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

by Andrew Turpin

  “Hell loss and pans?” Johnson felt bewildered. “Did you say it was urgent? What can that mean?”

  “Of course I said it was urgent. It was definitely ‘hell loss’ and ‘pans.’ I’ve absolutely no idea what he meant.”

  Johnson tilted his head back, looked up to the ceiling and exhaled long and hard.

  Hell loss and pans. How so very helpful.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Wednesday, November 30, 2011

  Buenos Aires

  Yet again, Erich Brenner’s finger hovered over the encrypted phone he had taken from the top drawer in his bedside table.

  He had walked up the stairs from the black leather chair in his living room and had sat on the wooden wicker-seat chair next to his bed on at least five occasions already that evening.

  Brenner began to dial: 00 1 305 358 343 . . . Then he stopped before pressing the final digit and instead held the receiver in midair, looking at it.

  I don’t know. Should I or not?

  His survival instinct told him he should do it. He had been keeping the number on a piece of card in the safe in his bedroom in case it was needed.

  But instead, Brenner pressed the call-end button.

  Then he sat, his spindly legs crossed, a bony elbow propped on his right thigh and his chin resting on the palm of his right hand.

  He felt that somehow, he had let the genie out of the bottle by confiding, at least partially, in his son. At the time, it seemed as though he had no other option. Now, though, he wondered whether it might have been better to wait.

  Trying to second-guess what his son might do, let alone control him, was a fool’s errand. Brenner had realized that years ago. He had tried a regime of rigid control and punishment when the boy was young, thinking that was the way to bring about the control he craved—the control he had loved in the SS. It was the only method he knew; it was all he had been taught.

  But it hadn’t worked, just as it hadn’t worked in the old days, at least not for long. Instead, the youngster had gone off to join the army.

  Brenner stood up and wandered back to his living room, where he sat again in the black leather armchair.

  A life spent exiled under a false name with a false passport, in a country he hated, a wife who had left him at the same time as his only son, a business that was going down the tubes, no real friends, and the constant fear of discovery. Overhanging it all was the sense, not of guilt—there was none of that—but of failure that had spread through him like a vicious cancer, seemingly untreatable.

  He thought back to his struggles as a member of the Hitler-Jugend, the Hitler Youth, in his home city of Munich during the economic crash of the 1930s; the never-ending battles to prove he was a better man than the one next to him in the SS. Then came his acceptance into the Waffen-SS, the armed division of the organization, and real action, at last. He fought in tanks against the Russians on the Eastern Front and the French in the west with the 3rd SS Panzer Division Totenkopf, the Death’s Head Division. That was when he really made a difference.

  Even now, Brenner felt his greatest achievement was his promotion to Obersturmführer, first lieutenant, for his role in the advance on Leningrad in 1942 as part of Operation Barbarossa: Germany’s invasion of the Soviet Union. He still had the promotion notice hidden in his attic.

  But in March of the following year had come the knee injury caused by a small piece of Red Army mortar shrapnel during the Third Battle of Kharkov. It had sliced through a ligament, forcing him to spend six weeks in the hospital, and he was told he wouldn’t be able to return to Frontdienst, front-line service. In comparison, helping to run concentration camps, first at Auschwitz toward the end of 1943 and then Gross-Rosen the following year, left him frustrated and bored. He had taken it all out on the Jewish prisoners.

  But the worst was to come. In fact, nothing much had gone right since that day in December 1944, when he had still been proud to be SS First Lieutenant Erich Brenner.

  He had been summoned to the bleak yet beautiful Książ Castle, with its vertiginous walls and domed green copper bell tower, late in the afternoon.

  Brenner’s thoughts drifted back as he closed his eyes and relived that evening yet again, as if he were watching a movie starring somebody else.

  It had been a bitterly cold night in Lower Silesia and a blanket of snow had covered the small elevated city of Walbrzych.

