Throughout the rise of the syndicate, Ellen, her mother’s faithful assistant and devoted pupil, watched, listened, and learned. She found the work alluring, fascinatingly dangerous, and fell in love with the money it brought in and the resulting luxury in which she and her mother lived. She imbibed not only her mother’s skill and determination, but also a double measure of her ruthlessness and vindictive temper. When Hilda died of tuberculosis, probably contracted during the many months of privation during the war, Ellen was more than ready to take command and did so with zeal and enthusiasm. In 1954 she moved the headquarters of the operation to West Berlin, it being clear by then that Stalin had given up his efforts to unite the city under communist rule. She preferred the night life of Berlin to that of Munich, and soon thereafter the syndicate expanded into a truly global enterprise.
From time to time throughout these years, efforts were made to sell the mysterious flat bone from crate number five. A turtle plastron, aged to a pale yellow, cracked, and with its surface marred by columns of scratches looking to the uninitiated eye like meaningless graffiti, was apparently of no interest to anyone, no matter how old it might be or where it might have come from. Its label had said it was Chinese, but the specialists Hilda turned to for an assessment of its value had no expertise in Oriental artifacts, and so it remained something of an enigma.
“Just hold onto it for now,” Brandt advised. “Someone may turn up who’s interested in it. It doesn’t look like much, and that’s part of the problem, I think. I mean, it’s hardly to be called beautiful, is it? A shabby old piece of bone?”
So, shortly after moving to Berlin, Ellen had a rosewood stand made for it and displayed the bone in her house.
“To remind me of our days in Munich in that God-awful cellar,” she said, “and to see I don’t forget how much I owe to Papa.”
In fact, such a souvenir was unnecessary. Ellen never forgot her father or the hideous way he died, and with the help of a contact in Berlin, she found a private investigator and commissioned him to find his killer.
“I want a man who can be persuaded to keep quiet and do the job without attracting attention,” she explained, and was then given the name of Erich Richter. His background was exactly what she was looking for. She interviewed Herr Richter, a sturdily built man of perhaps forty-five, with small, blue eyes set close together under bushy brows, and was satisfied he was the right man. Two months later, he reported the killer’s name was most probably Manfred Hoven.
“As far as I could find out,” Fraulein Schumacher,” he said, “Hoven was a sergeant in the army, assigned to special duty with your father.”
Ellen nodded, saying, “Yes, I think I remember my father calling him Sergeant, but were you able to find out what work my father was doing?” She recalled how many times he had refused to divulge, even to his family, the nature of his activities during the last few months of the war.
“I’m sorry,” papa would say, with an apologetic smile. “I just can’t tell you.”
“Yes,” said Richter. “He was in command of one of several small secret units assembling and transporting artworks and other valuables to storage facilities in Austria and elsewhere.”
That explains it all, thought Ellen. Papa helped himself along the way, just as Mutti said.
“Hoven’s cousin, Peter Bretz,” Richter was continuing, “served in the same unit, but he vanishes from the records in early nineteen-forty-five and is listed as presumed killed. Hoven was wounded, but he disappeared from a military hospital in Austria. The hospital records describe it as a bullet wound but say nothing about how or where he received it. I did manage to find out he hadn’t been in a combat unit since early nineteen-forty-four on the eastern front, so God knows how he got shot. Anyway, he was ultimately posted as a deserter in March of nineteen-forty-five.”
“Do you know what happened to him after that?” Ellen asked, and Richter shrugged, pulling down the corners of his mouth.
“The trail’s cold, dead. If the Russians got him and shipped him to the east, he probably didn’t survive. Most didn’t, you know.”
That’s a pity, Ellen reflected. I was looking forward to having him killed, or better yet, killing him myself.
“I tracked down a doctor who was on the hospital staff, and he vaguely remembered Hoven,” Richter went on. “Apparently Hoven claimed not to remember how he’d been wounded but told anyone who’d listen he intended to kill his commanding officer.”
“Then why wasn’t he arrested?” Ellen asked.
