Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2)

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  Hess directed the taxi to take them to the district of Lapa, where they soon found themselves surrounded by restaurants, bars, nightclubs and music venues. They opted to dine at a small bistro before making their way around some of the night spots. Sybilla felt exhilarated after being cooped up on the Miranda for a week and allowed herself to unwind. They danced, drank wine, even joined in the songs without ever knowing the words, and best of all, they laughed a great deal.

  Back on board, Sybilla took Hess back to her cabin where they made passionate, uninhibited love to one another.

  Buenos Aires

  Hess’s duties prevented him from visiting Sybilla the following evening, however, the night after he came to her and again they made love. They lay for some time in each other’s arms, speaking little. At length, Hess rose and dressed.

  “I’m on watch in an hour, I’d better go. I’ll see you off the ship tomorrow when we dock in Buenos Aires.”

  Sybilla jumped out of bed, still naked, and went to him, circling her arms around his neck and kissing him tenderly. “No! I don’t want you to. Let’s make this our goodbye. It’s a good way to end it.”

  The ship docked in Montevideo, Uruguay, at first light, and remained only a few hours before departing again and sailing further up the estuary of the River Plate, manoeuvring into position at a wharf in Buenos Aires on the southern bank.

  As soon as the gangplank was lowered into position, Sybilla walked from her cabin with her suitcase. At the top of the gangplank, she paused only for a second to wave her goodbyes to the bridge, then strode purposefully down without a second glance. As she stepped off, a man wearing a Panama hat and dressed in a smart white linen suit approached her. She remembered his face from one of the photos the CIA had shown her, but couldn’t put a name to it. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, medium height, good physique. He clicked his heels and gave a curt nod of his head.

  “Frau Meyer?” he asked.

  Sybilla nodded. “Yes, I am Frau Meyer.”

  “Good day, Frau Meyer, my name is Herwig Weber. It is my honour to look after you until you have settled into your new life here in Argentina.”

  The relays in Sybilla’s mind rattled and clicked into place. Herwig Weber. Oberst in the Wehrmacht, he had been on Guderian’s staff on the Eastern Front. Believed to have amassed a fortune in looted gold and jewellery, never recovered. Escaped to Argentina in 1947.

  “I will help you in any way I can,” Weber continued. “If you find you are experiencing any difficulties, you must let me know immediately. Here, let me take your case.”

  Sybilla followed him to his car, a rather smart, white Mercedes. After loading her suitcase into the boot, he opened one of the rear doors for her before walking around the car, where a man dressed in a pale blue pseudo-military uniform awaited—presumably a chauffeur—holding the other rear door open.

  Weber climbed in alongside Sybilla, giving her a smile as he did so.

  “Herr Weber, it is very kind of you to meet me. I confess to feeling a little bewildered,” said Sybilla.

  “Understandable, and I won’t ask you how your voyage was. The Miranda is an old ship, but she serves our purpose well enough.” Weber looked at her, his face now stern and serious. “When I say our purpose, I am of course referring to the Kameradenwerk, the organisation I represent and the organisation responsible for your safe conduct here.”

  “I can’t thank you and your comrades enough,” said Sybilla with genuine sincerity. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of Kameradenwerk, the operation would have ground to a halt in Mexico.

  The chauffeur had climbed into the front of the vehicle and now cast a glance over his shoulder at Weber. “One moment, Ignatius,” said Weber, then turning to Sybilla asked, “You don’t happen to have a cocktail dress, I suppose?”

  Sybilla laughed, more out of surprise than amusement. “Herr Weber, I have what I stand up in, plus a few blouses, shorts and personal clothing in my case.”

  Weber smiled indulgently. “I ask because I am hosting a small get-together at my villa this evening, and I would very much like you to attend. There will be someone there whom I would particularly like you to meet.”

  Sybilla registered her regret. “I’m really sorry, Herr Weber, but I left in rather a hurry.”

  “Think nothing of it. Like most problems, there is an easy remedy.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Gath and Chaves, Calle Florida, Ignatius!”

  The vehicle burst into life then purred out of the port gates, manoeuvring through a fairly insalubrious part of the city before emerging into the main shopping area of the busy metropolis. Ignatius pulled the Mercedes up outside a substantial, upmarket department store.

