Dead Secret

by Alan Williams

  ‘ABCO is certainly not run by Jews,’ Hawn said, with some discomfort.

  Mönch smiled. ‘How do you know? It is partly controlled by the Americans, is it not? Wherever there are powerful American organizations, there are Jews. The Jews may not control America, but they are certainly the single most influential ethnic group in the country.’

  ‘Doktor Mönch, I must make one thing perfectly clear. I have absolutely no intention of waging a private anti-Semitic vendetta. If there happen to be Jews on the Board of ABCO, then it is entirely fortuitous and of no interest to me. It also happens to contradict my entire theory. If ABCO had been controlled by the Jews during the war, they would hardly have been keen to trade with your people.’

  ‘Lieber Herr! You are naive. Or perhaps you are just too young. Let me tell you a story. It was told to me by someone very senior in our Ministry of War Production. I can vouch for its authenticity. At the beginning of August, 1944 just after 20 July had failed, and about a week before the Rumanian oil fields were taken — the leading bankers and industrialists of the Reich held a meeting in Switzerland. It was never reported and it has never been officially acknowledged. At this meeting were all the leading bankers and industrialists from the Allied nations, particularly from the United States. The Germans were represented principally by Krupp, von Thyssen and Flick. I can tell you that half the American delegation were Jews, and there were at least two Jews from Britain and three from France. Yes — Occupied France!

  ‘Krupp was in the chair. He did not waste words. He opened the proceedings by saying “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ve backed a loser. Our horse is not going to finish the race.” No minutes were taken of that meeting, and it only lasted a couple of hours. But its purpose was clear. The bankers — the Jews, the Internationalists, the Multinationalists — were already preparing to carve up their empire in Europe. While hundreds of thousands of brave men were dying all over Europe — millions of civilians dying in bombing raids — these commercial bandits were prepared to sit down in a quiet, nice house in neutral Switzerland and work out their share of the post-war profits. Does this story disgust you?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. Does it disgust you?’

  ‘Nothing disgusts me anymore, Herr Hawn. I am too old to be a moralist. My pleasures are few. What I value most is tranquillity, peace — virtues I have learnt through the wisdom of the Lord Buddha and transmitted through the blood of Christ. I am no longer a man of war, nor a man of the flesh. But I must survive — that is the first rule of Nature, and applies to the highest as well as the lowest. Even Buddha did not say that one can exist on the fruits of the spirit alone. I need money, Herr Hawn. The information you want, and which I can give you, is not cheap. It could well compromise me — as it could you. I require ten thousand Swiss francs, in one-hundred notes. That is approximately, at the current rate of exchange, £3,300, or just over US $6,550.’

  Hawn thought that for an old recluse who kept chickens in the wilds of Spain, he was remarkably well informed, particularly in fiscal matters. No doubt he had a radio, besides a telephone. He said: ‘Swiss francs may be difficult. I don’t know how Spanish banks operate with foreign exchange, but it will be quicker and easier to go to Madrid for the money. Dollars would be the simplest. Shall we say a round figure of six thousand?’

  The German nodded and refilled their glasses. ‘Prosit! The money will be ready when?’

  ‘I shall wire for it tomorrow morning. How soon will you be able to let me have the information? And in what form?’

  ‘I give you two affidavits. They will contain names and dates, secret meetings, shipping lanes, Bills of Lading, and certain other details which can be checked for their authenticity. But what you are after — the really important information — will be contained in the kind of details that no outsider, not even the most astute historian, would either know or be able to invent.’

  ‘In what form will you give me this information?’

  ‘I cannot provide you with original documents, or even copies. But my memory is excellent, even at my age. I was trained to have a good memory — it was part of my administrative duties to memorize data that could not be committed to the files.’

  ‘And you can let me have these affidavits when I produce the money?’

  ‘That would be a reasonable arrangement. Of course, it will all depend on us trusting each other. I should add that even in this solitary place, I take certain precautions.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Here is my card, with my telephone number. Remember, I am always Senor Alberto Millao.’

