The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1)

by Andrew Turpin

  Guzmann did have one in his bedside drawer but hadn’t used it for a long time. “Give me five minutes, then call me on it. I might need to charge it.” He cross-checked the number then hung up feeling slightly disoriented. What the devil’s this about?

  A short while later, Guzmann had located the phone and was sitting on his bed. He plugged it into its charger because the battery was indeed flat. When it rang, he clumsily keyed in a code number and answered.

  “Señor Guzmann, it’s Simon here again. I have some information for you; are you ready?”

  “Yes, yes, go ahead, I’m ready,” José said, his composure now regained.

  “Okay, we’ve had a tip from Washington. It’s concerning an old OSI investigator, a man named Joe Johnson, also former CIA. He now runs his own business; he’s an investigator. Mainly domestic cases up in Portland, Maine. You may know it.”

  “Yes, yes, I know where Portland is. Get to the point.”

  “Okay. Johnson appears to be carrying out some sort of inquiry, and someone has given him your name, we gather from our sources. The inquiry’s into a business run by the Kudrow family, based in Los Angeles. This is the same family to whom David Kudrow belongs; he’s trying to get the Republican nomination for the U.S. presidential election next year. Johnson’s been told that Kudrow has a link to you. We thought you should know in case Johnson’s inquiries take him down avenues that we may not want him to go down. You understand?”

  José was holding his cell phone so tightly his hand began to shake. “I understand perfectly.”

  “Good. The other piece of information is that Johnson’s working with a political journalist, Fiona Heppenstall, who writes for a U.S. news and commentary website, Inside Track.”

  The man who called himself Simon paused. “Any questions?”

  José scratched his head. “I want to know one thing. Do we need to take any action of any kind at this stage? It sounds like we probably should.”

  “No, not right now. We don’t think so. But we’re monitoring things, and we’ll let you know if that changes. I’m going to e-mail you a photograph of Johnson, which is a few years old, but you should recognize him if he does happen to pop up. It may be helpful. I will also send you a photograph of the journalist. I suggest you keep your encrypted phone charged and switched on in case I need to contact you. Any further questions?”

  “No, I’ve no questions.” José slowly removed the phone from his ear and jabbed once again at the screen.

  He sat still for a short while, then said out loud to himself, “No action, that’s their view. Well, if they’re not going to take any action, I will.” He picked up his other cell phone and tapped on the speed-dial number for his son, Ignacio.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, November 18, 2011

  Washington, D.C.

  The senior journalist followed Des Cole out of the Inside Track afternoon editorial meeting and stood still for a moment as he watched Des return to his desk.

  What he’d just heard him say, almost as a throwaway right at the end of the meeting, was stuck in his head.

  Zac Butler was the features and entertainment editor at Inside Track. He also happened to be heavily involved in fund-raising for the Republican Party in the capital.

  The longer Zac thought about it, the more it became clear in his own mind that he had no choice.

  He walked around the corner and went into a small meeting room where he could make a private call on his cell phone. He dialed a number.

  “Hello, Philip Pietersen.”

  “Philip. It’s Zac. Listen, there’s something you need to know. It’s about David.”

  “What about him?”

  Butler glanced through the glass window of the meeting room and lowered his voice. “I’ve just picked up that one of the investigative reporters here, Fiona Heppenstall, is having a close look at his campaign funding and where it’s coming from. She thinks there’s something illegal about it.”

  “You’re joking? As if we haven’t got enough problems, what with Nathaniel.”

  “Sadly not. She’s had a tip-off from somewhere. In particular, she’s going to have a look at David’s father and uncle, you know, their gold and jewelry business. I’ve just heard her boss talking about it. I mean, nothing’s happened yet, but he mentioned it right at the end of the meeting, when we were talking about possible story assignments during the run-up to the primaries.”

  “Shit, shit, shit. That’s all we need at this stage. The campaign’s going like a steam train.”

  “There’s more. She’s got an investigator to work with her, a guy named Joe Johnson, who apparently used to be some hotshot at the Office of Special Investigations, a Nazi hunter. I thought you should know.”

  “Joe Johnson? Sonofabitch. I just had both him and Fiona at one of our fund-raisers at my house only last week. What the hell’s going on?”

  “That’s a good question. A damned good question.”

  Portland, Maine

  “Hello, Mrs. Richardson, some good news. I’ve found out where your husband is,” Johnson said, propping his phone between his left ear and his shoulder while simultaneously doing an Internet search on Jacob Kudrow. “He’s with the girl at the Eastern Slope Inn over in North Conway. It’s definitely him.”

  There was a minor explosion at the other end of the line as the assistant principal’s wife swore violently. “The bastard. How the hell did you find him?”

  Johnson said, “I just worked my way through that list of holiday places you sent me. I phoned the Eastern Slope just now, posed as his brother, and found out that he and his, um, daughter, as he’s apparently described the girl to hotel staff, are staying in one of the town houses at the back of the hotel.”

  After Mrs. Richardson decided immediately to take a drive over to New Hampshire and confront her husband herself, rather than involve the police, Johnson put the phone down.

  He went over to his whiteboard and, using his red marker pen, crossed through Teacher trapped in teenage tryst.

