The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies

by Damian Vargas

  Wallace took a step forward. ‘I was told not to meet with you, nor to speak to you again.’

  ‘Is everything alright, Mr Wallace?’ came a concerned voice. It was the man who had hurried from the office. ‘Should I call the police?’

  ‘No, thank you, Brian,’ the MP answered, eyes still locked on Blackman’s. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

  ‘I’ll go to the papers,’ said Blackman.

  Wallace laughed, shook his head. ‘You really don’t get it, do you? Nobody’s interested anymore. The British people don’t care about the war. All they care about is their jobs, schools and hospitals. Our government is right now negotiating with our European partners about joining the EEC. The country needs stories about ex-Nazis like a hole in the head. Come now, Mr Blackman. You’re a businessman yourself. Surely you can see that this…thing…well, it’s just not productive.’

  Wallace reached to the wet tarmac for his keys, then gestured at Blackman to move away from his car door.

  Blackman, acutely aware of the second man watching everything, took a step back. ‘Those bastards killed my friend. Right here, in England,’ he said as Wallace unlocked, then opened his car door.

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘The eyewitnesses said the car aimed straight for him.’

  Wallace lowered himself on the driver’s seat, started to close the door. ‘One witness, doesn’t make it true.’

  Blackman grabbed the top of the door and leaned into the car’s interior. ‘The driver didn’t stop, and they burned the car. That wasn’t some drunk who had one too many. This was in broad daylight.’

  ‘The case was closed.’

  ‘Yes, and now I’m beginning to see why.’

  ‘You need to let this go,’ said Wallace.

  Blackman released his hold on the door. ‘I won’t,’ he snarled, the rain running down his face.

  Wallace peered up at him. ‘Then you are a damned fool.’

  49

  Liquidate everything

  O’Connell & Sons Accountants

  December 1969

  ‘I’m selling the business.’

  Harry Blackman’s accountant looked up at his client over the rims of his brown-framed spectacles, a broad grin on his face until it sank in; his client was deadly serious. His eyes fell back to the term sheet that Blackman had just presented to him. It was an agreement in principle to sell Blackman’s company, NorthWind Ltd, for the sum of two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. The accountant gaped at the white sheets as if they were soiled toilet paper.

  ‘But…Northwind is worth at least twice as much as they are offering. This is a…a fire sale price. If you give me six months, a year maybe, I can organise a proper sales process. I guarantee we can raise at least twice this valuation.’

  ‘No. Anyone else will insist I stay on as a critical employee.’

  ‘Only for a year or two,’ said the accountant.

  ‘I need out, now. And I’ve made my decision, Tim. And what’s more, I want it done fast. How long will it take?’

  The accountant looked at the document, to Harry and back at the sheets of paper, which he then spread out on his desk. He took a deep, resigned breath, his chin resting in his hands. ‘Well, they’ll want to inspect the books. And the client records. Do an inventory, talk to the bank, our solicitors. Speak with key clients. See the tax records, sales ledger, employment contracts, lease agreements—’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Erm, assuming no hiccups, three months… maybe less.’

  Harry nodded his acknowledgement. ‘Good. Show them everything. And I mean everything. I don’t want to give them any reason to get cold feet.’

  The accountant sat back in his leather chair, loosened his collar. ‘Is there something I should know, Harry? Do you have money troubles? Maybe I can help?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. I just want it done as quickly as possible.’

  ‘It’s just…well, you worked so hard to build the business. For ten years. The employees…they will be very surprised, what with all the new projects you’ve won.’ The accountant was examining him now, eyes scanning across Harry’s face, eyes, neck, hands. ‘Are you ill? Is that it?’

  Harry closed his briefcase, rose from his chair. ‘I’m perfectly fine. I just have other things I need to focus on now. And I’m moving overseas.’ He reached for his overcoat that hung from a coat stand next to the door.

  The accountant walked across the room and held Blackman’s case while his client pulled the long coat over his suit jacket. ‘Overseas, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Blackman said, ‘The south of Spain.’

