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

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  Four men were standing nearby and discussing someone on the CIA’s ‘most wanted’ list, Adolf Eichmann. The group comprised Ludwig Lienhardt, Kurt Christmann, August Siebrecht and Herbert Kuhlmann—all of whom she had been introduced to earlier, and all of whom she recognised from their CIA mugshots.

  “I came over with Eichmann,” Kuhlmann was saying. “Poor Dolphy, he was scared shitless then, and Weber tells me he’s even worse now. Best of it is, all he was, was an insignificant little clerk doing the paperwork for Heydrich and Müller. Like Priebke over there, a low-level Hauptmann carrying out Hitler’s legitimate order.”

  Tiny leaned over and whispered in Sybilla’s ear. “Heard enough?”

  She started and stared up at him, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. Recovering quickly, she said, “Sorry, I was in the clouds, it’s been a long day.”

  Tiny nodded and smiled.

  As she was moving to another group, Priebke intercepted her. “Frau Meyer, I am Erich Priebke. We met earlier.”

  Sybilla remembered his rudeness, but she smiled a greeting nevertheless.

  “I understand from Herwig,” continued Priebke, “that you are looking for a teaching post in Argentina. I am the director of a school, Colegio Aleman, located in San Carlos de Bariloche. We have need of a German teacher.”

  El Avión del Presidente

  The intervening days between Weber’s soirée and the reception at the palace flew by for Sybilla, thanks in no short measure to the constant attention she received from Herwig Weber. Sybilla wondered what sort of job in aeronautics allowed him to take so much time away. She wasn’t complaining—she was glad of his company—however Priebke’s bombshell was constantly praying on her mind. She had been told by the CIA that she would be contacted by one of their agents in Buenos Aires, but so far nothing. She wondered if she should ask for immediate extraction if she eventually did make contact—there seemed absolutely no point in travelling to Bariloche—but time was running out.

  Such was her state of mind as she sat on the patio of a café in Palermo Soho in one of her rare moments alone.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a gruff voice asking in German, “Is this free?” It was Tiny, pointing to the chair beside her.

  She tried to give him a smile which didn’t quite come off. “Of course, Tiny, please.”

  Tiny gave her a searching look. “Everything alright?”

  Sybilla shrugged. “I should be over the moon really,” she said, a trace of resignation in her voice, “a dream job, but I’m dreading the coach journey to Bariloche. Sixteen hundred kilometres. Imagine that!”

  “Coach? Who said anything about a coach?” said the big man. “You’re travelling with Doctor Richter, and the Herr Doctor does not do coaches.”

  “Doctor Richter is going to Bariloche?”

  “You didn’t know?” asked Tiny. “That’s where he lives. His laboratory is on the island of Huemul, on Nahuel Huapi Lake, about seven or eight hundred metres offshore from Bariloche, so you’ll be travelling with him, Erich Priebke and best of all, me.” He laughed and held his hands up. “I know what you’re thinking … if this is first prize, please can I have second prize, right?”

  Sybilla’s face lit up. “No, I wasn’t thinking that, Tiny, I’m glad I’m travelling with you. The thought of sixteen hundred kilometres on a coach with Erich Priebke, with all due respect for his kindness in offering this post, well, quite frankly it didn’t fill me with joyous anticipation.” Her smile turned to a frown as her brow creased in puzzlement. “If not by coach, then how?”

  “By plane of course. Whenever Doctor Richter comes to Buenos Aires, Juan Peron, the president himself, lays on his private Argentinian Airforce plane to pick him up and return him to Bariloche. Nothing is too much for Herr Professor Doctor Richter,” said Tiny, smiling broadly, then almost as an afterthought added, “for the moment, at least.”

  Sybilla and Herwig Weber joined the queue waiting on the grand staircase leading to the upper reception hall of the Presidential Palace. At the top of the stairs, the president, Juan Peron, stood shaking hands with each of the couples as they were introduced. His wife, Eva, was seated in a chair by his side.

