“That’s good to hear.”
“By the way, I was thinking about getting a job at the Bonnie Beach real estate office. One of their people may be leaving soon, and I plan to apply for his position later this week. It would be an excellent occupation for a Thibald and Sörnsen agent. Also I’m planning on joining the North Shore Cricket Club, which should be a great place to pick up gossip. Besides, I like the game.”
Meg approved of both ideas. Trilby could be their eyes and ears in the community, and watch for any signs of pursuit by Stoker’s agents. They would be able to stop running and establish a semipermanent base in the Caribbean, not too far from home. In addition, she would have time to think of a way to avenge Peter’s murder.
Thursday, October 4, Jamaica
When Joel Trilby arrived at the Swedish Consulate in the early afternoon, there was an envelope waiting for him. He returned to the minibus, and ripped it open. In addition to his employment documents, he found the mysterious message Hedi had mentioned. It was in the form of a handwritten letter.
Dear Mr. Trilby,
I hope this reaches you promptly as it is important to let you know about certain things at Thibald and Sörnsen that I could not discuss on the phone. A senior director has been restructuring his department in a subtle manner under the guise of fiscal restraint. This is in spite of a large increase in UN grant money. Long-term employees have been displaced by handpicked personnel, who have been chosen without informing the Board of Directors. Ms. Andersson will be attending a Board Meeting in a day or two, and may be able to find out what has been going on.
We are wondering whether it would be wise for you to be employed by Thibald and Sörnsen under your real name in view of your connection with the party from St. Barbe’s. We addressed the problem by changing your name in our files to Mr. Richard Pearson, to whom your salary and company mail will be addressed. You may pick them up at the Swedish Consulate. I enclose employment conditions, and also a passport for Richard Pearson listing the nationality as Antiguan. As far as Thibald and Sörnsen are concerned, you are now their official agent in the Caribbean.
Yours sincerely,
Hedi Wetzlar
Trilby drove back to Bonnie Beach immediately, and located the Judge and Meg, who were sitting at a shaded patio table by the pool. They were in earnest conversation, but stopped as he walked quickly toward them.
The Judge frowned. “Trilby, you look concerned.”
“I certainly am.” Trilby took the letter from his breast pocket and handed it over. “Perhaps you’d better read this. It seems to me there’s something rotten in the State of Denmark, or perhaps I should say Sweden.”
The Judge read the note aloud, then turned to Meg. “This is serious. There’s obviously a lot more going on at Thibald and Sörnsen than Hedi knows about. Joel, don’t you think we should call Anna immediately?”
“Of course,” replied Trilby.
“There are several phone extensions in the house. You and Meg can listen in.”
Meg used the entrance hall, Trilby the outside line by the pool, and the Judge did the dialing from the kitchen. He had decided to try Anna’s office number, which would get Hedi Wetzlar first. After three rings, a woman answered in Swedish.
The Judge didn’t understand anything, of course, so replied, “Is that Hedi Wetzlar? I would like to speak to Anna Andersson, please.”
“I am sorry, but there are no such persons here.”
“Is this Thibald and Sörnsen?”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“But these two people work in your office.”
“I can assure you that no one with either of those names has ever worked for Thibald and Sörnsen.”
“Thank you.” The Judge hung up, feeling more than a little shaken. The other two joined him in the kitchen.
“What on earth could have happened?” asked Meg.
“Let’s try Anna’s apartment,” said Trilby.
They did, but a recorded voice said the line was out of order.
Trilby pulled a card from his wallet. “I have Hedi Wetzlar’s home number.” He took the phone from the Judge.
The result was the same. The line was out of order.
“How about Hans’ apartment in Germany?” Trilby suggested. “He and Anna may have gone there for a break. We’ll have to get the number from Directory Assistance.”
There was no reply.
“I have an awful feeling that something’s happened to all three of them,” said the Judge. “What in Heaven’s name can we do now?”