  ‘Ah, sun, sea and sangria.’ The accountant thrust out a hand, which Blackman shook.

  ‘Something like that.’

  50

  Unhappy guests

  One day earlier.

  The silence of the night was interrupted when Beni Ginsberg and his team arrived back at Harry Blackman’s villa a few minutes after two o’clock with their captive, Walther Krügel, bound and gagged. The Israelis were exhausted and filthy. Krügel, a gaunt-looking individual in his sixties, was bleeding from a facial wound.

  Two of the other Israelis forced Krügel down into a chair and proceeded to tie his legs together. The old man’s eyes darted around the room, sweat beading on his forehead. His nose, chin and shirt were encrusted with dried blood. He was shaking.

  ‘What happened?’ said Johansson, gesturing towards the German’s battered face.

  ‘He didn’t want to come with us,’ one of the men muttered. ‘We had to persuade him.’

  Krügel, the infamous ‘Butcher of Riga’, sat still, his chest rapidly lifting and falling. He looked like a harmless grandfather, albeit one covered in blood, gagged, and with nylon cord tied around his hands and feet.

  Ginsberg signalled at one of his men. ‘Give him some water and something to eat. He’s got a long walk ahead of him.’

  ‘What if he won’t walk?’ said Johansson.

  ‘Then we’ll carry him.’ The Israeli leader peered at his watch, then to the Norwegian. ‘We’ll have to leave everything but essentials. Can you get rid of it?’

  Johansson nodded. ‘There’s an old quarry down the valley. The water’s deep.’

  ‘Good.’ Ginsberg ripped open a chocolate bar and bit off a chunk, calling to his team as he chewed on it. ‘Get some food and liquid down you. We leave in twenty.’

  Johansson stepped around the busy Israeli operatives. ‘I’ll get some coffee on.’ She walked into the darkened kitchen and to the sink, about to turn on the tap to fill the kettle, when she spotted movement in the backyard. She backed away, slipped back into the living room. ‘There’s someone outside.’

  The Israelis snatched at their weapons, flicking off light switches, then darted for cover.

  Ginsberg cocked his UZI submachine gun, directing it towards the back door, and glanced at Johansson. ‘How many?’

  ‘I only saw one.’

  The Israeli signalled to his team, and they edged towards the windows and doors.

  A creaking sound came from the direction of the back door. Johansson watched as the handle started to turn.

  One of the Israelis lifted his pistol towards the door, the hammer already cocked, his finger curling around the trigger.

  ‘Wait,’ Ginsberg whispered. He handed his submachine gun to the man next to him, drew his knife.

  The door began to open.

  With the speed and poise of a cat, the Israeli leader slipped behind the door, the blade in hand.

  With the house lights extinguished, the moonlight made a silhouette of the figure as it stepped into the utility room. It was a man. He was panting. He grunted as if in discomfort.

  In an instant, Ginsberg had his arms around the intruder, his knife at the man’s throat. ‘One false move and you’re dead. Understand?’ He pushed his captive forward and another of the team illuminated his face with his flashlight. It was Harry Blackman.
>
  Someone switched the kitchen lights on. Blackman stood surrounded by the Mossad team, weapons in hand. He was clutching his left shoulder, his head hanging low. His clothes were filthy and torn. His face and arms scratched and bleeding.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ Ginsberg snarled, hitting the Englishman in the stomach. ‘I warned you not to go anywhere. You put my team in danger.’

  Blackman said nothing, his eyes to the floor, his right hand holding his belly.

  ‘Harry,’ said Johansson, eyeing him from head to toe. ‘What happened? What did you do?’

  The Englishman raised his head, looked at the Norwegian, then around the room. ‘Fuck you. Fuck you all.’ He locked his gaze onto Ginsberg, who shot him a wry smile then wrapped his arms around the Englishman’s neck, holding him in a choke hold, squeezing.

  ‘Sweet dreams, old man,’ the Israeli said, as Blackman slipped into unconsciousness.

