Daniel nodded. “We need to think this through and make a plan,” he said, staring straight ahead.
They had gone straight from Jacob’s house to the workshop after a phone call from Leopold, who sounded so faltering and shocked that Jacob initially thought one of his children must have died.
Now police had already sealed off the workshop in the car-parts business next door where Keith’s body had been found. Red and white striped tape covered the exterior and interior doors and the windows.
Detectives were hard at work carrying out forensic tests, interviews, questions, measurements, and fingerprint searches.
Johnson was intrigued by the contents of Jacob’s red notebook. But at the same time, he felt a little uneasy.
The revelation that the Kudrow twins had apparently witnessed his mother’s torture by a sadistic SS officer changed everything.
It seemed such a massive coincidence that the fate of these three people, among millions of Jews who were incarcerated in thousands of concentration camps across Europe, should have been so closely intertwined.
Was it too much of a coincidence? It crossed his mind that someone might somehow be playing games with him. But the detail was too convincing, the emotions too raw, the dates too specific.
He opened his encrypted laptop and worked his way through the three screens of security passwords he had installed. Then he wrote short e-mails to Amy and both his children, giving them a highly edited version of what had been happening and promising to give them all a call the following day.
As he wrote, two new e-mails popped into his inbox.
One was from Vic, asking about progress. The other was from someone called Nat Goodman, with one word in the subject line: Kudrow.
Johnson opened it.
Dear Mr. Johnson,
I understand your investigating the Kudrow jewelry business. I am having busines arangements with the Kudrows before and have something that is interesting for you. A map and some documents. It is possible to collect it from me at car park 4 at the O2 Arena at 11 a.m. tomorrow, Monday. It is next the river. I am waiting in a green Honda Civic.
I can’t give any more details.
Please do not reply to this email.
Thank you
Nat Goodman
Johnson snorted. Amateurish. Or was it deliberately designed that way? His mind went back to the threatening note he had found under his door at the Tower Hotel, with its spelling and grammar errors. It was clearly the Argentinians again. The e-mail was from a Hotmail account.
Why would anyone wanting to pass documents to him choose a parking lot at a landmark place like the O2 Arena rather than a quiet pub somewhere? Johnson knew the O2, one of the U.K.’s largest live-music concert venues, which was on the tip of a U-shaped peninsula sticking out into the River Thames a few miles east from where he sat.
Indeed, he had visited the site in 2000 when he was briefly in London as part of an OSI investigation. At that time, it was called the Millennium Dome.
Johnson went outside to Jayne’s balcony, lit a cigarette, and tried to think. Jayne had told him that José Guzmann’s son, Ignacio, was in London. It had to be him. Johnson also assumed that he was responsible for the dead body in the workshop.
But wait. What if there was something in this e-mail? What if it was someone who genuinely wanted to pass on some information?
Too many questions. Johnson was tempted to forward the e-mail on to Jayne and ask her to get her team at GCHQ to do their forensics on it, but then he decided to sleep on it and discuss it with her first, if she ever came home from MI6, where she currently seemed to be working around the clock.
He sat in a chair on Jayne’s balcony and reflected on his progress so far.
When Johnson had started, he had seen the Kudrows as perpetrators of something possibly shady that was funding political activity at the highest level in the United States.
While that was likely to be true, now it felt quite different. Are the Kudrows the perpetrators, or are they the victims? What they had done, exactly, wasn’t yet fully clear.
He really needed to read the whole document carefully, in detail, and then find a way to talk to Jacob.
One thing he knew: he felt more alive, more vibrant, and more motivated now, doing this, than he had in years.
He reread the e-mail from Nat Goodman and lit another cigarette.
Washington, D.C.
“I’m really worried about that journalist and the investigator getting into your campaign finances,” Philip Pietersen said.
David Kudrow raised his eyebrows. It was something he’d been trying to put out of his mind in order to concentrate on his political messaging.
“It’ll be fine,” David said. “Don’t think there’s much to hide—nothing that’s going to cause a big issue. My father and uncle have got a long track record.”
The two men, accompanied by a security guard, had just a few minutes earlier left David’s campaign headquarters, a three-story office block on Maryland Avenue Northeast, after a hard Sunday afternoon of work with the full campaign team. Thirty-five people had given up their planned weekend family activities to come into the office for various sessions to plan strategy, logistics, public relations and media messaging, and finances. Nobody had complained—the steamroller was gathering speed.
David already had two staff members working almost full-time to find a much larger headquarters for the campaign proper, on the assumption that he was going to get the nomination. In that event, the team would mushroom in size many times over.
“I need a drink,” David said. He also wanted an hour or two of what felt like a normal life.
They walked into the Argonaut bar and ordered beers. Knowing there was a risk of being spotted and hassled by people wanting selfies and handshakes, Philip had phoned ahead and persuaded the manager, whom he knew well, to let them use the private room upstairs.
They climbed the stairs with the drinks, leaving the security man out on the landing, shut the door, and sat down at a table that overlooked the street.
