were together,” Aligor said with a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “The only ones not present were that swine, Martin Bormann, and sadly, the Führer himself. It felt a little empty without him there.”
Youkelstein’s nose was now practically touching the photo, reviewing each person with diligence.
“All the way on the left,” Aligor pointed from his seated position, “is our photographer, Rose Shepherd.”
“Eva Braun,” Youkelstein mumbled.
“Next to her is our head of security, Gus Becker, a police officer from Rhinebeck. Even in the United States there was a lot of threats directed at a wealthy Jewish family like ours, and Gus did a great job of keeping the event safe.”
“How sad that Heinrich Müller was forced to do the grunt work at his own son’s wedding.”
“He was very proud of Josef, as were the groom’s parents—the Kingstons. A blue-collar family from here in Long Island. Frank was a fisherman, while the groom’s mother, Mary Kingston, was a brilliant pilot and intelligence agent who worked under me. She flew Hess and Josef to safety out of Germany years earlier. She was a vital member of the group, and it’s sad that she didn’t live to see this day.”
Youkelstein remained fixated on Frank Kingston. It was Rudolph Hess.
“I must say, Ben, that your analysis in your book that declared the prisoner in Spandau a fraud, was right on the money. I was glad I pulled the strings to get you in there to examine him. The more conspiratorial you became, the more it hurt the credibility of your arguments, even if you did have evidence on your side.”
Youkelstein always thought it was fishy that the prisoner refused to see his wife and son until twenty-five years after his imprisonment, but was willing to be examined by a forensic doctor for a book. He felt sick, realizing that those he hunted had mocked him.
“It was the easiest analysis I ever did. Apart from the fact that the flight plans, auxiliary tanks, and maps of the route didn’t add up, Hess had received a rifle wound to the lung in World War I that was so severe that he spent a month in the hospital, yet the prisoner in Spandau had no scar on his chest. And perhaps the most damning evidence of all, was that many of Hess’ fellow Nazis called out this stand-in as a fraud at the Nuremberg Trials. There is no doubt in my mind that it was an imposter—but I can’t figure out why this man was willing to sacrifice his life for a lie.”
“When he agreed to parachute into Scotland on May 10, 1941, pretending to be Hess, I don’t believe he understood the long term ramifications. But he knew if he chose to talk, Himmler would be able to get to his family. They were all afraid of Himmler and his sippenhaft.”
Youkelstein’s focus trailed back toward the center of the wedding table, zeroing in on the man pretending to be Aligor’s father. When he pulled away the layers, Youkelstein felt like he had been set on fire. He couldn’t believe it.
Aligor wheeled beside him, inches from the photo. “And of course you remember my father Jacob Sterling. I’ve never seen him look so proud as he did that day. But I guess it’s normal for a father to feel that way the day he gives away his daughter.”
Youkelstein peered at the man in the photo. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and looked different without his Charlie Chaplin mustache. He’d seen Jacob Sterling thousands of times—his picture still hung on the walls throughout Sterling Publishing—he’d even broken bread with him in his home. But he never looked at him like this. In this new light, the forensic surgeon in him noticed possible plastic surgery, but it was undeniably him.
“I sat right next to him when you invited me to spend the holidays when I first came to the States. I can’t believe I celebrated the holiest of days with the devil himself!”
Himmler.
Chapter 63
Youkelstein continued to stare at the Nazi Last Supper in disbelief. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pad in which he had scribbled down the Apostle names during yesterday’s trip to Rhinebeck. He mentally filled them in. He now had a complete list from Peter to Thaddeus.
“I must disagree with you on Himmler, Ben, calling him the devil would be insulting to Satan himself. We never wanted him or Bormann to be involved, but he always had the Führer on his marionette string.