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

by Andrew Turpin

  But it was, after all, Jacob’s office that he really needed to see.

  Johnson stepped through the door, closing it slowly and silently behind him. He found himself on a carpeted floor instead of the bare boards of the car-parts business.

  No alarm sounded.

  The only audible sound was the faint brushing of Johnson’s shoes on the carpet and his breathing.

  Still moving by the fragments of light from his mini flashlight, he tried to look around. He had emerged at an upper landing, with stairs going up and down. There were more doors ahead of him along the landing, all white. Facing him at the end of the landing was a much wider door fashioned from unpainted paneled wood and with a brass handle.

  At the top of the stairs, Johnson noticed a white electronic security system control box with a keypad and a small LCD display screen was fastened to the wall.

  He frowned. It was clearly an electronic burglar alarm that required a code to arm and disarm it. A small green LED light flashed every few seconds next to a label that read Not Armed. He took out his phone and snapped a photo of the unit.

  Then he used his flashlight to carefully examine the keypad, up close. After a few seconds, he saw what he was looking for and typed in a note on his phone.

  As Johnson crept forward, he could see an old brass plate on the door. Private—Managing Director’s Office.

  This must be it.

  Suddenly, the silence was split by Johnson’s phone, which emitted a shrill ring from his pocket. It made him jump almost off the ground.

  He swore softly as he scrambled to get it out, his thumb getting stuck in his belt. Once out of his pocket, it fell, hitting the floor with a thud, still ringing loudly. Johnson moved to catch the phone with his right hand but dropped the key ring and flashlight, which lit up the whole landing with its beam.

  Johnson grabbed the phone and eventually managed to hit the red button to cancel the incoming call, which he saw was from Fiona, of all people.

  Then he fell to his knees and seized the mini flashlight and key ring, which were lying right on the edge of the landing, under the banister and a quarter of an inch from falling to the ground floor. Now his heart really was pounding.

  Johnson froze where he was, on his knees, sweat now trickling down his forehead. He cursed himself for his amateurish error in not turning the phone to silent.

  Johnson remained still for several minutes, until his pounding heart rate dropped a little. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. There was silence.

  What to do? Press on or retreat? Johnson turned his phone to silent, then stood up. He edged to Jacob’s wooden office door, turned the knob gently, and pushed.

  It gave a squeak that seemed to echo across the dark landing.

  The office was slightly illuminated by the remnants of late afternoon daylight coming through a window, where the thick maroon curtains had been left open.

  Johnson’s first thought was that it was like going back in time.

  An enormous old oak writing desk, with a red leather pad inset into the middle, stood in front of an ornate brick fireplace, laid ready with wood and coal and surrounded by a large hearth.

  The only obvious concession to modernity was a computer and keyboard on the desk. Behind it was a large oak chair with a leather padded seat.

  Also on the desk was a large metal statuette made of two flat rectangular plates of steel, with oval holes and patterned indents down each side. The two plates were leaning against each other to form a pyramid, and other triangular pieces of metal filled the gaps at each side.

  The walls were half paneled with wood up to head height. A chandelier comprising several small candle light bulbs was suspended on a chain from the ceiling.

  Johnson noticed in the far corner there were two metal filing cabinets. After drawing the two heavy curtains across the window, he made his way to them.

  Should he risk the mini flashlight again? He switched it on and pulled open the top drawer of the filing cabinet.

  It contained around twenty different dividers, each marked with a different company’s name. These must be the customers, Johnson surmised. They all appeared to be U.K.-based jewelry shops and retailers. He shut the drawer.

  The middle and bottom drawers were locked, as were all the drawers in the second filing cabinet. Where was the key? Johnson stepped to the wooden writing desk and pulled the three drawers open in turn. They were all full of assorted junk—old pens, pencils, erasers, paper clips, a hole punch, and even a jeweler’s loupe—but no keys.