“To be honest, it’s the police and FBI investigation into Nathaniel I’m more worried about than the journalist and the campaign finances,” David said, lowering his voice. “They’re going through all his bank accounts, phone records, e-mails, everything. I mean, we obviously want them to track down his killer, but who knows what they’re going to unearth while they’re doing that. He’s had a few odd dealings in his time. We all know that. Hopefully there’s nothing that reflects badly on me.”
“Well, it’s inevitable that they’ll go through everything and do a thorough job,” Philip said. “We’ll just have to hope for the best, especially at this stage of the campaign. Things are going so well. So there’s nothing to be worried about, you don’t think, from your uncle or father’s side?”
“No. Not as far as I know. I don’t know much about my uncle’s business. I’ve been too busy focusing on my own these past few years and on politics here. I mean, I know he pulled off a few very good gold deals in the U.K. many years back, but nothing untoward, I don’t think.”
“Okay, fine,” Philip said. With everything that had been going on, it was the first chance he’d had to properly brief his boss on his conversation with Zac Butler, the friendly editor at Inside Track who had tipped him off about Fiona’s assignment. He quickly talked him through what Butler had said.
“Has either Heppenstall or Johnson tried to contact you, by any chance? E-mails, phone calls?” Philip asked.
“No, nothing at all,” David said.
“Okay, well, don’t respond if they do. I just thought they might have tried. I know they were chatting to Nathaniel at that fund-raiser we had at my house recently, so I thought they might try contacting you directly as well,” Philip said.
David scratched his chin and sipped his beer. “Heppenstall and Johnson,” he said. “Someone was telling me they were the two who brought down that California senator who had to quit a few years back.
They discovered he was sheltering some fugitive Nazi. The guy who mentioned it said Heppenstall wrote several stories about it for The New York Times.”
“Yeah, it was her. That’s what I mean. We should be worried,” Philip said. He took a long draft from his glass, then changed the subject and launched into a monologue on his campaign strategy.
“I’m telling you David, you’ll take Obama out next year,” Philip said. “You’ll see. You’ll get the nomination. All our hard work’s going to pay off, and you’ll clean up come the election. People are sick of promises about the economy, about jobs, about improving flows of capital to small businesses and nothing actually happening. All it’s going to take is for you to keep up your momentum on all that stuff, and you’ll sweep it. Remember Clinton’s catchphrase from ’92: it’s the economy, stupid. Well, it’s the same this time around.”
David nodded. He sipped his beer and gazed through the bay window at the gentrified H Street Northeast and the Delta Towers hotel opposite. A red and gray Washington Metrobus bound for Union Station hummed past the bar, its passengers peering out the windows.
“Yes, you’re right. I don’t think there’s much that can go wrong,” David said eventually. “I’m going to do it for Nathaniel. In fact, I bet I’m going to get the sympathy vote. Might be the only good thing to come out of what’s happened to him.”
Chapter Thirty
Monday, November 28, 2011
London
Jayne came into the kitchen area, rubbing her shower-wet hair with a towel, a bath robe wrapped around her.
“Joe, have a look at this. Last night’s evening paper. They didn’t waste any time.”
She threw a copy onto the table.
Johnson hadn’t seen the paper, although he had already told Jayne what had happened during the nocturnal visit to the workshop with Bomber Tim and had then shown her the e-mail from Nat Goodman.
The lead story on page three carried a large headline that shouted, “Murder Hunt As Mutilated Body Found in Workshop.”
Below it was a large picture of the Classic Car Parts workshop facade.
A Metropolitan Police detective chief inspector was quoted in the story as saying there appeared to be no obvious motive for the killing of Keith Bartelski. The culprits appeared to have entered the building via an unbolted coal hatch door, but there were no other leads so far and no arrests. Police were working around the clock on the inquiry.
Johnson snorted into his coffee.
The report went on to state that the dead man had no immediate family and that his work colleagues, including the business owner, a Leopold Skorupski, had been unavailable for comment.
When Johnson had finished reading, Jayne sat down. “So what are you going to do next?”
“I’m thinking about what to do with this e-mail. It obviously reeks of a setup. A very amateurish one.”
“I agree. But on the other hand it might just be—”
“I know,” Johnson said. “It might be a lead.” He was also thinking it might give him a way of derailing the Argentinians.
“Well, follow it up, but do it your way.” She stood and headed toward the door. “You don’t need me to tell you what to do. Take the usual precautions. Check it out from a distance. You’ve got a gun—the one I never gave to you. Get there early. I’ve got some binoculars in the cupboard over there.”
She was right, and that was the way Johnson was leaning. He didn’t like leaving stones unturned.
Jayne added, “By the way, one thing you need to know: the police apparently picked up an Argentinian yesterday at lunchtime in south London somewhere. He was in a pub. The police had a tip and found a stash of antitank mines, rocket launchers, and ammunition in his car boot. Name of Felipe—didn’t get his surname. I don’t know if it’s got any connection with your Argentine mob, probably not, but I’ve asked one of my team to check it out for me. MI5 will be onto it, and I need to log it for our Olympics work. I’ll let you know if we hear anything.”