  Below it, he started writing. Johnson launches hunt for . . .

  He broke off mid-sentence and sat down, staring at the whiteboard. After a few minutes, he got up and walked back to the board. He wrote two more words to complete the sentence: Nazi murderer.

  It wasn’t alliterative, but he didn’t mean it to be. This was serious.

  Johnson sat down again. Where was the best place to start? Maybe Jacob Kudrow would be a good starting point, given Nathaniel’s comments, but where to find him? Wait. Nathaniel’s funeral!

  Surely, Nathaniel’s uncle would attend to support his twin as well as pay his own respects to his nephew. When Johnson finally found the funeral information online in an obituary—it had been open to the public, probably because of David’s campaign—he cursed. He was a day too late.

  Johnson sighed. Back to the drawing board. Where shall I focus first? London or Buenos Aires?

  The trail was stronger in London, given Nathaniel’s revelations about his trip there to visit Jacob. And in any case, Inside Track would be paying him for the Kudrow story, at least initially. That should be the starting point.

  Johnson then wrote an e-mail to Ben Veletta, a former colleague at the Office of Special Investigations, which in 2010 was formed into a new unit known as the Human Rights and Special Prosecutions section, though it remained within the Department of Justice. He asked Ben, who was deputy chief historian in the HRSP, to check the Nazi Party personal files, available at the National Archives in Washington, D.C., to see what he could get on both Van Stalheim and José Guzmann. If anyone could find what he needed, Ben could.

  That done, he refocused on Jacob. Normally, finding an address and contact details online for someone posed no problem, even if it was in another country.

  But between calls to various hotels seeking the missing assistant principal, he had already spent more than two hours that morning searching for a trace of Jacob. There was nothing on the U.K. electoral roll
, and the online telephone directory also turned up a blank result. Similarly with marriages, births, and deaths records: nothing.

  It was very odd that U.K. records showed nothing for Jacob, while U.S. federal census records revealed clear details, year after year, for Jacob’s twin brother Daniel, living in Anaheim outside Los Angeles, David, also in Anaheim, and Nathaniel, Redondo Beach.

  Has the old man moved elsewhere? Fled? Changed his name? And if so, why?

  Johnson decided it would be easier to complete his searches once he arrived in London, where he knew there was one person who could help: Jayne Robinson, who still worked at SIS and who, he knew very well, had done a long stint at its Buenos Aires station in the past. She could advise on the Argentine end of the operation, too.

  In fact, the last time he had seen her had been over dinner in the Argentine capital in 1996, not long after she had begun her four-year posting there and when he was in pursuit of Van Stalheim.

  Johnson began to write an e-mail to Jayne, outlining what he needed. He still thought back with some nostalgia on the fling he had enjoyed with her in ’90, despite it having been a factor in him losing his job at the time.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, November 19, 2011

  London

  Dark-suited hedge-fund managers clutching takeaway coffee cups picked their way through the puddles on the corner of Berkeley Square, and the flashing orange Belisha beacons guarding the zebra crossing appeared like splashes of color on a monochrome photograph.

  It was the grayest of days in London’s Mayfair district.

  A short distance away, Jacob emerged from the black front door of his three-story terraced house in Hay’s Mews, dressed in a black woolen overcoat and a Russian-style fur hat that covered his snow-white hair and wearing gold-rimmed glasses.

  He turned around. It was his second day back in London after his nephew Nathaniel’s funeral. No more than a few degrees above freezing, and it was raining. Thank the Almighty that Daniel had been able to fly back with him. They needed each other at times like this.

  Jacob stepped gingerly onto the pavement. Rainwater dripped from the window boxes hanging above the garage doors to his left.

  A few seconds later his identical twin appeared in the doorway, his pink cheeks laced with delicate, tiny red veins. The only noticeable difference in appearance between the twins was that Daniel wore black-rimmed glasses.

  The two men, now aged eighty-seven, walked pokily, shoulders hunched against the drizzle, past the Running Footman pub and around the corner to the Lansdowne Club, a private members’ club and hotel.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kew. Nice to see you again. I was sorry to hear your sad family news from our manager here. I remember your nephew from when he was here not long ago. We’ve been thinking about you,” the doorman said to Jacob, who was flexing his knee with a grimace.

  Jacob nodded. “Thank you. It’s been a difficult time.”

  They made their way into the club’s Thirties Room, an Art Deco-style sitting room.

  “Jacob, why did you ever bother with this Jack Kew business? I can’t get used to it. Never could.”

  Jacob stopped and sighed. “I’ve told you dozens of times, it made sense to have as much clear blue water between us as possible and still does. And once I got a British passport, a British name made it easier coming in and out—fewer questions from customs.”

  “Let’s sit there,” Jacob said, pointing at a pair of antiquated but comfortable-looking red armchairs near the window. He smoothed his hair, lowered himself into his seat, then waved at a waiter and ordered two cappuccinos.

  Daniel also sat. “Six years since I was here last. Looks like they’ve smartened it up since then. So you brought Nathaniel here when he was over a few months ago?”

