Chapter 37 The Prisoners of Askaban
Walden McNair entered the cell accompanied by two Dementors. It was a dreadful sight. Even a heart so hardened by life and circumstances could not refrain from beating violently.
The smell was unbearable. In a corner, McNair's eyes distinguished a heap of thorn robes. The creature on the barren soil had nothing human any more. Long hair full of lice and fleas, a crust of dirt over an emaciate face. Rabastan Lestrange could be hardly called human any more. Not even the two Dementors made him react any longer. The formerly powerful wizard was reduced to nothing more then a vegetable after thirteen years in Askaban.
McNair asked himself the silent question if death would not be a more merciful fate then this crafty escape from hell. But Voldemort wanted them alive: They had been faithful to the end.
Bellatrix Lestrange had been already extracted from her cell and taken to a carefully hidden boat in a bay on Askaban's eastern shore where nobody would ever expect a landing. She had been a skeleton, unable to pronounce a word, her eyes seemed blind by this long seclusion in a place where daylight never permeated, but she gave an impression of better physical condition then her husband.
McNair motioned the dirty piece of rags to one of the Dementors. The creature bent down and lifted the light frame from the dirty soil. The executioner of Magical Creatures and devote Death Eater was happy that the chores to accomplish to make this escape a perfect hoax for the Askaban administration did not befall him.
The Dementor outstripped Lestrange of his filthy robes and covered his emaciate frame with a blanket. Then he disappeared into the night and down to the boat in the secretive bay they had chosen. Another hooded creature appeared with an undistinguishable male body.
As soon as the substitute was covered in Lestrange's filthy robes, the Dementor placed the stand-in in front of a wall, fetched his head with his rotten hands and smashed the skull several times forcefully into the granite stone of the prison cell. As soon as he could be sure that not even his mother would recognize that substitute or put in doubt the identity that was written down in the Ministry records for cell 475, the Dementor let the body go and disappeared wordlessly.
McNair followed him, closing the iron wrought door with a skilful spell. He pulled his invisibility cloak close over his body and left the Askaban prison wing destined to those imprisoned on irrevocable life sentences undetected. The way down to the boat and the bay was easy; not even the maddest dog on the guards' personnel of the notorious wizards' prison would venture outside during a stormy night like this. McNair's boat would take them simply to an uninhabited Island of the Orkneys, where everything including a mediwizard and a competent nurse had been established for the freed couple.
While carefully crossing the wooden bridge that led him onto the boat, the executioner mused if Rabastan and Bellatrix would be re-established in their former lead positions within the Inner Circle of Voldemort, should they ever recover from their long detention in Askaban.
Obviously Malfoy and Snape had taken their places greedily, as soon as the two were captured by aurors during an operation in Scotland. The target had been a high-ranking Ministry of Magic Official and his family. But when Rabastan and Bellatrix arrived with their team of killers, the prospective victims were gone and replaced by two dozen of the most experienced members of Moody's service. McNair could not refrain from asking himself, if Voldemort's two rising young stars had not set up that whole affair and the trap together in order to get rid of the Lestranges.
Suspiciously neither Malfoy nor Snape had been officially in England during the disaster: Lucius was supposed to take a holiday with his young wife Narcissa somewhere in Italy and Severus figured on a speakers' list of an illustrious conference of Potions Masters in Prague. Nobody ever had cared to check these alibis out, but to Walden McNair it had been suspicious and thirteen years of time did not diminish the nasty feeling as to Malfoy's and Snape's dangerous ambition.
'In war as in war!'
The executioner appeased himself silently before disappearing under deck. Although a member of the Inner Circle his position was neither high enough nor of interest to the 'Dream Team'. He did not feel himself endangered by these two…….and hopefully they would never come close: Malfoy and Snape were extremely powerful dark wizards, second only to Voldemort himself and the show Hogwart's Potions Master had given during the last summoning had been quite impressive. Dare and look into the Dark Lord's eyes, while Voldemort punishes you for disobedience! Snape had always been proud and arrogant and full of courage. Already in the old days before the Potter incident he'd hardly ever bend his head in front of the Master and although many a follower had been killed by Voldemort on the spot for this type of insubordination, the greasy bastard was still alive……and back in the good graces of the Lord himself..….
Although the smell of the two former prisoners of Askaban was revolting, Walden McNair insisted himself in surveying them. He had no intention to attract Voldemort's wrath. The last display of power of the Dark Lord had been sufficient to make him yearn for nothing but a complete success. Thirteen years of absence had but heightened the Dark One's inclination to torture and maim. Notwithstanding the fact that the Ministry executioner shared this specific sadistic delight with his Master, he preferred to not finding himself at the receiving end.