  Liv Johansson stood, her arms folded, watching the Englishman emerge from unconsciousness. His ankles were lashed to the chair legs, his wrists bound behind his back to the frame. His tattered white cotton shirt, unbuttoned, draped from his body. His head slumped forward, hair matted and wild. His face unshaven, bruised. Cut.

  Was this the same man whose bed she had shared just a few months earlier? The same man she had allowed, encouraged, tricked into ravaging her, and who then revealed his secrets?

  The same body, yes. But was it the same man?

  A bead of saliva had been hanging from his open mouth for several seconds now, as if it and Harry Blackman had been frozen in time.

  She willed it to fall.

  Johansson had fixed a heavy blanket across the small window to mask any light from inside. Just as her parents had done during the war after the German invasion. The only illumination in the room came from the single light bulb from within her covert space in which her radio was secreted. The light varied in intensity, casting long shaking shadows into her bedroom to the unconscious shape slumped on the chair, his silhouette projecting onto the far wall.

  The Mossad team had hauled Harry Blackman’s unconscious body up into Johansson’s bedsit, then tied him to the wooden chair before embarking upon their trek over the high hills with the dazed, confused, and very frail Walther Krügel. They had been gone barely four hours.

  Not enough time. Nowhere near enough time.

  Blackman began to stir, his eyes rolling, head moving side to side; his brain detecting that he was restrained, intruding into his induced dreams, his instinct to survive forcing him to wake.

  His eyes opened wide, he lifted his head. Tried to focus. Tried to speak. Realised he was gagged. Realised he was a prisoner. His breathing hastened, the veins at the side of his forehead pulsed. He looked up, saw Johansson - his caretaker-cum-lodger. His captor. His anger at her betrayal manifesting as muffled, throttled moans and grunts. His eyes glaring at her, speaking of the black thoughts behind them.

  She stepped forward, her bare feet making but a delicate padding sound on the timber floor. ‘You need to calm yourself. You are not in danger. It’s just me here now. Beni and his men have gone with Krügel.’

  More moans, grunts. Straining at his shoulders to free his arms. The chair, rocking, becoming unsteady.

  ‘Harry, stop! You are already injured. If you fall, I can’t call for the doctor. You know that. Please, calm. Let me explain.’

  Blackman’s eyes darted around the room, his head angling as far to each side as his restraints would allow, seeking the evidence to expose her lies. Seeing none. His eyes returned to hers, narrowing. Quizzical.

  ‘I told you. They’ve gone. It’s just you and me now.’

  Blackman’s shoulders relaxed, his head moved back. His hands unclenched.

  ‘We’re in my room, above the garage. I have to wait for their signal. They will tell me when they’ve made it to their boat. When they’re at sea, with Krügel. Then, I can release you.’

  Blackman glanced to the source of the flickering light, to the false room.

  ‘It’s only been four hours since they left. They need more time to get away. You need to remain calm. I’ll bring you water and something to eat a little later. But until then, you must be quiet.’

  The Englishman had now ceased his attempts to struggle free of the bindings. He sat still but for the rise and fall of his chest. She saw his eyes following her as she moved around the room to peek out of the window and to check the radio set.

  She sat down at her dresser, the ghost of someone quite similar, but darker, empty, glowering at her in the mirror. She rested her head in her hands, out of exhaustion, but also to hide from the judgement of her reflection.

  Whistling. A traditional-sounding, rural Spanish melody. A song passed down through the generations. Likely once accompanied by lyrics that would have told of a love lost, or stolen. Of deceit, of regret. Or heartache.

  The Englishman opened his eyes, focussing his senses. A sliver of daylight escaped through the gap in the blanket at the window. It was day time.

  A pained grinding sound - the old, rusted tap on the outside of the house being forced open; the one that the gardener had frequently complained about. The tap to which was attached a long hose that snaked the length of the garden; passing under the citrus trees all the way up to the old concrete water tank with its corroded iron hatch that sat obscured by mulberry bushes above the collection of ancient olive trees, looking down on the property and the valley beneath it.