  Hawn told him where they were staying; then, just as they were about to take their leave, he said, ‘By the way, Herr Doktor, my friend in London told me of a rumour he had heard after the war — about certain aspects of what we have been discussing. He said that a collection of files and secret documents disappeared at the end of the war. They were not destroyed, and they were not captured by the Allies. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Herr Hawn, I would remind you that we have an agreement. I am selling you confidential information for a specified sum of money. I am not prepared to disclose any part of that information until our agreement has been ratified.’ He came across the room and escorted them outside to the front door; then, instead of shaking hands, in the German fashion, he gave a little bow with his fingertips pressed together in the traditional Eastern gesture of greeting and farewell.

  In the car Hawn had his first opportunity to give Anna a rough translation of his discussion with Mönch. She did not seem over-enthusiastic. ‘Tom, that’s a lot of money to pay over to a complete stranger, blind. How can we know that the stuff he gives us isn’t a load of rubbish?’

  ‘We don’t. We’re taking a chance — but it’s not our money we’re chancing, it’s Pol’s. Mönch may have been a bastard in his time, but now he’s just an old, lonely exile, and a religious crank to boot. People who follow Buddha don’t usually make petty crooks.’

  ‘Talking of Pol,’ she said, as they turned up the road towards the hotel, ‘he’s going to want something for his money, too.’

  ‘It’s up to him to come and get it.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Two days later Hawn drove to Madrid and drew out the six thousand dollars which had been wired from France. He was back in Soria by three in the afternoon, stopped the Citroën outside the iron gate, rang, and listened to the dog’s fury until he was let in again by the servant who showed him to the same bare white room. This time he had to wait nearly half-an-hour.

  When the man finally reappeared Hawn was led out of the back of the house, into a stifling little garden, lush and well-kept, with a stench of geraniums and chicken droppings. Mönch was seated alone at a little iron table, drinking coffee. He was in white ducks, two-tone shoes, and an open shirt with short sleeves. One of his thin arms was ribbed with white scars, like strings of gristle. He nodded Hawn towards the only other chair. No smile, no greeting, hardly even a trace of recognition.

  Hawn took out the sealed envelope containing the money, in one-hundred dollar bills. He pushed it across to Mönch. The old man did not touch it.

  ‘Herr Hawn, I regret that the price has increased. Ten thousand dollars. Not a cent less.’

  Hawn sought in vain for the appropriate German obscenity. Instead, he left the envelope lying there. ‘We made an agreement.’

  ‘Unhappily, mein lieber Herr, there have been certain developments in the last forty-eight hours. You know we mentioned the Wiesenthal Office when we last met. Well, unfortunately it is not the only gang of self-appointed moralists who have chosen to track down former servants of the Third Reich — it is just that they are the most notorious, and the most successful.’

  He sipped his coffee, without offering any to Hawn. ‘For some time now I and my friends here in Spain have heard reports of another organization — this time French. They call themselves Jacques — after the initials JAG — Justice pour les Anciens Combattants. They are old Resistance men — fanatical,
embittered, above all soured by the knowledge that they lost the war — and with far less courage and honour than we did. Their aim is simple. Revenge. They do not think that the present governments in Western Europe do enough to persecute those of us who are left.

  ‘Last night, after you had gone, I received a telephone call from an old comrade. He warned me that a senior member of Jacques had arrived in Logrono, a little town about fifty kilometres from here, halfway to Pamplona.’ He put down his coffee cup, half-drunk, and pushed it away from him; but still did not touch the envelope. ‘Herr Hawn, I find this distasteful, but I must ask you to formally identify yourself. The night before last I did not ask for your credentials, or those of your companion, because I had no reason to fear intruders or imposters.

  ‘I am not a coward,’ he added quickly. ‘I accept the divine law of Buddha, and will gladly accept my fate. But I would be lacking in my spiritual duties if I were to neglect even the simplest precautions. May I see your passport, Herr Hawn?’

  Hawn still had it with him, as he had needed it at the bank in Madrid. He took it out and tossed it across the table between them.

