On the right side of the central entrance archway was a sign that read Classic Car Parts. On the left was another sign that said Kew Jewellery U.K.
A large number of weeds and a couple of small saplings sprouted from the gutter at the top of the building. A long, dark green stain was spreading down the brickwork from a leaking pipe.
Johnson took it all in. So this was it. Dilapidated . . . too right it was. He was no property expert, but it crossed his mind that a developer would make millions out of the site.
He took his pack of Marlboros out of his bag and lit one, winding down the car window a few inches, and checked his watch. It was just twenty past nine.
A slow trickle of workers began to arrive at the workshop, either walking or on bikes, mostly wearing overalls, stained fleece jackets, heavy boots, and woolly hats.
Johnson lit another cigarette and watched.
At around 9:45 a.m., a dark green BMW 5 Series, an older model, drew up outside the gates. The driver jumped out and opened both rear doors. An old white-haired man climbed carefully out onto the pavement.
Daniel Kudrow. Johnson jerked up in his seat. He recognized the old man immediately from the Republican fund-raiser in D.C. where he had been remonstrating with his son David. White hair. And the black glasses were quite distinctive. It was definitely him.
Seconds later, another man, who looked virtually identical apart from his gold-rimmed glasses, stepped out of the other side of the car.
That must be Jacob.
The men both wore dark gray coats and black pants and were of very similar height and build. Johnson grabbed his camera and quickly took a picture of them through his car window.
Daniel slapped his twin on the back, said something, and then they both stood back, looking up toward the top of the building. Daniel gestured at the top, and then they both turned and disappeared through the pedestrian gate. The green BMW drove off.
So this business, Kew Jewellery U.K., was run by Jacob Kudrow under the alias Jack Kew.
Finally. Johnson exhaled, feeling suddenly relieved. After days of seemingly banging his head against a brick wall and getting nowhere, this felt like a real breakthrough. He had found the workshop and had even found the Kudrow brothers.
But what now? He sank back in his car seat and tried to think.
He couldn’t just walk in there. Or could he?
His phone pinged again as a short e-mail arrived from Fiona.
Hope you are making headway. I don’t want to run out of time. Any updates?
Things heating up here. David Kudrow taking GOP primary by storm, doing much better than Romney. Will make our story even bigger.
There’s no police or FBI progress on Nathaniel investigation. Weird. Still don’t know what police/FBI view is on any possible David involvement.
Where you staying in London? I know the east bit from when I lived there for six months back in the late 1990s.
F.
Johnson tapped out a quick reply.
Staying with an old friend in an apartment near Aldgate. Made a little headway. Old Jacob Kudrow seems to be living under an alias, Jack Kew. I’ve just found Jacob’s workshop. Now working out what to do next.
The last thing he wanted was for Fiona to know he was staying with another woman, let alone an old girlfriend. No ex ever appreciated those kinds of details. In fact, as soon as he sent it, he regretted even telling her he wasn’t at a hotel.
Johnson started the engine of his car. As he did so, the green BMW reappeared around the corner and pulled up outside the workshop. This time another man climbed out. He was taller than the twins, maybe slightly heavier, and bald, with a few wisps of gray straggly hair, and he was dressed in working overalls, not a suit. But he was probably almost as old as the Kudrow twins.
The man bent down and spoke to the driver of the BMW through the open window, giving Johnson time to take a photo of his face when he stood again. Then he too disappeared through the pedestrian entrance. The large gates opened to allow the BMW through, and it disappeared from view when they closed behind it.
Another old guy. Johnson wondered, was this the Leopold Skorupski whom the old man had mentioned?
He let out the clutch and drove back the way he had come earlier that morning.
As he headed back into the Minories parking garage, he passed a silver Ford Focus parked in the first spot after the entrance.
Diego, in the driver’s seat of the Ford Focus, sat up sharply when he spotted Johnson’s black BMW go past them. He nudged his accomplice, Alejandro, and pointed.
“Here he is. That’s his Beamer. I’ll follow him up the ramp. Got the box ready?”
Diego started the engine, pulled out, and followed Johnson’s car to the second floor.
There Johnson found an empty space and maneuvered to reverse into it.
Diego drove the Focus past him and swiftly parked in a bay thirty meters away.
As he did so, Alejandro pulled out a small black box from a bag, flicked up an antenna, and pressed a switch on the side. An LCD display lit up on the front of the unit.
They watched as Johnson picked up his backpack from the passenger seat, got out, and closed the door, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
At the same time, Alejandro held up the black box and aimed the antenna toward Johnson’s BMW. He pressed a button on the front, which beeped twice quietly.
Johnson walked away from his car, held out his key fob, and clicked the lock button. Both indicator lights on the BMW flashed.
In the Focus, a green light on the front of Alejandro’s black box illuminated briefly, and it beeped again.
As Johnson continued walking toward the stairwell, Alejandro grinned at his companion.
“Got it?” asked Diego.
“Yep. Now we can get to work.”
Keith Bartelski sat slumped and semiconscious in the wooden chair in the middle of the kitchen, his arms behind him and tied to the back of the chair with rope.