“Antitank mines? Do they know what he was planning to do with them?” Johnson asked.
“No, no idea, not yet. Got to go and get dressed and head to work.”
With that, Jayne disappeared into her room. She emerged fifteen minutes later to give him a quick goodbye over her shoulder as she headed for the door.
By the time Fiona called him at quarter past eight, Johnson had mapped out a plan in his mind and had a bag packed.
He told Fiona to arrive at the Starbucks café near Jayne’s place at ten o’clock. He would meet her, and then his plan would be put into action.
Diego had just opened a second pack of Camels. This is getting tedious. Three hours and nothing, he thought, as he pulled his twelfth cigarette of the morning out from the pack.
He and Alejandro had arrived at the Minories parking garage at just after seven o’clock. They had parked ten spaces away from Johnson's BMW and settled down to wait.
“Did you hear what Ignacio said last night about Felipe, you know, the guy who brought the antitank mine around?” Diego asked.
“No, what was that?”
“Felipe got pulled in by police yesterday. Ignacio’s worried he’s going to rat on us,” Diego said.
“Doubt he’d rat on us," Alejandro said. “He must have much bigger customers than us. I mean, one antitank mine is—”
Alejandro abruptly went quiet and trained his gaze across the garage.
Diego looked up to see the blue painted doors to the stairwell swinging open.
“Here he is,” Alejandro said. “Wait . . . there’s two of them. There’s a woman with him.”
Diego snapped upright, emerging from his semi-stupor.
Johnson and Fiona were striding across the concrete walkway toward the black BMW.
“A woman? Crap. Ah, don’t you remember, Ignacio told us about the American journalist he was working with,” Diego said. “I think he e-mailed us a photo of her as well as him. Get it on your phone. Quick, let me see. I’m not sure if the boss wants her taken out as well, but we’re not going to have a choice here.”
Alejandro pulled out his phone and scrolled through his e-mails. “Here it is. Yes, that’s the woman Ignacio mentioned . . . long dark hair. Definitely. Not bad, is she? Nice legs, good looker. It’s gonna be a pity.”
They watched as Johnson put his black backpack on the ground and checked all around the car. He got on his hands and knees and looked underneath.
“Shit, he’s doing a proper check. Just hope he doesn’t realize the doors aren’t locked when he presses the key fob. That’s the critical moment. The lights will flash, but it’ll most likely make a different noise,” said Diego.
Johnson went around the car again, this time examining the wheel wells.
He stood with his hands on his hips for a few seconds, looking at the BMW, then eventually pressed his key fob. The indicator lights flashed and Johnson opened the driver’s door. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and Fiona got into the passenger seat.
Diego glanced over at Alejandro. “We got away with it,” he said.
Johnson started the engine; a low guttural roar came from the twin exhausts at the rear of the car.
In the Ford Focus, Diego fastened his seat belt and felt the familiar kick of adrenaline and the knot in his stomach that he always got when he was about to go into action.
“He’s careful but not careful enough. Okay, mi amigo. Let’s go.” He turned the key, and the Focus’s engine sparked into life.
Johnson steered the BMW out of its parking space, down four sets of ramps to the ground floor, and nosed out into the busy traffic outside the parking garage.
He had set up his cell phone as a satellite navigation device, placing it in a holder with a rubber suction cup that was attached to the windshield.
Fiona fastened her seat belt. “Joe, are you okay? You look a little tense.”
“I’m fine.”
As Johnson exited the parking garage, he checked his mirror for cars e
merging behind him. There was a blue Ford, followed by a dark gray Renault, and behind that, a silver Ford Focus. Johnson couldn’t see back any farther than that.
Almost as soon as Johnson left the parking garage, he ran into a line of traffic waiting at temporary traffic lights next to some roadwork. Two police cars waited next to the lights. Officers stood nearby and scrutinized cars as they moved past. It was a common sight around East London.
Once he was past the jam, Johnson drove along Royal Mint Street, a narrow one-way road running parallel to the Docklands Light Railway. One of its electric trains glided past them in the opposite direction, heading into Tower Gateway station.
Johnson saw in his mirror that one of the police cars had pulled out and was following close behind.
It was a bright, clear day, and the sun glared at a low angle through the windshield from the south, dazzling Johnson. He pulled down the sun visor.
Then they were onto the A13, running east parallel to the River Thames.
Johnson glanced to the right and left as he drove. This part of East London was full of old warehouse buildings, many of them becoming increasingly run down and earmarked for demolition. In their place, new steel and glass constructions were going up, and cranes were busy lifting large steel girders into place.
He glanced in his mirror. The police car was still there but slightly farther back, and the silver Ford Focus that had come out of the parking garage was following behind the police car. Johnson looked first at his sat nav, then at the redevelopment projects on either side of the road.
He accelerated hard along the divided highway, which was extremely busy with a mixture of commuter traffic, heavy construction trucks delivering to building sites, and the ubiquitous large commercial white vans ferrying parcels and goods around.
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 21