  “Gath and Chaves is Buenos Aires’ answer to London’s Harrods and Berlin’s KaDeWe, or KaDeWe as it was, I should perhaps say,” said Weber.

  Sybilla had to bite her tongue, as she was on the point of saying that KaDeWe had in fact re-opened the previous year and was, albeit slowly, returning to its former glory. She caught herself just in time. As far as Weber was concerned, Sybilla had never been to Berlin.

  Once inside, they made their way to the women’s clothing department, where Weber picked up a newspaper from a table and sat down in an easy chair. Before opening it, he looked up at Sybilla.

  “I would like you to select two dresses: a simple one for tonight, as our soirée is quite informal, and something a little more formal for later in the week, when I hope you will accompany me to a reception at the Presidential Palace.”

  “Oh, but Herr Weber, I couldn’t … the expense!”

  Weber smiled. “Personally, I always find that when someone else is paying, expense ceases to be a consideration. Consider this a welcome gift, and enjoy your experience in Gath and Chaves, but don’t take too long, we need to prepare for this evening.” With that, he opened his newspaper and took no further part in proceedings.

  Weber’s villa was a substantial detached residence in the exclusive suburb of Palermo Chico in the east of the city. Waiting at the gate was a servant who dutifully saluted as the vehicle swept through. Sybilla and Weber were met at the entrance by two female servants who were friendly and welcoming but at the same time deferential.

  Sybilla was overawed by the splendour of the villa’s interior. The furniture and fittings were clearly of the finest quality. As if reading her mind, Weber said, “I am in the aeronautics industry. It’s very lucrative.”

  Yes, thought Sybilla, and I’ll bet the looted treasure helps out as well!

  Weber escorted her to the patio, where two ice-cold soft drinks suddenly appeared. “I hope you will excuse the lack of a feminine touch about the villa … like your husband, my wife was a victim of the war.” Sybilla expressed her commiseration, which Weber waved away. The two chatted for a while, Sybilla trying to appear open and forthcoming, but she was always on her guard against verbal slip-ups. She hoped this didn’t come across as reticence. If it did, Weber didn’t mention it.

  “It is fortuitous you should arrive today. I have this get together tonight—just a few old friends—and it would help me greatly if you would act as hostess for the evening. I have to confess that I am like a fish out of water at such events, please …?” He was pleading with his eyes as well as his voice.

  Sybilla smiled. “What makes you think I’m any better? But of course, I’ll be hostess. I promise I will do my very best.”

  Weber beamed broadly. “You really are too kind. I have a feeling you will turn all heads.” Turning slightly towards the door he called, “Martina!”

  A young girl appeared. “Martina will show you to your room and the facilities. If you require refreshments or indeed anything at all, you have only to ask Martina. She is my indispensable treasure. Now, if you will excuse me,” he said rising.

  Sybilla also rose and extended her hand, which he took in his. “Herr Weber, I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and hospitality.”

  “Nonsense!” he snorted as he
walked away, but he was smiling broadly.

  The full-length mirror in Sybilla’s bedroom revealed a slim, attractive woman wearing a simple, close-fitting, knee-length black dress which showed off her curves to best advantage. Her blonde, almost white hair reached to the base of her neck, turning inwards at the ends. The flawless skin on her face, arms and legs had been lightly tanned by the combination of sun and wind on her journey south.

  Sybilla, she thought, I have to hand it to you, you look pretty good tonight.

  She slipped on the black shoes, also bought at Gath and Chaves on Weber’s account, and made her way downstairs, to be met by Weber, dressed in black trousers and a white tuxedo. On seeing her he took an exaggerated step back and put a hand to his mouth.

  “Heaven!” he exclaimed. “Can this be the little Texas teacher I picked up at the port this morning?”

  “Oh, please,” said Sybilla laughing, but secretly she was pleased. This was exactly the response she had hoped for. To win the trust of these people, she had first to win their approval.