  The car that had been sent to collect Brenner had wound its way up a steep road to the castle on top of a rock cliff, north of the city.

  As he had climbed to the fourth floor of the castle, Brenner had felt a deep sense of imminent catastrophe. There, in a small, high-ceilinged private dining room, Hauptsturmführer Karl Beblo had been waiting for him.

  The memory was still vivid and present and even now gave Brenner nightmares.

  The voice had been as cold and slow as the icicles hanging from the castle walls. “You damn fool,” Beblo snarled, his pale blue eyes staring across the room from beneath his peaked cap. “So I hear that despite only having twenty-one exhausted prisoners to transport back to camp, you managed to lose two of them on a simple train journey of just thirteen kilometers.”

  Brenner shuffled his feet, his normally confident, rasping voice quavering a fraction. This was serious. “I, um, we are dealing with the situation, sir, but yes, unfortunately a couple of them did escape. As soon as I realized this, I made the decision to eliminate the other prisoners. I have also begun disciplinary proceedings against the idiot corporal who was meant to be guarding them who fell asleep on the job, together with his assistant, sir.”

  Despite the air-conditioning in his living room, Brenner began to sweat as he recalled the conversation, as clear and loud as if it had been recorded on one of his many DVDs, which he had racked on a nearby shelf.

  Beblo had been one of the senior officers in the Schutzstaffel, more commonly known by its short form, the SS, which was Hitler’s paramilitary, terror, and surveillance organization.

  “So you shot them,” Beblo said. “Prisoners whom we need to dig those tunnels. All to make up for your error. Fantastic. Just tell me, Obersturmführer, how that was going to help the situation?”

  Brenner gazed absently across from his armchair at the empty fireplace, mentally replaying his words as he had tried to reassure his boss.

  “Once again, sir, I can only apologize. I, we, have a team out looking for them now, with dogs, and I believe they will be found within twenty-four hours. It will be a long way below freezing tonight and probably the same tomorrow. The prisoners have minimal clothing, no food, and no proper shoes. The whole region is crawling with SS and Wehrmacht soldiers, sir. They have no chance. In any case, they have no idea what was being stored in those tunnels.”

  Beblo interrupted him. “That’s enough. I’ve heard enough. Of all the prisoners to lose, it had to be part of this group. You know the sensitivity. You were given clear orders only last week to step up security.”

  Brenner left the castle with his head down and his reputation ruined. He’d never lost the shame of that moment. It had tainted the remainder of his proud SS career. He still had the official disciplinary notice, also up in the attic with his other papers. Why he had kept it, he could never explain, even to himself, because it was something he had never talked about with anyone, ever.

  Brenner opened his eyes with a start, now feeling quite stressed from the memory.

  The problem was, back then he had been certain he was correct in all of his assumptions: that the escapees would be found, that his standing with Beblo would be restored.

  He checked his watch: 6:45 p.m. He was fifteen minutes late. He reached for a small brown bottle on the table next to him and took out two pills, which he swallowed with some water from a glass that was also standing on the table.

  Still, he was lucky to have gotten out of Nazi Germany, he thought. The narrow window of opportunity to escape to Spain, the help he’d received from Otto Skorzeny’s organization Die Spinn
e—The Spider—the new passport, the crash course in Spanish, the flight to Argentina.

  It could have been worse back then, and the biggest mercy of all was that he’d been able to work with the CIA, trading his knowledge of Russia and his wide range of contacts in the German army intelligence organizations—the Fremde Heere Ost, the Foreign Armies East, and the Abwehr, the German military intelligence organization—for his freedom.

  But the subsequent blackmail threats over gold purchases and the gradual dawning over the years that the two escaped prisoners were behind them—plus the paralyzing anxiety about what would happen if he tried to take action against the two Jews, which had been his initial instinct—had left him feeling shackled, as if he were in some kind of open prison.

  Brenner’s cell phone rang. He picked up the phone and jumped when he saw the caller’s name on its screen. Then he pressed the green button to take the call.