Meg was looking thoughtful. “I remember Anna telling me that Hans ran his parents’ winery,” she said. “I expect it’s near the apartment. They might just be there.”
They had no difficulty in getting the number, but yet again, there was no reply.
“I suppose they could all be out,” the Judge suggested. “Even so, I think I’ll enlist the help of an old friend of mine. He lives in Germany and is virtually on the spot.”
Dougal McAllister was still in his office. He knew absolutely nothing of the events on St. Barbe’s, but the Judge realized it would take too much time to bring him up to date. The last time they had seen each other was in London over a month ago.
“Dougal," he said, "I wonder if you could do me a big favor? I can’t give you all the details right now as it would take far too long. Three people we know are missing. They may be in danger, and going to the police is out of the question. Could you help us find them? You must have a tame private investigator you can use.”
The Judge went on to explain who Anna, Hedi and Hans were, and when he had last heard from them. He mentioned that Anna and Hedi worked at Thibald and Sörnsen, and told Dougal what had happened when he tried to contact them by phone. He also suggested trying to trace Hans through the Wetzlar Winery.
“I’ll do all I can, Marvin. My office retains the best detective agency in Heidelberg. They open early tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell them to be more than a wee bit circumspect in asking questions. We don’t want to shout our interest from the rooftops, do we? And another thing, I’m keeping well away from Thibald and Sörnsen. If there’s something screwy about that company, we’d better be bloody careful.”
“Thanks a million, Dougal. Call me back when you’ve got the ball rolling, and I’ll tell you the whole story. And don’t spare the cost.”
“I’ll send you a monthly bill,” said Dougal with a chuckle, and hung up.
The Judge felt a little better after talking to Dougal. The man had a decidedly lighthearted approach to life. He told Meg and Trilby what had been said.
“It’s certainly nice to know we have a friend in Germany,” Meg replied. “I suspect that’s where the action’s going to be in the not-too-distant future. Why don’t we try and relax for a while? We’re all completely exhausted.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Saturday, October 6, Germany
The town of Neuhausen lay close to the old border between East and West Germany. Frederich Weiss had chosen it for the rally because it was relatively small, and it was unlikely that the mayor had any idea that Neuer Deutschland was the principal Neo-Nazi organization in the country. In actual fact, the detachment was to be tagged onto the town’s Oktoberfest parade. There would be no less that two hundred uniformed men and women bringing up the rear of a colorful procession of floats and marchers. Weiss himself was the second in command of the entire organization. He would bear a flag emblazoned with a Nazi swastika, and walk at the head of the two hundred. He hoped that eventually such parades would be held in larger cities, perhaps even in Berlin itself. Of course, few people were aware of the nefarious covert activities of Neuer Deutschland, otherwise it would have been ostracized, or even banned.
The Oktoberfest procession would wind some two miles through the town, meandering from east to west down suburban streets to the main thoroughfare, unimaginatively called the Hochstrasse. After that, it would proceed to the base of one of the old Iron Curtain watch
towers, which was now a monument to several Neuhausen residents who had tried in vain to escape from East to West Germany. The weather, so important for the success of Oktoberfest, was more or less cooperative. The sky was overcast, but at least it wasn’t raining or cold. At 2:00 pm sharp, the town’s largest fire truck led the procession of floats and marchers away from the marshaling area, which was located in a meadow at the edge of town.
Hours earlier, before the Hochstrasse had been closed for the occasion, two vans, one brown and one black, parked about a hundred yards down two adjacent side streets. Both streets were on the same side of the Hochstrasse and were cul-de-sacs, but had narrow alleys connecting them to other streets behind. Each driver left his vehicle, walked down an alley, and disappeared amongst shoppers and other pedestrians. There was no sound or other indication of activity from within the vans, and any passer-by would have guessed they were empty, assuming that he or she had even noticed them. As time went on, more cars parked near the vans, and eager families made their way to the parade route, joining the rapidly increasing crowd of onlookers. By the time the fire truck turned into the Hochstrasse, the Neuer Deutschland contingent was just leaving the marshaling area. It would take about an hour for the entire parade to pass a particular point on its route.