“Most of the staff thought he was just off his head. Shell shock, or something. There was a lot of that, so no one took him seriously.”
“Well, they damn well should have,” snapped Ellen, and Richter smiled.
“You don’t know what it was like in the army in those days, Fraulein Schumacher. Men just wanted to get home alive without being captured by the Russians. Many were bitter, demoralized, and angry. They believed they’d been betrayed by the high command and their own field officers. They were convinced that if things had been handled properly, Germany would have won the war. With that sort of talk flying around, no one paid any real attention to a man raving about shooting a lieutenant.”
They were sitting with glasses of wine in the elegant sitting room of the house in Berlin, and Richter sipped his wine while he waited for Ellen to respond. She appeared to be deep in thought, so he put down his glass and continued.
“The doctor did say that at one point Hoven accused this unnamed lieutenant, presumably your father, of shooting his cousin.”
Ellen nodded, taking up her own wine glass.
“Yes. That’s what he shouted at my father before he shot him.”
“Then that would explain Bretz’s undocumented death, I suppose,” said Richter, and Ellen nodded again, remaining silent for a few more moments, somewhat disappointed the search had led nowhere in the end. Her father had stolen treasure others had stolen before him, and now she was rich, and he was dead.
As she ruminated on this, Richter’s eyes wandered around the large and ornate room.
“That’s a peculiar-looking thing,” he said, catching sight of the oval plastron in its place on the mantel above the carved stone fireplace. “I wonder if those scratch marks actually mean anything.”
“They probably do,” said Ellen, absently, “but I’m not interested in them just now. I have something else I want to discuss with you.”
“And that is?” asked Richter, his bushy eyebrows raised.
“First of all, I’d like to know if you can travel freely. What passport do you carry?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your concern, Fraulein,” said Richter, in a level voice. “In my profession —”
“I’m making it my concern,” interrupted Ellen, sharply.
After a pause during which Richter was obviously weighing his options, he said, “I have several passports in several names which I am not prepared to divulge. No doubt you can understand why.”
“Can you get in and out of the Eastern Zone?”
“Certainly.”
“Good,” said Ellen. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Is that what you wanted to discuss?” asked Richter, still cautious, still wary.
“No,” said Ellen, calmly, “that was merely my first point. My second is to tell you that I know who you are, Albert Schmitz. I also know you were a major in the Totenkopf Brigade, and commanded SS guards at Bergen-Belsen, where the prisoners called you The Jackal.”
“Then I’m afraid you’re very much misinformed,” Richter said, angrily. “Where did you get that nonsense?”
“It’s not nonsense, Herr Schmitz, and I’m not misinformed,” said Ellen, casually finishing the last of her wine. Richter made to speak again, but she held up her hand.
“Don’t bother, Herr Major Schmitz, or plain Herr Richter, whichever you prefer. Do you seriously think I’d employ you without finding out everything I could about you first? I have to protect myself, you know. You came highly recommended, but my contact knew all about you. It’s his business.”
Richter, brought up short, said nothing. He stared at Ellen with narrowed, calculating eyes.
“But don’t worry,” she went on. “That bit of your past is of no concern to me. I don’t care what you did, or where you did it. We’ll use your new name and leave it all at that.”
“What are you after, Fraulein Schumacher?” Richter asked, still eyeing Ellen with undisguised suspicion.
“What I’m most interested in is the work you did before the war. I understand you were a petty criminal, in and out of jail for fighting, assault, and so on, but burglary was your real specialty, and you were very good at that…very good indeed. Am I right?”
“If you say so.” He shrugged.
“I do say so.”
“You seem to have learned a great deal,” said Richter, bluntly. “However, I assume you have some sort of proposition for me, so I suggest you get to it. I’ve had just about enough of your version of the Spanish Inquisition.”