  Then he noticed a thin sliding wooden panel at the bottom of the desk, the kind that holds paper clips and staples in a compartmentalized tray. It clicked open when he pushed it, and there was a set of six small keys.

  Johnson checked his watch. More than fifteen minutes had passed since Jonah had disappeared to the dentist, although it felt like hours.

  Using the keys, he opened the other five locked cabinet drawers. Two were empty, and the third contained electricity, gas, and other utility bills. The fourth contained a similar set of dividers, each carrying the names of people, presumably employees, and their contracts of employment. Ah yes, there was Jonah’s.

  One left to go.

  The sixth drawer was also empty, apart from one divider hanging from the rail, labeled Exports. Johnson stared at it, then pulled it out.

  The file contained several copies of invoices sent from Classic Car Parts to a company called Oro Centro. There was no address. Most of them were yellowed and fading, the earlier ones were handwritten, the later ones printed, and all of them were on various sizes of paper. Johnson quickly realized that some were for very large amounts, all in U.S. dollars. All were stamped as paid. The dates started at 1959 and ran at regular intervals through to the latest, which was 2004.

  Vic had told him the Kudrows’ U.S. business had a Buenos Aires subsidiary called Oro Centro, of which Guzmann was a customer. Johnson had a note of it in his book. Oro . . . “gold” in Spanish.

  Johnson raised his eyebrows as he read through the invoices. The first he looked at, from August 1970, was for just over $3 million. The next, dated July 1973, was for $4,354,931. Johnson shook his head.

  All the invoices had the same two words in the sale details column: For Services.

  Some services, Johnson thought.

  He took out his phone and took photographs of some of the larger invoices, then swiftly put them back, locked the cabinet, and replaced the keys in the writing desk.

  Johnson then took out from his backpack one of the small voice-activated listening devices Jayne had given him. He pressed a small button on the base of the unit, which was similar in size to a plastic cigarette lighter, peeled off a plastic protective film from its white adhesive pad, and fastened it firmly to the underside of the desk, behind a wooden strut.

  What next? A jewelry business must have a safe somewhere, probably a large one. Johnson would bet his life savings on it. But where was it? His eyes searched the area.

  Built into the wall, to the right of the fireplace, were two white cupboards. Johnson pulled the first one open to find a selection of single-malt Scotch bottles, a silver tray, and some cut crystal glasses.

  Behind the second was an old steel safe, its surface rusting slightly in places, a Whitfield’s Safe & Door Company brass plate screwed to the front above a numbered dial and a brass pull handle. Johnson tugged at it, but it was locked.

  Old but solid. A real museum piece. There was no way he was going to get into that in a hurry, he thought. But it certainly appeared as though it was frequently used. The brass handle was shiny and dust-free, as was the dial.

  Johnson took out his phone and took a couple of photographs of the safe. He consulted his watch again. Twenty minutes gone. The sudden realization that time was running out on him, fast, caused his adrenaline to kick in again.

  He shut the door concealing the safe, walked to the curtains and pulled them back, then retraced his steps out of the office, across t
he landing, through the connecting door, and back through the storeroom.

  Moving quickly now, he headed down the stairs. He was intending to take a left back through to the customer reception area when one other thought struck him. He should check what the other two doors were down here. They might provide him with an alternate way in. Maybe he could even bypass the alarms.

  He took a right, through the sliding white wooden door next to the toilet.

  Johnson found himself in a workshop with tools hanging on the walls, as well as jacks, spare wheels, car parts of various types, drills, and other equipment. The place was black with grime and stank of engine oil.

  Parked just in front of a large steel roller door, which presumably led into the yard, were two ancient Volkswagens, one a Beetle and the other a T2 panel van.

  Johnson flicked on his mini flashlight again. In one corner there was a small room made of gray cinder blocks with a sign on the door marked Boiler Room—Keep Out. Sliding his thumb over the flashlight, he walked quickly to the door and slipped inside. Time was running out now.

