A Time for Vengeance

by Geoffrey Osborne

  A Time For Vengeance

  Geoffrey Osborne

  © Geoffrey Osborne 1974

  Geoffrey Osborne has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1974 by Robert Hale & Company Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Prologue

  It was a time for sleeping; a place for peace.

  It was neither the time nor the place for kidnapping, intrigue, murder or vengeance.

  And yet, this was where it all really began: a move calculated once more to alter the map of Europe and to upset the delicate balance of power; an affair destined to reach its climax an ocean away, on a colder continent.

  Nothing moved in the breathless heat of the afternoon. Even the birds and the insects were silent.

  Two men, both in their early sixties, dozed in the shade of the veranda which fronted the bungalow.

  A casual observer would have envied them.

  The luminous color of a Gauguin tropical landscape was splashed all around. The men themselves, the bungalow, the scuffed footprints in the soft silver sand, the small boat drawn up at the water’s edge – these were the blemishes on the beautiful face of the bay which brought life to the canvas.

  But there were no casual observers in this remote corner; only professionals, highly trained in the art.

  Two of them had been watching the occupants of the bungalow for two days and nights. They were watching now, the trappings of their trade strewn around them – binoculars, a two-way radio and, more sinister, a compact Uzi sub-machine gun, ready for business with its 9mm., 25-round detachable magazine and sliding metal stock.

  From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the building, a frame structure with a corrugated iron roof, which nestled at the foot of a high cliff. It was protected on either side by a thumb and forefinger of rock, capped with luxuriant vegetation, which jutted into the still, blue water.

  As they watched the two sleeping men, the Pacific stirred from its slumber to lap lazily at the shore.

  It seemed to be the signal for life to begin again, birds began to sing; insects hummed.

  *

  The sudden warm breeze that had disturbed the ocean roused one of the men on the veranda.

  A tall man, fighting a losing battle against obesity, his paunch glowed redly through his white nylon shirt. The same fresh pink sunburn had spread up from his face to cover his bald head.

  He swung his arm to look at the watch strapped to his thick wrist, sat up abruptly and gazed about him. He fancied he saw a flash of light in the vegetation above him and to his right.

  A tiny smile, which did not reach his slate-gray eyes, quirked the corners of his thin lips. He leaned across to his companion and prodded him gently.

  “It is nearly time, Erich.”

  The man called Erich looked as if he had spent a lifetime in the tropics. His skin was scorched to a dark mahogany and he was thin, as though all the skin had been sweated off him.

  Exposure to the sun had not aged him, and there were only a few flecks of silver in his close-cropped, black hair. His khaki bush jacket and trousers were torn and stained; but there was still an air of proud arrogance about him.

  He opened his eyes, their icy blueness accentuated by the deep tan of his face.

  “Is there time for one more glass of beer?”

  The fat man nodded and reached for two bottles, which stood on the floor near his chair. He filled their glasses.

  “You won’t have to put up with this warm muck much longer, Erich. When you get home you’ll be able to enjoy real beer. Ice cold, eh?”

  “Home?” asked Erich doubtfully. “Do you really think…”

  “Of course!” The fat man laughed. “If you want to hide a piece of hay, put it in a haystack.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Gerhard. I can’t run any more. They found me in Argentina, and I ran. They found me in Paraguay… and now they have found me here.”

  Despite the heat, he shivered.

  “I’m sure they are watching now. I can feel it.”

  Gerhard nodded. “They are. I saw a flash of light up there a few minutes ago. Careless of them. Probably the sun reflecting on their field glasses.”

  “Then why don’t they come for me? Why are they waiting?”

  “Playing it safe, probably,” replied the fat man. “There are two of them – and two of us. They are waiting for help. There’s a ship in the roads,” he added casually. “I saw it this morning when I took the boat over to the settlement to fetch this lousy beer. It’s registered in Haifa.”

  Shock showed in the thin man’s eyes.

  “An Israeli ship! That’s how they plan to do it.”

  “Getting ready to sail tonight, I think. What will be easier than to stop opposite the bay here and launch a boat to collect you while your two friends up there cut off your retreat.”

  Gerhard shrugged. “But when they get here, they’ll find the bird has flown, eh?”

  His red belly wobbled as he laughed again.

  The thin man didn’t join in the laughter. Worry creased the corners of his eyes.

  “Will they never forget?” he murmured. “It was all so long ago. Surely times have changed.”

  “Times have changed all right, my dear Erich,” answered Gerhard. “There is a saying in Germany today that now the Germans make money while the Jews make war.” He slapped his thigh. “That’s good, eh?”

  There was no answering smile from his companion.

  “You have come only just in time then, Gerhard. When you arrived two days ago, I couldn’t believe it was really you. But… I still can’t understand why you have come.”

  Gerhard’s eyes narrowed.