She liked his forthrightness; it appealed to her own straightforward nature, but she had to be very sure of him. If he was the right man for the job she had in mind — an entirely new venture — then all would be well, but if not, it could prove fatal to the syndicate. She needed to know he could be controlled. Could he be relied to obey orders? Yes, she decided, he could. He would have learned all about that in the SS, she reminded herself, with a wry, inward smile. Trusting her instincts, she took the plunge.
She asked, “Are you aware of what I do for a living, Herr Richter?”
“No, I’m not,” he answered, his eyes still narrowed and still wary.
Ellen shot him a penetrating stare which clearly said, you’re lying. Richter returned the look for a moment before lowering his eyes.
“I’m told you’re the brains behind the Athena Syndicate.”
“That’s correct,” she replied, “but don’t imagine you can tell that to anyone. Certainly not the police.”
“Why not?” asked Richter, with a smirk, “There may be a reward.”
“Don’t get cute with me,” she snapped, menace in her voice. “Remember what I know about you.”
“Well,” said Richter, “you know about me, and obviously I know about you. I’d say that makes us even.”
“Not quite,” said Ellen. “If the police find me, I may go to prison for a few years. If they find you, you die.”
It seemed Richter had also come to a decision, for when he spoke again, it was in a calm, business-like voice.
“All right, Fraulein Schumacher. I believe we both understand the situation, so I suggest we get to the details. I am prepared to listen to whatever it is you have to say.”
“Very well,” said Ellen, with a quick smile, “no more Spanish Inquisition.”
Richter grinned, visibly relaxing as he accepted Ellen’s offer of more wine. She refilled their glasses and settled back in her chair feeling she had been right about Herr Richter. The crackling tension in the room had disappeared. He was now attentive, at ease, and comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, she felt his gaze wandering over her slim frame, from her more than shapely legs to her rather well-filled blue silk blouse. She felt like telling him she knew what he was thinking, and he didn’t have a hope in hell, but turned to business instead.
“So, here it is,” she said, taking a sip of the very fine red wine, of which she was so proud. It was far better than anything available on the open market. “I’ve been contacted by a man in Argentina, a very wealthy man, who wants a Roman statue. Marble. Preferably a representation of a gladiator, but that’s not essential. A trusted associate of mine in Bonn gave him my name. The connection is completely secure.”
“I know absolutely nothing about Roman statues, Fraulein Schumacher,” said Richter, spreading his hands and smiling in self-deprecation. “Marble or otherwise.”
“Don’t worry. That’s my department.” And after another sip of wine, she resumed. “Now usually, I go looking for something a client wants. I find it wherever I can, buy it, and then sell it on to the client.”
“So, I’ve heard,” said Richter, a note of unmistakable admiration in his voice. “And I hear you drive a damned hard bargain, to boot. But I assume that’s not working in the case of this Argentinian fellow.”
“Very perceptive of you,” Ellen answered. “Open market or black market, there isn’t a statue like that to be had anywhere at this moment, and, believe me, I’ve looked.”
“But you don’t want to disappoint your filthy rich Argentinian client, correct?”
“Correct,” said Ellen, nodding. “I’ve offered to procure a statue for him as soon as one becomes available, but he says he isn’t willing to wait, nor is he willing to buy from anyone else. He says he won’t trust any other supplier.”
“It must be gratifying to have so high a reputation,” said Richter, somewhat dryly, “but if you have nothing to sell him at the moment, he’s out of luck, isn’t he?”
“Look,” said Ellen, lighting one of her favorite black Turkish cigarettes, and fixing Richter with a level gaze, “when I buy a piece and sell it, the profit margin is usually fairly modest. It’s satisfactory, but it could be a lot better. I’ve been doing very well so far, of course, but as I get more and more orders, it’s becoming harder to find items to buy, and a prompt response to orders is my trademark now. I don’t just fill a showroom with things and wait for customers to walk in; I give people exactly what they say they want. I go out and find it somewhere and do it faster than anyone else. I ask no questions, and my clients appreciate that.”
“Where is all this leading Fraulein?” Richter sounded more interested than impatient.
