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

by Andrew Turpin

  This has to be worth a look, Johnson thought. Maybe I just got lucky for a change.

  “Where is this place?” he asked.

  It was a run-down old warehouse down Plumbers Row, a street just off the Whitechapel Road, Al said. “It’s only a mile or so from here. It’s near where the old Great Synagogue used to be. That got destroyed during the Blitz.”

  He described the warehouse in some detail. “You can’t miss it; it’s the only building on that road that looks like that.”

  Johnson got out his notebook and wrote down Al’s address and phone number.

  “You can give me a call if you need any more help,” he told Johnson. “Just one thing, though, I don’t know if Jack will still be alive. He had a bad heart. In and out of the hospital, as I remember. And that was, when, back in ’89, I imagine.”

  Des Moines, Iowa

  David Kudrow was already in full flow when Fiona bustled in, her hair windswept and tangled.

  “Sorry I’m late. Flight was delayed,” she said as she showed her press identity card to the public relations man who was handling media at the Republican presidential candidate debate. He checked her name off an online list, handed over her press credentials, and allowed her to pass through to the debate floor, where she took a seat among other journalists.

  “The U.S. economy is really struggling to recover right now. Nobody here in Des Moines needs to be told that. And I believe there’s worse to come. Obama is three years into his presidency and has promised a lot, but he’s failed to deliver,” Kudrow told the audience gathered at Drake University’s Sheslow Auditorium.

  Five other candidates for the Republican nomination were sharing the stage with Kudrow, including Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich. It was a key debate in the race for the nomination.

  Kudrow’s voice rose as he continued. “As it stands, unemployment is over 9 percent in this country. That’s almost double the level of only a few years ago. It’s a disgrace. This presidency just isn’t working—in all senses of the word.”

  There was loud applause from the eight-hundred-strong audience packed into rows of red padded seating on the floor in front of him and in the balcony above. TV cameras panned the room, focusing on a number of people who stood to clap.

  Fiona surveyed the room. Some journalists were typing furiously on their laptops and tablets. Others scribbled in their notebooks.

  Kudrow jabbed his forefinger at the nearest TV camera. “Obama is not a friend of business—but I am. I would repeal Obama’s disastrous Dodd-Frank Act. It has crippled smaller banks across this country by swathing them in red tape.

  “In trying to stop the big banks from misbehaving, he’s discouraged the rest from lending to small-business owners struggling to get their new ventures off the ground—including many right here in Iowa. Because of him, they’re less inclined to lend to homeowners who are desperate to move somewhere they might actually find a job.

  “This is having a crippling effect on the housing market and on the wealth and spending power of tens of millions of innocent people.

  “Dodd-Frank must go, Obama must go, and I’m the man to replace him.”

  Kudrow came under fire from some of the other Republican candidates, particularly Romney and Rick Perry, but many of the criticisms the others threw at him over his business record were greeted by boos from the audience.

  After the debate had finished, several candidates, including Kudrow, made themselves available for follow-up question-and-answer sessions with journalists in the so-called “spin rooms” located behind the auditorium stage.

  Some journalists made a beeline for Romney, but Fiona joined the group of about fifteen who gathered around Kudrow.

  She felt herself tense up as the first question came from a journalist from a rival political website.

  “Mr. Kudrow, can you tell us about your funding plans, and specifically how your family and their businesses plan to support your campaign if you get the nomination? We’ve picked up that you have a huge campaign fund already secured, but your family business isn’t that large, so how have you managed it?”

  Kudrow brushed the questions aside, talking about a broad range of support from a variety of sources, including other businesses across the country. Fiona didn’t want to fuel that particular line of inquiry, so as soon as he finished speaking, she quickly asked a pointed question about his economic policies, which changed the angle of attack for the whole group of hacks.

  The final question came from a TV journalist. “Mr. Kudrow, is there any progress in the police investigation into your brother’s death that you can tell us about?”