  The sound of the rusty pipe shunting, stammering, as water traversed through it, expelling the stale air from within.

  Blackman strained at the cords that bound his hands and ankles to the chair, grunting. Guttural. Trying to call. Failing. The gag too tight. He pushed down with his bare feet. The chair started to rock. He kept going, kept pushing, building momentum. Left, then right, then left…

  The voice of Liv Johansson, calling. But not to Blackman. To someone else. To someone in the yard. To the gardener. To Gutiérrez. Her tone commanding. She’s talking in Spanish, but the Englishman now understands enough of the language. ‘You’re not needed today, Mr Gutiérrez,’ she says.

  The Englishman has a steady rhythm going now. Left, then right. The timber floor creaking with each thrust sideways.

  ‘Mr Blackman has a bad cold. The flu, probably. He’s in his bed and asked for peace and quiet.’

  Protestations from the gardener, his voice low and gravelled.

  ‘He will pay you for the day. Don’t concern yourself about that.’

  The chair tips to the left, pivots on two legs. The Englishman braces his shoulder and neck, leaning with everything he has.

  The groaning of the large steel gate at the front of the house, the gardener riding away on his bicycle, its wheels squeaking with every turn.

  The chair falls, comes crashing to the wooden floor. His head, shoulder, wrist, knee and ankle slamming into the hard surface. The blow to his shoulder and collarbone causes the most pain, but he pushes it to the back of his mind, tries to ignore it, and works to push his feet down to the bottom of the chair legs. But the bindings are tight. He tries to roar, but it is muffled by the bundle of damp rags held firm inside his mouth by the gag tied tight around his head.

  He lays still, sucking air through his nostrils. Spent.

  He hears footsteps. Slow and cautious. One, then another. Johansson creeping up the stairs. Her dark silhouette stretched long on the masonry wall of the staircase.

  He stares at a small pistol as it sniffs around the corner of the part-opened door. She pushes the door open, stands there. Looking at him. Assessing the scene.

  He wants to yell, to scream at her.

  But the gag remains taught. The rags pushed deep into his cheeks, forcing his tongue flat between his lower jaw which aches from the strain. His lungs, desperate for air, he has to divert his energies into breathing through his nose.

  ‘You need to stop this, Harry,’ she says and enters the room. Her voice is weary, remorseful. Resigned.r />
  She walks to the dresser, opens a drawer; removes a small black cloth case that she unbundles, its contents revealed. He sees a chrome and glass syringe and some vials.

  She fills the syringe, expels the air with a short upward squirt of the clear liquid. Taps at the glass. ‘You’ll sleep well for another four hours,’ she says. ‘When you wake, if you behave, I’ll bring you some food.’

  Exhausted grunts, he pleads to her with his eyes, desperate for her to understand that he is trying to tell her something.

  She hovers over him, takes hold of his tethered elbow, pushes into the crook of his arm with her thumb and forefinger, then slides the needle into his vein.

  And Harry Blackman plunges into the abyss once more.

  51

  Ghosts

  One day earlier.

  Her head was on the flat surface. She had fallen asleep.

  There had been dreams. Nightmares.

  Germans in her homeland. Heaps of battered suitcases and clothes. And spectacles and shoes. Soldiers herding endless lines of grey masses into cattle trucks. Forcing them out days later - those that had survived the journey. Vicious dogs, spitting, snarling. Blood on their snouts. Soldiers with rifles, driving them inside tall wire fences, across a muddied courtyard, down a small flight of stairs into a white-tiled basement of a building under a huge chimney from which a spectral grey-white smoke spewed into a violent sky. All day. Every day.

  Avoiding the woman in the mirror, Johansson twisted her head towards the space behind the wall. The radio was quiet. She looked to her left, to Blackman on the chair in the middle of the room, peering back at her. Observing her. Still. Waiting.

  She stood up, cradled her neck. Clicking it. Made eye contact with the ghost. Held its grim stare. Heard what it said she should do. Glanced at her watch. Decided.