  “I already told you. You have friends at home. When they heard that the Israelis were after you, I was sent to fetch you. They sent me because you know me, because you were my commanding officer. We didn’t want you to become another Eichmann.”

  “But why?” the thin man insisted. “Why? There must be another reason. I can be of no use to them. I can never repay them. All my money is gone now. Soon I shall be an old man. For the last twenty-six years I have lived in fear, hunted like an animal. All I want is to be allowed to spend the rest of my life in peace…”

  “And so you shall, if you just do as I say. Come, Erich, stick to routine, eh? It’s time for you to catch our supper.”

  “You won’t come with me?”

  “I can’t. There won’t be room for me.” Gerhard patted his paunch and chuckled. “I’ve grown since the old days, eh?” Then, serious again, he added: “You have the compass?”

  “Yes. In my pocket.”

  “Good! Then go now. We shall meet again very soon, eh? At home.”

  The two men stood up and stepped off the veranda on to the sand. They stood looking at each other for a few moments
before Erich turned to walk towards the boat.

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” he muttered.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Erich.”

  *

  The movement of the two men, from the veranda on to the sand, attracted the attention of a third watcher.

  Like the Israelis, he had found a vantage point high up in the thick vegetation – but on the opposite side of the bay.

  If the Israelis had seen him, they would have recognized the slightly-built man with sad brown eyes and a crew cut as a fellow passenger on the flight to Quito.

  But he had taken great care not to be observed by them or their quarry.

  He was lying on his stomach, looking down at Erich and Gerhard as they stood talking in front of the bungalow.

  Without shifting his gaze, he ran the fingers of his right hand softly over the ground until they came into contact with a metallic object. It had been lying in the sun and was hot to the touch.

  Slowly, he brought the ugly black barrel up in front of him. Gently, he squeezed the pistol grip and waited until the faces of the two men, magnified many times, leapt up at him.

  Erich’s blue eyes seemed to be staring straight at him, and he could see where the sunburn was beginning to peel on Gerhard’s high forehead.

  He knew he would never get another shot like this.

  The two men were speaking, and his own mouth moved in imitation as he lip-read, “…Auf Wiedersehen.”

  “So they’re Germans,” he muttered. “I might have guessed. Well, I don’t know who you guys are but…” he pressed the trigger twice in quick succession. “…perhaps someone will.”

  Then he repeated, “Auf Wiedersehen,” as he rested the 35mm. camera, with its long barrel-shaped Novo-flex follow-focus lens, on the ground.

  He watched Erich plod through the soft sand to the boat.

  *

  The Israelis kept their binoculars on Erich as he started the outboard motor and headed the small boat out to sea.

  “He’s going fishing, Yacob. I could do with some fresh fish for supper. Make a change from these dry iron rations, eh?”

  Yacob smiled.

  “You’ll be able to eat and drink your fill on the ship tonight, Simon.”

  He swung his field glasses south-west, across the bay and over the top of the lower, neighboring promontory, which concealed the crew-cut photographer. He could see the port of Esmeraldas, on the west bank of the river, where the ship had completed loading cocoa beans.

  The river Esmeraldas had a wide mouth with islands and shoals which were constantly altered by the swift current. The mouth was obstructed by a bar, so the anchorage was outside in the roads, which gave little protection. A wisp of smoke pinpointed the ship’s position. He smiled with satisfaction.

  “We’d better report.”

  Simon nodded, reached across for the two-way radio and gave their call sign. An acknowledgement came quickly from the ship.

  “Receiving you loud and clear. Make your report.”

  “Erich Mueller has gone out in the boat; probably fishing as he did last night and the night before. Gerhard Kohner is still at the bungalow.”

  “Very good. Report when Mueller returns. Out.”

  Simon switched off the set and stared down into the bay. He saw that the fat man had resumed his seat on the veranda.

  “It seems funny,” he said. “We came here for Mueller – and found Kohner as well. Everyone thought he’d disappeared for good behind the Iron Curtain.”

  “We get two for the price of one,” observed Yacob. “So who’s complaining? Want some chocolate? It’s melted I’m afraid.”

  His companion shook his head.

  “No thanks, I’m thirsty enough already.”

  He frowned and stared out to sea again.

  “He’s going a long way out. Much further than usual.”

  Yacob focused his own binoculars on the black speck in the shiny sea.

  “Still going out,” he said. “And he’s not fishing either.”

  He looked down at the bungalow.

  “Kohner’s gone inside now.”

  “Keep your eyes open. I don’t like this.” There was real worry in Simon’s voice. “I’ve got a nasty feeling Mueller’s not coming…”

  “Look!” Yacob interrupted urgently. “Kohner!”

  The fat man, carrying his small suitcase, had come out of the bungalow at a run. He disappeared round the back of the building, and came into sight again as he climbed the winding path up the cliff face. He seemed remarkably light on his feet for a man of his bulk.