  Sybilla dutifully stood by Weber’s side to welcome the guests as they arrived. He introduced her to each of them in turn: some she recognised from the mugshots she had studied at the CIA base; some she had never heard of or seen before, but they were clearly German or Austrian; others were Argentinians, presumably business associates of Weber. Some were accompanied by women—whether wives or escorts, Sybilla had no way of knowing; others were unattached.

  She made a mental note of each of the more notorious so she could eventually report back her observations to the CIA.

  Weber was introducing a little man in a crumpled suit who peered up at her through thick spectacles. “Frau Meyer, Herr Doctor Professor Ronald Richter.”

  That’s a good start, thought Sybilla, I can’t remember seeing his picture, but the name …

  As they shook hands Weber continued, “Herr Doctor is the first man to perfect nuclear cold fusion.” He smiled at Sybilla condescendingly. “Don’t worry about the technicalities, let’s just say he will make Argentina millions of US dollars!”

  Sybilla remembered instantly. Richter had worked on the German nuclear energy programme with Heisenberg and Schumann. Many of his ideas had been discarded by other members of the team, but now he claimed he had perfected cold fusion. Scientists across the world were sceptical, but he had President Juan Peron’s complete backing. Sybilla’s knowledge of nuclear energy would have surprised Weber, but she held her peace.

  The next guest she recognised immediately: Kurt Christmann. Tall and rangy and with an easy gait, he must be mid-forties now but still looked fit. Before the war, he had been an all-round athlete, top skier and an Olympic oarsman. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi, who had taken part in the Munich Beer Hall Putsch with Hitler, Hess and Göring. During the war he had been head of the Gestapo in Salzburg before being appointed commander of Einsatzgruppe 10A, a reviled team of cold-blooded killers and assassins. He should, by any normal yardstick, have been one of the most wanted men in Europe, but bizarrely after the war he had worked for a while for British Intelligence, before things became too hot and he fled down the ratline to Argentina.

  Sybilla needed extreme caution with the next guest, Fridolin Guth, another Gestapo man. He had at one time been a senior police commander in France, and would almost certainly have had, at some time or other, details of Sybilla and Hauptmann Jürgen Meyer’s activities during the time she had posed as a Nazi infiltrator. If he remembered her at all, she hoped it would be in a good light. However, Guth showed no sign of recognition when she was introduced as Frau Meyer.

  Others arrived—Ludwig Lienhardt, August Siebrecht, Herbert Kuhlmann—all of whom she recognised from the CIA files. If the devil cast his net now, what a catch he’d get, she thought. That said, he’d probably take me as well!

  The next guest required no introduction from anyone. As soon as she saw him, Sybilla’s heart skipped a beat. One of her all-time heroes. She had first become aware of him when ‘working’ with the Gestapo in France, and since the end of the war, she had devoured anything in print relating to him. The Americans had a comic-book hero called Superman, but this was the real thing. The fact that he had fought on the ‘wrong’ side during the war made not the slightest difference to Sybilla; she was in awe of him.

  The man made his way slowly across the room towards them, his progress hampered by his artificial leg and the walking stick he was perforce to use to maintain his balance. This was Hans Ulrich Rudel, the Stuka pilot who made von Richthofen and Göring seem like amateurs. After winning every medal available for bravery, the Führer himself personally designed and instigated an additional award, just for him, the grandly named ‘Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Golden Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds’. No other person, living or dead, had ever received the honour. Even after losing his leg in combat, it had taken him only ten weeks before he was able to climb back into the cockpit of a Stuka and continue combat operations.

  The Russians hated him and had tried to have him transferred from US custody to Soviet. It is to the eternal credit of the US commanders that they quite simply refused, knowing what his fate would be if he were transferred. After all, he alone had been responsible for the destruction of 519 Soviet tanks.

  To Sybilla’s complete surprise, he stopped directly in front of her, transferred his stick to the crook of his left arm and held out his right hand. “Good day, Frau Meyer, it is an honour to meet you.”

  Sybilla was so surprised she only just managed to speak. “Herr Oberst, Herr Rudel, it is entirely my hon—”

  Before she could finish, Rudel held up his hand. “Please, Frau Meyer, we are aware of what you did for the Reich during the last months of the war.” He glanced at Weber. “The hardships you endured, your tragic loss. We both admire you greatly.”