“As you can tell,” said Ellen, lighting another cigarette, “I’m not overly squeamish about where I obtain the items from. I want to minimize my costs and protect my reputation. That’s just good business.”
“So, what’s the solution?” inquired Richter, wine glass in hand. “If you can’t find the sort of statue this guy wants, what can you do?”
“Well,” said Ellen, exhaling a stream of pungent smoke towards the ceiling, “thanks to my associate in Bonn, I have found exactly what he wants.”
“Excellent,” Richter said. “Then why are you telling me all this?”
“I’ve found it, but it’s not for sale.”
Richter put his glass down on the rosewood end table at his elbow and regarded Ellen from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
“So, you want me to steal this statue for you. No middleman. Is that the idea?”
“Precisely,” said Ellen, pleased she had not misjudged Herr Richter. “The…shall we say… business…of my associate in Bonn gave me the idea. I’m thinking that when I receive an order for something I can’t buy, I find it elsewhere, acquire it, and fill the order. I may not have to steal it every time, but it will enable me to specialize in one-of-a-kind specimens. This gentleman in Argentina wants a Roman statue of a gladiator, but what if someone wants a very particular Roman statue, perhaps one of a certain age or by a particular sculptor? See what I mean?”
“Yes, I’m getting the picture, Fraulein,” Richter said, nodding.
“I know there are clients out there willing to pay a lot more than I charge now, and all the more if I can fill specific orders. Millionaires in South America, Panama, Hong Kong, the States, you name it. I’d go even more international than I am now.”
“No doubt,” said Richter, in even greater admiration, “but how do you plan to track down these special pieces? I can steal them if you want, but I can’t find them. I don’t know how.”
“My contact in Bonn can find what we need. I can offer him three times what he makes at work now, including his little business on the side. He’ll be my research department.”
“Sounds perfect, but do you think he can really do it? I mean, find all these obscure things?”
“I’m sure of it. He’s already found a statue for us, as I said.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Richter. “Who is this guy?”
“You’ll never know,” said Ellen, shaking her head, “and he’ll never know who you are. That’s the way it works. I’m in the middle of the operation. Everyone else is around the outside, and no one knows anyone but me, unless I allow it for some particular reason.”
“Fair enough,” said Richter, unperturbed, “but a minute ago you said us, Fraulein Schumacher.”
Ellen ground out her cigarette in a large, red onyx ashtray.
“Yes, us. I want you to head up what I might call my acquisitions department. You can hire other men as you need them but remember you’re responsible for them. One slip and they’re out, and so are you. I’m willing to start you at forty thousand American dollars per annum.”
“Jesus.” Richter nearly dropped his drink. “Forty thousand.”
“There are three conditions,” said Ellen, holding up three fingers. Richter looked at her inquiringly.
“Yes?”
“One. Don’t you ever let me down or mess me about. If you do, the police will immediately be told all about your past life. Two. There will be no unnecessary violence. No violence at all, if you can possibly avoid it. I’m not running a free-for-all for half-witted thugs. If it’s necessary to teach someone a lesson or collect on an unpaid debt, I’ll take care of it, but I don’t want people harmed simply because you’re relieving them of something they own. Understood?”
“And three?” asked Richter, nodding.
“Don’t get caught.”
“Of course,” he said, grinning, “I might have guessed. But,” he said, after a short pause, “I can see a problem. You said you were operating internationally, and wanted to expand even further, right?”
“Right.”
“When you buy something on the open market, you can ship it anywhere legally, but if it’s stolen property, you can’t just send it off the way you do now.”
“You’re quite right,” said Ellen. “At the moment, I use a trucking company that operates within Western Europe. Up to now, the smallest part of the business has been to ship beyond Europe, but the big money and the richest collectors are overseas, as I said. So, in addition to professional thieves, we’ll need professional international smugglers in our employ. Now, I’ve heard there’s more than one network still operating that smuggled people and their possessions overseas after the war. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I could contact one or two of them for your consideration, if you like. They’re damn good at what they do, I can assure you of that.”