  Johnson peered into the gloom. A large, ancient-looking metal boiler with a small hinged fuel door at the front stood in one corner. Johnson touched it with a finger; it was cold and unlit, although next to it was a large pile of coal ready for use in an enclosure also made of cinder blocks.

  Coal. Johnson almost chuckled to himself. He hadn’t seen a boiler fueled by coal since he was a kid, when his parents had one at their house in Portland. His dad used to bring in large, filthy lumps on a shovel from an outhouse. It was utterly inefficient.

  This boiler seemed to be of a similar vintage to his father’s old coal model, except much larger.

  He leaned over the pile of coal. Behind it was a wooden plywood hatch, about three-and-a-half feet across, hinged on the right-hand side, with three bolts on the left holding it closed. Presumably, when the pile of coal needed to be topped up, more was shoveled in through the door from outside.

  Johnson stood, hands on hips, then made a decision.

  He bent over the coal until he could just reach the bolts holding the door and slipped all three of them open. The door stayed in place. He grabbed a brass handle screwed to the inside of the door and pushed slightly. It moved, and Johnson felt a blast of icy cold air rush in from outside. That would do.

  He pulled the coal store door shut again, leaving the bolts unlocked, replaced the plank against the wall, and went out of the boiler room into the workshop. Then he walked back through the white sliding door into the corridor, quietly closing the door behind him.

  On the wall in the corridor, Johnson saw another burglar alarm control unit identical to the one he had seen upstairs near Jacob’s office. Stepping up to it, he closely examined the keypad, as he had done for the other unit, until he saw what he needed and made another note on his phone.

  Abruptly, Johnson stood still.

  The staccato sound of hard-soled boots echoing on tiles came from behind the other white door to his right. Thinking quickly, he ducked into the toilet and flicked the light on, then silently shut the door behind him.

  He could hear someone emerge into the corridor.

  Johnson removed his rubber gloves and stuffed them into his pocket, then flushed the toilet, washed his hands in the basin, and opened the door again.

  In the corridor, Jonah stood facing him, a large looming figure, his hands on his hips.

  “Sorry, I needed the loo. Hope you don’t mind,” Johnson said.

  Jonah remained momentarily silent. He regarded Johnson, his eyebrows raised, forehead furrowed.

  “This is the staff area, you know. It’s private. Didn’t you see the sign?”

  “Yes, I saw the sign. I was just desperate. Sorry again. I didn’t realize you were going to be gone so long. Thing is,” Johnson said, looking at his watch, “I’m meant to be in a meeting soon, over near St. Katharine Docks, so I’m not going to have time now to sort this out. Is it okay if I come back tomorrow afternoon? I really need that part.”

  Jonah looked not just disbelieving but quite threatening. Or was Johnson imagining it?

  “Right,” he said, looking Johnson squarely in the eye and crossing his arms. “That’s fine . . . Mr. Wilkinson.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Friday, November 25, 2011

  London

  Johnson handed over a five-pound bill at the kiosk outside Aldgate underground station, picked up his chocolate bar, and waited for his change. Then he took an evening newspaper from the man handing them out next to the station entrance.

  The front page headline read, “Obama Declares U.S.-U.K. An ‘Essential Relationship.’”

  He read on.

  “The U.S. President Barack Obama flew into London’s Stansted Airport last night to be greeted by Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall.

  President Obama, who is traveling with his wife, Michelle, will hold an initial meeting with Prime Minister David Cameron at 10 Downing Street this evening.

  It is only the third state visit to the U.K. by a U.S. President in the past 100 years.

  Obama, followed by a large U.S. press entourage . . . ”

  The report continued across the front page and on to pages three, four, and five, together with a series of large photographs of the U.S. President with Prince Charles.

  Johnson opened the chocolate bar and broke off a couple of squares, then sat down on a bench. After finishing the chocolate, he lit a cigarette.

  He now felt exhausted and extremely hungry. The chocolate was the only thing he had eaten since breakfast.