  Mönch sat examining it with more than usual interest, turning the pages slowly, holding some of them at an angle so that he could better read the entry and exit stamps. ‘You have travelled very widely. That is not exceptional, of course, for a journalist. North Africa, the subcontinent of Asia, Indo-China? It is all excellent cover.’ (He used the military expression, Tarnung). Finally he snapped the passport shut and placed it beside the envelope. ‘I am already checking where you last stayed before coming to Soria. If it happened to be Logrono — even by chance — I am afraid that the consequences for you will be serious.’

  Hawn had loosened his shirt, and in the heat of the little garden had begun to sweat. ‘I am delighted you are taking the trouble. The Spanish authorities will confirm that I and my companion stayed two nights ago at the Hotel Tres Reyes Nobles in Pamplona. They did not register my companion, Fraulein Anna Admiral, who also has a British passport. But you will be able to confirm her identity here at the Hotel Parador Antonio Machado.’

  Mönch watched him in silence.

  Hawn wiped some sweat off his eyelids. ‘Herr Doktor, our discussions yesterday were a ploy, were they not? You had no intention of selling me any information. You were testing me. Testing me to find out if I had any connection with this organization, Jacques?’ But while he spoke with sincerity, an uncomfortable worm of suspicion was beginning to stir in his mind. He was thinking of Pol.

  ‘You don’t have to believe me, Herr Doktor. But I’ve never heard of Jacques. The only time I’ve been in Logrono was when we stopped for a couple of beers on our way down from Pamplona four days ago.’ He reached out and collected his passport and the still unopened envelope. ‘Why do you now want ten thousand?’

  ‘Because I must get away. To disappear, if only temporarily. I am not a rich man and I need the funds. I am also, as I said, no coward. Nor am I a fool. It would take a fool to lay himself open to the justice of a bunch of French gangsters.’ He paused, and his foot began to kick the leg of the table.

  ‘Herr Hawn, I wish to renegotiate our agreement. I will accept the six thousand dollars as an advance payment. You in turn will receive, at the Poste Restante of the American Express in Madrid, the documents you required — within less than a week. You will also receive an address to which you will forward the next four thousand dollars.’

  ‘All of a sudden you seem to be trusting me an awful lot — considering that I might have something to do with these Frenchmen?’

  Mönch gave a crafty smile. ‘Do not be naive, lieber Herr. You mentioned to me the other night that you had heard a rumour about certain secret documents being hidden after the war. It is just possible that I can help you in this matter. But the price will be those four thousand extra dollars. Is this new arrangement agreeable to you?’

  ‘It still requires a great deal of mutual trust.’

  ‘Herr Hawn, you have far more reason to trust me than I have to trust you. For a start, you know where I live. You can disappear — I cannot. You know of the existence of Jacques — either because I have just told you about it, or because you belong to it yourself. I have no more proof of your identity than that your passport claims you are a journalist and that you have travelled extensively. The English are no longer great travellers. They prefer their concrete palaces on Majorca and the Costa del Sol.

  ‘You have sought me out — found out where I was living — from a former British Intelligence Officer. Then you offer me money for information which is more than thirty years old. You say you are pursuing an ideal — the destruction of an immoral, multinational oil company.’ His fingers fluttered for a moment in the air. ‘I do not question idealists — I was one myself. But you ask me, on such evidence, to trust you? And when I agree to trust you, you question my own sincerity.’ He leant forward with a slight creak of his chair, which might have been the joints of his old bones.

  ‘I am near the end of my life, Herr Hawn. It is my ambition to die in bed. But I have no ambition to cheat strangers out of a few thousand dollars. You will give me the money, and I guarantee that you receive your information.’

  Hawn surrendered. He passed him back the envelope and watched the old man carefully count the sixty notes. Mönch fastidiously folded them into the breast pocket of his open-necked shirt. Hawn stood up.

  ‘The American Express, then. I shan’t ask for a receipt, Herr Doktor. And if you have trouble with this organization, Jacques, that’s your problem, not mine.’