Spittle leaked from one corner of his mouth, past the orange ball gag meant to muffle his screams. Meanwhile, blood oozed from a kitchen towel that had been taped to his left foot as a makeshift bandage.
Ignacio circled Keith.
The area just below the man’s ribs, around his kidneys, reminded Ignacio of the surface of one of the blueberry cheesecakes his mother used to make when he was a kid.
The door opened and in walked Diego and Alejandro. “Johnson’s car lock is fixed,” Diego said. “As soon as we get the bomb, we can instal it.”
“Okay, good,” Ignacio said. “I’m expecting our delivery man to arrive here any minute.”
He sighed. “I’m looking at this guy Bartelski. You can give him a break now. I really don’t think he knows where that gold is coming from. Either that or he’s got balls of steel . . . and Brits don’t have those. We’ve proved that.”
Diego nodded. “I agree, jefe. He told us Poland quite early on, but since then, nada. If he told us that, he would have also told us exactly where, too, if he knew. That’s my opinion.”
Ignacio folded his arms, nodding at his two companions. “I don’t think he’s any more goddamn use to us. And you idiots screwed up by not keeping him blindfolded.” The two men looked a little sheepish.
“I think we move on to our next option. This asshole may not have the information we need, but we know who else does,” Ignacio said.
Then the doorbell rang.
Ignacio went to answer it. He put the security chain on before peering out. “Ah, buenos dias, Felipe.” He looked over his shoulder at Diego and Alejandro, then undid the chain and opened the door.
A thin, dark-skinned man with longish black hair stepped in, gingerly carrying a square cardboard box similar in size to those used for pizza deliveries but deeper. On top of it was another smaller box. He put them down on the kitchen tabletop and took off his brown leather jacket.
“This is Felipe,” Ignacio said. “I worked with him in the army ten years ago. He’s base
d over here now, running his own supply business. Best not to ask who for.”
Felipe nodded at the other men. “I see you’ve been busy.” He glanced briefly at Keith, who groaned loudly.
“I’m going to explain this once, as I need to go, so listen carefully,” Felipe said, speaking in rapid Spanish. “You’ve probably heard of this device if you’re all army guys. It’s an FMK-3 anti-tank blast mine. Argentine-made.”
He picked up the larger cardboard box and gingerly opened the lid so the device inside was visible. Made of green fiberglass, it was around ten inches across and about three inches deep. Built into a recess in the center was a small round plastic unit with an eight-pointed star molded on the top.
There were two small circular openings on the sides, one with a yellow plug inserted and the other with a domed metal cover.
Felipe pointed to the device. “If you’ve come across these before, it was probably in the Falklands, where I think you all did time?”
“We’ve seen them before, but you’d better remind us how to use them,” Diego said.
“Okay,” Felipe said. “This has got more than six kilos of C-4 explosive inside—it’s mainly RDX, and that’s easily going to blow a car away. When you want to use it, you have to take out this yellow transit plug on the side and insert this detonator. It’s been adapted for use with a separate trigger rather than by pressure on the top from a tank or armored vehicle, which would be the case in normal use.” He took out a green plastic detonator plug with a yellow stripe from the box.
“It also has a strong magnetic plate attached to the bottom, so you can attach it to any metal surface in a car,” Felipe said. “I’ve also got a trigger for you, a remote control which you can operate manually.” Felipe picked up a black box with a rectangular red button in the center and an antenna. “It’s a simple remote. It works via a radio link up to a range of about five hundred meters. That connects to a small receiver next to the bomb, which is this little black box here.” Felipe held up a second, smaller black box, the size of a cigarette packet.
“It’s connected to the electrical firing circuit so when you press the button on the trigger, it will complete the circuit and detonate the bomb. It’s powered by this nine-volt battery.”
Then he demonstrated how to connect the receiver, detonator plug, and mine.
“The best place to hide it is in the engine compartment, effectively right in front of the steering wheel,” Felipe said. “If you can’t access a metal surface, just wedge it in and tape it in place so it can’t move. It’s unlikely to be spotted there, whereas if you put it underneath the car, who knows . . . someone might see it if they do a check, or it could even fall off. Stick it where I’m telling you. No problem. Boom.”
He threw both his hands upward theatrically in illustration, his face deadpan.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Friday, November 25, 2011
London
Johnson strode up to the reception desk, his backpack slung over his shoulder, but found the area deserted. He pressed a small doorbell on the security window, then put an elbow on the counter and waited.
The small customer waiting room for Classic Car Parts was seriously in need of redecoration, he thought to himself.
It had dark red clay floor tiles and brick walls that had been whitewashed many years earlier, judging by the grime that had collected in the grout. There were six basic metal-framed chairs. Four wall lights, all with dust-covered bare tungsten bulbs, illuminated the room.
Behind the reception desk and security window lay a long counter lit by a fluorescent strip-light. To the right of the reception desk was a connecting door to the staff area, marked Strictly Private.
In the center of the room was a battered old coffee table with a chipped glass top, on which lay a small pile of magazines: Practical Classics, Classic Cars, Classic and Sports Car, and the previous day’s copy of The Jewish Chronicle.
Still no one came.
