The Hunt

5

Isselhorst led her to the plate-glass window that filled one entire side of the living room. At the press of a button, the dark blinds whisked aside and the expanse of the city appeared before them: the Neckar floodlit and beautiful, the ancient bridges that spanned the river casting a rich orange glow upon the waters.

At any other time Narov would have found the view breathtaking. But not tonight.

Isselhorst stepped away, returning a moment later with two shot glasses. Peach schnapps, she could tell from the aroma.

He glanced at the view, raising his glass. ‘To beauty. To the beautiful of this world. To us.’

‘To us,’ she echoed, throwing the fiery contents down her throat.

Isselhorst smiled appreciatively. ‘You drink like Hanna Reitsch, that’s for certain!’ He reached for the bottle and poured them both a refill, then leant closer. ‘So, I let you in on a little secret: I sleep in Hitler’s bed. The one that he had in the Berghof. I purchased it recently at a rather unusual auction. Cost me… an arm and a leg, as I think you say. Perhaps you may like to see it?’

‘I would love to,’ Narov demurred, ‘but first I would like to say hello to Oscar. I just love animals, as I think you must, with your home set here in the woodland.’

‘You would like to meet my dog? But of course. Come.’ Isselhorst ushered her towards a doorway. ‘But tell me – how do you know about Oscar? Did I say something?’

For the briefest of moments Narov feared she’d messed up, but she recovered just as quickly. She nodded towards the entranceway. ‘You have a dog’s collar and lead in the hallway, printed with his name.’

Isselhorst smiled. ‘Very observant. Smart as well as beautiful. Come. I introduce you to Oscar. Very big, but very lovable, as you will soon discover.’

Narov had watched Isselhorst take the dog – a large and powerful German Shepherd – with him on his runs. While she was an unapologetic lover of animals, that wasn’t why she’d asked to meet his dog. She needed to do so in the company of his master so that Oscar would see her as a friend.

They passed a large oil painting that Narov figured had to be a Matisse. No doubt stolen from its original Jewish owners during the war years, and now hanging on the wall of an ultra-wealthy German lawyer. So much of the Nazis’ ill-gotten loot had never been returned, largely thanks to men like Isselhorst.

She paused before it. It showed a naked woman draped across a yellow-and-green-striped sofa, legs dangling provocatively over one arm. The woman had a strip of light, chiffon-like material laid across her lap, obscuring her feminine parts.

‘Beautiful. Captivating,’ she remarked. ‘Do I recognise the artist?’

Isselhorst hesitated for just an instant. ‘Matisse, actually,’ he boasted, an arrogant curl to his lip. ‘Woman in an Armchair, 1923.’

Narov feigned amazement. ‘An original Matisse? Wow. Just what kind of lawyer are you?’

Isselhorst flashed a glittering, perfect smile. ‘A very talented one. And some of my clients choose to pay me in kind.’

They moved towards the kitchen, where Narov was introduced to a decidedly sleepy-looking Oscar. She had a magical way with animals. Always had done. She and the German Shepherd quickly bonded, but Isselhorst soon pulled her away, steering her towards the bedroom and Hitler’s bed; impatient to get the real agenda for tonight started… the one he believed they were here for.

Just as they were about to enter, Narov paused, her head tilted towards the lounge. ‘The schnapps. Come on! Just one more.’

She could tell that Isselhorst – a man not used to being denied – was growing impatient. But at the same time he appeared to thrill to his guest’s apparently wild ways.

He smiled. ‘And why not? One for the road, as you say…’

Isselhorst believed Narov to be an American. That was what she’d told him, and indeed these days she mostly was. Recently, she’d taken US citizenship, but she’d been born British and had spent her youth in Russia, for her family was originally Russian.

That part she had kept from him. The Russians and the Nazis had never been the best of friends.

He poured two fresh shots. As he handed Narov hers, she feigned drunken clumsiness, the glass slipping through her fingers. It hit the floor with a sharp crack, shattering into tiny pieces, the schnapps spattering across the marble.

For the briefest of instants, Narov saw a look of anger, bordering on rage, flit across Isselhorst’s features. He killed it just as quickly, but still, she’d glimpsed the man behind the mask. He was just as she’d imagined him: bereft of morals, a beast bloated with money and power, and above all a control freak.

But he covered well. ‘Not to worry.’ He shrugged. ‘I have a housekeeper. Frau Helliger. She will clear it up in the morning.’

He turned for the bottle and a replacement glass, and as he did so, he had his hands full and was slightly off balance.

Before he had fully turned back again, bringing Narov into his field of vision, she struck like a coiled snake, driving forwards and upwards with her right hand in a smooth but devastating strike, hammering the fleshy part of her palm directly into the underside of Isselhorst’s jaw.

She’d practised the move a thousand times, when she’d served with the Russian Spetsnaz – their special forces. The blow was delivered with all her power and pent-up hatred, and she felt the teeth of Isselhorst’s lower jaw being driven upwards, ripping into his upper mouth savagely.

He staggered backwards, spitting blood. Moments later, the schnapps bottle and replacement glass had joined the debris scattered across the living room floor. That blow would have felled most men, but somehow he was still on his feet.

Narov didn’t hesitate. She unleashed an open-palmed strike with her right hand, delivering the knockout blow into exactly the desired spot on the side of his neck, three inches beneath his left ear, just where the carotid artery pumped blood to the brain.

Time seemed to hang in the air before Isselhorst’s eyes rolled into his head, his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the floor.

Narov glanced down at him breathlessly. He was out cold, a trickle of blood issuing from his mouth and mixing with the pool of schnapps.

She took a few seconds to calm herself before embarking upon the next stage of her plan.