  Then someone tapped him firmly on the shoulder. He whirled around.

  “Dammit, Fiona . . . you made me jump. You keep doing this to me. So where did you come from? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, thanks, nice to get a welcome. Thought I’d check on how you’re doing. I’m over here to cover the Obama visit. It was a last-minute decision by my editor, so I only arrived this morning. I did try to call you earlier, but you cut me off.”

  Johnson rolled his eyes. He didn’t need reminding of the call that had given him a panic attack on the pitch-dark landing at the warehouse.

  “How did you know where I was?” Then he remembered the e-mail exchange.

  Fiona slid onto the bench next to him. “You said you were staying near Aldgate, so I thought I’d come and find you. I knew you’d be through the station at some point, so I just decided to head over here. I was about to call you again when I just spotted you lighting that cigarette. I’ve been sitting over there for a while.” She gestured toward another bench farther along the path.

  Johnson felt quite irritated but, despite himself, couldn’t help but smile. She was so persistent, it was almost amusing.

  He studied Fiona. Her long dark hair had tangled in the wind and blown over her face like a lace veil, and she had that trademark hint of a smirk around her mouth. He noticed her deep brown eyes, which to him always seemed so . . . well, confident.

  “Sorry, Joe, it is my story. So I thought I’d better come and see how you’re making out with it while I’ve got the opportunity. Now, tell me. Any headway?”

  Johnson hesitated. Should he tell her about that afternoon’s events? It was certainly headway. And she was the one paying his wages, or at least her company was.

  He started his story, but then hunger overwhelmed him.

  “I need some dinner. What about that place over there? I was checking it out earlier.” He gestured to an Italian restaurant, La Piazetta.

  Over pasta, with which Fiona insisted on ordering an expensive bottle of Barolo, Johnson talked her through the saga thus far. He started with how he trailed around London trying to find out Jacob’s alias and ended with the race against the clock in the old warehouse earlier that afternoon.

  “So we’ve got invoices showing these huge sales to Oro Centro,” Johnson said. “They don’t say what was sold, although I think we know. But assuming it’s gold, there’s nothing to
say where it came from in the first place. Neither was there anything to show onward sales to a customer. That’s the key. It’s possible the answer could be in the safe. Either way, I’d like to take a look. But I don’t have a clue how we get into it.”

  Fiona said nothing. She sipped her wine, then propped her elbows on the table and put her hands together, fingertips pointing up in a pyramid. “Me neither. But I know a man who might.”

  Then she took another sip. “Thing is, I don’t know how to get hold of him.” She said she had a phone number for her contact. The problem was, it was in a notebook in her apartment, in Washington.

  Johnson listened as Fiona made a phone call to her sister Margaret, who also lived in Washington, and persuaded her to drive to her apartment and find the notebook.

  While they were waiting, he and Fiona opened another bottle of Barolo.

  Finally, Margaret found it.

  “Sis, I owe you one, you’re the best,” Fiona said as she ended the call.

  “So, success?”

  “Yep!”

  “Okay, now tell me about this guy you’re trying to locate,” he said.

  “Let me give you the background.”

  In February 1997, Fiona—then a crime reporter—had worked on a story about a robbery on a bank vault in Charlotte, North Carolina, in which more than $5 million in jewelry and cash had been stolen.

  Nobody was ever convicted for the crime, but Fiona managed to get a scoop on the unusual techniques used by the burglars in getting into the vault.

  “I got it through this underworld contact, a shady guy to say the least, who put me on to this British safe-cracking expert he knew, called Bomber Tim.”

  Johnson started laughing.

  “I know, I know, don’t ask,” she said. “We just called him Bomber. I didn’t ask any questions. He was living in New York, and it turned out he had given a load of advice and equipment to one of the gang members, though he wasn’t part of the gang himself.”

  To secure the interview, she had agreed to be blindfolded and driven to a nondescript third-floor apartment in Brooklyn at three o’clock in the morning.