  “No, the police are continuing to work hard—we’re all working hard to try and get to the bottom of it—but there’s been no progress so far,” Kudrow said. “If there is you’ll be the first to know. As you can appreciate, it’s been an incredibly difficult time for all of the family.”

  The session finished and Fiona turned away, almost bumping into Philip Pietersen.

  “Hi Philip. Everything going according to plan?”

  Philip frowned at her. “Not really. What’s this I hear about you investigating David’s campaign funding?”

  Fiona stepped backward. How the hell did he know that?

  “I don’t discuss stories I’m working on. You should know that,” she said. “If it affects you or your candidate, I’ll come and let you know at the right time and ask for a comment.”

  “Well, there’s nothing underhanded going on here, I can assure you of that,” Philip said. “I think you should back off. I’d focus on those who really are manipulating the system, not people like David. I hear you’ve got Joe Johnson helping you as well?”

  “I don’t know who’s told you that, but I’m not going to get into a discussion about stories that we may or may not be looking at and who may or may not be helping us, okay?”

  Philip wagged his finger. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Fiona.”

  She shrugged. “Sure, sure. Like I said, I’ll let you know if I need to talk to you. I don’t right now.”

  Fiona squinted at him. “Have there been any developments on the Nathaniel Kudrow killing?”

  “No, there’s no developments to my knowledge.”

  “And have they questioned David—officially, I mean? They didn’t get on, did they, David and Nathaniel?”

  Philip eyed her steadily for a few seconds. “It’s not for me to comment on who’s been questioned. You’d better talk to the police or the FBI about that one.” He turned and walked off.

  Fiona checked her watch. Only one hour to deadline. She quickly found a quiet corner at the back of the auditorium and phoned her editor.

  “Des, hi, it’s Fiona. The debate’s finished here, so I’ll file a story as quickly as I can bash it out. Kudrow had a good evening, took it by storm, especially on the economy. I get the feeling that if he puts in a few more performances like that, he’s going to take out Mitt, for sure. However, I’m worried about the other story we were talking about recently, Kudrow’s funding. I’ve just spoken to his campaign manager, Pietersen. He knows we’re investigating and that Joe Johnson’s helping us. He was quite aggressive about it—told me to back off. How the hell would he know about what we’re doing?”

  “No idea,” Des said. “He can’t do anything about it, in any case. I’d just carry on. I hope you didn’t reveal that he was right?”

  “Of course not. Didn’t give him anything. As you say, doesn’t matter. I think this story’s gonna be a biggie for us—could be absolutely huge. It’s going to stop the campaign train dead in its tracks if we can get it out there before the primaries. And if there’s a link to Nathaniel’s stabbing, it’ll be even bigger.”

  “I agree,” Des said. “You carry on with it. You’re doing a great job.”

  “Another thing,” Fiona said. “I asked Pietersen if David had been questioned by the cops or the FBI about his brother’s shooting and he just looked at me, told me to talk to the police,
and walked off.”

  “Okay, I’ll get the crime reporter here to see if there’s any update on all that.”

  Fiona moved her phone to her other ear. “Thanks. We need to keep moving, because it looks like one or two other journalists are starting to latch on to the funding story. There were questions from at least two other hacks in the spin room afterward. We’re on the front foot with that story, and I don’t want anybody else getting hold of it. Joe’s over in London now and working on it, but I’d like to keep on top of it myself too.”

  She hesitated. “I was going to suggest something. Obama’s due in the U.K. on his visit in a few days. I’d like to join that trip, and then I can check on what’s happening with Johnson at the same time.”

  She waited, picturing Des sitting at his desk in Washington, surrounded by the day’s batch of empty coffee cups and the detritus of his lunch and dinner.

  “I’ll have a think about it,” Des said after a moment. “Can’t make a decision now, I’ve got too much to focus on here. Got to go. Speak later.”

