BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
April 1950
As soon as he had arrived in Europe, Peter Nesher called Veronique, a woman with an instinct for the weak spot of a man. On their last mission together she had understood, at the last moment, that the young German parliament member she had been sent to seduce was a closet homosexual. With no time to find a male replacement, she disguised herself as a handsome boy, and still lured him to the trap.
Her improvisational genius made her perfect for Shiloah’s first target: Dr. Lothar Genscher, a man with a secret. And a bad back.
Veronique secured a position as a masseuse in the parlor that the burly thirty-six-year-old engineer frequented in the Brussels suburb of Ixelles, and the appealing brunette immediately became his favorite.
The music was soft, the oil warm, the fragrance delicate, as Veronique gently kneaded Genscher’s back, stimulating the tissue around each vertebrae. Her hands glided down his sides, until they fluttered over his gluteus maximus muscles, and she giggled again: “I’m hopeless, I’ll never understand.”
His voice faded as Genscher struggled to explain the cutting-edge field of electronics, until the firm circular motions of her hands banished any remaining thoughts of electrons and semiconductors, reducing him first to contented silence and soon to sighs and groans of pleasure as he struggled to control a different energy flow.
She rejected his invitations to dinner, but after several more massages, of growing intimacy, he managed to overcome her reticence, and she consented to meet him at the bar and grill of her choice, in Le Berger hotel, on the Porte Namur side of the opulent, seventeenth-century market square. It was an outwardly respectable establishment, but the hotel’s art deco suites doubled as discreet hideaways for illicit couples, whose comings and goings could be concealed by an elevator that exited directly onto the street.
Two nights later, in the smoky grill, Veronique, devouring her steak au poivre, was full of humor and vague promise, elegant yet earthy. Dr. Lothar Genscher, who over wine, cognac, and calvados became Lothar, which became Lotto, was quite swept away. In their wood-paneled alcove the masseuse, with her revealing lace décolleté and solicitous serving of the French cabernet, was the picture of desirable youth, struggling yet again to understand the work of the company he had founded, Elektro SPRL. Her peals of laughter at the intricacies she was failing to grasp melted his heart. After all, even his wife didn’t understand a word of it.
Leering at her across the candles, which sparkled in her eyes and brought a flickering glow to her cheeks, he thought, she’s beautiful. Beautiful but limited, with a pedestrian background, as he had learned over dinner: Born in Brussels, she had spent the war safely at home with her mother while her father fought the Germans in France and Germany, only to be killed in the last month of hostilities. She hadn’t finished high school, but earned a hairdresser’s diploma. Then, because of the “opportunities,” she learned to be a masseuse and now hoped to graduate from this dreary suburb to a “better-class salon” closer to the Grand-Place, the market square, where the real money was. She looked at him with a coquettish air, expectant, it seemed to him.
Exquisite but transparent, he thought, like so many of her age, their youth lost in the war. She should stop playing hard to get. Basically, she’s just looking for a rich husband.
Fortified by the thought and the alcohol, Genscher said, “It’s getting late.” He drained his third calvados, and settled his glass back on the table. “And I hope you don’t mind, my dear Veronique, but I took the liberty of booking a room here. It’s small but interesting with exceptional art deco touches. I wonder, would you care to join me there? For another drink?” He took from his jacket pocket a key attached to a wooden disk, showing the number six. “It will be quieter there.”
Veronique surveyed the silent room, her lips curling into the hint of a smile. “Art deco touches?” she said at last, drawing out the last word.
“Yes,” he said, with a lascivious grin. “Lots of them.”
“Well, I could certainly do with another drink,” she said with a sudden laugh, gesturing toward the empty wine bottle and the half-empty bottle of apple brandy. She leaned forward, and his eyes dropped to her cleavage as she whispered, “I don’t want to go up together. You go first and I’ll follow in five minutes. Don’t close the door.”
Genscher leaned across the table to kiss her on those luscious full lips, but she pulled back with a wink. “Slowly, Lotto, slowly,” she said. “All good things come to he who waits. In five minutes, then, upstairs. Room number six.”