Approximately half an hour after the leading vehicle had passed the two side streets, the rear doors of the vans opened, and two men emerged from each. One had a dark beard, one a pale mustache, and two were clean shaven, but they were all unremarkable in their loose trench coats. Strolling slowly over to the spectators, they eased their way through to the edge of the pavement, though not without causing the occasional protest. Glancing to left and right, they saw, as expected, that a police officer had been positioned every fifty feet or so for crowd control.
The parade had been arranged so that each float was followed by a party of marchers. Numerous entries depicting harvest themes were decorated with sheaves of wheat and barley. There were walkers and dancers in traditional dress, and smiling children everywhere. The police band was followed by a giant plastic Donald Duck, and after that there was a children’s choir singing “The Happy Wanderer” over and over again. Eventually the last vehicle approached. It was a huge ore truck from a nearby opencast mine, and it effectively blocked any view of the Neuer Deutschland marchers behind. The four men became visibly alert as the truck rumbled past the first of the two side streets. Behind it was a fifty-foot gap, then came Weiss, striding along with his Nazi flag snapping in the wind. By the time Weiss had reached the second street, the tail end of the three ranks making up his squad was passing the first. Precisely at this moment there was a muted beep from each of the four men’s wristwatches.
Moving as one, they pulled submachine guns from beneath their coats. They had unusually large oval magazines, mounted crossways just in front of the triggers. The man stationed at the second side street swung his weapon toward Weiss, who by this time was some fifty feet away, and presenting his back to the gunman. At that moment he was quite unaware of what was about to happen. A few seconds later was quite unaware that he had died, since a short burst of fire had shattered his skull into a mass of unrecognizable pulp. The rank of Neo-Nazis nearest the gunmen was only about ten feet away, and the rapid-firing weapons cut them down before any could escape. The second rank had been partly shielded by the first. Those that could charged at the crowd on the opposite side of the street along with the third rank, many of whom were knocked to the ground by their comrades. A policeman drew his revolver, a pathetic weapon in the face of such firepower. He died before he could pull the trigger.
As soon as the shots that killed Weiss had been fired, panic-stricken spectators fled in all directions, some tripping over others, some stumbling from the impact of a stray bullet. Screams of pain and terror rose above the stutter of the guns, and in less than a minute of total pandemonium, the block between the two side streets was emptied of all who could get away. They left behind what resembled a battle ground with scores of dead and dying, some piled two or three deep. By far the majority wore red arm bands with black swastikas in white circles.
The firing stopped almost unnoticed. When two policemen spotted a couple of the gunmen running down one of the side streets, they gave chase, drawing their revolvers as they ran. Their quarry was halfway down the short cul-de-sac before they realized they were being pursued. As soon as they did so, one ran on toward the alley at the end of the street, while the other stopped and began to swing his submachine gun toward the police officers. Instantly the policemen fired without breaking their pace, pulling the triggers of their weapons as fast as they could, hoping and praying that one of the wild-flying bullets would find its mark. It did. A ricochet zipped up from the road and ripped into the man’s throat, a fountain of blood spraying over his gun. As he fell forward onto the ground, his heart stopped beating, and five seconds later, a sensor taped to his chest signaled an electronic detonator to set off explosives belted around his waist.
During this period, the two policemen turned their attention to the second gunman, now standing at the entrance to the alley. His submachine gun was already pointing at them, and knowing they had no chance with their almost empty revolvers, both threw themselves onto the asphalt some twenty feet from the dead man. It was lucky for them that they did so, for the explosion was powerful. The first gunman was literally blown into chunks of meat and shards of bone, most of which were splattered on the walls of nearby buildings. When the dazed officers raised their heads, the man at the end of the alley was gone.
In a short time the sirens of approaching ambulances and police cars could be heard. The grizzly tasks of removing the dead and tending the wounded were about to begin.