  “Hello, Ignacio, where are you now? What’s happening?”

  “Padre, I can’t talk for long. I’m in the U.K. at Dover, about to get on a night car ferry to France. We’re heading to Poland now. It’s a long story, but the bottom line is that your gold supplier, Oro Centro, gets its bullion from another company in London. You know all that, though, don’t you? Those are the people who’ve been screwing you over with the pricing. What you don’t know, perhaps, is the owners are two old Polish guys, twin brothers, Jacob and Daniel Kudrow. Do those names ring any bells?”

  Should he admit now that he knew? Brenner hesitated.

  “No, I can’t think of anyone.”

  “Okay, well try this one. I got into their office in London. On the wall were two large photographs: one of a castle, Książ Castle, and the other of a village called Gluszyca. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Brenner, sitting in his armchair, felt his entire body tense up at the mention of the two place-names. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “The other thing is, padre, the Kudrows are both Jewish. Do you understand what I’m saying? And the gold being supplied to you is coming from near to Gluszyca. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, am I?”

  Brenner felt a little dizzy. Should he have been upfront with his son? Now he would be furious.

  He tried to think. But he hadn’t asked his son to look into all that. How had he learned all that information? Brenner tried to pull his thoughts together. “I don’t know about all that. What about the investigator, Johnson. The one thing I did ask you to take care of. Have you done that?”

  “Yes, he’s been in London too, as you thought,” Ignacio said. “I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve had a couple of guys here chasing him. We tried to eliminate him, but it didn’t work. Not enough time and too many other things to do. I can’t do any more with Johnson. We’re out of London now.”

  Brenner felt his mouth dry up, and he reached for his glass of water.

  “Well, is there another way to take care of him? Has he talked to the Polish brothers?” Brenner asked. There was no point continuing the pretense any longer.

  Ignacio didn’t answer right away. Then his son’s voice took on a tougher, more abrupt tone. “I don’t know. I’m sure he’ll probably try and talk to them. It’s your problem now, though. I’ve tried.”

  “Well, why are you going to Poland? What’s the point of that?”

  Brenner blanched as Ignacio half laughed into the phone. “Why do you think? There’s gold left there, which I want. Then I’ll head back to Buenos Aires to take care of a few things there . . . And I’ll come around to see you, too.” He casually added, “Will you be around?”

  It was his tone of voice that did it. Brenner remained silent for a few moments, thinking. Then he replied slowly, “I’m not sure where I’ll be.” He let the phone fall into his lap.

  “Hola? . . . Hola, padre? . . . Hola?”

  Brenner was breathing heavily. Eventually, his son hung up.

  He sat in his armchair for an hour after the brief conversation with his son had ended.

  By then it was past midnight. The moon was high in the sky, and most house lights in neighboring properties had gone out.

  The muffled sound of a car passing along Ombú drifted through the house. Somewhere, a dog barked.

  Eventually, Brenner stood up, limped upstairs to his bedroom once again, and pulled his encrypted phone out of the locked top drawer of his bedside table.

  He felt utterly dismayed that Ignacio had failed to dispose of Johnson. He had screwed that up badly. And there was definitely something sinister about his son’s tone.

  Brenner felt as though he had managed to keep all the plates spinning for a long time. As long as he’d been able to keep the money flowing back to his tormentors, everything was under control, just.

  But there had been no gold and therefore no payments for a long time. And here, unexpectedly, were two threats that money couldn’t take care of.

  He dialed the number he had almost completed earlier. This time, he pressed the final digit to make the call he had always hoped would never be necessary.

  The phone at the other end of the line rang several times before eventually being answered.

  “This is Simon. Who is it?” The voice was muffled and tired.

  “It’s Guzmann in Buenos Aires. I apologize for calling at this hour. I have a question for you. Did your dog enjoy his walk this morning?”