As he undressed, Dr. Lothar Genscher surveyed himself in the full-length mirror that faced the bed. He turned to his profile and patted his belly, sucking it in. His light-brown hair was thinning and receding, his brow was creased, but still his chest was powerful and his arms were strong. He watched himself shrug off his shirt and trousers, and smiled with satisfaction. Lothar, well done. He had fantasized over the bimbo downstairs for weeks, and now he would have her, every juicy part of her, those breasts, those legs, those hands.
Genscher closed his eyes with a deep sigh and removed his underpants, regretting how little time he had. He had told his wife he was at a business meeting and he should really return home before she became suspicious. Not that he cared. He turned to examine the bedside lamp and its base of sculpted stone. It supported a naked marble nymph whose outstretched arm held the stained-glass lampshade. He turned off the main light, leaving the room dimly lit in hues of blue, green, and red. He lay naked on his stomach, covered himself with a sheet, and waited for the masseuse. His masseuse. Beautiful young Veronique, with those magnificent young breasts. He didn’t have time for more drinks.
Two minutes later the door opened slowly and he felt the slightest breeze of cooler air whisk his neck. The door closed gently and he heard the click of the key. A smile of anticipation spread across Genscher’s face, resting on the soft pillow, as light footsteps approached the bed.
Another click and the room was in darkness. He shifted, and waited. A shiver of suspense ran down his back. She knows how to do this!
He felt a prick on the base of his neck. A sharp fingernail? She’ll caress him, all the way down. But the prick felt sharper, and then pressed down. He realized it may cut him, and his breath caught. He began to struggle, to twist around, but a weight pressed him into the bed.
He gasped in fear at the man’s voice.
“If you move I will cut your spinal cord.” This was said in a voice so calm it could have been ordering a steak. “You will be paralyzed for life.”
Genscher froze. He heaved, trying to suck in air. With an effort, Genscher raised his head and turned it so he could breathe. His guts were on fire.
“I’m going to turn on the light,” the man continued in German. “Don’t shout; nobody will come. Don’t try anything, I won’t kill you, but I will maim you and it isn’t worth it. I just want to talk to you. You can turn around.”
He slid off Genscher’s back and drew up a chair while Genscher pulled the sheet to his neck to cover his nakedness, which made him feel even more helpless. “Who are you?” he said. “What do you want? Where is Veronique?”
“You are married,” the man said, showing the eight-inch blade in his lap.
“What? Is that what this is about? Are you crazy? You scared the life out of me. Put that knife away. And what do you care? Who are you, anyway?”
“My name is Willimod Stinglwagner. Call me Willi,” said Peter Nesher.
Genscher almost laughed. “What sort of name is that?”
“Bavarian. You think this is funny?”
“Actually, yes. Get out of the room. You think you scare me because you’ll tell my wife about Veronique? Go ahead. You think I care? Anyway, there’s nothing to tell. So I had dinner with my masseuse, so what? Now get out of here.” But as he spoke Genscher pressed back into the soft headboard of the bed.
Peter leaned forward, placed the knifepoint high up Genscher’s inner thigh, on his femoral artery, and pressed until beads of sweat appeared on Genscher’s brow. “If I cut here you’ll die in minutes,” he said. With his other hand Peter pulled his jacket aside to reveal the butt of a pistol strapped to his side. “Noch immer so komisch?” Still find it funny?
Genscher shook his head and managed to say, “What do you want?”
“The thing is, Monsieur Genscher,” Peter said, “you’re not who you say you are, are you?”
Genscher looked at him with loathing.
“Does your wife know?”
“Know what?”
“Do you miss them?”
“Who?”
Peter pulled a large manila envelope from his pocket and drew out a photo. A woman stood against an ivy-covered wall watching two children playing at her feet. It was taken from a distance but was pin sharp.
“Why, Elisa, Uwe, and Friedrich of course.”
Genscher’s jaw dropped and he went white. He looked from the photo to Peter and back again, and grabbed the picture.
“Keep it,” Peter said. “We have plenty more. Take it home. Maybe your wife here would like to know about your wife there. And about your two little boys. They do look sweet.” He could see Genscher’s mind racing as he looked at the photos.