  When it came to their turn, Weber did a sharp German bow to the president and his wife. Sybilla curtsied; she wasn’t sure if that was required, but better to overdo it than to show disrespect. The president muttered some platitude which she didn’t quite catch as he shook hands. Sybilla then extended her hand to the first lady and was appalled by what she saw. Eva’s skin looked waxen, and heavy makeup failed to hide the pallor. The skin was stretched taut across her thin face, but loose flesh sagged around her neck. The hand that took hers was limp, cold and almost skeletal. She was smiling broadly, but her eyes were dead.

  “Herwig,” she said in a cracked voice, “you look even more handsome than ever, doesn’t he, General?” She glanced up at her husband, who nodded absently. “And you, my dear”—turning to Sybilla—“we must get together for some girl talk sometime.”

  With that, they were whisked away into the reception hall where hors d’oeuvres and aperitifs awaited. They spent only a short time in the reception hall before being ushered into the dining room where they were seated at a long table. Everyone stood as the president and his lady arrived and took their places at the top. Eva had to be almost carried to her chair by two strapping female attendants who were clearly well practised in moving the first lady around.

  The meal was a simple and somewhat sparse affair; a modest fish starter followed surprisingly quickly by finely sliced Argentinian beef in a red wine sauce. The whole thing seemed to Sybilla to be indecently rushed. Immediately after the main course had been cleared away, Peron rose and made a short speech, thanking everyone for attending and assuring them that they were in a new Argentina, hovering on the very edge of greatness, about to become one of the world’s major nations.

  After the thunderous applause which had greeted his speech had died down, Peron and Eva took their leave, his wife again being virtually carried by her ladies-in-waiting. The two women attending her were skilful and almost made it look as if Eva were making her own way, but Sybilla could see that that wasn’t the case.

  The reception room to which they returned now had the furniture cleared apart from chairs arranged around the outside. On a stage at the end of the hall, a small orchestra was tuning up. Guests were encouraged to take to the floor, but Sybilla, knowing her limitations, sat it out. She was amused as she watched couples attempting the tango. Some of the Argentinians, it has to be said, were actually quite good. The German couples, on the other hand, tended to look like fish out of water. Herwig, however, acquitted himself quite well with the wife of a rather portly diplomat who clearly had no intention of taking to the floor. Peron made a brief appearance, but of Eva, they saw no more that night.

  Later, they sat together on the patio of Weber’s villa for some time, neither speaking, both deep in their own thoughts.

  At length, Weber broke the silence. “Thank you for being my partner tonight. You turned what could have been a thoroughly boring affair into a pleasurable evening.”

  “I enjoyed it—seemed a bit rushed—but it was … interesting meeting the president and his wife.” She paused for a moment before adding, “She’s terribly ill, isn’t she, Herwig?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s an open secret. The palace tries to keep the lid on it, but anyone who meets her can read the signs. Best guess is that it’s some form of cancer,” Weber confirmed.

  “Tragic,” said Sybilla, “I’ll bet she was really beautiful before the illness struck?”

  “They had been in office only a year when I arrived here, and at that time she was quite stunning.”

  Changing the subject, Weber asked, “Are you looking forward to your new life in Bariloche?”

  “I’m a bit apprehensive, but it’s a good opportunity. Have you ever been there?” asked Sybilla.

  “I travel down three or four times a ye
ar. This time of year, autumn, it’s excellent for skiing. Do you ski?” he asked.

  “Herwig, is the Pope a Catholic? I’m Norwegian, of course I ski!”

  They both laughed.

  “How do you get down there?” asked Sybilla. “Do you borrow the president’s plane as well?”

  “No, I’m not that exalted!” chuckled Weber. “But what’s the point of being an aeronautics exec if you can’t hitch a lift on a plane now and then?”

  “What about money?” Weber was serious now. “I could let you have something to get you on your feet.”

  “No, Herwig,” said Sybilla, rising to her feet and stretching, “you’ve done more than enough. How can I ever repay your kindness? Priebke has offered me an advance to get me started, and I still have some of the money I came with. I’ll manage. I’m turning in now, thank you for everything.” She bent forward and kissed his forehead.

