The Grandfather Clock Page 17

  “They are fanatics,” she said with a sigh.

  “But what could they want with the gun?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps a trophy piece. It’s all a ploy to take tourists’ money.”

  “Is your son some sort of neo-Nazi?”

  “I don’t really know what you call him. He’s not any kind of supremacist. Maybe it’s a love of his German heritage gone wrong. He’s still young. It’s a phase.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this since Eva called this morning. I’m hoping you can get the gun out of Bariloche. It can only bring the boys trouble.”

  “That’s my goal. Would you mind telling me your last name?”

  “Einhorn. My married name is Deitz, but my maiden name was Einhorn.”

  “How can I contact your son?”

  She pulled out a pen.

  “Does he speak English?”

  “Of course.”

  When I returned to my room, Charlie and Glen’s luggage was gone. A note from Charlie said, “Sorry I bailed. Off to Tierra del Feugo! Best of luck.” He signed it with his email address. I opened my laptop. It didn’t take much searching to find more on Freda’s father, Oskar Einhorn. His father had been killed in an automobile accident. After the war he returned to care for his mother in Barlioche. He met his wife, Greta, and they had two children. One was Freda. The 1980s brought relative calm after decades of turmoil in Argentina. With it came the effort to pursue not only those guilty of crimes against the Argentine people, but renewed effort to bring Nazi war criminals to justice. Oskar Einhorn was notable because he was the prominent head of a clothing manufacturer and vocal in proclaiming his innocence. He was dogged by international press. Late in the decade he became ill and passed away before he could see a reunified Germany. In the mid-1990s activity on a long-dormant bank account stoked rumors that his death was faked. Freda adamantly defended her family, pointing out similar unsubstantiated rumors followed the surviving children of German officers. For as many stories I found on English websites, there were double that number in Spanish.

  Freda’s son, Oskar Dietz, was a little harder to pin down. His online footprint competed with other men with the same name in Germany. I found traces on social media, but nothing substantial. The phone number would have to be my starting point.

  There’s a term in telemarketing that refers to an employee’s anxiety over making sales calls. “Call reluctance.” At Globe Bank had a long questionnaire that applicants would fill out to rate their level of call reluctance. That’s the feeling some people have when they don the headset and the computer connects them to Mrs. Jones who is making dinner with a baby screaming in the corner. I always believed that I was born without call reluctance until it was time to call Oskar Dietz.

  Nazis are monsters. What was Oskar Dietz like? What had Marco told him?

  My heart pounded as the phone rang.

  “Hola,” a man shouted. It sounded like he was in a car.

  “Sí, ahh, Oskar Dietz?”

  “Sí, quién es?”

  “Um. Habla inglés?

  “Yes. Who is speaking?”

  “My name is Michael. You might know why I am calling. It has to do with Marco Rios.”

  “Sí. Yes. Did he tell you to call me?”

  “Not exactly.” Oskar didn’t know the whole story.

  “You are interested in the piece.”

  I paused, contemplating my move. I could play along, but if he mentioned my name to Marco, my game wouldn’t last long.

  “What do you know about it?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Sorry, can’t talk about that. If you are interested in something, come to Bariloche from wherever you are. If you are serious, come see me.”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “Oh,” his tone changed. “In that case, call me in the morning. I’ll set things up with Marco.”

  I wasn’t going to be able avoid Marco. Perhaps with the element of surprise on my side, and the fact that I had traveled so far, he would realize he had made a mistake. If I was uneasy in the hunt, perhaps he was more uneasy as the hunted.

  Friday afternoon at the hostel was busy. I camped out in the lobby to do something I had been dreading. I logged in to my email account and I called the voicemail on my phone.

  “You have six messages,” came the woman’s cold tone.

  A message from Klara sounded falsely upbeat, she was just checking in, but a little worried. Come home soon, she said. I felt bad leaving the way I did, and I hadn’t called her since our brief conversation when I arrived in Buenos Aires. For me it had been a whirlwind three days of travel. For her, it was three days of going to school, going home, and not hearing from me.

