Jayne’s voice rose in tone. “It’s all putting me in a difficult position. I mean, if my boss found out you were staying at my place and knew that car bomb was aimed at you, I’d be in trouble. I want to leave at some point in the future, but not right now, and on my terms, not theirs.”
Johnson nodded. “Understood. So you want me to find somewhere else to stay?”
Jayne stood and leaned against the kitchen counter, her arms firmly folded in front of her chest, staring at him. “Thing is, I’m worried those Argentinians will find out you’re here.”
Johnson poured some coffee into a mug and sat down, putting his phone on the table. “Yes, you’re right. I need to get out. It’s not fair on you.”
“You can do one more night, okay? Then you’ll have to go, unfortunately. Sorry, Joe. You can keep the Walther . . . for now.”
Jayne picked up her bag. “I’ve got to go to work now, I’ll see you later.” She made toward the door.
A few minutes after Jayne had gone, a beep came from Johnson’s phone. He picked it up and looked at it. Kudrow’s office, the bug.
He punched a button on the screen, adjusted the volume control up, and turned on the speaker function.
All Johnson could hear was the sound of a telephone ringing, a digital sound.
Was it Jacob’s desk phone, or was it a cell phone?
Probably the latter. Johnson remembered Jacob’s desk phone being very old-fashioned.
Then came the sound of a few slow-moving footsteps. And a voice.
“Hello, is that Jack Kew? Or should I say, Jacob Kudrow?”
The caller’s Hispanic-accented voice sounded quite synthesized and tinny. Johnson surmised that Jacob must have his speakerphone switched on. This time, Johnson remembered the recording function and hit another button on the screen.
“Who is this?” he heard Jacob say.
Then came the caller’s voice again. “You don’t need to know who it is. But you do need to know this: we have your grandson, Oliver Kew. I think he knows the exact location of your gold source in Poland. It’s near Gluszyca, isn’t it? I will be persuading him to give me those details over the next few hours. I need you to remain calm and not to call the police. If they contact you with a report of him missing, I need you to tell them you’ve heard from him, that he is safe and on his way to your house. Just put them off. Then there will be no problem for either your grandson or yourself. Do you understand?”
Johnson felt his scalp prickle. My God. He clasped his forehead with his hands and heard Jacob breathing heavily.
“Yes, I understand,” Jacob said. “Please don’t hurt him. But I really need to know who you are. Can you tell—”
“Shut up. All you need to know is this: if you make any attempt to locate us or if you inform the police, your grandson will meet the same end as Keith Bartelski. Is that understood?”
Again the sound of Jacob breathing—this time quick, staccato breaths, as if he were hyperventilating. Then a reply.
“Yes, I understand. Please look after my grandson, he’s only—”
But Jacob was cut short. The caller must have hung up. Then silence.
After a few moments, Johnson heard a second man’s voice, which he recognized as Daniel’s.
“Jacob, what the hell. This is unbelievable. I don’t understand. Oliver doesn’t even have those details, does he?”
When Jacob finally answered, it came out in a croaky whisper. “Unfortunately, he does. The map, the coordinates, the written description. They’re in Oliver’s Google Drive folder.”
Daniel’s voice rose. “Can we get into it? Delete them?”
“I’d have to get the password. We just did it for safekeeping. It was Nathaniel’s idea, when he was over here not long ago. He suggested that a copy of the map be put into a secure Google Drive folder with a password, that it was safer than a filing cabinet in the office. And he said that because we are getting older, Oliver was the best person to keep it.”
“Come on,” Jacob said, “we have to go downstairs and speak to Leopold.”
There was the muffled sound of receding footsteps, then silence again.
Johnson stood and slammed his fist on the table.
"Shit!"
Johnson went out onto Jayne’s balcony and lit a cigarette. Outside, the temperature had dropped, and there was a hint of drizzle in the air.
He tried to weigh the risks attached to the plan taking shape in his mind. There seemed to be many.