Johnson pushed the doorbell again and sat down. He had decided to make his move only an hour or so earlier, after receiving a text message from Jayne. According to her information, the workshop had originally been purchased in the name of Jacob Kudrow in 1952, but the deeds showed a change of name to Jack Kew in 1972.
She had also confirmed that Jacob still lived in the house in Hay’s Mews, the address where he had been listed as an occupant in the electoral roll records that Johnson had previously found. The records showed Jack Kew as an occupant of the property since 1972. That explained everything.
Johnson continued to wait. He had already tried reception at the Kew Jewellery U.K. business next door, but the door there was locked, and a Closed sign hung in the window.
After a couple more minutes, he heard footsteps approaching behind the half-open door at the back of the reception area.
A muscular forearm, tattooed with a black snake, appeared around the door, followed by a man’s head.
Seeing Johnson, the man walked up to the glass security screen. “What do you want?” he asked.
Johnson stood up and walked to the counter. “Hi, I’ve got an old 1961 Beetle I’m trying to restore, and I need a new steering column, for starters. Is that something you can help me with?”
The man gave him a puzzled look and pursed his lips. “Maybe. We might have one, but I’ll have to go and look for it.”
“That’s fine. Thanks. You’re not very busy this afternoon?” Johnson said.
“No, it’s dead.” He looked inquiringly at Johnson. “We don’t see many Americans in here. What’s your name?”
“I’m Philip Wilkinson. And you?” Johnson held out his hand.
“Jonah Hennessy.” His bearlike handshake squeezed Johnson’s hand. Then he disappeared back through the door.
Johnson picked up a copy of Classic Cars and sat down again.
There was the sound of footsteps on a creaking staircase, followed by a couple of thuds and a crash. Then, faintly, he heard Jonah swear.
A couple of minutes later, he reappeared. “I can’t find it right now. I know we’ve got one. Thing is, I’ve got a problem. I have an emergency dentist appointment at the surgery across the road right now, which is going to take about half an hour. I can’t miss it. I’ve had a real problem with a filling that came out. It’s been agony. You can wait here, or would you like to come back? There’s no one else here.”
“It’s fine, I’ll just wait here and read these magazines. No problem.”
“Okay, I do apologize for this. I’ll see you shortly.” Jonah went out the back door again. There was a distant slam as the exterior door closed.
Johnson waited a couple of minutes, then stood, trying to decide what to do. He moved toward the connecting door, its Strictly Private sign looming large at him. Sometimes in life, opportunity just knocks, Johnson thought. Or was it some sort of trap? Did they know? They couldn’t, surely.
He pushed at the door, expecting it to be locked. It swung open, its hinges squeaking. He passed through the reception area and pushed at the next door. It too opened.
Then Johnson found himself in a dark passage. Jonah must have turned the lights off. What should he do? He had a mini flashlight attached to his key ring, but using that or the flashlight on his phone would look very strange if someone did return. Then again, he could just say that he couldn’t find the light switch, which actually would be true. He flicked on his flashlight.
Now he could see that at the end of the passage, facing him, was a white wooden sliding door, which was closed. On the left was another white door, also closed, and on the right near the sliding door was the entrance to a toilet. It stank.
Next to the toilet, also on the right, was a wooden staircase. Almost without thinking, Johnson moved toward it, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tiled floor.
He took one step up the dark-stained wooden stairs, then another. On the third step, the plank beneath his foot made a sudden loud crack beneath his foot, and Johnson jumped, his heart a
ccelerating.
He stood still, listening. But nothing.
Johnson gingerly climbed up one flight, around the corner, then up another flight to the first-floor landing. In front of him was a glass and wood door, its original green paint badly chipped and worn down to the gray undercoat or even bare wood in some places.
Johnson held the flashlight in his teeth and felt in his pocket for a pair of thin latex rubber gloves, which he put on.
The glass was covered in dust and marks, but in the dim light from an inside window, Johnson could see it was a storeroom, with racks up to the ceiling filled with pieces of equipment.
Outside, a police siren howled, getting louder and more piercing as it drew nearer. Johnson felt himself go taut; he bit his lip. The police car went past the building, and the sound level fell back.
What should he do? If someone came now, Johnson’s chances of talking his way out of the situation were slim to none. There was no reason to be upstairs.
Johnson decided to look for the office. He pushed open the storeroom door and moved along the central corridor to the other end, then through a door into another dark passage.
What now, turn on the light? That might be visible from outside. But there were no windows, so some light would be okay. He’d keep using his mini flashlight, although this time he moved his thumb partly over it so only a sliver of light emerged. It was enough and less risky.
There were three doors off the passage, the last of which, facing him at the end of the corridor, had a white sign fixed to it, with black lettering: Kew Jewellery Staff Only Unless Authorised.
It must be a connecting door to the Kudrow business, Johnson thought. He remembered the old man at the synagogue telling him that Jacob and the owner of the car-parts business worked closely together.
Johnson moved down the corridor. His eyes were getting used to the darkness now. He nudged the connecting door with his elbow. It moved under the weight of his arm. Should he risk it? What if there was a burglar alarm?
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 15