In forty-eight hours he would return to the gory prison island with the same boat. But this time his cargo would be less smelly: The chieftain of the Dementors expected payment for the unconditional co-operation of his clan in the liberation of two of the most notorious dark wizards England had produced in the Twentieth Century. He expected the children…………..and McNair was only too happy to free the dungeons of his ancestral home of this noisy, crying and whining burden. He needed space for more 'valuable goods' soon. The success of his mission to forge a lasting alliance with the Dementors depended now fully on his capacity to please the terrible Chieftain!
Although she had greeted him by his name, the lady at the 'Deutsche Bank' in Central Cologne asked the client immediately for his passport.
Lucius observed the whole scene carefully. He had to withdraw a large sum in cash and did not intend to make the slightest mistake.
France had been an easy affair, since Malfoy spoke the language fluently and had been to Paris and the Côte d'Azur from early childhood for holiday trips or culture or simply for shopping with his darling Narcissa. But Germany was another piece of cake. It was his first trip to the other side of the Rhine and he relied on a heavy 'Lingua Spell' that requested concentration and since his muggle ID papers declared him Robert G.Bell, UK citizen he had to take care of an Anglo-Saxon accent in his German, not to arise any unnecessary attention.
The customer declared that he wanted to withdraw 15.000 Deutsche Mark in cash. The bank lady made him sign a habitual money withdrawal form and another sheet of paper Lucius could not identify from his position at the Insurances and Placements information desk. All he saw was that the guy looked slightly embarrassed.
'Sie verstehen, das wir bei einem solchen Betrag verpflichtet sind, die Behörden zu informieren. Das Gesetz wurde zwar nur geschaffen, um Geldwäsche zu unterbinden und Gelder aus illegalen Transaktionen, wie Drogenhandel oder Prostitution zu identifizieren, doch ich bitte Sie trotzdem um Ihre Unterschrift Herr Götze, auch wenn ich genau weiß, das Sie ein ehrlicher Geschäftsmann sind!'
Lucius gave a small sigh: Indeed they had a law to control dirty money and the bankers declared huge cash withdrawals. They informed the law enforcement authorities just in case………
Herr Götze the German businessman shook his head and signed the paper with a subdued expression in his eyes. Indeed, he did not look like a drugs dealer or a Mafioso! Lucius Malfoy decided to play that one carefully and with cunning. When Herr Götze had left the lady with his 15.000 DM in cash, the dark wizard approached her counter. He put on his most charming smile.
'Can I help you, Sir?' The bank employee asked obligingly.
Lucius took his best British-who-speaks-some-German accent.
'I'd like to open an account with your bank and deposit 1000 £. I was told that having a bank account would lower the fees for currency exchange.'
'Indeed, Sir.' The lady replied. She passed Malfoy a paper and asked him to fill it in.
'And please do not forget to mention, if you are a resident or a non-resident in Germany!' She gave him a smile. 'If you are a UK Tax payer…'
Lucius did not understand fully what she tried to explain, but his guts told him to reply 'Yes, I am a UK Tax payer!' He finished to fill in the papers, gave Robert G.Bell's authentic address in Kent and signed. Finally the lady informed him, that he could opt for a credit card from the bank and free money withdrawals at their banking machines.
Malfoy thanked her and left the Deutsch Bank. He went straight to a coffee shop and ordered a strong espresso. Indeed, Germany would be a harder bet then France. Before he'd do something silly, he'd take the time to get more information about this strange law on dirty money.
One address on Voldemort's list was that of a small investment company in Bonn, hardly 40 km from Cologne. He'd start there. Perhaps these money brokers, who had already accepted money of undisclosed origin from Tom M. Riddle about 15 years ago where less law-abiding then the famous Deutsche Bank. Perhaps he could convince or bully them into assistance. He drank his coffee and made off to the City Park. He needed a place for discrete apparition to Bonn.
In the early evening he had checked into a nice hotel by the river Rhine. From his room he made a call with this terrible muggle telephone to arrange for an appointment with the investment firm.
He'd given the gentleman from 'Berling&Feucht Associates' a short outline concerning his power of attorney and the funds he intended to withdraw. He'd also placed a hint that he was in fact under commission by his client to find a better placement for the sum. The trick had worked. One million and eight hundred thousand Deutsche Mark plus interests for 15 years of deposit were quite an amount and it would certainly hurt such a small firm to lose a client and this kind of long-term placement.
The man on the phone had been one of the two associates, Mr.Berling himself and he had instantly suggested to Malfoy to discuss the matter over diner. Perhaps his own firm could propose something? Lucius threw a glance at his wristwatch. They'd agreed to meet at 20 h at the Restaurant 'Rheinterasse' for a business diner. This left him an hour to relax and to think.