By six o’clock local time, television and radio stations around the world had covered the Neuhausen massacre. No less than 148 of the 200 Neuer Deutschland marchers were dead, 32 of them women. In addition, there were 28 deaths amongst the spectators, including only 6 children, a small blessing. About half of the surviving Neo-Nazis had been injured, along with an undetermined, but lesser number of onlookers.
There was nothing left of the dead gunman, and no way of establishing his identity. His weapon was reduced to a few unrecognizable pieces of bent metal, carefully gathered by the investigating team. The three remaining assailants had simply disappeared. No one connected the two vans with the incident, and they left the area much later, along with the fifteen other spectators’ vehicles that had been parked in the two side streets. The police were far too busy and shaken to even think of taking license numbers, and the presumed owners drove their cars, vans and motor cycles through the road block on the Hochstrasse unhindered. Even if they had conducted a check, the police would have found that the plates on the vans were false, as were the identities of the drivers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monday, October 8, Bonnie Beach, Jamaica
It was early morning in Jamaica and lunchtime in Heidelberg when Dougal phoned. The Judge took the call while he was still in bed. Dougal had asked his law firm’s detective agency to assign one of their best investigators exclusively to the task of finding Anna, Hans and Hedi. A young man by the name of Kurt Gruber was chosen. He made a great many phone calls to their affiliated detective agency in Stockholm, the Swedish police, and to the larger hospitals—all to no avail. He also visited Hans Wetzlar’s parents, whose winery was near Heidelberg. They told him that Hans had not returned there after leaving St. Barbe’s, as originally planned. A call to the hotel in Stockholm where Hans had been staying provided no leads, since no one was with him when he checked out and left in a taxi. Enquiries at the airport revealed that he did not board the flight that he had booked to Germany. After this disappointment, Dougal asked the detective to go to Stockholm and check out the apartments of Anna and her secretary. If necessary, he could use sophisticated lock picks to gain entry. Kurt’s flight to Sweden was scheduled for later in the afternoon.
“It’s all very distressing,
” said the Judge. “When can we expect some information?”
“He’ll visit Ms. Andersson’s apartment tomorrow, and Hedi Wetzlar’s the next day. He’s due back late on the 11th, and will fax his report to you on Friday morning.”
“Fax it?”
“Aye, so I’ll need the number.”
“We don’t have one, but I’ll get a fax machine set up in plenty of time.”
“Send a note on it when you’ve got it sorted, Marvin. By the way, I take it you heard about the Neuhausen Massacre?”
“We certainly did. What a ghastly business. Have the police found out who did it yet?”
“No, they’re completely baffled. The killers obviously hated Neuer Deutschland and/or Neo-Nazis, but so do a lot of people.”
Dougal left his office fax number before he hung up.
The Judge glanced at his watch and realized that Marshall Thompson should be at work. He spoke to the secretary, who replied that the Superintendent was still missing.
“We’re getting worried,” she said before hanging up. “We haven’t been able to find him since the last time you called.”
The Judge was beginning to get worried as well, but the smell of bacon being cooked whetted his appetite. He went downstairs for breakfast, and found Josie, Jon, and Trilby at the large wooden table in the center of the enormous kitchen.
Josie poured a cup of coffee. “There’s bacon and toast, and you can cook an egg if you want one.”
While he fried his egg, the Judge passed on what Dougal had told him.
“I’ll drop by the phone company in person,” said Trilby. “I may have to grease the odd palm, but there shouldn’t be a problem getting a fax machine and another phone line by tomorrow.”
Jon turned to the Judge. “Did you phone Marshall Thompson about the software?”
“Sure, but he’s still missing. He hasn’t been seen since the last time we called.”
“Maybe Jon and I can help,” said Josie. “We’re planning on returning to Boston to try and pick up the pieces. There’s nothing we can do around here, and Jon wants to go back to Tuft’s. If we rent a new apartment under false names, we should be quite safe. At the same time we can make some discrete enquiries about Superintendent Thompson.”
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