  At least he didn’t rule it out, she thought, as she put her phone back into her bag. There’s hope yet. She smiled to herself. Maybe Joe might like a bit of extra help.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Friday, November 25, 2011

  London

  Jayne wasn’t quite how Johnson remembered her. She used to be a joker, the first to poke fun at those in authority.

  “You’ve changed,” he said. “I remember in Pakistan you had a standard routine. Every time you came off the phone with one of your bosses in London, you’d slam down the receiver and moan about ‘jobsworth’ civil servant managers or something like that. Then there was that impression you did at the Christmas show, with the bowler hat and cravat. That was hilarious. Must have been in, what, ’89, I think.”

  Johnson sipped his coffee. “Now you’re giving me a lecture over breakfast about not breaking the law or invading someone’s privacy. You’ve become one of them.”

  Jayne put her hands on her hips. “Very funny. Maybe that’s why I need to get out. We’ve all changed. You certainly have. But I’m trying to keep you out of trouble. Here you go. You didn’t get this from me. You can link it up to your phone.”

  She threw a box containing two bugging devices across the dining table at him. He caught it neatly in his right hand.

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you planning to use it for?” Jayne asked.

  “Not sure exactly. But I’m going to try and find the Kudrow workshop. So we’ll see.”

  “So you’re going to break in and plant one of those, are you?” she interpreted, nodding at the box.

  Johnson shrugged. “All for the greater good.”

  “I spoke to my boss,” Jayne said. “He was reluctant but did finally agree to let me help you out a bit. He’s chased war criminals himself before in Bosnia and Croatia, so he gets what you’re doing. He says the only condition is that if there’s any criminal activity going on, we have to hand it directly to either the police or MI5, okay?”

  Johnson nodded.

  “Good. I’ve managed to pick up some info for you,” Jayne said. She sat down. “First, Internet traffic. I got my old friend Alice, who’s one of the technical people at GCHQ, to run a survey last night. There’s been several hits on your website and several searches for your name, some from an IP address in Buenos Aires. I’ve still got good contacts at the SIS station in Buenos Aires. They’re trying to get details of whose computer it’s coming from. Second, you mentioned the gold dealer José Guzmann. I had a check run on him, too. I couldn’t find any more than what you had. But there’s also an Ignacio Guzmann—that’s his son. Now listen to this: the son flew to London yesterday via Houston and Chicago. I got that from a check on customs and flight bookings. We’ve no idea where he is now, but we’re trying to find out.”

  “His son?” Johnson asked, perking up. “Do you know why he’s in London?”

  “No, not yet. I’ll try and help where I can, but you know we’ve got the Olympics in London next year, and I’ve got my hands full at work with a security report on that, so crazy busy right now,” Jayne said. “I do have a photo of the son for you, though. We got it from his passport records.”

  She took out her phone and showed Johnson a photograph of a fit-looking, middle-aged man with a deep tan and receding light brown, almost blond, hair.

  “That’s him. I’ll text you the photo.” Jayne tapped on her phone for a few seconds, then got up. “I seem to be doing all your donkeywork for you. You’ll owe me after this. I’ve got to go and get a shower, otherwise I’ll be late for work.”

  “Okay, do thank your GCHQ and Buenos Aires contacts. Much appreciated, and I do owe you already,” Johnson said.

  Like his former colleagues, such as Vic and Jayne, Johnson had always been amazed by the ability of the U.K.’s Government Communications Headquarters and its U.S. equivalent, the National Security Agency, to rapidly cull data from people’s digital footprints. Technology had certainly changed the spying game beyond all recognition.

  As Jayne put her coffee cup on the tabletop, Johnson noticed her thin blue knitted-cotton pajama top that clung tightly around her and the matching shorts that rode right up her thighs.

  She hadn’t lost her figure, nor that slow, lithe way of moving. He wasn’t surprised: she had always been a regular at the gym and ate healthily, judging by the contents of her fridge. And yet she still liked a drink.