Dr.Dieter Weigold of the 'Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz', the German counterintelligence with seat at Cologne threw the police officer 'Kriminalhauptkommissar' Hans Kolmsee a curious look.
The two men had been friends since their conscript service in the 'Bundeswehr' the German Armed Forces during the mid-1960ies, but habitually they did not met on a professional basis, since Kolmsee was involved with Forgery, Counterfeits, transfer of dirty money on an international level and all the other issues that were covered by his 'Department for International Economic Crime'. Weigold covered something totally different! While Hans worked with Interpol and spend most of his time analysing evidence on paper or putting info through sophisticate computer programmes, Dieter could be hardly ever found in his Cologne office. He roamed the Federal Republic from the East to the West and from the North to the South.
As a matter of fact, Dieter Weigold had never before entered his friend's office at the 'Bundeskriminalamt' in Wiesbaden. Habitually the two met for diners and garden parties, they pursue together the hobby of making tin soldiers and models of ancient battlefields or they spend their weekends on flea markets to hunt down old books. Often they'd simply decide to take their spouses for holidays together, somewhere in Tuscany or in the South of France.
'And what makes you believe that a phonecall from a hotel at Bonn to a investment company of bad reputation could be of interest to me, Hans?' The broad shouldered bald man gave his expensive and well-tailored black suit a negligent brush with his hand before he accepted the proposed seat in Kolmsee's office.
'Well,' the policeman started 'the story is a bit long, but you should listen carefully and you will understand….We received a request from France. A very strange request, since it did not come from their police or via Interpol, but directly from the DST Counterintelligence Service. They asked us if we could have a close look on huge money retreats in cash from accounts that have not been touched for at least 13 years, starting with October 31st 1981. These accounts could be under any name in the world, but there was a possibility that the name of Tom M.Riddle or Tom Marvolo Riddle, UK citizen…… would appear. Now this investment firm 'Berling&Feucht Associates' has only three clients, all of them are not residents of Germany. Client Nr. 1 is an American arms merchant who lives habitually at Nice at the Côte d'Azur and who uses this investment company to deposit commissions from deals in Africa. He is the client whose account works constantly. We know that he is frequently employed by the US Central Intelligence Agency to provide 'friends' with handy equipment from the semi-black markets in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union. Client Nr.2 is a diamonds merchant from Anvers in Belgium. He is clean! His account is used for deposits from German jewellers who buy his stones at gems auctions in Germany. Client Nr.3 is the interesting one and here it comes, that I believe this is business of yours, my dear friend!'
Dr.Dieter Weigold took a sip from the coffee mug an attentionate secretary had placed in front of him. His brown eyes sparkled lively. Already the Nr.1 from these 'Berling&Feucht Associates' sounded like a good cloak and dagger story and he loved cloak&dagger stories.
'Tell me, Hans? Who's the mysterious Client Nr.3 and why should he be mine?'
Hauptkomissar Kolmsee played with the ends of his 'Kaiser-Wilhelm' moustache, as was his habit, when plotting. He looked like a cunning, grey old cat. His half-glasses sat on the outer end of his long nose and his blue eyes fixed Weigold's brown ones.
'Client Nr.3 is a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle, UK citizen. The money is with 'Berling&Feucht' since 1979. The account operated lively until exactly 31st October 1981. No retreats, only deposits. Then it went dead and today we intercept by accident a phone call from the attorney of this Mr.Riddle who wants to retrieve all 1.800.000 DM plus 15 years of interests on the account in cash. You imagine how all the bells went ringing in this office! My people have the firm under observation…….. because of that US arms merchant……..there has been money transfers to very strange people with an even stranger background in the former Soviet KGB and who are reputed to sell………………………..well, forget this part Dieter! This is really too hot…….So it is a mere hazard that I had this information. Nevertheless one of my youngsters did a bit more then her job and instead of passing the name of Riddle through our computers only, she snooped around: That Riddle man has several other accounts in Germany that stopped operating all exactly at the same 31st October 1981 and all these accounts carry huge amounts of money…... Since this young collaborator of mine is very nosy, she instantly enquired with our British colleagues who Tom Marvolo Riddle is…………..and now this becomes your case, Dieter!'
Hans Kolmsee pushed the print button of his PC and his printer started to spit out paper.