But the more he ran over his options, the more he could see he had little choice if he wanted to confirm the theory that, increasingly, he thought was behind events at Jacob’s workshop.
Johnson pulled on his brown leather jacket and his scarf and was about to head out when he had an afterthought. He went back to his bag, took out the Walther in its holster, and strapped it under his left arm, beneath his sweatshirt.
Within ten minutes, he was at the junction of Plumbers Row, just a few yards from the entrance to the workshop. He now knew exactly how he would play this.
The pedestrian gate into the courtyard was open, so Johnson passed through and then knocked on a locked black door on the left marked Customer Entrance.
From behind him came a gruff voice. “Can I help you?”
Johnson turned. Standing framed in the doorway of the car-parts business entrance opposite was Jonah.
“Hello, I was looking for Jack Kew. Is he around this morning?”
“Don’t I recognize you? You were in here asking about Beetle parts the other day, weren’t you?”
Johnson nodded. “Yes, I was, but that was a separate inquiry for my own car. This is a business query, jewelry-related.”
“What’s your name? Philip something, wasn’t it?”
Johnson thought swiftly. He couldn’t use his alias anymore after the rented car-blast incident. “No, not Philip. It’s Joe Johnson.”
Jonah folded his tattooed arms. “Joe Johnson? Uh-huh. Okay. Give me a few minutes. Just wait here. I’ll need to go upstairs.” He walked toward Johnson, brushed past him, unlocked the door, and disappeared.
It was drizzling harder now and the dogs at the site next door—presumably the same ones who had been barking during Johnson’s nighttime visit with Bomber Tim—suddenly started howling.
Five minutes later Jonah reappeared. “Come this way. Follow me.”
He led Johnson across a carpeted reception area, down a short corridor, and then up some stairs. Halfway up, Johnson recognized the first-floor landing. This was his third glimpse of it.
Johnson followed Jonah to the left at the top of the stairs and back around to the large wooden managing director’s office door, which was open.
“Mr. Kew, I’ve got Joe Johnson here to see you.”
Johnson walked into the room. The two old white-haired men were sitting behind the desk, Daniel with his black-rimmed glasses on the left, Jacob on the right. Both were dressed in jackets, no ties. Both held whiskey glasses, and a bottle of single malt stood on the wooden desk in front of them. The Kudrow twins.
The door behind Johnson squeaked and then clicked shut. Johnson half turned his head to the left and saw Jonah standing on the inside, arms folded. He watched Johnson while leaning with his back against the door, his lips pressed tightly together.
“So, Joe Johnson,” said Jacob, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. “I know who you are. Ex-CIA, Nazi hunter, and now you’re working with a Washington political journalist. An unexpected visit. How can we help you?”
There was no handshake. Daniel indicated with his hand that Johnson should sit in the chair in front of the desk.
Johnson sat and instantly heard a noise behind him as Jonah moved in close. He felt cold steel on the back of his neck.
“Mr. Johnson, if you have a weapon, take it out and place it on the table,” Jonah said.
Johnson first put his hands in the air, then slowly reached under his armpit, removed the Walther, and gently placed it on the desk. Jonah picke
d it up and moved back to the door.
Here we go.
Johnson shifted forward, anxiously fingering the nick at the top of his right ear. “Mr. Kudrow, I can help you in several ways. Most urgently, your grandson.”
It was as if he had touched Jacob with an electric cattle prod. The old man physically jumped in his chair, and his rheumy eyes blinked several times.
“How do you know about Oliver?” Jacob asked. “Who told you? I’ve only found out this morning myself. Nobody knows.”
Now Johnson felt as though he’d gained the initiative.
“I’ve got my sources, but I’d like to help you get him back. You can’t go to the police, not given what you’ve been up to these past, what, fifty years? Maybe sixty.”
There’s no going back now.
Johnson continued. “Your grandson’s at risk. So is your reputation and your wealth.” Johnson turned toward Daniel. “And also, your son David’s political career’s at risk. Frankly, you’re not going to salvage all of them; you’ve done well to get this far. I know enough to put you both behind bars. But that’s not my job.”