  But she definitely had a harder edge about her.

  He briefly wondered if he should gently reminisce about the affair they had in ’89 in Pakistan but decided against it, at least for the time being. She hadn’t mentioned it, and he might embarrass himself. It had been a long time ago.

  Instead, Johnson told Jayne about his visits to the National Archive and the encounter with the old man who had given him the lead on the jewelry company off the Whitechapel Road.

  “Can we check who owns the property?” he asked.

  “Okay, give me the address, and I’ll get the listings for it.” She loped off into her bedroom. A minute later he heard her shower running.

  Johnson took his coffee and sat down in one of the black leather armchairs. He leaned back, rested his head, and closed his eyes.

  First, a sketchy lead from oddball Nathaniel, who’s now dead. Then a link between the Kudrows and a gold dealer in Buenos Aires from my distant OSI past. Next, a threatening note. Seemingly by coincidence, the son of the Buenos Aires gold dealer is now in London. And old Jacob Kudrow has been living under an alias, probably since the 1970s. What next?

  Indeed, what next?

  Go and find him . . . He’ll be in his dilapidated old workshop or at the synagogue.

  Johnson opened his eyes and drained his coffee cup.

  Better try the workshop, then.

  Once Jayne had gone, Johnson showered and got dressed.

  He had a thought and quickly typed out a text message to Jayne.

  Didn’t mean to start something. I’ll buy you a bowler hat. Thanks for your help. If the workshop draws a blank today I’m back to square one. Wish me luck. x

  Johnson stowed the box Jayne had given him in his backpack, along with his notebook and a small camera, and put on his warm black jacket and wool hat.

  He decided that if he was going to take proper countersurveillance precautions, it would be sensible to find an alternative route out of the apartment block other than the front door, so he walked along to the end of the corridor and located the door to the fire escape stairwell at the rear of the building.

  After going down to the basement, he walked through a bicycle storage area and past a large air-conditioning unit to a steel emergency exit door.

  Johnson pushed the door gently open and emerged into a narrow alleyway next to a small park at the side of the building. Then he vaulted over a wall into the park and mingled with a crowd of office workers and mothers pushing strollers. From there, he walked along Portsok
en Street, away from the main entrance to the apartment block.

  Though it wasn’t raining, the blanket of gray clouds had remained, and the wind had increased during the night, with gusts strong enough to periodically push him slightly off balance.

  He also did a proper check for anyone tailing him. There was no sign of any coverage. He made a right, and then it was only a short walk under an old iron railway bridge to the Minories parking garage, next to Tower Gateway station.

  Once in the parking garage, he swiftly stepped into a darker area behind the ticket machine on the ground floor, where he had a clear view of the path leading up to the parking garage and back to the railway bridge. Here he waited and checked again for anyone following.

  Eventually satisfied, he paid for his parking ticket and climbed up the concrete staircase to the first floor to retrieve his car. Again he checked underneath the car and the wheel wells before leaving.

  It was only a mile or so from the parking garage to the address the old man outside Bevis Marks Synagogue had given him. He turned right off the Whitechapel Road, and there it was, on Plumbers Row. There was no mistaking the building, given the description the old man had provided.

  Johnson parked on the other side of the road, behind a builder’s truck. Then he clamped his phone to his ear, as if he were making a call, and took a good look.

  The building, which had the date 1892 carved into a stone plaque built into the wall, was at least forty yards across and three stories high, with brickwork that was grimy and heavily stained black in places with the imprint of London’s dust, dirt, and pollution.

  It formed a sharp contrast to the smart mini supermarket on Johnson’s side of the road and the new red brick apartments next door.

  The workshop had a large curved central archway with black gates that formed the main vehicle entrance. A smaller pedestrian gate was inset into the left half of the main gate.

  Most of the building’s windows were bricked up, and the others were guarded by rusty iron burglar bars.