  Simon snatched up the Uzi, but Yacob gripped his arm.

  “No! He’s out of range. We’ll have to get up to the road and head him off.”

  “Shouldn’t we radio the ship first?”

  “There isn’t time. Come on.” Yacob was already running, crashing through the undergrowth. Speed was essential; there was no time now for silence or secrecy.

  From the other side of the bay, the man with the crew cut watched with interest. His sad brown eyes followed their progress by watching the movement of the lush green foliage as they forced a passage.

  *

  Gerhard Kohner was sweating freely when he reached the top of the cliff, but he didn’t pause.

  He stepped on to the road, which was little better than a cart track, and turned towards Esmeraldas.

  The German knew that he could not hope to reach the town before the two Israeli agents caught up with him. He guessed they would be younger and fitter than he.

  His only chance was to find a suitable hiding place, and then allow the Israelis to overtake him…

  *

  The man with the crew cut decided that it was time to go. He gathered his belongings and began to move at a more leisurely pace than the others.

  By the time he reached the road, he judged that they were all ahead of him. Which was how he wanted it to be.

  He had walked about a mile along the rough road when the sound of gunfire made him stop abruptly.

  There were four shots. Two in quick succession, and then two more at wider intervals.

  It sounded as though the Israelis had caught up with the fat man.

  “So it’ll be Auf Wiedersehen for keeps this time, fatso,” he muttered.

  He began to walk again, even more slowly. He didn’t want to be seen by any survivors of the gun battle.

  Ten minutes later, he rounded a bend and saw something blocking the track. He paused, watching for any movement ahead. But, apart from the ominously still shape that had first drawn his attention, the road was empty.

  He walked up to the body. It was one of the Israelis, lying on his back. He wasn’t handsome any more. Half his face had been blown away by a shot from a heavy caliber revolver – at very close range.

  The man with the crew cut turned and stiffened as he saw the other Israeli staring at him from a shallow ditch at the side of the road. But he was staring with only one sightless eye. The other had been blown out – again with a close-range shot.

  Puzzled, Crew Cut stooped and heaved the bodies over. Each had a small hole in the middle of the back.

  He pursed his lips. Very smart, fatso, he thought. A neat ambush. Two quick shots in the back, and then two close-range shots to the face, just to make sure. A thorough man, fatso.

  Crew Cut walked slowly on towards Esmeraldas. Tomorrow, he would catch a train to Quito and book a flight back to Panama.

  There was no change in the sad expression of his brown eyes.

  Chapter One

  It was a routine inquiry from Scotland Yard’s Fraud Squad to the Special Branch:

  “Can you identify these two subjects? CRO have no record. Suspect they could be war-time Nazi officers.”

  Special Branch had marked the form briefly:

  “No trace. Try SS(0)S.”

  The Director of Britain’s Special Security (Operations) Section stared at the photograph.


  He knew the men. There was no mistaking Erich Mueller, even after all these years. And although he was a lot fatter, Gerhard Kohner was still easily recognizable.

  The Director did not have to send for the files to refresh his memory.

  Erich Mueller, General in the SS, which was controlled by Himmler’s RSHA. Gerhard Kohner, appointed Mueller’s deputy after being transferred from Section IV of RSHA – the Gestapo.

  Mueller had acted as “Chancellor” to the SS, and had been in charge of all the art treasures captured by the German armies and sent back to the Fatherland.

  He was also responsible for amassing a huge “secret” fund for use by the SS and the Gestapo.

  The method was simple. He would make contact with Jews who had just been, or were about to be, arrested. In return for a promise to be helped to escape, they would transfer to him their jewelery and bearer bonds.

  And that was where Kohner came in. He was the officer assigned by Mueller to lead them to freedom. But he led them straight to the gas chambers.

  They were a dirty pair. Very dirty.

  But there was something else. Mueller had been entrusted with another task in those last desperate days of the Third Reich.

  The Director leaned forward and stabbed a stubby forefinger at the intercom.

  “Get me Scotland Yard. I want to speak to the Commander of the Fraud Squad.”

  “Yes, sir,” the metallic voice of his secretary, Miss Peach, replied.

  The Director picked up the red telephone on his desk – his “hot” line to Downing Street.

  “Yes?”

  “I want an urgent meeting with the PM. Director SS(0)S here.”

  “Thank you, Director. I’ll ring you back and let you know a convenient time and place. Will tonight be soon enough?”

  “Earlier if possible. It’s very urgent.”

  “Very well.”

  The intercom buzzed as the Director replaced the receiver.

  “Your call to the Yard, sir. Commander Whiteway is on the line.”

  He picked up the black telephone.

  “Commander? I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of the Mueller case.”

  “Mueller case?”