you think he might be able to identify that?” Turn-bull indicated the jacket and cap.
“If anyone can, he can,” said Tom.
“I could have forgiven him, you know . . .” While they had been talking, Elena Weissman had disappeared into the chamber. “I loved him so much. I could have forgiven him anything if he’d told me . . .” she sobbed as she reemerged. Tom
cards,
books,
badges,
leaflets,
and
armbands.
94 james twining
Turnbull gave a low whistle and Tom immediately wished he hadn’t. The sound seemed strangely inappropriate.
“You never knew about this?” Tom asked.
She shook her head. “He would lock himself in his office for hours. I thought he was reading. But all the time he must have been in here.”
“It’s possible this was some sort of post-traumatic reaction,” Tom suggested. “A morbid fascination brought about by what happened to him. Stress, shock . . . they make people do strange things.”
“That’s what I hoped and prayed too,” she said. “Until I saw this—”
She reached past them and removed a photograph from the top shelf, then took it across to the window. Tom and Turnbull followed her. As she angled it to the light, the photo revealed three young men in SS uniform standing stiffly in front of a bookcase. They looked rather serious, even a little aloof.
“I’ve no idea who the other two are, but the man in the middle . . . the man in the middle is . . . is my father.” Her voice was completely expressionless now.
“Your father? But he’s wearing . . .” Tom trailed off at the pained expression on her face. “When was this taken?”
“In 1944, I think. There’s something else written on the back, but I can’t read it. I think it’s Cyrillic.”
“ December —that’s Russian for December,” said Turn-bull, peering over Tom’s shoulder.
“Tom, we should take this . . .” Archie’s voice came, slightly muffled, from inside the chamber. He appeared a moment later, carrying the mannequin’s jacket and peaked hat.
“Why?” Turnbull asked.
“You ever seen anything like this before?” He pointed at the circular cap badge, which appeared to show a swastika with twelve arms rather than the usual four, each shaped like an SS lightning flash. “I know I haven’t.”
“You think Lasche can help?” Tom asked.
“If he’ll see us,” said Archie, sounding unhopeful.
“Who?” Turnbull butted in.
“Wolfgang
Lasche,”
Tom
explained.
“He
used
to
be
one
95 the black sun
of the biggest dealers in military memorabilia. Uniforms,
guns, swords, flags, medals, planes, even whole ships.”
“Used to be?”
“He’s been a semi-recluse for years. Lives on the top floor of the Hotel Drei Könige in Zurich. He trained as a lawyer originally. Eventually made a name for himself pursuing German, Swiss, and even American companies for alleged involvement in war crimes.”
“What sort of war crimes?”
“The usual—facilitating the Holocaust; helping finance the Nazi war effort; taking advantage of slave labor to turn a profit.”
“And he was successful?”
“Very. He won hundreds of millions of dollars in compensation payments for Holocaust survivors. Then, rumor has it, he hit the jackpot. He uncovered a scam by one of the big Swiss banks to slowly appropriate unclaimed funds deposited by Holocaust victims and shred the evidence. It ran to tens of billions of dollars and went all the way to the top. So they bought him off. The Hotel Drei Könige belongs to the bank he investigated. He gets to live on the top floor and they pay him just to keep quiet.”
“So his antiques dealership . . . ?”
“Part of the deal was that he got out of the Nazi blame game. With his contacts and backing, it was an easy switch. He’s a major collector in his own right now. Nobody knows that market better than him.”
“And he never goes out?”
“He’s sick. Confined to a wheelchair with twenty-four-seven nursing care.”
“And you think he might be able to identify that?” Turn-bull indicated the jacket and cap.
“If anyone can, he can,” said Tom.
“I could have forgiven him, you know . . .” While they had been talking, Elena Weissman had disappeared into the chamber. “I loved him so much. I could have forgiven him anything if he’d told me . . .” she sobbed as she reemerged. Tom
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