Free The German Suitcase by Greg Dinallo Page A

his head at a thought. “Did you say his granddaughter’s getting married?”
    “Yeah. In a couple of weeks. Temple of Dendur yet.”
    Steinbach’s expression brightened. His eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. “Don’t let that suitcase out of your sight, Bart. This isn’t over.”
    “It isn’t?”
    “Nope,” Steinbach replied, stabbing a finger at his intercom. “Yeah, I need Bernice.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    At about the same time Professor Gerhard was taking evasive measures on Munich’s snowy streets, Dr. Maximilian Kleist, Captain, Waffen SS was with his parents in the library of the family’s 19th Century townhouse. The walls, crafted of Bavarian black walnut, were inlaid with rosettes as were the coffers between the finely detailed ceiling beams. A circular staircase led to a cast iron balcony, making the upper tier of volumes accessible. Blackout drapes, drawn at night to ward off Allied airstrikes, and a book entitled German War Christmas—published by the Nazi Propaganda Office and distributed at home and at the front—were the only evidence of the War.
    Konrad Kleist, a tall man with a strong profile and steel-gray hair that swept back in perfect waves, stood next to a marble fireplace. ‘Concert,’ a large canvas by the expatriate Russian, and one-time Munich resident, Wassily Kandinsky, who had recently died in Paris, hung above the mantle. Konrad’s wife, Gisela, an elegant, fine-boned woman who favored Chanel suits, was seated on an Art Nouveau sofa. A black German Shepherd lay at her feet. Max, who had changed from his uniform into a tweed hunting jacket and corduroy trousers, leaned against the piano, smoking a cigarette. A cello that dated to the mid-18th Century stood nearby.
    “What were you thinking, Max?” the elder Kleist demanded. “How could you have been so careless? For years I’ve been walking a tightrope. Not once have I teetered let alone fallen. And now…” He sighed and slipped a pack of North States from a pocket. Konrad favored the Finnish brand not only for their heady flavor, but also because the twelve-pack’s slim profile didn’t ruin the line of his bespoke suits. His gold lighter was engraved with a double-K monogram as were his cufflinks. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, as if this would give him the strength to deal with the situation.
    “I’m sorry, Dad,” Max said, meeting his father’s gaze. His tone was respectful, not remorseful, and made it clear he wouldn’t be cowed. “I’ve done my best to live an exemplary life in the spirit of this family. I took every precaution, believe me.”
    “Yes, we’re sure you did,” his mother said softly admonishing her husband with a glance. “Perhaps, it would have been wise to share this with us before today.”
    “It wasn’t an oversight, Mother,” Max explained, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Eva and I thought it best to wait until the war was over and we knew what kind of a world we’d be living in before committing our hearts to it, or asking for your blessing.”
    Gisela Kleist’s eyes were moist with empathy. “Of course, but with these…these sociopaths committing such unimaginable atrocities, it behooved you and this young lady to be more discrete.”
    “Believe me, Mother, we were. I’m not even sure Professor Gerhard knew.”
    “Then how?” his father asked.
    “An informer,” Max replied. “Someone must’ve gone to the SS.”
    “How many times have I said, trust no one but family,” his father said, dragging on his cigarette to contain his anger. “You didn’t see fit to take us into your confidence; but you shared this with someone else?”
    Max nodded. “With Jake. Jake Epstein. But he would never…”
    “You’re sure of that?” his father challenged. “No jealousy? No anger at a German aristocrat romancing a lovely Jewish girl—one he secretly covets?”
    “Jake’s my best friend for God sake,” Max protested. “He is family to me.” He crossed to the