Johnson started when he heard Jonah moving behind him, but Jacob flapped the palm of his hand downward in a calming action, shaking his head at his huge bodyguard.
“I wouldn’t try anything,” Johnson said. He turned to see that Jonah was back leaning against the door. “If anything happens to me, all the evidence I’ve got will go straight to police and prosecutors. I've arranged it.” It was untrue, but it was a tactic he had used before, and it usually worked.
There was silence.
Johnson said, “I’m going to suggest something. I can help find your grandson and get him back. I think the gang that has him is Argentine. It’s the same people who killed your man Keith, and the gang is led by the son of the man you sell gold to in Argentina.”
The twins shared a look. Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I’ve got very reliable sources,” Johnson said. “The point is, I believe that same gang is trying to get to your gold source in Poland. I can also help you with that. We can stop them. In return, I need to know the full story: who exactly you’re selling this gold to, how you got it, and how the money’s being channeled and used. I don’t think you’ve got any other options right now. I suggest you start talking—and quickly.”
Johnson reclined in his chair.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
London
Johnson now felt confident he was in control of the proceedings. He pretended to check his phone for text messages but at the same time surreptitiously switched on his voice recorder.
Jacob took a sip from his whiskey glass. Johnson noticed his hand shook, while Daniel just sat silently and watched almost unblinkingly.
It was Jacob who spoke first. His voice trembled a little as he put his glass back down on the desk.
Although Johnson had read much of the detail in Jacob’s red notebook, he sat patiently and let him talk. Jacob spent some time describing the horrific conditions at Gross-Rosen and the background to the Riese complex.
Then Jacob moved on to the tunnel collapse and the gold.
“After the tunnel roof collapsed, we were all thrown to the floor, and then there was total silence. I’d gone completely deaf,” Jacob said. “There was dirt and dust, and the lights had gone out. It was completely black in there. It felt like I was drowning, as though my head was going to cave in. The only way to get air was by covering my nose in my shirt and using it as a filter.”
Jacob told how they got out through the emergency tunnel and then recounted the dramatic escape from the train. Then there was the suspenseful wait as the brothers lay in the snow, followed by the series of gunshots as their fellow prisoners were shot.
“I knew then there had to be justice. Daniel and I took our trousers off and started wading up the river, fast as we could, even though we were half dead. We knew we had to move quickly before they came after us with the dogs.”
Jacob took another sip of whiskey. He seemed a little overcome. “Bizarre times, back then. I’ve never . . . ” His voice trailed away. Then he gathered himself and resumed the story.
“It was a miracle we got out of the Nazi zone. We had to wade up the river, a stream really, for quite a distance until we reached a few houses. By then it was dark. We thought we’d been quiet, but a Pole from one of the houses must have spotted us in our striped clothing and ran over. We had to trust him. We were just lucky, incredibly lucky. He realized straightaway what had happened and quickly found us different clothes, some bread and milk, and took us on foot through some woods and over a few hills, sticking mainly to shepherd’s pathways. We heard dogs barking in the distance behind us, which made us think the SS were on our tail. They’d wasted no time. But it was the river that saved us. We’d left no scent.
“That man saved our life and must have put his own at risk. I wish I knew what happened to him. After a while, we went over the Czech border and came to another few houses on the other side of the hills. We went to one of them, where a man took us into his attic. By that stage, we just couldn’t go any farther—Daniel especially. He was totally done in.
“We were shocked to find two British guys there in the attic as well, both of them airmen. They were escaped prisoners of war, dressed in German clothing and with proper German ID documents. They told us they’d escaped from Stalag 344, a prisoner of war camp about a hundred kilometers northeast, and that they were planning to head south through Czechoslovakia and Germany to Switzerland. We waited a few days until we felt a little stronger, and the Poles found us some better clothing, money for the trains, and fake documents stating we were Belgian laborers. Then we just went with the two British. We followed them at a distance so if we got caught, they wouldn’t be pulled in as well.