  The next message was Celeste. She had a detached concern in her voice. “Michael, I just talked to Marco. He sounded crazy. I just want you to be ... I just don’t know what he would do if he saw you. Be careful. Don’t try to do this alone. And please, call Klara. She’s ... uh, losing it. Ciao.”

  There was a strange email from Marianne. It wasn’t strange that she urged me to contact the authorities. It was strange that she didn’t mention the dumbbell and made no acknowledgment of the deception. Perhaps she understood, or maybe something else was at work.

  I took a deep breath and dialed Klara. She fumbled with her phone as she answered, “Hello? Hello?”

  “Klara, it’s me,” I said, staring at the ceiling and speaking of the din of the lobby crowd.

  “Hello?”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Michael. I have to go. I’m coming to Argentina. I’m trying to...”

  “What? What are you…?”

  “It’s ... I have to go.” The line went dead.

  I immediately called Celeste, whose phone went straight to voicemail. What were they doing? My heart was racing. They didn’t know I was in Patagonia.

  I admit that I was buoyed by the news that they were coming. Certainly Klara was unaware of what had provoked Marco. If I’d had a clearer head when I left Paris, I might have tried to figure out a way to enlist their help. But I left with anger toward Celeste and I was convinced that once Klara knew what happened in New Orleans, she would be out of the picture too.

  A trio of back-packers lounged nearby, maps spread on the floor, pulling books from a shelf. I scanned the books, wishing I’d could be so plaintive as to read a book. There were books on Eva Peron is several languages, a host of romance novels and thrillers, and tourist guides dating back a decade. Next to a worn copy of Fodor’s Argentina, a flimsy paperback caught my eye. The cover was a photo of the town of Bariloche. Superimposed into the square was the image of a statue of Hitler, arm extended in Nazi salute. The book was in Spanish, but the words “Sitios Historicos Relacionados Al Nacionalsocialismo” were clear. It was a guide to the area’s Nazi past.

  The afternoon sun was setting and the temperature was beginning to drop. I made my way to a restaurant and took a seat at the bar. I ordered a beer and opened the book. The bartender recognized it with surprising familiarity. “Ahh, looking for Nazis are you?”

  I could feel my face flush. “It just caught my eye. I don’t speak Spanish, so I can’t make much out of it.” I thumbed the pages hopelessly.

  “When that book came out, it was everywhere.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Ha. Well, I was a kid in the 1980s, but a prominent man, leader of the local German school, was extradited to Italy for war crimes. Name was Priebke. It was an international story. That brought us a lot of attention. It comes and goes.”

  “And the Hitler stories. Pretty far-fetched.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve talked to old men who claim that they saw the man. In Argentina, secrets are everywhere. But for all the Germans who were living in plain sight, I find it hard to believe without proof. Other than the house they say he lived in.”

  “Where is that?”

  He grabbed the book, like he alre
ady knew the page. He turned toward the middle where there was a photo of the house that I’d seen on the Internet, with a map on the opposite page. “It’s an hour and a half maybe. But you have to know where you are going. You can’t see it from the road and the entrance is hidden.”

  That night I struggled to sleep. I searched every possible flight from Paris to Buenos Aires and expected Klara and Celeste to land in the morning. When I finally did fall asleep, I was awakened shortly after by my new drunk hostel-mates doing a poor job of being quiet. At the first sign of light I walked to a cafe and tried to read about the Germans of Patagonia over coffee and eggs. The list of officers who called the region home was extensive. Mainstream news sites revealed that Otto Meilling, a famous mountaineer and local hero was a leader of the Hitler Youth. His remote home near Mt. Tronador was a now a museum and offered overnight shelter for climbers heading toward the summit. Dr. Josef Mengele, the “doctor” at Auschwitz known as the Angel of Death had to take his driver’s license exam twice not far from where I sat.

  These were undisputed facts. An Internet search for Hitler and Bariloche yielded 118,000 results. The legend was well-known and hotly debated. Understandably, everyday citizens of the area denounced the conspiracy theorists and preferred the region be known for its beauty, fine chocolates, and skiing, rather than as a shelter for humankind’s most reviled man. For all that I was able to learn, I knew nothing of Oskar Dietz or Nazi fanatics like him.