“Again I ask you, what do you want?” Genscher said. “You want to blackmail me? For what? Is this about my research? Because if it is, all you have to do is knock on my door. It’s for sale, we are a commercial company.”
“Ah, that’s it. Precisely. But the opposite. We don’t want you to sell your research.”
“So what do you want? Do you really think I can be blackmailed? Do you know how much I miss my family in Germany? I would give anything to go home, to live with them again.”
“So why don’t you?” Peter said, tapping Genscher’s leg with his blade. “And by the way, please cover yourself.” Genscher had let the sheet slide down, revealing a white chest covered in matted black hair. “Well? Why don’t you?”
Genscher remained silent, looking at the photograph of his family. Peter knew what he must be thinking. They’re five and seven now, it’s a recent photo, what else do they know about me? And, who are They?
Peter switched to English, his Midwestern drawl. “You speak English?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Peter knew Genscher had studied at MIT before the war. He had been an outstanding electrical engineering student, but had answered the Nazi call, summoning him home to the Fatherland.
“So,” Peter said. “Bigamy.”
“A minor crime. I’ll divorce and go home. I’d be glad to.”
“I don’t think so.”
Genscher waited. What did this man have to do with Veronique? Where was she? She must be working with him or she would have entered the room by now.
“Let’s get down to business,” Peter said. “Shall we, Herr Braun? Hans-Dieter Braun. SS-Sturmbannführer Hans-Dieter Braun?”
Genscher tensed. So he knows that too. So what? What can he do? There were thousands of Nazis like him, tens of thousands. Only a handful had been arrested, and even fewer served time. It’s ancient history now—fascism is over. Today a new Europe is being built, and old enemies are united against the new threat of communism. Germany needs experienced people who can get things done. He felt his chest subsiding with relief. It’s time at last. He could finally go home, face the music, live with his family, live his real life.
Peter sized him up. His hair was thinner, the silly little mustache was gone, he seemed stockier, but there was no mistaking him from the other photos in the brown envelope. This was the same little bastard all right. Peter quashed a sneer and the instinct to punish. Israel needed this man.
“That is indeed my name,” Genscher/Braun said finally, and waited.
Peter had been through this before. Their arrogance knew no bounds. Sniveling bullies, all of them. But when they broke, they shattered. They cried, and begged.
Peter waited. Genscher broke the silence. “So you will give my name to the authorities. And when they arrest me, if they do, I will say I obeyed orders. I was an honest soldier for my country, which is the truth. And I will go home to my family. That is the worst that can happen to me.”
“If that’s true, then I’m curious why you haven’t done that already,” Peter said. “Could this be why?”
And fixing him with his eyes, Peter withdrew the next photo from the envelope, waiting for the Nazi’s reaction. He pulled out half a dozen more pictures and laid them on the bed, one next to the other, lined up like a firing squad.
Genscher’s eyes widened, then he gasped. He seized one photo, then the next, and the next, looking at Peter with shock, and then back at the photos. They shook in his hands. He hurled them to the floor. He was trembling, and beneath the sheet his legs twitched.
“You will be put to death,” Peter said. “Either by the courts or by the people.” He couldn’t blow his cover by saying aloud what he thought: Those who feed on Jews, choke on them.
He gathered the evidence from the floor, and offered it to Genscher/Braun, who turned violently toward the wall, his whole body shaking. “It was so long ago,” he managed.
“Oh, not so long. What, seven, eight years? Anyway, I doubt that matters in your case,” Peter said, sliding the photos one by one back into the envelope. “That is you here with the knife, isn’t it? And here, cutting the baby from the mother’s belly? She’s screaming, it appears. Who wouldn’t? It’s quite a series of photographs, don’t you think? Technically, very proficient. Well lit. And there are more, as you can see. The one with you laughing over the female corpse is particularly sharp and clear. With your boot on her naked breasts.” He tapped Genscher’s knee again with the knife. “These photos are your death warrant. But perhaps not yet. And maybe never, SS-Sturmbannführer Hans-Dieter Braun. But if you want to survive you must do what we want you to do.”