  There was a short pause. “Yes, my dog had a good walk, thank you. He’s now asleep in the kitchen in front of the fire. Has something come up?”

  “Listen to me, Simon. I’ve got a major problem. Someone’s on my tail: the American investigator you warned me about, Johnson. Now this is what I’d like you to do for me, urgently. First, my passport . . . ”

  Brenner started to run through the list of requests he had been formulating in his mind for the previous four hours.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Thursday, December 1, 2011

  London

  It was quarter past ten in the morning when Johnson was woken by a beep on his phone as a text message arrived. He lay fully clothed on one of the two double beds in Fiona’s room at the Crowne Plaza hotel near Blackfriars Bridge.

  Sunlight streamed through the window, which looked out over New Bridge Street and the Thames a couple hundred yards away.

  Johnson turned over and saw Fiona, still asleep on the other bed, her back to him, wearing a skimpy pink nightshirt.

  They had taken Oliver home to his mother’s house in Radlett, twenty miles north of London, after leaving the hospital. It had been half past four in the morning by the time they had finally returned and made their way to the hotel.

  Johnson picked up his phone. The short message was from Jayne, encrypted as usual.

  I’ve had checks run. Guzmann and Ruiz left Dover by car ferry, P&O, last night for Calais, 11:45 p.m. sailing, last boat of the night. Sorry, too late.

  He sat bolt upright. Time was running out.

  Johnson still believed that, from his point of view, going to Poland rather than Buenos Aires was a mistake. But he felt hamstrung by his paymaster and struggled to see a way around it.

  How long would it take them to get to Gluszyca? He recalled the conversation he’d heard between Jacob, Daniel, and Leopold when they said they could drive there in two days.

  But presumably that was by taking it easy. If it was urgent, foot to the floor, Johnson had no idea.

  He opened up Google Maps on his phone. Calais to Gluszyca showed 780 miles and twelve hours driving time, traveling via Cologne and Dresden in Germany.

  Johnson did a quick calculation. If the ferry crossing took an hour and a half, the Argentinians would have arrived in Calais at about 12:45 a.m., say 1:15 a.m. by the time they got off the boat.

  Then twelve hours from there, if they drove nonstop between them, which was a big if, would put them in Gluszyca by around one o’clock in the afternoon, or say two or three o’clock, allowing for stops and delays.

  That was roughly four hours
from now. And Johnson still had no map. What had the old man meant last night at the hospital? It was beyond cryptic.

  Either Jacob hadn’t understood his grandson’s question about the location of the spare map at all and was just speaking random words, or he had tried to tell him and just hadn’t been able to articulate the message.

  “Hell loss” and “pans.” The words couldn’t just be random. Johnson’s instinct told him they had a meaning. But who would know? Daniel, perhaps?

  Johnson climbed off the bed and shook Fiona.

  A quarter of an hour later, they climbed into the Golf, which he had parked around the corner from the hotel.

  “Let’s try the workshop first to see if Daniel is there. I’m hoping he’s not gone to the hospital. I can’t face that matron again,” Johnson said.

  Fiona nodded. “You drive. I’ll check flight times to Poland.” A few minutes later, she spoke again. “I’ve had a quick look. The bad news is there’s no major airport at Walbrzych, so we’ll need to fly to Wroclaw, which is over thirty miles away, and then hire another car. The flight is over two hours, and that’s not including the waiting time at the airport.”

  “Dammit, Fiona, we’ll never make it. I’m still thinking we should go to Buenos Aires. If we can’t get a copy of the map, that’s what we’ll do, okay?”

  Fiona reluctantly agreed.

  By the time Johnson braked to a halt outside the two workshops, the veins on the back of his hands and on his temple were standing out like lengths of cord.

  The small pedestrian gate into the Kew Jewellery U.K. yard was slightly ajar. Somebody was in there. Johnson parked and they walked through. The door into the offices was locked, but the opposite one, for Classic Car Parts, was wide open.