  For a few minutes, I wondered why I was still in pursuit. There I was, on a wild chase for a gun that I would likely be turning over to the rightful owner, a wealthy prince who didn’t even miss it. In the meantime, the only thing I really cared about, Klara, was en route to help me, but destined to learn that I had slept with her best friend in a moment of sheer stupidity. I loved my new life in Paris, and I thought I loved Klara.

  Getting the gun was the only way to continue my life in Paris. No gun, no help for Chateau Malmaison, no life in Paris. I might as well fly back to the States and admit failure.

  I continued clicking through pages of search results, mostly the same. Then, for some reason, I clicked the “news” tab at the top. The result was a similar list, with stories from the London Telegraph, and a host of other news blogs carrying versions of the same story. But near the top of the list, something more recent, in Spanish, from La Nación, one of Argentina’s main newspapers. I brought up the article and ran the browser’s meager translation.

  “Group Seeks to Encourage Controversial Museum in Patagonia: Seeking to capitalize on notoriety a group in Bariloche makes efforts to enable Hitler residence as museum.”

  It was a crude translation, but through the mud it appeared that a small, and possibly unpopular group was seeing to turn the residence at Inalco into a museum of the area’s Nazi history and lodge for those seeking to sleep a night in Hitler’s home. The estate had once been on the market for $21 million. The group sought funding to purchase the property and develop the plan.

  Le Tromblon de Napoleon was their down payment.

  I called Oskar.

  “Hello,” came his quick answer.

  “Oskar, this is Michael.”

  “Yes, good morning.”

  “Let’s discuss the gun,” I said bluntly.

  “What is to discuss? I talked to Marco. It is very valuable and you are not a buyer.”

  “Oskar, Marco doesn’t know what he is doing.”

  “He told me what I need to know about you.”

  “Did he tell you that I’m working with America’s largest bank? They have interest in the piece. Did he tell you that there is European royalty who have interest in it as well?”

  “A buyer is a buyer,” he said dully.

  “Yes, but how do you bring in a buyer? I’m pretty sure that the list of buyers interested in funding a group of Nazi apologists is short.”

  “Oh, you got me. So now do we just hand the gun back to you?”

  “You need me.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “Listen, Oskar. The gun isn’t mine. I just want it in the right place. It needs to be back where it belongs. I can bring you a buyer. I can offer your organization cover. For a price. We split the proceeds.”

  “Split?”

  “Favorably, of course. Believe me. The story of how I came to have the gun is far more appealing than yours. I can get multiple bidders.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You benefit when I keep your organization’s name out of it.” I hesitated, “And Marco keeps my secret too.”

  There was a pause.

  “Let’s meet.”

  I jumped in a cab, headed to Llao Llao, a famous five-star hotel perched on a bluff above the lake a few miles outside of town. I’d seen many pictures since my arrival. It had hosted presidents and dictators over the years and was designed by the same architect who built the Inalco estate rumored to have been Hitler’s home. As soon as I got into the cab my phone rang.

  “Michael!”

  “Celeste?”

  “We just arrived in Buenos Aires? Where are you?”

  “Bariloche, in Patagonia. I’m meeting with the guy Marco is working with to sell the gun. Marco will be there. Klara is with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Celeste, we need to be upfront with her. I think it’s the only way.”

  “We worry about that later. Michael, I tried to reason with Marco. We spoke yesterday. He’s so angry with me.”

  “Do you know where he is staying?”

  “Only that it must be remote. No mobile service. No phone. He could only talk to me when he was visiting his sister.”

  “Hold on. Lo siento,” I said to the driver. “Una otra... um,” I finally resorted to pointing in the opposite direction. The driver turned around. I motioned him to drive back in to town.

  “Celeste, I need you two to go to the municipal airport and take the next flight to San Carlos de Bariloche. Go to the Hostel Inn Bariloche.”