  Without looking at her, Weber said softly, “I shall miss you here, Billa, the villa will seem empty.”

  “Perhaps we’ll see each other when you visit?” she suggested.

  Weber smiled up at her and nodded. “You can rely on that; I’ll be counting the days until I see you again.”

  Sybilla went to bed that night feeling unaccountably happy.

  The plane was a Douglas DC-3 derivative, the inside of which had been custom designed to provide the ultimate in flying comfort. The seats, only twelve in total, were spacious and well upholstered and could recline fully without interfering with the seat behind. In addition, there was a lounge seating area which incorporated a bar. A stewardess buzzed around being very attentive to their every need.

  The aircraft actually belonged to Aerolineas Argentinas but was on permanent charter to the president, who not only used it himself to get around his vast country, but also employed it to shuttle VIPs from place to place. One such VIP appeared to be Doctor Ronald Richter.

  As the plane soared upwards, Sybilla was able to see the extent of the sprawling metropolis that was Buenos Aires. Then the estuary of the River Plate, staggering, immense, breath-taking. A full two hundred kilometres from bank to bank at its widest point. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the northern end of the estuary where the Rivers Uruguay and Parana, emerging from the forests to the north and north-west, emptied their muddy waters into the River Plate. The River Plate was no estuary, it was a place where Njord, the Norse God of the Sea, had taken a bite out of the land that separates Uruguay and Argentina and allowed his friend the Atlantic to claim it.

  The plane banked, and the vision was gone. As they climbed higher, they could see the vast pampas stretching away before them, but by the time they reached cruising altitude, details on the ground became indistinct and they were flying over a speckled carpet of green and brown.

  Sybilla moved to the lounge area where she sat for a while with Erich Priebke.

  “You’ll need a week to settle in,” he ventured. “Tomorrow is Monday. Don’t come in at all—settle into your hotel and get to know your way around Bariloche. Come in on Tuesday and meet the rest of the staff and the children, then use the rest of the week to prepare your lessons.”

  It is, thought Sybilla, a most considerate gesture, and she expressed the gratitude to him that she felt. After a little small talk, Priebke moved away and Sybilla shifted around a few seats so she was next to Tiny.

  “Instructions received and understood?” he asked with a smirk.

  Sybilla laughed. “Yes, sir!” she said. “Although I have to say that Erich has been very fair. He’s given me the day off tomorrow to explore Bariloche.”

  “Has he indeed! In that case, why don’t I act as guide and mentor?”

  “Would you be able to do that? What about Richter and the island?”

  “Yes. I’ll have to hold his hand on the boat over to Huemul, but once I’ve wiped his nose, combed his hair and sat him down at his desk, he can then be safely left on his own for a little while. I’ll also need to wake up my elite guards, help them put their boots on the correct feet and remind them which end of the rifle the bullets come out, after which I’ll be able to return to the mainland. What say early lunch and a seven-and-a-half-minute tour of the highlights of Bariloche?”

  Sybilla, shaking her head and still laughing, said, “Oh, Tiny, you are a card. That would be lovely if you’re sure you can afford the time.”

  “Well, someone has to look after you. Normally I wouldn’t bother, but when I heard you were Norwegian, well …” Tiny shook his head with mock severity, a look of concern creasing his rugged features, simultaneously drawing in a long noisy breath.

  Sybilla punched him on the shoulder and immediately regretted it. It was like hitting marble.

  They chatted together amicably. Unlike Weber, Tiny assumed Sybilla could ski and told her he knew some excellent slopes. They made a date to ski together at the first opportunity. She found Tiny easy to talk to—at once humorous and knowledgeable—and found herself telling him all about her childhood in the fishing village of Grense, but omitted any reference to the Nazi invaders. Straying into that territory would only lead to complications and potential danger.

