The Bormann Testament (The Testament of Caspar Schultz)

Jack Higgins The Bormann Testament (The Testament of Caspar Schultz)

The first book in the Paul Chavasse series, 1962

Previously published as The Testament of Caspar Schultz, 1962

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I’ve explored the history of Nazi Germany and the Second World War in a number of novels, the most famous of them being The Eagle Has Landed. For me, the German connection has always been very personal. During the Cold War, I soldiered in the Royal Horse Guards in Berlin and patrolled the East German border, trying to stem the flood both of illegal refugees fleeing to the West as well as gangs of black marketers, usually ex-SS, who operated out of East Germany, using it as a refuge.

My uncle, a regular soldier in the British Army and a former prisoner of war, married a German war widow. Her nephew, Konrad, was a chief inspector in the Hamburg Criminal Investigation Department, and during the war had been drafted into the Gestapo, which needed experienced detectives. His stories about the top Nazis he had met fired my imagination, particularly anything to do with Martin Bormann, Hitler’s right-hand man, who, according to legend, escaped from the bunker in Berlin in the last few days of the war.

So, The Bormann Testament was born. For legal and security reasons, however, my publishers in 1962 were only prepared to put it out if changes were made. The major result was that Martin Bormann vanished from the book and a fictional Nazi leader took over, as indicated by the title under which the novel was finally published, The Testament of Caspar Schultz.

But times have changed and this present offering, after so many years, is a return to what the original intended… and a little more.

– JACK HIGGINS

1962 London Germany CHAPTER 1

Chavasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. He was tired – more tired than he had been in a long time, and yet he couldn’t sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp and reached for a cigarette. As he struck a match, the telephone started to ring.

He lifted the receiver quickly and a woman’s voice sounded in his ear, cool and impersonal. “Paul, is that you?”

He pushed himself up against the pillow. “Who’s speaking?”

“Jean Frazer. Your flight got into London Airport from Greece three hours ago. Why haven’t you checked in?”

“What’s the rush?” Chavasse said. “I made a preliminary report from Athens yesterday. I’ll see the Chief in the morning.”

“You’ll see him now,” Jean Frazer said. “And you’d better hurry. He’s been waiting for you since that flight got in.”

Chavasse frowned. “What the hell for? I’ve just done two months in Greece and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m entitled to a night’s sleep, at least.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” she told him calmly. “Now get your clothes on like a good little boy. I’ll send a car round for you.”

Her receiver clicked into place and he cursed softly and threw back the bedclothes. He pulled on a pair of pants and padded across to the bathroom in his bare feet.

His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and there was a bad taste in his mouth. He filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, savoring its freshness, and then quickly rinsed his head and shoulders in cold water.

As he toweled himself dry, he examined his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under the eyes, and faint lines of fatigue had drawn the skin tightly over the high cheekbones that were a heritage from his French father.

It was a handsome, even an aristocratic, face, the face of a scholar, and somehow the ugly, puckered scar of the old gunshot wound in the left shoulder looked incongruous and out of place.

He fingered the flesh beneath the gray eyes and sighed. “Christ, but you look like hell,” he said softly, and the face in the mirror was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm. It was one of his most important assets.

He ran a hand over the two-day stubble of beard on his chin, decided against shaving, and returned to the bedroom. As he dressed, rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers, and when he left the flat ten minutes later, he was wearing an old trench coat.

The car was waiting at the bottom of the steps when he went outside, and he climbed in beside the driver and sat there in silence, staring morosely into the night as they moved through deserted, rain-swept streets.

He was tired. Tired of living out of a suitcase, of hopping from one country to another, of being all things to all men and someone very different on the inside. For the first time in five years, he wondered why he didn’t pack it all in, and then they turned in through the gates of the familiar house in St. John’s Wood and he grinned ruefully and pushed the thought away from him.

The car braked to a halt before the front door, and he got out without a word to the driver and mounted the steps. He pressed the bell beside the polished brass plate that carried the legend BROWN amp; COMPANY – IMPORTERS amp; EXPORTERS, and waited.

After a few moments, the door opened and a tall, graying man in a blue serge suit stood to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Nice to see you back, Mr. Chavasse.”

Chavasse grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re looking fine, Joe.”

He went up the curving Regency staircase and passed along a thickly carpeted corridor. The only sound was a slight, persistent hum from the dynamo in the radio room, but he moved past the door and mounted two steps into another corridor. Here, the silence was absolute, and he opened a large, white-painted door at the far end and went in.

The room was small and plainly furnished, with a desk in one corner on which stood a typewriter and several telephones. Jean Frazer was bending over a filing cabinet and she looked up, a slight smile on her round, intelligent face. She removed her spectacles with one hand and frowned. “You look pretty rough.”

Chavasse grinned. “I usually do at this time of the morning.”

She was wearing a plain white blouse and a tweed skirt of deceptively simple cut that molded her rounded hips. His eyes followed her approvingly as she walked across to her desk and sat down.

He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet that was lying there. He lit it and blew out a cloud of smoke with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now what’s all the fuss about? What’s the Chief got on his mind that’s so important it can’t wait until a respectable hour?”

She shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s waiting for you inside.”