  “Yes, I did. I’ll not forget it now. That was the last time I saw him, that trip.”

  “I think he liked it over here, out of the limelight,” Daniel said. “He watched David’s career skyrocketing, and I don’t know, I think he felt a bit desperate.” Daniel inched his chair closer to the table and lowered his voice. “We need to talk. Something else has come up. I had an e-mail last night from David, saying his campaign manager had a call from one of his Republican Party cronies who’s an editor at a news website in D.C. Apparently a political journalist at the same website, a woman, is looking into our family finances. Not just David’s but all of ours.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Jacob said. “You’d have thought they’d leave us alone in our grief—at least for a time.”

  Daniel sipped his coffee. “You would think so. Trouble is, campaign finance is a bit of a hot potato at the moment for the media. They’re starting to show interest in where the money’s coming from. Apparently, the woman has some investigator helping her. The word is they think something illegal’s going on.”

  Jacob drummed his fingers on the table. “Can’t the party do something to head it off? They must be able to pull some strings, talk to the editor. That’s all we need, especially with David at this stage. He’s doing well. Gets good write-ups from the British press, even The Economist.”

  He picked up his coffee cup, but then his cell phone rang in his pocket, making him jump and spill the hot liquid on his trouser leg. He swore, then pulled out his phone and answered it.

  “Hello, Leopold?” Jacob said.

  The caller was Leopold Skorupski, owner of Classic Car Parts, which was located right next to Jacob’s own business in East London.

  “Jacob, I’ve been trying to get hold of you at home. I didn’t realize you were out. Just a quick call to let you know I’ve had some bad news. One of our guys, Keith Bartelski—you know him—he’s disappeared. The police are involved.”

  Jacob sat and listened quietly for several minutes while Leopold described what had happened. Keith was one of Leopold’s longest-serving employees. He had been abducted but had somehow managed to send an emergency text message to alert Leopold, who had contacted the police.

  Jacob ran his fingers several times quickly backward and forward through his white hair and shut his eyes, the phone to his left ear. “Hell, I don’t believe it,” he said.

  He sank further down into his chair.

  “According to the text from Keith, it sounds like a gang of Argentinians,” Leopold said.

  “Argentinians? Do police think he’s still alive, or—”

  “They don’t know,” Leopold said. “Sorry Jacob, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a detective waiting here. I’ll speak later.”

  “Okay, well give me a call if you hear any more. Speak later.” He hung up and looked at Daniel. “You must have caught most of that.”

  “One of Leopold’s guys has gone missing?” Daniel asked.

  Jacob nodded. As he did so, his phone pinged. He stabbed at the device with his forefinger and read the screen.

  He shook his head and showed the message to his brother. “There, have a look at that. Leopold’s forwarded me the message he got from Keith. Looks like Keith sent it from another phone, not his own.”

  Urgent Leopold, been kidnapped by some gang, I think Argies. Very threatening but don’t know what they want. Haven’t said. Don’t know where I am, an apartment somewhere. Using one of their phones they left in the toilet. Don’t reply. Bart

  Daniel paused before speaking. “Argentinians? Goddammit. You don’t think . . . ?”

  Jacob shrugged. “I really don’t know. It can’t just be a coincidence, can it?”

  He waved at the waiter, then lifted two fingers and pointed to his coffee cup. The waiter nodded.

  “One thing I do know,” Jacob said, “I don’t want the police nosing around down at the workshop, and of course neither does Leopold. The other guys must be all worried senseless. They must all think they could be next.”

  “Hmm, I can imagine,” Daniel said. He drained his coffee. “Is the workshop clean at the moment? You know what I mean. If not, get it cleaned up.”

  “I wouldn’t descr
ibe it as clean. There’s still bits and pieces in there. We’ll get it done.”

  The waiter arrived with the two additional coffees and a plate of cookies. “There you go, Mr. Kew. Compliments of the house.”

  “Thank you so much,” Jacob said.

  Daniel took a cookie. “There was another thing I was going to talk to you about. Something Nathaniel mentioned to me a few days before he died. He said he found out when he was here in London that you were writing a memoir. I was a bit surprised.”

  Jacob’s eyes shot up. “He said what? How the hell did he know about that? I never mentioned it to him. He must have nosed around among my papers and seen my notebook. That’s worrisome. I keep it locked up with all the old invoices and stuff that go back years. It’s been in the safe. I have been writing something, but I don’t know if it’ll come to anything. I thought the whole thing would make a good story once we’re all gone. It’s all part of a plan I’ve been thinking about. I’ll tell you about it sometime. I’d like to tie things up neatly, eventually: the story of what’s happened to us.”

  Daniel raised his eyebrows. “You’re telling me you’re putting all that down on paper? Are you crazy?”

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday, November 21, 2011

  CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  There was a loud beep from the huge monitor screen mounted on the meeting room wall. Moshe Peretz, Tel Aviv, calling, said the on-screen message.

  Robert Watson ran his fingers through his white hair and checked his notebook on the desk in front of him. Johnson/VANDAL, he had written at the top.

  “Right, let’s do this,” he said out loud. He pulled his angular frame up straight, pushed back his shoulders, and tapped his fingers on the table.