  Doktor Hans Dieter Mönch stood up and this time shook Hawn’s hand; his grip was surprisingly strong. As the servant showed Hawn out, the dog began to bark again. Hawn wondered if it was the only protection that Mönch had.

  The key to their room was gone, and there was no one at the reception desk. Hawn went up the two flights of wooden stairs, past the suit of armour on the landing, and along to door number 17.

  The room smelled of a perfume that Anna never used. Her eyes were bright and she looked flushed. There was a half-empty bottle of export whisky and three glasses on the table in the centre of the room.

  Hawn stepped past her and looked at the figure sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘What are you doing here, Monsieur Pol?’

  The Frenchman heaved his massive shoulders contentedly. ‘I think, without too much reminding, that you will know what I am doing. Did you not visit a certain house in the Calle Foncada two nights ago? And again this morning?’

  Hawn looked at the smiling, sweating face, like a huge Easter egg with beard and kiss-curl painted on. Pol looked absurd — yet it was this very absurdity that made him impressive. No buffoon or confidence trickster could afford to appear so comical.

  Hawn turned to Anna: ‘How long has he been up here?’

  ‘About half-an-hour. You look in a bad mood.’

  ‘I’ve just handed over six thousand dollars in exchange for a promise. Without a receipt.’ He looked at Pol: ‘That might interest you, since it was your money. But first — how did you get on to us?’

  The fat man drew a big yellow silk bandanna from his pocket and mopped his brow and cheeks. ‘You have not made things difficult for me, mon chèr. Merely a matter of checking with the right authorities as to where you were stopping the night.’

  ‘And how did you know we were coming to Spain, if that isn’t an indiscreet question?’

  Pol tapped a finger to his soft red lips. ‘Mon chèr, in French we have an old proverb — “There are never indiscreet questions, only indiscreet answers.” But I regret — your last question was indiscreet.’

  ‘But why track us down here? When I am on a job, I like to do it in my own time, in my own way. I was doing well until you turned up. It may be a coincidence, but the old German gentleman who lives in Calle Foncada was all ready to co-operate, until he got wind that you — or at least, some of your Resistance colleagues — had turned up in the area. Now he’s p
reparing to bolt. What’s more, he’s upped the ante and has only agreed to send me the information in a week.

  ‘What are you playing at, Pol? Are we investigating the past activities of ABCO, or are we helping to pursue some private vendetta against a senile old man who runs a chicken farm?’

  ‘The good Doctor Mengele also happens to run a chicken farm — somewhere in Bolivia, I believe. The senile old man who lives up on the Calle Foncada bought that farm with the money of the innocent and the dead. From the systematic proceeds of genocide.’ There was a soft hatred in Pol’s voice which Hawn had not heard before.

  He said lamely: ‘I thought he was an administrator with the German Ministry of War Production. I know there was some talk of his being involved with slave labour, but that his real job was just as a run-of-the-mill bureaucrat?’

  Pol interrupted him: ‘It was your so-called run-of-the-mill bureaucrats — those grubby little ronds-de-cuir, with their pens and papers and files — who made the war possible. Just as much as did the Generals and street bully-boys. In a way, Mönch and his kind were even more important, more lethal. Just as Hitler and his Wehrmacht drove the Nazi war machine, so the good Doktor Professor Mönch and his friends oiled its wheels — quite literally.’

  Hawn said: ‘You’re not here to destroy a major multinational oil company — you’re just using me and Mademoiselle Admiral to help you hunt down some wretched old religious crackpot who may, or may not, have been vital to Hitler’s war effort. The one irony is, he’s the only one so far who’s benefited — by six thousand dollars of your money.’

  Pol stuck a thumb in his mouth; he was silent for a moment. ‘Monsieur — Mademoiselle — you are quite right. My motives are somewhat personal. You will excuse me if I bring up a subject that may be a trifle embarrassing for you both. You, Monsieur Hawn — look back for a moment to the day, or night, when you first gained your manhood. Your first girl — at the university, or in a back street while you were doing military service.’ He turned to Anna, his lips parted to show two large white teeth. Her answering expression was puzzled rather than embarrassed.