'I told you, that request was send out by one of my youngsters ……….Scotland Yard somehow got the girl wrong and instead of going through tax records or bank stuff scanned her a giant file from ……………..1945. They believed her to do research for an exam or something: You know, we take sometimes lawyers after their 1.State Exam for the practical year in Penal or Administrative Law. Now my young lady is nosy as I told you and she devoured the info from London………'
Dieter Weigold smiled. Then he picked up the first print out pages and started to read: On a fine summer morning, at daybreak, hardly two months after the signature of the capitulation of Nazi Germany at Reims on 8th May a house maid to a certain Riddle Family of Little Hangleton entered the drawing room of her employers to find them all stone dead on the floor. The maid had run screaming down the hill into the village and roused as many people as she could.
'Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice. Still in their dinner things.' She had screamed.
The police were summoned and the whole of Little Hangletons had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted breath pretending to feel very sad about these Riddles. They had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. And Mrs. Riddle had been very rich, snobbish and rude, and their grown-up son Tom had been even more so.
All the villagers cared about was the identity of their murderer. Plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.
To make a long story short: Suspicion fell upon a certain Frank Bryce, the Riddle's gardener, a man who'd come back from the war with a stiff leg and a strange behaviour that clearly indicated sever battle trauma stress syndrome.
As to the Riddle's cause of death, the doctors had no clue: A team had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of them had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated or physically harmed at all. They had been in perfect health, apart from the fact that they were dead!
In fact the report continued in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment that each of the Riddles had a look of sheer terror upon his or her face - but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of people being frightened to death?
Since there was no proof of these Riddles being murdered, the police were forced to let the gardener –Frank Bryce – go. And although the whole village behaved towards that strange guy as if he were the culprit, Bryce stayed on, tending the garden.
The Riddle House was sold, with Bryce in a certain sense. But none of the new owners ever stayed for long. Each new owner said there was a nasty, haunted feeling about that place, before they left. These facts had all found their way into the 'Riddle Triple Murder – Case Unresolved' file of Scotland Yard Archive.
The house – in absence of inhabitants - started to fall in disrepair, but the Bryce man as gardener stayed on. Finally it was sold to a person who did not intend to live there, but used the manor as a means for tax deduction. Nevertheless he also kept Bryce. And there the intriguing file the Federal German Police BKA Department of Frauds, Counterfeits and Money-Laundering Prevention had received from their UK colleagues became really strange. A slim endnote concluded the 'Riddle Enigma'. It was dated August 1994: Bryce, the gardener had been found dead in the former Riddle drawing room one morning, his eyes wide open, terror written all over his face. The forensics had not been able to determine his cause of death, but also excluded a heart attack, a reason that had not been explored with the three bodies of 1945!
'And now Tom Riddle, a person who according to this file died in the summer of 1945 has send out a man with a power of attorney to clear up his bank accounts? Well indeed, Hans. That's mysterious enough to be a case for me!'
Dieter Weigold concluded his lecture of the Scotland Yard file. He was the Head of a very secretive and curious service inside the German counterintelligence: Everything that could not be explained with logic, reason, science or common sense – UFOs, apparitions, haunted houses, ghosts and else – was directed to his office and table.
Almost all countries of the world had somewhere in their Law Enforcement Services an entity like this and the famous television series 'The X-Files' was not so remote from reality, as many good and law-abiding citizens believed, when switching on their TV in amusement to follow Mr. Mulder and Mrs. Scully hunting down inexplicable phenomena or creatures from outer space. In France for example, such a unit was situated at the Ministry of Air at Place Balard. Its name was as obscure as the job they did there: 'Service des Prospections'………….but Dr.Weigold was not only in contact with these people.
'Hans, if you allow me to take the file, I'd be grateful. Please inform your intern that she did an excellent job!'
Weigold lifted his huge, muscular frame from the comfortable seat and gave his old friend a firm handshake.
'Dieter, I'll do all the paper stuff to transfer that case to your service as from this evening. Nevertheless………………..I'd appreciate if you'd tell us the outcome. Since you know that me and my youngsters, we are a terribly nosy bunch!'
Weigold acknowledged with a nod. The file securely stored in his attaché case, he left the BKA building at Wiesbaden and disappeared in a close-by park.
A small glance at his wristwatch indicated that he had exactly 15 minutes to apparate to Bonn and the 'Restaurant Rheinterasse' where the meeting between the mysterious attorney Robert G. Bell of the officially defunct Mr.Tom Marvolo Riddle and the investment banker Mr. Berling of 'Berling&Feucht Associates' would take place.
Dieter had listened to the BKA tape only with half an ear before reading the file 'Riddle Triple Murder', but with the full knowledge he held now and a clear perception who was hiding behind Tom Marvolo Riddle, he simply needed to speed up.
Weigold was not only Head of the strangest service of German counterintelligence…………..he was also a wizard!