the lot.'
'After the war? What does that mean?'
A shrug.
'Angus!'
The Scotsman slowed the dinghy further. Sea birds wheeled behind. He gazed at Amy, then at David: 'The Nazis discovered DNA — during the war.'
David was so stunned he felt the boat wobble beneath him. He gasped: 'DNA?'
'Yup. They'd been onto it a while. Fischer, and so forth: he got the first intimations in Namibia, studying the Khoisan and the Basters. Then he clinched the proof at Gurs. But that's not key to what I'm saying. It's what the Nazis did with this technology. Because of what they then found, within and between human genetic variation — that's the key. It was a discovery so…' Angus shrugged. 'I mean allegedly — I don't have proof, and probably never will now — but it was a discovery allegedly so devastating that it led to the Holocaust. And it was so powerful it gave the Nazi doctors leverage — after the war.'
'I still don't get the whole picture…'
Angus tutted, impatiently, but explained. 'At the end of the war, the Nazi doctors from Gurs had one bargaining chip, which they could swap for their lives and freedom. And that bargaining chip was the Fischer results. The rumour is they hid the data somewhere…inaccessible. In Europe is my guess. Probably in central Europe, as the Allies pressed in on the shrinking Nazi empire.' He eyed the shallowing waters, then went on: 'The Allies couldn't imprison them, or try them, let alone execute them. In case one of the other doctors revealed the results.'
Amy interrupted: 'So the doctors were freed. Exonerated. Fischer became…professor at Freiburg, in 1945, despite everything he'd done.'
'Yes.'
'So this doctor in Luderitz? How does he fit in?'
'Well, if what poor Nathan said is right, Dresler knows where the results are hidden.'
David felt the surge of excitement. Angus raised a hand.
'Sure, it is compelling…But remember the Nazis must have hidden the data somewhere wildly inaccessible. Plenty of people have tried to find it. Who knows though.' Angus paused. 'Maybe we will?'
David was curious.
'We? You're coming along?'
He ran his fingers through his red hair. Eyes bright. 'K, I confess, you got me, it's a fair cop. I'm piqued. I'm intrigued. You shoot, you score. Maybe Dresler does know. And if so…I want to know too. I spent five years on this, I want to know if my hunch was right, about the Jews, Hitler, the Holocaust, the Basters.'
He leaned and flung a rope as the dinghy bumped into the pier. 'But first we have to go see Dresler. And torture the truth out of him.'
43
Simon walked nervously down the cobbled high street. Autumn in the Bavarian Alps was quiet. The ski shops were shut; and tourists were few, mainly hikers huddled over big maps, flapping in the breeze. It was a cold and greyish day and the kitsch, gilded streets were largely deserted.
But he still felt nervous. He'd have preferred the anonymity of a hotel in a big city, but didn't dare use credit cards or show his passport: so he'd chosen here, Garmischpartenkirchen, as a compromise. Suzie and he had been here on holiday years ago.
Suzie.
Suzie and Conor.
Suzie and Conor and Tim.
He was lodged in a cold austere cottage, in an ugly new development, in the silence of the Alps, just above the little town. But every minute of every day he'd felt the need for information. An overwhelming need.
So he'd spent half his time in the little town, on payphones to Sanderson and Suzie, or sitting in the internet cafe, with its tinkling bell above the door, and the wall full of red pennants for Bayern Munich FC.
He greeted the girl at the till; she smiled, with a polite nod of recognition, and returned to her magazine. Selecting a terminal amongst all the other dusty, unused terminals, he opened his webmail account. He could feel his own nervousness, like a bad taste in his mouth. Was there any news from Tim? About Tim? David and Amy? What about his wife and child?
There was just one email of interest. There were two unread emails but there was just one email he wanted to read. He didn't want to read that other message. Because he knew it was the communication about Tim, from Tim's captors. The email Sanderson had warned him about.
Don't watch it, Simon. Really. Don't watch it.
So instead he clicked on the other unopened email. It was from David Martinez. He read it twice, absorbing the very serious information, writing some notes in his pad. Then he stood and went to the girl at the till. She charged him a few cents and he paid the money.
The doorway swung open to the street. He stared over the shops and houses at the grey Alps beyond. They were a row of snowy faces, white and sombre: like a jury of elders looking down at his guilt.
Tim. The email about Tim?
The email about Tim.
It was becoming too much. He had managed to avoid opening the Tim email for three days now, and each time he came here it got harder, and harder, to resist clicking on it and watching, to resist the terrible temptation: the desire to know, to behold the worst.
He couldn't resist any longer.
Twisting on a heel, he stepped back inside and, with an embarrassed nod at the cybercafe girl, he returned to the screen.
He sat down, and opened up his webmail account. He clicked on the email.
Subject: Your brother.
He steeled himself. Dry mouthed.
The email was empty except for an icon. An icon that linked to a little movie. It buffered for a second, then cleared: and there was Tim. Sitting in a chair. Half smiling at the camera with his chubby face. Nervous.
It was the video of Tim.
A masked man was standing beside Simon's brother.
The captor spoke.
'That's right, Tim, look at the camera. Say hello to your brother.'
'Hello!'
Tim was waving. Anxiously.
The masked man nodded. And said: 'You have something to say to him?'
Tim's smile was crinkled. He was probably hearing the voices again. Tim spoke through the voices.
'Sorry Simon but hello. How are you. I am sorry the men are detaining me, we have been detained. Rather wrong. What can I say. Hello.'
The masked man said:
'Good. What else, Tim? What else do you want to say to Simon?'
'The dog. Gusty. They want me to mention Augustus. Do you remember when we went to the stream with Augustus, we were happy then weren't we? Doubtless. Because I understand why, doing everything like this.'
Tim swallowed. The masked man waited. Simon's mad older brother gazed right at the camera.
'Simon can you tell Mother I'm sorry for what I did, stabbing her was wrong. So very wrong I understand. Mummy?'
Simon felt the prickle of tears; he fought them.
His brother's face was fat and vulnerable.
'Just wanted to say I remembered the football, too, and I believe we had a nice time when we were boys and