“It took us six days to get to the Swiss border. We took trains through Bayreuth and Nuremberg, using the fake papers, and also traveled at night by foot, going cross-country and hiding in woods and barns during the day. It was nerve-wracking, I can tell you.
“We got to Singen, near the German-Swiss border, and then just walked about thirty kilometers, following the railway line to Schaffhausen, ducking through the woods and getting over the border near Ramsen.”
From Switzerland, the twins had passed into southern France, where the French Resistance helped them pass through Toulouse and Perpignan, then over the Pyrenees and into Spain, where they parted company with the two British airmen.
From there, Spain, which in practice remained neutral during the war, allowed them to cross into Portugal, another neutral country. They eventually got onto a ship from Lisbon to London in February 1945.
Johnson sat, engrossed in the story, images flashing across his mind like a movie of these two men on their epic journey across Europe, outwitting and outrunning the Nazis who must have been so desperate to recapture them.
But he needed to get the brothers to trust him and get to the point.
He interrupted Jacob’s flow. “I’ve got a question for you both. Do you recall an incident from your time at Wüstegiersdorf when a woman in the camp was ox-whipped and left out in the sun all day?”
Jacob took a deep breath. “Yes, I do. What about her?”
“She was my mother, Helena,” Johnson said.
Jacob’s eyebrows flicked sharply upward. He took another sip of his whiskey and looked at Daniel, who fell back in his chair and pursed his lips.
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then Daniel spoke first. “Is that why you’re here? To tell us that? I’m sorry, but how do we know that’s the truth?”
Johnson cursed inwardly. It was a fair enough question. He wished he had brought copies of some of his mother’s documents with him. Then he recalled he had scanned the pages of her memoir a few years back. He’d wanted to have a digital copy in case anything happened to the originals. He was fairly positive h
e’d e-mailed the files to himself. Hadn’t he?
“I was hoping that would prove that you could trust me,” Johnson said. “I have proof back home in the States: her yellow concentration camp identification badge, a photograph of the scars she was left with after her ox-whipping from the very incident you described. I also have a detailed account of her time in Wüstegiersdorf, which she wrote as part of her will. She died in 2001. Give me a moment, I think I can find the pages from her memoirs for you.”
Johnson took out his phone and quickly searched through his archived e-mails. The Kudrow brothers’ impatience was almost tangible in the air. Eventually, to his relief, he found the ones he needed and flicked through them for the page that detailed the whipping.
He enlarged it and silently passed it to Jacob to read. Daniel leaned over his shoulder to view the image.
After several moments, Daniel looked up again. “All right, carry on,” he said.
Johnson felt unsure how to proceed. He now needed to try and confirm the theory he had formed.
“I guess my mother is one reason I’m here,” Johnson said. “For a long time I was a Nazi hunter in the U.S., as you said. That was partly because of my mother’s experience in Wüstegiersdorf, which you both seem to have shared.
“But there’s something else. In 1996, I was searching for an SS captain, Jan Van Stalheim, whom I tracked to Buenos Aires, where the trail went cold. He’d vanished. But I had a tip that he visited a jeweler in Buenos Aires a few times, someone I meant to go and check out but never did—a man called José Guzmann.”
Johnson studied the brothers’ faces. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
He felt as though it was the second grenade he had thrown into the conversation in the space of two minutes. It was a gamble. Would it pay off?
Johnson leaned back in his chair and waited. He could feel his chest tensing up a little as he waited for a response.
Eventually, Daniel folded his arms and rested them on the desk. His words were so soft that Johnson had to strain to hear properly. “After we arrived in London, we stayed here for four years. There was the Polish Resettlement Act in 1947, which allowed us to stay. We started to set up a small jewelry business right here, in this building. We’d both trained in our father’s jewelry workshop in Warsaw, so it made sense.”
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 24