  Before Sybilla could be self-deprecating, he had grabbed Weber’s arm for support and walked him a few yards away, calling over his shoulder, “Forgive us, Frau Meyer, I have urgent matters to discuss with Herwig.”

  Weber glanced at her and raised his eyebrows. She smiled back and nodded in silent reassurance that she would manage.

  The two were deep in animated conversation, inaudible to Sybilla over the general hubbub in the room. When the last two guests arrived, they were two men who couldn’t have looked more different. The first she recognised immediately as Erich Priebke, who had been involved in the massacre of over three hundred Italian civilians in retaliation for an attack by Italian partisans which killed thirty German soldiers. He was of medium height, slim, but clearly out of shape. He looked sixty, but Sybilla was fairly sure he was under forty. The other man stood a good six feet and was as broad as a bus. His face, which attested to his Latin American heritage, was as craggy as a rock outcrop on a mountain top. He was dressed in a tuxedo which had a marked bulge on the left side.

  The two had spotted Weber deep in conversation but seemed reluctant to interrupt. Sybilla seized the initiative and strolled over to them, beckoning to Martina, who was holding the drinks tray, to follow.

  “Good evening, gentlemen, my name is Frau Meyer and I am acting as your hostess this evening. Would you care for a drink?” She repeated the question twice, once in German and then again in Spanish.

  Priebke muttered something and took a glass of sherry, moving away immediately without bothering to introduce himself. The big man was appraising Sybilla closely with a half-smile playing on his hard face. He spoke to Sybilla in German, making her feel slightly foolish.

  “Hello, Frau Meyer,” he said, extending his hand. Sybilla took it and thought she had just placed hers in a metal vice. “My name is Valentino Garza—most people call me ‘Tino’ or ‘Tiny’. Nobody ever calls me ‘Val’, leastways, not twice.” He was smiling broadly as he spoke, but Sybilla nevertheless made a mental note not to call him ‘Val’!

  Pointing to the drinks tray, he addressed himself to Martina. “Is that orange juice there, miss?”

  “Ye
s, sir, freshly squeezed this morning, just for you,” she smiled.

  Garza looked at her sternly, squinting at her through one half-closed eye. “No alcohol, right?”

  Martina laughed. “No alcohol, I promise, we no play tricks.”

  Garza took a glass of the orange juice and drained it in one draught. Placing the glass back down on the tray, he picked up another and half emptied that.

  “Excuse me,” he said, smiling at Sybilla, “I was thirsty.”

  Sybilla returned his smile. “So, what do I call you? Herr Garza? Señor Garza?

  “I’d like you to call me sweetheart, but I don’t think that’s going to happen, so how about ‘Tiny’. It suits me, don’t you think?” he said, laughing.

  Sybilla laughed with him. “Yes, I suppose it does, sort of. I’m guessing you’re a policeman?”

  “You’re guessing wrong, but I am in security.” He suddenly frowned. “There’s Doctor Richter. I need a word with that gentleman. Excuse me, Frau Meyer.”

  He left Sybilla feeling glad she wasn’t Doctor Richter.

  “Thanks for looking after things,” said Weber when he rejoined her. “That’s everyone now. Let’s circulate. I’ll concentrate on the Argentinians so that they don’t feel left out, and perhaps you could look after our German comrades?”

  Instinctively Sybilla made for Tiny and Richter. Inexplicably she felt comfortable with the big man. Despite his fearsome appearance, he reminded her of her own dear Gunnar, all those years before—big, bold and daft—only she guessed that this particular giant wasn’t as daft as he appeared.

  Richter gave a polite nod as she approached, but Tiny beamed from ear to ear. “You don’t want to be seen with me, miss, what with you with your beauty and me with my charm and Hollywood good looks. People will talk!” He guffawed loudly, bringing his arm down heavily on Richter’s shoulder and nearly knocking him over.

  Sybilla joined in the laughter, as much at Tiny’s tomfoolery as at the look of complete bewilderment on Richter’s face. She guessed that Tiny was Richter’s ‘minder’ and wondered how the poor little doctor managed having him around all the time. Her alert senses switched to maximum as she caught a snippet of conversation close by.