  “Klara wants to talk to you.”

  “OK,” I said, trying to shift my mind to French again.

  “Michael, what is happening?”

  “I don’t know. I’m in Patagonia, trying to track down Marco. He’s working with some kind of group who wants to open a Nazi museum. It’s crazy.”

  “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too.”

  I had the driver drop me at a rental car office. The Lagos rent-a-car put me in a tiny Volkswagen. I was working against time. I didn’t know how long Oskar and Marco would wait in the lobby of Llao Llao before setting out to look for me. I raced, with a couple of wrong turns, to Marco’s sister’s house. She might be able to confirm my suspicion on where Marco would hide with the gun. Eva was coming down the stairs when I arrived. She saw me and started walking quickly to her car.

  “Eva! Please! Por favor. Uno minuto.”

  “No, mister. I tell you enough.”

  “Please, tell me where Marco is staying. Is he staying here?”

  “No.”

  “Your father’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I held her car door shut. She looked at me startled. The fear in her eyes shocked me. I let the door open. “Inalco,” I said.

  Her eyes betrayed her.

  “That it, isn’t it?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I think so. It’s closed. Abandoned. But they say some people are using it. He just went there to do physical training.”

  “Thank you. Muchas muchas gracias.”

  I got back in the car and opened the book to the page with the map to Inalco. I followed the main two-lane highway to the east looking for a turn to take me north along the edge of the lake. The good news was that Llao Llao was in the other direction. The GPS on the phone worked. Inalco was situated on a point of land that jutted into the lake, with an island just off shore. I hoped I would see that island as a landmark because I didn’t plan to attempt to drive onto the property, assuming that I coul
d find the entrance. The road that I took was not there when Hitler and Eva Braun allegedly lived there with two daughters. I wasn’t buying the conspiracy, necessarily, but a part of me had no reason to believe the story any more or less than the one that their bodies were found in Fuhrerbunker in Berlin. It didn’t matter to me.

  As I drove I decided to call Freda Dietz. Something told me that she was holding back when we spoke before.

  “Freda, this is Michael Chance.”

  She was hesitant, “Hello, Mr. Chance. What can I help you with?”

  “You didn’t tell me about the Nazi museum.”

  She paused then fumbled, “Well, that’s a crazy man’s dream. Just shows that people of wealth don’t necessarily have the brains.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother. Heinrich. He’s a lawyer in Buenos Aires, but he made money in property.”

  “So he has his eyes on Inalco.”

  She sighed.

  “Freda, this is important.”

  “I can’t help you anymore, Michael. This is my family.”

  “I’m in a car. I’m supposed to meet your son and Marco Rios at Llao Llao.”

  “That’s good. Maybe you can talk some sense into them.”

  “I was thinking about going out to Inalco afterward. Just to see it.”

  “Good luck finding it,” she said, raising her voice slightly.

  “I have a map, in a guidebook of Nazi sites. And GPS.”

  Freda became stern. “Michael, do not go there. There’s nothing there. You don’t know what you’re involved with.”

  I’d heard enough.

  I knew that Freda would tell Oskar that I went to Inalco once I didn’t show up at Llao Llao. But I had at least a thirty-minute lead and perhaps an hour.

  As I approached the section of road that veered close to Inalco, I dropped my speed. A peninsula jutting into the lake was almost completely obscured by trees. There were no other cars. I wished I could park my car out of sight from the highway, but there were no options. I pulled the rental to the shoulder. Thick trees lined both sides of the road. I crossed and was faced with a downward slope, a small ridge, and then a steep hill down to the lake’s edge. If the house was there, it should only be a few hundred yards away. I removed every piece of paperwork from the car in case someone went searching through it, slung my satchel with my laptop over my shoulder and scrambled into the forest. Moving through the trees I quickly came to an old iron fence with gaps throughout. Down the hill toward the water, the house came into view. Just a run-down Bavarian mountain lodge. It was remarkably intact. Someone had covered a portion of the roof with a tarp, and some of the windows looked new. I watched from the trees. Ten minutes passed. I saw no movement.