  An announcement on the intercom advised them they were approaching Bariloche and asked them to return to their seats. Once settled, Sybilla looked out the window and was horrified to see how close the mountains were all around. She silently thanked Thor for giving them clear weather. To have had to descend in foul weather into the little bowl in which Bariloche nestled would have been quite terrifying.

  Bariloche airport was very much a work in progress, still a rough sketch on a draughtsman’s board. All that existed at the current time was a concrete runway with a turning area to the side and a wooden building. Being an internal flight, landing formalities were unnecessary and, having collected their luggage, Tiny directed them to a parked car. None of the doors on the vehicle were locked, and Tiny helped everyone stow their luggage before climbing into the driver’s seat. He fished under the dash for a moment and produced a set of keys.

  “Alright,” he said, starting the engine, “Herr Doctor first, then Herr Priebke and then Frau Meyer.” Slipping the car into gear, he moved off.

  The doctor’s residence turned out to be a rather plush two-storey house on the outskirts of town, while Priebke’s abode was much humbler and situated in the centre. Tiny dropped Sybilla off at a nice-looking hotel a few streets further on.

  As he helped her out with her luggage he said, “I’ve booked your room, everything is ready for you. I’ll see you tomorrow, eleven okay?” She waved to him as he drove away.

  That night Sybilla lay in her bed in her very comfortable hotel and tried to enumerate how she was going to get out of this mess. She didn’t need many fingers to count the options—they were very few. Could she feign illness and ask to return to Buenos Aires? No, that was nonsensical, they would simply refer her to a doctor here in Bariloche.

  Tell them she had decided to give herself up to the American authorities? No, they definitely wouldn’t allow her to do that! She had met the Nazi elite in Buenos Aires and had actually used the Kameradenwerk network. If she tried to pull that one, she had a fairly good idea what her fate would be.

  Escape over the mountains to Chile? She would have to be desperate to try that without a guide. In the extremely unlikely event that she didn’t perish on the mountains and did make it to Chile, what could she hope for? Certainly, the Chilean government led by Gabriel Gonzalez Videla was pro-US, but the chances of making contact that high up the political ladder were remote. She would probably be dealt with by local officials who might very well return her to Argentina as an illegal immigrant. Not good!

  To make matters worse, there had been no contact with the CIA agent. With a sigh, she turned onto her side. I am effectively a prisoner here!

  Bariloche

  Promptly at 11 a.m. Tiny turned up at the hotel to find Sybilla waiting for him in the foyer. They ambled a short distance to a café and, at Sybilla’s suggestion,
Tiny ordered lunch for them both. Grilled fish freshly caught in the lake. After lunch, Tiny took her on his promised ‘seven-and-a-half-minute’ tour of Bariloche. In fact, it took quite a bit longer than that. Apart from being bigger than Sybilla had expected, she was captivated by the small town with its many Tyrolean style buildings, timber built with towering, steeply sloping roofs. Almost every window above ground-floor level boasted a window box, which must have provided a breathtaking display at the height of summer—less so now at this time of year, but still colourful and attractive. Sybilla particularly enjoyed window-shopping in the souvenir and gift shops, which, Tiny told her, were beginning to spring up everywhere as the town’s popularity as a tourist destination increased.

  Most of the shops were selling cheap, mass-produced trinkets at inflated prices, and some advertised ‘genuine’ Inca artefacts, which invariably proved to be poor imitations. Tiny quipped that if she asked for a map to the legendary city of El Dorado, the shopkeeper would look furtively around before producing one from under the counter for a mere fifty dollars, at the same time adjuring the lucky purchaser to secrecy. And yes, people really did buy them!

  After what turned out to be about three hours, Tiny left Sybilla at her hotel, apologising that he would need to get back to the island. Before he left, they made a date to ski the next weekend.

  “Don’t worry about skis, I can provide them,” he said. “Do you have enough money to buy suitable clothing?”

  “Yes, I have the money I brought with me, and I receive an advance from Erich tomorrow.”

  “Get good quality clothing,” he insisted. “I don’t have to tell you about layers, you’re probably more experienced than me, but it’s important you gear up for extreme weather—very extreme weather—okay?”