“No,” Ellen said. “I don’t want to deal with that sort of gang. What I want is to hire the people to work for me directly, not retain an independent organization I can’t keep track of.”
“Okay,” said Richter, “if you’re willing to pay well, you can recruit your people from those networks.”
“So, why aren’t you in South America or elsewhere?” Ellen asked, putting out her latest cigarette, and Richter shrugged.
“I’ll take my chances here. So far, so good, and I’m very careful.”
“I’ll just bet you are,” said Ellen, with a grim smile, “and I need you to stay careful, Herr Richter. Very careful indeed.”
Richter inclined his head in understanding.
“You’ve been planning all this out, designing it. I can tell it’s just what you love to do, Fraulein Schumacher. Nothing escapes you. Am I right?”
“Now we can go for the really big stuff,” Ellen said, satisfaction in her voice. She ignored Richter’s question, although her mind registered the accuracy of his assessment. She did love to plan, to design, but it was not done for enjoyment alone. She did it so that she could feel she had total control of her life, her future, and, most importantly, her very destiny. The war years, the bombs, the murder of her father, the Munich cellar, the hunger, and what she had done to find food, had all taught her the meaning of helplessness, desperation, and the paramount need to be self-reliant. She remembered those lessons; they were inscribed on her soul.
“The multimillion-dollar stuff,” she affirmed, with a decisive nod.
“Naturally,” said Richter, smiling.
“And our Argentinian multimillionaire will be our first project. He’s Client Number One.”
“Well,” said Richter, “speaking of that Argentinian plutocrat, I have another question. If he has so much money, why doesn’t he just buy himself a statue on the open market?”
“Good question,” said Ellen. “For one thing, statues of the size he wants don’t often come up for sale, and as I told you, he’s not prepared to wait until one does. It seems patience is not one of his virtues. However, those aren’t the main reasons. What we shall call his business interests, require he keep a very low profile. We are in a position to act as his agents, and he knows he can trust us. He knows what he wants, and he wants it now.”
“Then let’s give it to him,” said Richter.
“Champagne?” asked Ellen, heading for the drinks trolley by the window, and Richter smiled in agreement.
She filled a crystal flute for him, but before seating herself with her own drink, she retrieved the oracle bone from the mantel and slid it into a drawer.
“Now I know for certain what dear old Papa was up to, I think perhaps I should keep this thing out of sight. God knows where it might have come from or who might be looking for it now.”
* * *
So it was that two weeks later, a large marble statue of the Roman god Mars, dating from the first century before the common era, disappeared from a pseudo-classical temple built on the grounds of the palace of the former Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, in north-east Germany, well inside the Eastern Zone. The final report of the investigating officer of the civilian police force of the German Democratic Republic would later read, in part — The thieves left no trace of themselves whatsoever. No evidence could be gathered as to how they obtained the statue or transported it off the island on which the palace is built. No suspects were apprehended, and the statue has not been recovered. The nature of the theft strongly suggests it to have been the work of a highly professional organization, but no clues to its identity could be found.
Two months after the theft, a moving company delivered a large wooden crate to a certain facility in Buenos Aires, where the manager caused it to be sealed in a strong vault with a heavy combination padlock he had previously received in the mail with instructions and payment from an anonymous source. Two days later, another crew of six men appeared in a lorry, their foreman opening the lock using a combination he had been given over the phone by a voice which did not identify itself. A day after that, a large statue of Mars was being proudly displayed in the foyer of the palatial and well-guarded mansion of Señor Carlos Méndez, leader of one of Argentina’s most powerful and savage crime families. In due course, two million cleanly laundered American dollars were circuitously transferred to a particular Swiss bank account, fees and commissions fully paid.
And, exactly as Richter had envisioned, Fraulein Ellen Schumacher sat like a contented spider at the center of her carefully woven web; the only person able to forge these disparate events into the highly organized operation they comprised. The test had been successful, and she smiled to herself as she lit another black Turkish cigarette, there in her comfortable sitting room in West Berlin.